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Heresy of the Angry Marines (Pt 1)

2020-03-30T05:49:29Z

2607:FB90:D41E:656F:23E2:43DF:26E9:AD5C: /* Old Wounds */

{{Story}}

==Chapter 1==

===The City===
A horrible din rang across the battlefield, tugging at the ear-drums of the descending Astartes that dropped from their ship. On the other side of the ruined city, colors and noises let loose like unbridled stallions, the [[Emperor's Children]] fired their infernal sonic weaponry, tearing building and citizen alike piece by piece. The pink armor-clad warriors of Chaos revelled in the destruction and pained screams, letting out their own twisted mockery of joyous laughter. The leader, a brute of a mortal Slaanesh worshipper, fired his weapons into the air, causing a fleeing escape shuttle to crumble and burst. The Chaos worshipper chuckled and looked to his ‘comrades’, forcing a pained snigger from within their ranks. The [[Noise Marine]] Captain cast a passing glance to the falling drop pods and ordered, but it was more of a suggestion, his ‘men’ to continue their merry-making. The city would fall to the Prince of Pleasure soon enough, once they’d sucked it dry.

One of the pods tilted in the sky, airborne debris clattering against the metallic hull of the transport, and veered ever so slightly off-course. The tiny change in direction brought the pod into contact with a massive spire of a building, smashing through the top and sending the pod spinning. The misaimed shell hit the ground on its side and it lay still. The sounds of battle and killing raged on, prompting an armored fist to punch one of the pod doors with such force that it flew off of its single hinge and imbedded itself into one of the quickly disintegrating buildings. The figure clambered out of the pod alone, its comrades inside dead from bullets and projectiles that pierced the inner walls.

“ASSAULT MARINE TYBER IN POSITION! WHAT NOW?” the Astartes screeched deafeningly into his vox. Luckily, the receivers were used to this, far more in fact than the fresh [[Adeptus Astartes|Astartes]].

“[[Rip and Tear|RIP THEIR HEADS OFF AND RAM THEM UP THEIR ASSHOLES]]! USE YOUR BRAIN, DUMBASS! RIP THEM TO SHREDS!” the commander ordered to the solitary marine. He snapped his head to one side, looking for the enemy, then to the other, looking for allies. So far, none of the other Astartes had made planetfall and emerged from their pods. It seemed that Lynniel Tyber would be only one of the Chapter on the ground. Drawing a chainsword in each hand, Tyber activated his jump pack and set off, burning a trail through the sky. A sky that was beginning to fill with strange gas…

A lone Emperor’s Children legionnaire trudged through the street, searching for [[Slaanesh|innocents to obliterate]]. Every so often, the chaos marine would stop and fill the street with cacophonous noise, for no other reason that it pleased him. Occasionally this filled a double purpose of drawing someone out from the shadows to run, but that wasn’t the main objective. As the marine continued his slow march down the labyrinthine streets, Tyber settled on top of a nearby building and saw the chaos marine. His fingers began to claw at the handles of his chainswords. He was feeling the great and powerful rage his chapter was famous for and it carried him off of the building and into the street. The Slaanesh worshipper only had the time to see Tyber right above his head.

“SURPRISE, DICKHEAD!” he shouted, placing a powerful kick to the marine’s helmet. The dazed servant of chaos found his back smashed into the wall and he raised his gun to retaliate. But, despite being a rookie, Tyber was fast. One strike split the noise gun down the middle; the other lopped it off from the handle down. The chaos marine made the mistake of discarding the weapon, giving Tyber the precious seconds to deliver a brutal sideways slash that cut the marine from the waist down. Unable to do anything, the Chaos worshipper tried his best to crawl away, but a swift kick to the backside sent him hurtling into a building, broken and killed. Tyber turned away from his first battlefield kill to pursue more, having spotted a major disturbance in the middle of the city.

“ARGENT, WHERE ARE YOU?”

“MAJOR SHIT GOING DOWN IN THE TOWN SQUARE, LYNNIEL. SLAANESHI FUCKS ARE CRAWLING ALL OVER THE PLACE. IT’S LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING ORGY DOWN HERE!” Brother-Captain Argent Rex replied. Far more experienced than Tyber, Rex was an adept at channelling that insurmountable rage that the chapter was famous for into combat, something the rookie had yet to fully wrap his head around. Tyber and Rex ran into each other near the edge of the city square, the twisting streets diverting and turning them around. The two nearly crossed swords when they met, almost mistaking each other’s movement for chaos marines. “WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING, ASSHOLE!” Rex shouted, a hint of brotherly fondness hidden in his rage. The assault marine lifted his foot and kicked a massive hole into the base of a building, collapsing a great part of it and giving Rex a path to go through. Not wanting to be outdone, Tyber activated his jump pack and rammed right through sections of rubble.

There was the old city square. Normally nothing out of the ordinary, that day the space was filled with a veritable sea of daemons and their mortal servants, chaos marines and a new addition unwelcomed by the rest. The rest of the Astartes had landed and were laying waste to the Slaaneshi forces, cutting them down where they stood or turning them into improvised weapons that turned into bloody rags when smashed into the ceramite armor of the chaos marines. Tyber arrived at the back, near the penitent devastator squad.

“WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN? THE CHAPTER MASTER HIMSELF IS HERE, DICKWEED!”

“BEEN KILLING SLAANESHI DIPSHITS WITH MY CHAINSWORDS! YOU CAN’T DO THAT, SO SHUT THE FUCK UP!” A short stint of banter went back and forth between the two marines, before Tyber decided that there were too many enemies of the [[Emperor]] left standing. Jumping over the next assault marine, Tyber lit up his jump pack and starting to cut a path through the yowling enemies.

This was not going to plan at all. The Noise Marine Captain had in no way expected the entire chapter of the ANGRY MARINES to be sent to his ritual summoning. It was the biggest Slaaneshi gathering in the sector, so something was bound to be sent his way. This wasn’t supposed to be it. It was time to fall back into the Warp, regroup and try again when his god allowed. Spitting on another failure, the Captain began to open a portal for his own escape.

“NOT SO FAST, COCKMONGLING FUCK! WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO RUN AND LEAVE YOUR FORCES TO SLOW US DOWN! NOT FUCKING ME” The one who interrupted had a voice that inspired masses. But they were masses of bloodthirsty warriors and that voice carried the anger of the Imperium. Taking a moment to stop, the Captain saw the imposing figure of the Chapter Master himself.

“Didn’t know you were a man of honor, Temperus,” the Noise Marine jeered, earning a forced chuckle from the masses. Temperus Maximus took one mighty step onto the platform the chaos cultist stood upon with his highest subordinates and split him from groin to scalp in one fell blow. With him, the daemonic forces went limp, their energy dissipating and their mortal allies cut down with frightening ease by the redoubled efforts of the Angry Marines. But something remained in the Chapter Master’s ears. “It’s not over. We will gnaw on your bones and devour this planet…” Temperus Maximus sensed something very dangerous. He was immune to the whisperings of Chaos, but here was a psychic tingle in his eardrum that heeded a warning.

“CHAPTER MASTER, WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

“NO FUCKING CLUE! BUT THERE’S MORE THAN DICK-DAEMONS OUT HERE!” With that message ringing true in the ears of the marines, a massive rock, wreathed in flames and spewing magma, impacted the ground several miles to the west. This was not the only one, as dozens of the rocks started to rain down onto the planet’s surface, spelling doom for unprotected inhabitants.

===Meteor Strike===

“DOES THAT MEAN THE STORIES ARE TRUE? ABOUT THE THINGS THAT COME IN METEOR STORMS?” A more experienced assault marine asked.

“RIGHT THEN! LET’S FUCK UP THIS STORY!” The Chapter Master raised his fist in the air and the marines responded with a mirrored gesture and took off.

The Angry Marines, with a set objective, moved with incredible haste, the land seemingly turning to grease under their feet. The Chapter Master led the assault by foot, keeping his battle-brothers restrained with a silent aura of control. No brother would dare deny Temperus the first kill. Tyber learnt that on his first day. Never mess with Temperus or his brothers. The Chapter Master and the First Company stopped, nearly tumbling over the edge of a larger crater. Even through their power armor, the Astartes could feel the heat emanating from the occupants of the meteor clusters.

Out of nowhere and without a sound to pre-empt it, a spiny tail cased in obsidian impaled one of the Astartes on the edge, sending a spray of blood onto the armor of his nearest battle-brother. The body hung on the dangerous appendage for a second, the blood boiling and fizzling before the body was cast aside and the tail retreated into the scorched ground. The shocked marines stood idle in bewilderment for a second before exploding into a burning rage. Without orders, Angry Marines poured into the hole created by the tail, a few at the top blocking any from going further down. The brother at the very bottom saw a faint, orange glow in the darkness of the tunnel and struck at it with his chainswords. A grinding hiss permeated through the tunnel and the Master of Mindfuckery on hand, a certain Blaz Dune, made the declaration.

“IT’S THE EMPEROR-DAMNED TYRANIDS! ALL HANDS, KICK THOSE SONS-OF-TAU IN THE BALLS!” he shouted, disregarding the lack of tyranid genitals. The other Astartes responded with a resounding ‘IN THE BALLS!’ before flying over the crater lip and descending on what lay below. Despite the sight, none of the marines faltered.
Below them, a titanic serpentine shape writhed in the depths of the crater, the rock like spines along its elongated form cutting light grooves into the rock. The creature, its huge head bristling with spines and jagged teeth, had but a moment to see dozens of Angry Marines descending on it like a pack of wolves. The marines attacked with vicious gusto, tearing open the armored hide of the great beast, spilling glowing orange liquid onto their gloves, boots and armor. Unbeknownst to the Astartes, the liquid, molten blood of their victim, was starting to etch marks into their protective casing, eating away slowly at their bright yellow armor. But the marines ignored this as they gutted what Dune identified as an overgrown Trygon. Some of the other Astartes congratulated Dune in being ‘A GOOD FUCKING NERD’ and gave him a heavy slap on the back. Tyber and company on the other hand were unsure of whether a single tyranid bioform was all that would be on the field of battle.

“WHERE ARE THE REST OF THOSE FUCKERS?” Brother-Captain Rex asked, setting his flaming gaze on Dune. Dune flipped the Fourth Company captain off, the equivalent of a shrug amongst the battle-brothers. As the information master’s hand fell naturally at his waist, the Astartes felt a strong tremor under their feet.

“YOU FUCK-UP! YOU JINXED IT!” The Master of Mindfuckery shouted, barely restraining the powerful urge to throw his power sword at the Fourth Company Captain. He knew Moarfistin would have approved. Before yet another inevitable scuffle between Astartes could start, another massive tyranid beast exploded from the ground beneath the main force of Angry Marines, sending battle-brothers flying in all directions. A few were skilled enough with their jump packs to start them up as soon as they could and bring down the beast from the head. Rex was the first marine to hit the giant, but even the impact of a powerful Astartes like him did nothing to the beast and it threw him off without effort. Other Angry Marines had a better plan, all grabbing what constituted a neck on the Trygon and pushing the beast. There would be much more effort needed to down the constantly moving tyranid like this, but the Astartes could not afford to give manpower. More tyranid bioforms, lumbering beasts that looked like living coals giving anger, were appearing from the holes in the ground. All of the beasts towered over the biggest of the Astartes.

“EMPEROR’S RIGHTEOUS ANGER! ALWAYS ANGRY!” Second Company Captain Satchel cheered. Nearby a group of marines, a smoldering giant loomed.

“ALL THE TIME!” the battle-brothers responded, charging into the thick of the fray. As if it was divine intervention from the Emperor himself, drop pods, much larger than those that housed Astartes, fell from the sky, the Slaaneshi fumes giving them the appearance of catching fire. One struck perfectly next to Dune and opened its metal doors to the world.

===Emperor's Wrath===

“EVEN IN DEATH, I STILL KICK ASS!” the mighty, inspiring form of a Belligerent Engine rumbled. The Emperor smiled at them that day, smiled an intimidating and terrifying grin for all the enemies of the Imperium to see. Dune laughed throatily and issued an order.

“CUT THEM TO PIECES, MOTHERFUCKERS!” He looked out at the ever growing horde of monstrous creatures, many standing higher than the heads of venerable dreadnoughts, and saw one beast that caught his eye. He was going to tear it apart. “I’M COMING FOR YOU, FUCKER!” With that, Dune kicked off the edge of the crater, a veritable cliff face, and descended on the tyranid horde.

[[File:Angry_Marines_vs_Nidhoggr.png|400px|thumb|right|''On the battlefield below, a Warrior beast of unparalleled size duelled four Astartes with its glowing claws]]

On the battlefield below, a Warrior beast of unparalleled size duelled four Astartes with its glowing claws hewn from its own bones, its armored hide belying its natural agility. The Angry Marines fighting it ducked and dived, leaping at the nimble beast to catch it and turn it inside-out. On his fall down, Dune caught the Warrior’s left upper arm and spun around the confused synapse creature. Showing the creature physical strength innate to the irate Astartes, he twisted the limb back, having surprising care not to slash his own face with the searing hot magma blade on the end of the forelimb. The Master of Mindfuckery snapped the arm back and in a single, fluid movement shoved the burning bio-weapon into the Warrior’s mouth. The beast screamed in pain, slicing blindly with its talons and a lucky strike impaled Dune’s elbow joint all the way through. The marine shouted an angry, pained yell and took hold of the Warrior’s other magma weapon, his grip slipping and the blade melting his glove and boiling the flesh on his hand. Believing that the Emperor wouldn’t bless them and let him die, Dune pushed through and rammed the steaming weapon into the Warrior’s throat. The head rocked in a series of spasms and jittered, a well-placed kick from one of the assault marines killing it outright.

“THANKS FOR NOTHING,” Dune acknowledged, getting angry nods from his fellows. The Master of Mindfuckery looked about the battlefield for his real target and found himself wanting. Nothing warned him of the creatures under the surface.

The rocks under one of the assault marine’s feet started to split and Dune heard a familiar grumble underneath the ground. Reacting on reflex alone, the psyker managed to leap faster than the other marines as a creature burst from the earth, sending rock shards flying like dangerous shrapnel. One struck and glanced off of Dune’s armored hand, exacerbating the throbbing, burning pain. His pained hiss joined the noise of a titan roaring, its irate breath sounding like sheets of metal being ground and torn apart. An unlucky Astartes found himself in the creature’s jaws, its powerful muscles crushing and melting his body. The creature, no doubt some kind of Carnifex modification, tossed the marine’s body away, letting it slide down the ashen slope. A whip like tentacle fidgeted independently from the rest of the creature and suddenly struck out like a snake, spearing another marine through his helmet. The vicious creature lifted the poor marine up, looked him dead in the eyes and ripped his throat out.

A torrent of air entered the psyker’s lungs as he took an enraged breath at the deaths of his sworn battle-brothers. Charging with reckless abandon, Dune brought his sword down on the creature’s arm, chipping the rocky outer coating. The beast bellowed angrily at him, dismissing his attack with a swat of its obsidian coated arm, sending the marine flying. Other marines saw the plight of their brother and charged. Brother-Captain Rex jumped onto the creature’s back unassisted by jump pack and dug the heel of his power boot in. the flaming beast did not react well to this, throwing the Fourth Company Captain bodily. To the enraging surprise of the Astartes, the tentacle straightened out and snagged the Captain, bringing his flight to a painful, spine-breaking stop. The Brother-Captain coughed blood as the Carnifex drew in its line, pulling its prey closer at breakneck speed. Once the doomed Captain was close enough, the beast headbutted him, smashing the proud front of his power armor.

Brother Captain Argent Rex was dead. The stunned marines looked on as their ranks were beaten by the Carnifex, its crushing claws smashing the Astartes into the ground before tossing them aside. A devastator squad appeared to turn the tide of the battle, but one look from the beast made them know that they were doomed. It attacked them like a feral dog at a loose piece of meat, pieces flying everywhere and one marine having his entire leg ripped to a bloody stump. The Carnifex swallowed the still armored limb, power foot and all, before turning to the Angry Marines. Never before had they recognised such a blatant representation of animalistic rage. This single beast had as much rage as the World Eaters. This pissed them off to no end.

“IT’LL BE GREAT TROPHY TO GLOAT ABOUT THEN!” Tyber shouted, charging like so many before him. The beast recognised him as insignificant and readied its magma tipped claws. The assault marine blocked the downward strike with his chainswords, but to his horror, the weapons began to melt. He discarded the useless implements and tried to deliver a strong punch to the Carnifex’s exposed eye. There was no getting past these defences. It clamped its jaws around his arm and twisted, tearing another morsel for its belly. And then if froze. The Carnifex was motionless. For a moment, the Angry Marines had an opportunity to strike. But just as soon as it stopped, the beast retreated into its entry hole, sealing the exit with rapidly cooling magma.

“A BETTER MARINE WOULD HAVE USED FUCKING MAGMA CHAINSWORDS TO BURN THAT MOTHERFUCKER!” an assault marine shouted into Tyber’s face, helping him up. Meanwhile, on the other side of the field of bodies, tyranid and marine alike, Dune looked at the fallen battle-brothers with a morbid, enraged echo of sorrow, like the permanent anger stage of grief.

“HOW DID WE LOSE SO MANY FUCKING BATTLE-BROTHERS? FUCKING ARACHNID… TYRA… ARACH” Suddenly struck by some kind of psychic wave, Dune held his head together with his hands, a sharp mental spike driven into his brain. “RACH… R… CH… RACH… ARACHNI… RACHN…. R… R… RA..

'''RACHNUS'''!“

Marines around the battlefield fell silent, the spasming form of the psyker hitting something deep within them too. An Angry Marine shivered, his righteous rage quivering and growing. The old sacrifice of the chapter had not been forgotten...

===Inquisition===

In the depths of space, an Inquisitorial vessel drifted like a grand cathedral of justice, its titanic shape giving the planet dwellers an artificial eclipse. The intricate workings on within the ship were going as they normally would, but for one thing. A lone messenger journeyed through its vast spaces, searching every corner for the one he would deliver the message. Almost by accident, he bumped into the silvery-grey armor of his delivery address.

“Sir, I have a message from the Flagirus Sector. The Unspoken One’s name has been... invoked”. Behind his faceless helmet, the Grey Knight grinned, a deadly sickle-smile opening upon his battle-scarred face like an open, festering wound. If the messenger could see that, he would have fainted from sheer terror alone.

“Excellent. Contact Deathwatch. Contact the Sororitas. We're going to deal with this ''heresy''. Once and for all…”

==Chapter 2==
===Old Wounds===

Techmarines dropped down alongside apothecaries to assess the battlefield and the downed marines. In regular instances, the Adeptus Mechanicus would try and preserve holy machinery and weaponry, and the two often overlapped. Now many of the techmarines were shuffled next to apothecaries, directed by the Chapter Master.

“GET SOME FUCKING BIONICS ON MY MARINES BEFORE I SHOVE THIS CHAINFIST UP A PLACE THE SERVITORS WILL NEVER FIND!” he bellowed, taking a step forward and shoving a techmarine in the right direction. The mere threat of Temperus’ directed ire on one of their shoulders made the process of fitting ‘KICKASS ROBOT LIMBS’ run a lot more smoothly, a few marines testing out their new appendages with a forceful strike to the unfortunate apothecary or techmarine. This resulted in more than a few brawls within the chapter ranks, many of the Astartes feeling much better after pounding a battle-brother for a few minutes. Tyber was one of those marines, really understanding how the Angry Marines functioned. He clenched his new fist tightly, lamenting the violent loss of his brothers. He would never say it in those words, though. He would die like a chump, like Rex, that chump. He smashed a rock into tiny fragments with his fist, venting.

Dune held an ungloved hand to his throbbing skull, grimacing and snarling. What had happened to him? What the fuck?

“HEY, NERD! YOU’RE A LIBRARIAN, RIGHT?” Tyber asked him.

“MASTER OF MINDFUCKERY, YOU STUCK-UP SHIT! GET IT RIGHT!”

"WHATEVER! YOU DO LIBRARIAN JOBS DON’T YOU?” Dune got up and walked with a heavy step over to Tyber and grabbed the unsuspecting marine in a headlock, squeezing his head in his arm.

"DON’T YOU EVER FUCKING INSULT ME LIKE THAT AGAIN! AND YES, I’M THE ONLY FUCKING ONE WHO GIVES A FLYING FUCK ABOUT HISTORY IN THIS CHAPTER. BECAUSE HISTORY IS FOR PUSSIES AND THOSE WHO DON’T LEARN REPEAT LIKE DOUCHES!” This part perplexed Tyber. Why would the Master of Mindfuckery denounce his own role? However, this was far from the forefront of his mind, the most important thing being the ever-growing frustration and rage at not being able to break Dune’s grip. The Astartes wriggled and squirmed, hitting the psyker in the ribs repeatedly until he yielded. Dune, however, was too enraged by Tyber’s audacity to resist his grip to give an inch to the marine, instead deciding to piledrive the junior marine into the dust. Now the one with the stronger headache, Tyber surrendered, receiving overwhelming disapproval from the Angry Marines. “FUCKING MARINE FOETUS-FUCKER ROOKIE! HE DOESN’T KNOW SHIT ABOUT US, ABOUT OUR SACRIFICE. WE ARE ANGRY FOR THE EMPEROR AND OUR LOST RECORDS!”

“LOST RECORDS? WHAT THE FUCK?”

"FUCKING GONE, SHITHEAD! CHAPTER HISTORY STARTS WITH FIRST CHAPTER MASTER FAL…” Dune turned his head away from his audience, heavy browed gaze averted, knowing what memory accompanied the Chapter Master’s fate. “…FAL, WHO WAS THE FIRST BELLIGERENT ENGINE TO FUCK CHAOS SIDEWAYS. THEN OUR ESTEEMED MOTHERFUCKER TEMPERUS TOOK OVER. SEEMS LIKE A NORMAL SECOND FOUNDING CHAPTER, RIGHT?” Several Astartes nodded. “WRONG! GO BACK TO SCHOOL, COCKSTROKERS! THE ANGRY MARINES HAVE OUR VERY FIRST RECORD AT THE END OF THE MOTHERFUCKING SIEGE OF TERRA! THERE WASN’T A FUCKING FOUNDING BACK THEN WHEN THE HOLY EMPEROR BITCH-SLAPPED THAT CUNT, HORUS! SO WE HAVE TO BE DESCENDED FROM A LEGION! A FUCKING ANGRY LEGION!”

“I AGREE WITH HIS MINDFUCKERY. YOU DON’T ASK FOR RECORDS IN THE ANGRY MARINES, YOU GET KICKED IN THE DICK! NOW GO JOIN A DEVASTATOR SQUAD, COCKMONGLER!” Tyber hissed at the order, raising his fist. But he didn’t dare go against the orders of Temperus Maximus, lest he be treated to a fate worse than being sent to find Fulgrim’s Slaaneshi world alone, a quest so horrid just thinking about it was cause for a commissar to come visiting. He muttered some profanities and found a devastator squad to join, the marines he insulted now beating him with their weapons as repayment.

Elsewhere, a scout walked alone, bleeding profusely through numerous holes in his armor, each step punctuated by a feeble ‘FUCK’. He turned his head rigidly, looking for danger in the gloom of the dark. Nothing seemed to appear for the time being, so he set his eyes forward, continuing to what would certainly be the vigorously burning flame of the Angry Marines’ forward base. They didn’t care for visibility. In fact, they hoped the enemies of man would be attracted to the fire so that they could exact the Emperor’s justice on their skulls, limbs, spines, possibly in that order. Some dust crunched together. The Astartes whipped around, his chainblade whirring meaninglessly in the dark of the night. He could definitely see figures now, dancing beyond the shadowy darkness, just out of reach. The scout turned to face this intangible threat, firing pointless punches at everything and striking short. Something moved ahead of the others. The scout took his chance and grabbed the black shape by the head and smashed it as hard as he could into the ground. The head flattened and pulped, spilling thick blood onto the loose dust over the rocks. The marine dropped the body and kicked it into the crowd that he couldn’t see, hearing it hit something organic. Before he could continue his assault, the marine heard a click and the night in front of him lit up with bolter fire.

===Astartes Most Unusual===

“So, the Ordo Malleus’ dogs of war have called us in? For what?” a Deathwatch captain muttered, leaning his muscle-bound bulk on the sturdy wall. The Battle Sister Palatine beside him shook her head disapprovingly.

“I’d be careful of what you say, Daegan. The Inquisitors might take that personally and they’re not afraid to accuse Astartes of heresy. Not unusual in my experience”.

“What are you trying to insinuate about Space Marines?” Daegan inquired. The Palatine looked elsewhere, trying not to hold the marine’s gaze. The tension between them was broken by the shifting of the grand doors and the appearance of a hooded figure.

"Captain Daegan, Palatine Katarina, you may come inside,” the inquisitor boomed, his authoritarian voice striking a nerve in Daegan. The Deathwatch captain entered first and took the head of an ornate dining table. This was clearly set out for many more people than the three of them present, so there was ample space between the chairs seated. The two guests did not have to wait long before one of the back doors, not quite as ornate or spectacular as the first set but almost so, opened, revealing a whole group of eerie inquisitors, one clearly their leader at the head. Each of them had a bolt pistol and a knife of some kind. Daegan raised an eyebrow at the men, thinking them ridiculous.

“I hope you don’t mind the presence of my men. They will be overseeing this… ‘meeting’,” the Lord Inquisitor said, shifting his gaze between the two leaders.

"Not at all,” Katarina said, familiar with working with the Inquisition, the Ecclesiarchy having similar goals to Ordo Hereticus. Malleus on the other hand wasn’t quite so familiar to her. By contrast, Daegan raised his lip in a snarl, an air of contempt surrounding the man. The Lord Inquisitor dismissed both.

"I’ve called this meeting to discuss a particularly problematic chapter. But let’s be honest and forward with this discussion. No one really likes the Angry Marines. They’re a bunch of raging, destructive, foul-mouthed and undisciplined louts with no respect for order or their fellow marines, Black Templars and Space Wolves notwithstanding. They’ve shown heretical tendencies since their founding, the incident with Marneus Calgar being especially notable in my mind”. Daegan snorted with disgust and shuffled to hide the Ultramarine pauldron from the others. “They are dangerous and now they’ve committed a heresy so great it defies the Emperor’s direct word. This act will remain unspoken of”.

“How can we commit to this if we don’t know the cause?” Katarina asked, looking at the inquisitor and the space marine from across the table. Daegan glanced dangerously in the same way, growing tired of the effect of the space between the three leaders. The lord inquisitor put his hands on the table.

“Have you ever questioned heresy?”

"No,” the Palatine replied. The Lord Inquisitor grinned beneath the shadow of his hood.

“''This'' is heresy. Do not question it. So the Angry Marines oppose everything the Inquisition stands for, and heretical chapters can’t be left alone. They need to be expunged before they infect the greater body. And unlike the Space Wolves, these marines are not a First Founding chapter. We will have no problems with their destruction”. The inquisitor tented his fingers, silently asking for a response.

“So what would the Daemonhunters and Deathwatch have to do with this? Surely this falls under Ordo Hereticus? I understand where the Orders Militant come in, these ‘Angry Marines’ obviously being an affront to the Emperor’s decree.” the Palatine said. Daegan shot a derisive look at the Lord Inquisitor.

"Good question. Daegan, you are a Deathwatch Marine, are you not?”

“By the Emperor’s name, I am! What of it?”

"You’ve sworn to destroy the vile xenos that oppose mankind?” “Yes?” Daegan replied, irritated.

“What is a xeno, dear Captain?”

“An alien. Something inhuman”.

"My assumptions, based in practice, are correct. So then, an alien is something that isn’t from where you are from… and inhuman. A Space Marine is a man, but he isn’t human. They are post-human. And the Angry Marines are not from where you are from and they oppose mankind. How does this not fall under your sector of expertise?” Daegan narrowed his sunken eyes and admitted defeat. “As for the Daemonhunters, chosen of the Emperor’s will? We have noted a disturbing number of daemons in the general vicinity of where the Angry Marines were last spotted. If those marines have fallen to chaos like we have thought, then it is only natural that there would be daemons. We may have to… deploy our specialist forces as well. Emperor knows a better force of Astartes would crush these unruly misfits”. The other two looked at the inquisitor with confusion and the old man simply grinned to himself, leaving the Captain and the Palatine in the dark.

===The Marines Advance===

The bang of bolter fire dissipated as it cut through the air, barely reaching the ears of the farthest spread marines. A sergeant smashed a diamond hard rock under the force of his power foot, an Angry Marine exclusive weapon. A small detachment of marines subordinate to him sparred with their power bats, the matter disruption fields turned off. Though belligerent, the marines were not so stupid as to risk killing their battle-brothers. The brothers who used power swords sheathed the weapons and beat their comrades with their armored fists. With his injured hands, Dune resolved to grip the blade and exchanged blows with the sergeant, using the sword hilt as a club. The sergeant tackled the psyker and the two of them fought for a minute or two, their righteous anger somewhat tempered by the rough-housing. When a call rang through the encampment, Dune looked up from smashing the sergeant’s head into the ground.

"THIS ISN’T OVER,” he said, clasping his head after the sergeant’s repeated bludgeoning of it with his bat. With an acrobatic wriggle, the sergeant got to his feet and went to see what the 2nd Company Captain had to say.

“C’MON, CHUCKLEFUCKS! WE’RE TAKING THE BATTLE TO THEM!” Satchel cried, sending a wave of frustration through the marines, asking why it took so long to reach this consensus. The others hit their fists together in anticipation of another raging battle in the Emperor’s name.

During the down time, aerial assistance came down from the fleet, sending transports for the Astartes. The most numerous were somewhat familiar to imperial eyes, hovering, quick moving skimmers holding a few marines each. But the quintessential Land Speeder had been changed somewhat by the Angry Marines. The light armor had been bolstered considerably and the shape lent itself to hard angles that were harsh and simple. The propulsion was stronger and the engine more furious in its look and sound. The nose of the craft was still covered in gore and dried blood spatter, likely a request from the marines themselves to commemorate kills and to laugh about it. These Rage Speeders were powerful battering rams that allowed one passenger seat’s worth of space for the Angry Marines to slash anything that slides off the nose, the plasma grenade launchers and heavy bolters supplying rare firepower. Supplied with these vehicles, the battle-brothers fought with fist and bat to get to a position in the craft, the actual designated pilots having to resort to more and more violent methods to keep the others at bay. Eventually, many of the marines had embarked on what were effectively two man battering rams while the rest had to wait for more vehicles to arrive. A cocky laugh and a flick of the middle finger drove the point home to the grounded warriors.

Dune shoved a prospective ganger away, citing his lack of anger as being unworthy of boarding the vehicle, though doing so let another marine board the craft ahead of him. This incited him with such rage that he almost broke his power sword over his knee, instead backhanding a brother that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Needless to say, a fight soon broke out and missed blows brought more combatants. The Angry Marines devolved into a pack of brawlers, but the scuffle ended quickly as the Rage Speeders departed with a furious kick, blazing across the rocky terrain. With the enraged screams abated, the speeder crews entered a strange state of focus, searching high and low for the enemy. Though concentrating, they were not subtle or quiet. Many a bolthole was given the warm reception of a plasma grenade or utter destruction from the end of a chainsword. Occasionally a piece of an already slain tyranid flew up in a haze of smoke, but the marines would be so far unlucky.

Something moved at the edge of one marine’s vision. He turned rapidly to see whatever it was in full and found himself facing a Warrior. In silent agreement with his passenger, the pilot charged directly at the tyranid. The creature noticed the immediate threat, not difficult when said threat is a bold yellow battering ram filled with screaming lunatics revving chainswords and yelling curses, and promptly began to run, quickly. At the rate it was running and the speed their vehicle was travelling, the Rage Speeder’s crew would surely miss. But the pilot wasn’t so sure. Turning his vehicle and letting momentum take them, he power-slid the hovering craft at bone-breaking speed into the tyranid. The passenger took his chance through the open side of the speeder and cut a whirlwind of slashes into the Warrior, turning it into a fountain of blood.

“FUCK YEAH! SUCK ON THAT, INSECT MOTHERFUCKER!” the marine shouted, kicking the corpse furiously until it freed itself from the side of their vehicle. His fist met the driver’s and the two reported their kill. “HEY, CHUMPS! BIG BUGS READY TO SQUASH RIGHT OVER HERE!”

“DON’T NEED TO TELL US TWICE! PREPARE TO GET WRECKED!” The other pilots converged on the site, their speeders slamming into each other from their enthusiasm. The pilots, in a surprising act of restraint, refrained from beating each other senseless. They heard something, under the surface. This tactic of breaking from underneath was getting very irritating. The speeders dispersed, their impressive speed clearing hundreds of metres from the site broken. In sync with each other, the pilots all turned towards the creature, half of a Trygon exposed to the air. But this time, the lithe beast wriggled free from the rabbit hole of its own making. The marines ignored this and continued to build speed, distance closing dramatically. As he went, the vanguard of the ramming force noticed movement in the hole and changed his course slightly.

“MAN THE GUN IF YOU HANDLE IT!” he said to his passenger who picked up the heavy bolter and aimed at the hole. A smaller shape continued to shift in the hidden portion and then it remained still as the Rage Speeder barreled fourth furiously. Suddenly, there was a bang on the underside of the craft. The marines looked at each other disbelievingly and their vehicle stopped charging and started falling. Coming short of the hole, the Rage Speeder exploded into a ball of flame.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!?” a Rage Pilot screeched before urging his gunner to fire every one of their weapons on the hole. Flames and bolts screamed towards the opening in the ground and the creatures inside scattered, the slow ones instantly vaporised by the barrage. Now the marines could identify what killed the other two. Crouched figures protected by a hard shell and molded to a gun, the Hive Guard were notorious among the Imperium for utterly destroying tanks and transports. These light fliers were easy prey. The Rage Pilot sank his machine low to the ground and accelerated as quickly as he could, smashing into the nearest Hive Guard with enough force to rip the gun from its arms. The squealing tyranid was ripped apart the passenger marine, power field effortlessly tearing the creature in two. But in their fervor for revenge, they had neglected to notice the giant form of the Trygon in their path. The two marines rammed into with full force.

“THINK YOU’RE BIG AND TOUGH? SUCK ON THIS, BUG-FUCK!” the Rage Pilot shouted before impact. The craft’s fuel tank ruptured and detonated, taking a massive chunk of the Trygon’s lower body flesh, sending the giant to the ground. The two marines were flung weightlessly in the other direction, their armor weakened and shattered by the detonation. But there was salvation for them yet. Sticky webs of some unknown substance whipped around the marines and their impact with the ground was softened. The gunner looked up weakly and bright yellow filled his vision. The color in front of him lumbered forward and he knew it was a Belligerent Engine.

===Savior, Bane===

The mighty dreadnought charged and impaled a surprised Hive Guard on his drill, the spinning weapon gutting the beast. The creature, tossing and turning to rid itself of the spike in its stomach, was thrown into its remaining allies, toppling them. One’s head was crushed under the dreadnought’s foot and the others retreated into the crumbling hole again, beyond the machine’s reach. The aged warrior knew that the assault was not over and his thoughts were proven true in a matter of seconds. Bursting from new avenues, Carnifexes and Biovores appeared from thin air to attack the lone engine. He accepted the challenge of these mindless beasts and stood his ground ahead of his injured brothers.

“WE MAY BE ANGRY AND WE MAY FIGHT… BUT WE’RE STILL SPACE MARINES AND WE’RE STILL BATTLE-BROTHERS!” the war machine rumbled, not expecting the filthy xenos to understand, defensively digging his feet into the rocky ground. The closest Carnifex roared and the engine took the opportunity to fire a plasma bolt into the beast’s mouth, ripping its top jaw to pieces.

“BROTHER BANE! …FUCK THOSE ASSHOLES UP!” the pilot encouraged weakly. Bane would have nodded if he could, but the destruction of xenos would be good enough. Through very strong will, Bane resisted the inbuilt urge to engage the creatures in melee, to rip out their spines and beat them with them. The dreadnought hated every second of internment and doubly so every second he stayed to protect the other two. A Biovore fired one of its vile spores at him, the contents exploded over his head. He would be shaken by the assault of this tyranid scum. Dozens of bioforms, predominantly Carnifexes, made the decision to charge, making a wave of armored flesh that even Bane would not thwart. A beast’s head was whacked to the side by his drill, its braincase penetrated by his devastating weapon as he thrust it into the back of its skull.

A Carnifex descended on Bane’s plasma cannon, clamping its jaws around the weapon, its torso steaming from previous shots. The strong jaw muscles twisted the metal with a creak, snapping and making the weapon useless. Bane wrested the arm back and hit the beast away with it. He didn’t see the one behind him. It surprised the experienced soldiers, attacking his arm with tooth and claw until the limb came off, its mangled form unrecognisable as a plasma cannon. The vultures were closing in on the stricken dreadnought and his allies were otherwise engaged. His drill rammed into a Carnifex’s throat, spraying boiling blood over his chassis. For the first time since he had been locked into the machine, Bane felt a sensation on his skin, the searing burn of a molten tyranid’s blood on his naked flesh. With his limited mobility, he stepped on another beast’s toes and opened a space.

A Carnifex on the back line disappeared in a flash of blue. Several other tyranids looked in the direction of the smoking corpse and briefly noticed a beam fading away from it. Beside it, a Biovore was decapitated by a beam and its body turned to ash. Appearing as if from nowhere, the imposing, gigantic shape of a Land Raider had arrived, delivering lascannon shots from a safe distance away. On the top of the machine, there was a stranger weapon, one that seemed to have moving ammunition.

“RELEASE THE MARINES!” the driver shouted to the gunner and he fired the weapon. In an instant, eighteen marines exited the tubes of the Land Raider’s dorsal mounted weapon and flew headlong into the tyranid horde. The creatures were not ready for this new tactic and the artillery were targeted first, Angry Marines jumping into the rear lines of the enemy to tear the Biovores to shreds. With many of the Carnifexes busy with Bane or the Land Raider, the living artillery was defensively and the marines cut them to ribbons. One burst into flames and it was clear that a psyker was nearby.

“YOU FUCK RIGHT OFF, NIDS!” Dune shouted, ripping a Biovore’s head of its shoulders and crushing the skull in his hand. “BANE, YOU TOUGH SON OF A BITCH, WE’RE COMING TO GET YOU!”

“ACKNOWLEDGED, FOURTH COMPANY CAPTAIN. PREPARE FOR HOLY DESTRUCTION!” The dreadnought heaved and lurched forward, lifting a multi ton beast on the tip of his drill. The desperately striking Carnifex scratched and bit at his arm, the protective layers giving him enough protection to give him time to prepare. That day, Dune saw a Carnifex sail over the top of a dreadnought and into the path of a Rage Speeder that turned the creature’s lower body into paste. With that, Bane slumped over, his remaining arm supporting his mechanical weight.

Another set of drop pods rained down on the scorched earth, another Belligerent Engine coming to Bane’s aid and a whole host of Space Marines come to face the growing horde of Warriors escaping the holes. Blades met claws, helmet to skull and the organised formation of any other chapter was completely alien to these Astartes. They fought with synchronized madness, tearing into the enemy line, cutting tendons and ripping stomachs. Dune personally sought to the destruction of Carnifexes, wanting to avenge the brothers lost the previous day. His power sword cut through the chitinous and igneous armor, both hands making light work of the enemy.

“CAPTAIN DUNE! OUR SENSORS ARE PICKING UP SOMETHING FUCK-HUGE COMING IN YOUR DIRECTION. WHERE IS CAPTAIN SATCHEL?”

“WITH HIS GIRLY MEN ON THE LEFT FLANK! RASEREI AND THE CHAPTER MASTER SHOULD BE C…” Dune stopped and stared. A giant footfall hit the hard ground, flattening any rocks under it. Another step and the ground shook. Dune’s eyes widened and he staggered back, giving the squirming Carnifex he was about to slay time to right itself. The gunmen in the Land Raider and Rage Speeders stopped to aim at the titan. For a minute, all focus was on that gigantic creature. No such giant of flesh and blood should be on this planet. Where had the tyranids deployed this beast from. “FOURTH COMPANY, TACTICAL WITHDRAWAL!” he shouted, not afraid of the beast but apprehensive of how he would destroy it. Based on his experience, this thing, this gigantic beast covered in every inch with cooled obsidian, was a titanic Hierodule, a much larger example than he had ever seen.

“CAPTAIN, WE ARE EQUIPPED TO DEAL WITH THIS TASK. PREPARE FOR TITAN DEPLOYMENT!”

Behind Dune, a giant cloud of black dust flew up into the air, hiding the Land Raider from view and sending a torrent onto Bane’s back. The huge feet of the machine dug deep into the rock and the crew tore them out quickly. The tyranids gave no attention to this new arrival, continuing their onslaught on the ground forces. Dune smashed his sword into another tyranid, the wounds on his hands searing every time he attacked. Behind them all, something in the stirred in the gloom.

“Reaver Class Battle Titan Dragomir deployed. Prepare to die”. The grand war machine, painted in the bold, proud colors of the marines and rearing its skull like face through the dust, reached one massive hand behind its back and drew a colossal weapon. The Hierodule began to circle the titan, keeping its distance for the time being to assess a weak spot. Dragomir would give it none and lunged forward, slicing flesh from the giant’s face. Dune smirked at the ominous figure. Someone in the Mechanicus had been insane enough to build a power sword for a titan…

[[Category:Hive Fleet Nidhoggr]][[Category:Warhammer 40,000]]
[[Category:Stories/Warhammer 40,000]]

Unyuufex

2020-03-30T05:42:44Z

2607:FB90:D41E:656F:23E2:43DF:26E9:AD5C: /* Delicious Writefaggotry */

{{Heresy}}
[[Image:Unyuufex2.jpg|thumb|right|Unyuu!]]A joke derived from the tendency of [[Tyranid]] players to name their [[Carnifex]]es by their role and the appellation of "-fex", leading to creatures such as "gunfexes".

Unyuufex is the most tragic Tyranid alive. It is a special breed of Carnifex that wants to hug and cuddle everything, but ends up killing most things as it can't control its own strength.

It is also Abaddon's only friend, hugging the poor fucker when he can't hug anything himself. Because, you know, [[Eldrad|he doesn't have arms]].

It is a known rumor that Lofn may have been the companion of Unyuufex, although that is arguable with the similar theory that Lofn's Tyranid companion is an offspring or genetic clone/brother etc. of Unyuufex. In fact, it is heavily implied by /tg/ canon that Unyuufex is actually [[Lofn|Lofn's]] pet Ripper, all grown up. Or at the very least Ripper is a relative/offspring of Unyuufex. Perhaps there's a whole Hive Fleet Unyuu, comprised entirely of Unyuunids? Oh shi- It is probably that last one, as she has that effect on Tyranids.

Update: Has been introduced to Lenny from of Mice and Men, are now living happily ever after, crushing adorable things with their massive retard strength.

Double update: Vulkan has found one and has indeed, booped the snoot.

==Delicious Writefaggotry==
"Unyuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!", the horrendous cry echoed above the battlefield, the Sisters of Kitty ceased the firing of their pink bolters and revered Brother Yuki of the Pretty Marines halted his songs for a second... everything froze, it was as if time itself stopped dead in its tracks. The Tyranids that time and time again broke against the might of the Imperial army all chattered, they clicked their mandibles and the clatter of chitinous plates and insectoid legs was deafening. "Unyuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!" the sound echoed across the field once more, as if coming from within a tunnel or ship, the Tyranids stopped, they stopped in everything, not a sound was heard. The Sisters of Kitty looked worried at each other, the red bows in their pristine white bowlcuts were slightly moved by a gentle breeze. "What is happening," asked Kitty Sister Adiane, "they aren't moving... Was it because of that sound?"

Sailor Kitty Sister Moon looked at Adiane, the tiara on Moon's forehead reflected the few last rays of sun as the blue sailor skirt was moved by the wind, "That sound, Adiane... is why we will not win this day" she said, her face bitter as the wind now latched onto her immensely long, golden braids. "Sailor Kitty Sister Mercury," Moon said, "How long until the creature emerges?"

"Three minutes and twenty four seconds" Mercury replied, her blue visor glistened like ice in the setting sun as data rushed across it and she frantically tapped the keyboard of her small blue handheld computer, "I am sending the data to Battle Brother Cloud of the Pretty Marines as we speak. Prepare the evacuation."

And at once, large lilac Thunderhawks swooped in, guns blazing to clear a landing zone amongst the paralyzed Tyranid hordes, one could only guess that it was fear that had rendered them in such a state, quivering statues, frozen in time.

As the last few Sisters of Kitty and Pretty Marines rushed onto the ships, the cry was heard once again, "UNYUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" stronger now, and in the distance, one could see a wave of panicked Tyranids, running from something, and behind them, an ever increasing cloud of eviscerated blood and bodyparts, as the frantic, tragic whelping and whimpering of "UNYUUUU" echoed across the battlefield.

"What are those?" Kitty Sister Adiane said, "Unyuufexes," a strong voice said behind her, it was Sailor Kitty Sister Mars, her hair long and black, her sailor dress in blazing red, and at her armoured hip, a still warm hellpistol, Adiane also noticed the heavy flamer slung across one of Mars' shoulders, "there is nothing more for us here" Sailor Kitty Sister Mars continued, "We have called in the only ones able to deal with this problem."

And with that, as the growing cloud of blood and Tyranid limbs came ever closer, a huge, vox assisted roar split the skies, "FFFFFUCKING PUSSIES! I'M GONNA SKULLFUCK THAT BUGFAGGOT!".

And with that, a huge, forearm-and-fist-shaped battlebarge with a prow more resembling a gigantic finger than anything else, rushed through the outer atmosphere and tore through the air, and then landed amongst the fleeing Tyranids in a hail of gore and dust.

"Bass Jackson and Brother Kamina will take care of the beasts." Sailor Kitty Sister Mars said as she went into the ship, Adiane followed her, and through one of the viewports, she could see two massive, yellow-armoured figures, both charging madly towards their foes in the sunset. Opposing them were a host of drooling, googly eyed Unyuufexes, their claws covered in the remains of their hugged victims, the ground around them was empty, the normal Tyranids had already fled past the horizon.

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-!" Bass Jackson roared as he beelined towards his targets. The Unyuufexes drooled for another second, and then, as one, shouted, "UNYUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" and charged toward the two Angry Marine Commanders.

(Story copy-pastaed from warseer.com, courtesy of Neknoh)

==See Also==
*[[Jeanstealer]]
*[[Lolifex]]
*[[Carnifex]]

==Gallery==
<center><gallery>
Image:Unyuu1.jpg
Image:Unyuu2.jpg
Image:Unyuu3.jpg
Image:Unyuu4.jpg
Image:Unyuufex.jpg
Image:Unyuufex3.jpg
Image:Unyuufex4.jpg
Image:Unyuuabaddonhug.jpg
</gallery></center>

[[Category:Warhammer 40,000]][[Category:Tyranid]][[Category:/tg/ 40,000]]

Carnifex

2020-03-30T05:32:28Z

2607:FB90:D41E:656F:23E2:43DF:26E9:AD5C: /* Old One Eye */

[[Image:Carnifex and Gaunts Victorious.jpg|thumb|right|300px|Better to die than be nom'd.]]

A '''Carnifex''' is a monstrous [[Tyranid]] creature from the ''[[Warhammer 40,000]]'' game. Carnifexes are hulking beasts that are often used quite literally as battering rams, barging through enemy lines and tossing tanks around like toys. However, the Carnifex is among the most customizable of Tyranid units, allowing for many different varieties to fulfill different roles on the battlefield. They range from the above mentioned battering ram, to a weapons platform for anti-horde duties. 'Fexes are notoriously resilient, and can even be upgraded with regeneration - a mutation previously unique to a Carnifex special character known as Old One Eye, but later introduced to the standard Tyranid army list - making them extremely difficult to kill; It's pretty much a diet Robo-Terrasque. ''40k'' players commonly name specific variations of Carnifex by taking another word that represents the concept and appending "-fex" to the end. For example, the Dakkafex is a [[shooty]] Carnifex based on the [[Ork]] term "[[dakka]]".

'''Note:''' In Latin, "Carnifex" literally means "butcher," (even more literally, "meat maker") but is also used for an "executioner," a "tallow-renderer," or, more figuratively, a "murderer" or "villain."

==Carnifexes in 5th Edition==
[[Image: Discofex.jpg|thumb|right|300px| Thanks to [[Robin Cruddace| This failure]], the days of bosses like this are now long past.]]
In the 5th edition, the Carnifex lost a total of ''eighteen biomorphs and weapon options'', having been replaced by [[Nerf|more stringent mandatory loadouts]]. The Carnifex has also faced a doubling in base point cost with rather paltry statistical increases - putting it arguably somewhere between 20-30 points too expensive for the overpowering majority of competitive army lists, and 10 or so points above the cost-effectiveness ratio provided by variant 'Fexes (such as [[DISTRACTION CARNIFEX]]).

How profoundly [[Rage|infuriating]] this is for Tyranid players writ-large cannot be denied, and is notable for being one of the first times that players openly called foul on [[Games Workshop]]. Beyond any doubt, the Carnifex was ''the'' mainstay big fucking unit of Tyranid players and was the one unit that literally every Tyranid player had in their army list. It was the epitome of ubiquitous; you could mount lots of options on it, and all of them, to some degree or another, were viable - until this edition hit. This is most Likely because Games Workshop wants more money and by making the Fex suck you have to buy, from Games Workshop, the Trygon to stand a chance.

Some of the new biomorph weapons and options were nice, and there was options added to make some of the 'Nid swarm a little less vulnerable to being dramatically outgunned, and considerably improved Tyranid psyker units (its command units especially), but in the process, the Carnifex - the one fucking model every 'Nid player and their grandmother had at least one of - got toned down dramatically and is now rather inefficient - as well as much more vulnerable to being taken down quickly by certain units with reasonably-effective armor-penetrating weapons (of particular note: [[Imperial Guard|Guardsmen]] with Missile Launchers, Hunter-Killer Missiles, [[Thousand Sons|Rubric Marines]], [[Necrons]], and [[Stormtrooper]]s, since the fucking thing can't take [[AIDS|Extended Carapace]] anymore.

It enraged players even more that this edition's weapon changes functionally forced people to buy all-new Carnifexes since the old ones they fielded, such as Sniperfexes (which were armed with Venom Cannons and Barbed Stranglers, to give the Tyranids much-needed fire support and allow them to stun enemy vehicles into submission) were no longer valid, whilst several of the new bioweapons, whilst not bad (people like that the Venom Cannons can score penetrating hits now) are specifically designed to take bites out of the Carnifex's originally-legendary punch (since the gun now replaces 2 hands). Functionally, the Carnifex is now half as good at ranged support as it was before with only token upgrades in return and the loss of about 33% of the Carnifex's durability, since it can no longer shrug off a ''lot'' of weapons it used to. The new rules for blast weapons (of which the Heavy Venom Cannon ''is'' one) doesn't exactly help the Carnifex's average accuracy, either, which renders its tankbusting potential rather lacking on top of all this.

Extensive debate on /tg/ has been had since the update, arguing whether the new Carnifex is a direct result of corporate evils or the result of gross incompetence or prejudice on the part of Robin Cruddace, the 5th edition codex writer. As of currently, smart money is on the former; it's widely known that GW is bleeding money due to its fuck-ups, which indicates that this may have something to do with it, especially since Robin Cruddace isn't exactly the biggest fan of Tyranids. Which sort of makes him a reverse [[Matt Ward]].

Again, there are a few bright spots. 3rd edition's Old One Eye is back, even if he does now cost more than a Landraider and is ''barely'' better than a standard Carnifex with no weapons courtesy of Old One Eye's close-combat only biomorph loadout (his primary advantage is that he recovers wounds of fives or mores instead of just sixes, which isn't worth it at all.) The new Hive Guard is a great unit for fucking with [[Tau|Communist Dipshits]] that like to use the old [[Fish of Fury]] tactic. Wider support for variant weapons, previously from Chapter approved, are also a plus. It's a shame that the good stuff gets out-fucked by the bad.

==Carnifexes in 6th Edition==
In 6th the Carnifex saw a buff with a nice price drop from 160 to 120 points bare. However some of the weapons they can use have seen a nerf, notably Scything Talons and Crushing Claws (Although their point cost also decreased). The Carnifex gets it's biggest bonuses riding the monstrous creature buffs that came around in 6th, such as the ease of cover save availability and the sweet hammer of wrath attack you can make when you charge into battle and swing with [[D3]] S9 I10 attacks to sucker punch some unlucky guy. Fear is generally useless and should not be relied upon to make much of a difference, however if it does take effect the Carnifex gains a big in combat boost vs. [[METAL BOXES|its natural prey.]]

The Carnifex has gotten better with its tank crushing power, now that they have Armourbane and no longer strike at I1. Walkers like the Dreadnaught and Soul Grinder still strikes before the Carnifex (so equip electroshock grubs and entice them to charge), but they can now deal with Power Fists without suffering a blow from them. Otherwise the carnifex still takes apart vehicles with record efficiency most of the time. Also people field a few less anti-tank weapons in favor of more anti-infantry power due to 6ed move away from mech warfare, not huge but it helps a bit to have one less railgun rammed down your fex's throat. Oh, and if your Carnifex falls out of synapse range, it haves a 50% chance of eating itself if theres more than one in a Brood! Even by themselves they can't [[get shit done|get shit done]] because they aren't allowed to shoot, run, or even assault unless it can charge the closest enemy unit (Even a squad of TH/SS Terminators). It no longer gets Rage unless you roll a 6, even then it still follows the 5th edition Rage, so keep them in Synapse range!

All in all the Carnifex is now a viable choice to field and is now more versitile with the choice to go either Two Twin-linked Brainleech Devourers, a Cannon of your choice with Crushing Claws, or even just stock equipment with Regeneration to act as an escort for a Tyranid Prime. Old One Eye is still a meh choice, slightly better, but lacks the buff other HQ can give to your army while not being a solid enough HQ to contribute its own to the battle in any real way.

(With 6th second force org chart at +2000 point games, you can field a total of 18 fexes, that's about 72 T6 wounds and up to as many as 126 S9 attacks on the charge (If raging, but that heavily relies on luck) and could go up as high as 180 attacks with crushing claws on Vehicles(very unlikely, but hella scary to think about)!

==Carnifexes in 8th edition==

So far so good, it seems. They've seen a MASSIVE reduction in price, going from 125 points in 6th/7th, to a mere ''67 points base'', though, you need to pay at least 20 extra to actually field one. Though it seems they aren't getting armored shell back, they are receiving a pretty substantial buff in a couple of ways. First and foremost, they're the rough Dreadnought Equivilant of the Tyranid army, with T7, 8W, 3+ save, S6 (With a weapon option that brings them to S12 AP -3, with 3 damage per hit that goes through. (Not really reccomended due to -1 to hit, however, unless you're tagging along with OOE), and being a monster/vehicle that doesn't degrade. Though, bringing it down somewhat from its potential are two factors: One, unless Old One Eye is tagging along with them, their weapon skill is a mediocre 4+, basically 5+ if using crushing claws. Not terrible when you have 6 attacks on the charge, unless you have crushing claws in which case its even worse, but not ideal. The other being is when they are taken either shooty or vanilla, their S6 isn't particularly threatening compared to your other options for dedicated melee in this edition like the Swarmlord, the aforementioned OOE, Trygons, Haruspexen, etc. Overall, an extremely solid unit with a bargain price. Getting roughly the equivilant of a Space Marine dreadnought. Good all-rounder unit, from the sounds of things, especially with the option to make squads of them. We'll have to wait and see how it turns out, but it seems the days of Fexen mediocrity are over.

With the Codex, we've gotten a couple variant Carnifexes in the Screamer-Killer and the Thornback, in addition to some minor buffs to Old One Eye (He no longer degrades and gets chracter protection!). They all also get the universal buff of getting +1 to hit on the charge.

The Screamer Killer is a Carnifex with double scything talons and a special form of Bio-Plasma, which is S7, AP-4, and Assault D6, 18" range. Improved from Assault D3, AP-3, and a 12" range. 14 more points then a Carnifex with Bio-Plasma and double scything talons, before other upgrades are factored in. It also has the Terrifying ability, which adds 1 to any morale tests for enemy units within 8" of any Screamer Killers.

The Thornback is a Carnifex with scything talons (OR a Stranglethorn Cannon), and your choice of either Twin Monstrous Deathspitters/Devourers, chitin thorns, and an improved Living Battering Ram rule which gives it a D3 mortal wounds on a 4+ when charging rather then just a single mortal wound. 3 more points then a Carnifex with the same upgrades before other upgrades are factored in. Also has the special ability to ignore cover with it's shooting attacks.

Also returning from 4th edition are some long-forgotten Biomorphs straight from the Carnifex sprue, exclusive to the Carnifex! (For now, at least). Weapon options remain the same, however, with the standard choice of Scything Talons/Dual Scything Talons, Crushing Claws, one of the two cannons (Venom or Stranglethorn), and one or two sets of the Twin-Linked monstrous guns (Either Devourers or Deathspitters). And of course the obiligatory Toxin Sacs and Adrenal Glands.

CARAPACE BIOMORPHS:

Chitin Thorns: Unqiuely, can be taken with either of the other Carapace Biomorphs. Currently likely not working as intended unfortunately, as the ruling is "At the end of the Fight phase, roll a D6 for each enemy unit within 1" of any models with chitin thorns. On a 6, that unit suffers a mortal wound.", rather then what is likely intended "At the end of the Fight phase, roll a D6 for each enemy '''''model''''' within 1" of any models with chitin thorns. On a 6, that unit suffers a mortal wound." Thornbacks MUST take this. These are the little spikes that no one knows what to do with that come with every Carnifex kit.

Spine Banks: Very short ranged S5 AP- Assault 4 shooting with the ability to fire into combat as if it was a pistol. Tied with the Bone Mace as the cheapest biomorph a Carnifex can take, but locks out Spore Cysts.
Thornbacks may take this.

Spore Cysts: Enemy shooters targeting this Carnifex have -1 to hit. Very useful, but notably expensive at 10 points. Pretty much a must-take. Screamer-Killers may take this. Notable for it's change in ability since 4th edition, where it used to spawn Spore Mines in exchange for the attached Carnifex taking wounds.

HEAD BIOMORPHS:

Bio-Plasma: Still around from the Index, pretty much unchanged, albeit taking it does lock out your options for other head biomorphs.

Enhanced Senses: +1 Ballistic Skill. Extremely useful for any gun-toting Carnifex. Thornbacks may take this. Looks very much insectoid with it's <s>three</s> six eyes and weird antennae. Has an alternate modeling option with the smaller antennae which can be attached to the standard Carnifex head if you don't want to use the weird looking one.

Tusks: +1 attack when charging. Useful on a melee-fex so you can pile on attacks, and especially useful combo'd with Old One Eye so you can have 6 S6 attacks hitting on 2s re-rolling 1s on the charge. Arguably the most common biomorph you'll see, due to the popularity of Dawn of War 2, with it's carnifexes always having this biomorph, and it just being really cool looking. Also the cheapest head morph.

Monstrous Acid Maw: A melee weapon. Not so useful for melee fexes but something to consider for a gunfex. Looks really freaky with it's big old dripping tongue.

TAIL BIORMOPHS:

Almost unchanged from the index, really. Bone Mace or Thresher scythe. You have the option of neither though now, annoying all those who impulsively glued one of the two on in haste during the time we had with the Index. One and only one attack though now, which is sad for the Thresher Scythe. No more clearing hordes with it unfortunately.

You can, of course, choose to not take any biomorphs but weapons, which can give you a Carnifex for about 80 points... alternatively you can load up on as many as possible and get a Carnifex for about 150 with all the bells and whistles, coming close to recreating the Godfexes of old.

==Old One Eye==
[[File:OldOneEye.png|200px|thumb|right|Old One Eye before being re-purposed by the Hive Mind.]]
Old One Eye is the only unique Carnifex in the entire Tyranid Codex, along with being one of the few unique characters in said codex. He's known for being ultimately [[fluff]]y but not the slightest bit [[crunch|crunchy]]. He has nothing to back his fluff up.

Old One Eye is a Carnifex that was present when Hive-fleet Behemoth came to fuck the [[Ultramarines|Ultramarines']] world of Calth. Now, like most Carnifex, his armor was nigh impenetrable. Reaching around the problem, a soldier ignored his armor by aiming a [[plasma]] bolt at his head, searing right through his eye and into his skull. The beast was declared dead. He was quickly forgotten, his corpse freezing up during the winter and left behind after his Hive-fleet was obliterated.

Some time later, some scavengers found the ice block and thawed it out, hoping to get some cash. (Yes, they decided to follow the plot of John Carpenter's "The Thing".) However, like a defeated hero who has to do a sequel, he quickly regenerated his wounds, save for his original plasma scorched eye. He fucked their shit up, ravaging Calth along with the Tyranid remnants from the original invasions. Rumors were spread of a terrible, single eyed beast hunting the terrified population, earning the creature the title of "Old One Eye." You see, despite being cut off from the Hive Mind, skull fucked by a plasma bolt, and frozen, he was still alive. His long stay on an Ultramarines world had earned him a skill that none could counter: Plot armour, rivaling that of the Ultramarines.

The Ultramarines, unable to stop him with regular means, sent in Scout Sergeant Telion, the [[Matt Ward|greatest scout sergeant/sniper in the Imperium]]. Telion hunted OOE down, cornered him near a cliff, and managed to disable him by shooting his ruined eye socket, causing OOE to stumble into a large ravine to die yet again. However, since he was plated with the same plot armor of the Ultramarines, he survived and traveled around Calth, ravaging more and more Imperial cities. Now, this wasn't OOE's only plot armored moment. OOE has been hit on numerous occasions that would outright kill a regular Carnifex. Rumors abound that the creature was killed dozens of times, only to get back up again like some Necron player who owns cheating amounts of good luck with his Reanimation Protocol rolls.

Nowadays, its frozen body has become a bit of an attraction for a local [[Genestealer|Genestealer Cult]], who [[God-Emperor of Mankind|worship its corpse]] alongside their Patriarch.

Table-top wise, OOE was first introduced in the 3rd edition as one of the two only Special Characters for the Tyranids, who otherwise had no individuals among them. Back then his cost was relatively low (slightly higher than a decent kitted out fex) and came with his unique Crusher Claws. Regeneration was also unique to him, allowing him to AUTOMATICALLY regenerate one wound per turn as well as get back up from being dead on a roll of a 4+ (there was no limit to the number of times he could do this). He was also unique in that he was the only special character that could be taken in an army less than a certain points value (all other characters had a minimum points value to field them. OOE had a Maximum Point value). Needless to say, this was when he reigned supreme since you had something that cost around the price of a dreadnought that can dish out an upwards of 8 attacks on the charge AND ignore wounds. He was removed in 4th edition because it was felt that Tyranids should not have characters within them, as they are a faceless swarm, so OOE's abilities were given to normal carnifexes. This end up kicking the bucket in 5th edition, where he returned but with a boost to his overall point cost while not regaining his borderline-OP regenerative abilities (He still had the claws tho). In 6th edition OOE is a unique HQ choice who's more expensive than a regular Carnifex (30pts less than a Land Raider), while not being able to significantly outperform one. In the retarded 5th Edition that is when the Tyranid army went to the shitters, much like the 5th edition [[Necrons|space zombies]] (Check your 6th edition, Necron are now at the top of the heap). So yeah, he's going about, being [[Dreadknight|one]] [[Jokaero|of]] [[Matt Ward|several]], [[Kaldor Draigo|excellent]] [[Pyrovore|avatars]] of what is wrong with 5th Edition (Cptn. 6th edition here with your morning news, Old one eye; still bad, but <s>a little better</s> get him into close combat and he'll SMASH SOME HEADS).

In 8E, you may as well disregard the above as his rules have completely changed since. Old One Eye is a fairly good special character to take if you like Carnifexes and bring a good amount of them (Not hard to do). He hits hard and with a lot of attacks, having two weapon options, both of which can be useful in certain circumstances. Buffs carnifexes around him with a much-appreciated +1 to hit in the fight phase. As of the Codex, he's the only Monster Character which can receive the benefits of the CHARACTER keyword, having less then 10 wounds. This also means he no longer degrades as he did in the Codex. [[What|This, amusingly, makes him a better choice for a Warlord then the Swarmlord.]] Although he is quite expensive now, he is one of the best tyranid anti-tank units right now, even if there are no other fexes for him to buff. Since he gnerates extra attacks on a hit roll of 6+, and he gets +1 to hit when charging, AND he gives HIMSELF +1 to hit with his own aura, he will generate extra attacks on hit rolls of 4+ (or 5+ when using the crushing claws). You can basically send the little guy at a tank, and assuming he makes it into melee, the tank will be dead. Doubly so if using a stratagem to let him reroll failed wound rolls.

==Stone Crusher Carnifex==
[[File:StoneCrusherCarnifex.jpg|200px|thumb|right]]
Even nastier and more 'battering ramming' Carnifexes, used as living siege engines. They have a bevvy of special rules making it even easier for them to knock down buildings (never a big problem for 'fexes, but a job's a job), and reduce incoming fire strength. They aren't bad melee 'fexes even if your opponent has no buildings, though, and are reliable enough investments to a stompy 'nid list.

==See Also==
*[[Jeanstealer]]
*[[Lolifex]]
*[[Unyuufex]]
*[[Tyranid]]
*[[DISTRACTION CARNIFEX]]

==External Links==
*[http://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Carnifex The Carnifex article] on [[Lexicanum]].

{{Tyranids-Creatures}}
[[Category:Tyranid]][[Category:Warhammer 40,000]]

Fallen from Grace

2020-03-30T05:16:05Z

2607:FB90:D41E:656F:23E2:43DF:26E9:AD5C: /* Feeding the Soul */

{{Story}}

=Overview=
A heretical short story about a not-batshit insane [[Dark Eldar]] (aka normal ones) falling in love with a backwater, human farm owner.

===Author's Note===
{{Anonymous|Varia}} here, figuring I should give you some sort of reasoning behind the madness and heresy you find below. It all started with a simple thread involving Dark Eldar. Towards the end of said thread, a thought experiment was raised: What if, rather than the sadistic monstrosities we knew them as, the DEldar were actually beings capable of compassion? From there, a new thread would be raised by one PDF-Kun, and it would be there that the main premise of this bit of writefaggotry would come to form.

Last thought - Wiki formatting sucks, as does proofreading. If you want to pretty this up, go right ahead.

=Main Story=
===Chapter One===

Wiping the sweat from his brow that had accumulated from a hard day’s work, Adeon stared at the heavens above the Pellietier plantation as he took his customary place under the apple tree. The light from the red giant was slowly dimming on this section of Sehella, allowing the faint twinkle of countless other stars to begin pulsing against the darkness of the void. As Adeon allowed his gaze and thoughts to wander, he begin envisioning shapes forming between the celestial objects above. Though his parents never cared to teach him anything more than what was required to run the plantation, the inquisitive mind that normally hid behind a simpleton-like drawl couldn’t help but wonder what mysteries the heavens contained.

Losing all track of time, Adeon soon found his comfortable spot growing cold, and the plantation around him turning into a myriad of shadowy stalks that waived in the light breeze. Shaking his head, he stood, dusting himself off as he began to head back to the house. Taking one last look at the stars above, he couldn’t help but notice a single star in particular. Something about it seemed off, and, the longer he stared, he realized why: it was growing. Frozen in a mixture of terror and wonder, Adeon watched as the plummeting, unknown mass streaked overhead, disappearing on the horizon with a muffled thunder. Shortly thereafter, he could feel a small rumble beneath his feet, which had the added effect of snapping him back to his senses.

Running to the rustic shed to the left of the two-story house, Adeon quickly flung open the doors to gaze at the ATV inside. Though it was nothing special, merely a civilian-variant of the Tauros, it would get him to where he needed to go. With a quick swipe of his hand over the hook where the keys hung, followed by a swift slide over the hood of the ATV, Adeon found himself taking the wheel and rocketing out of the shed. Something had fallen onto his serene Agri-World, something alien and unknown, and he was determined to find out what it was…

Searing jolts of pain throughout her entire body was the first sensation that T’riss became aware of. Each breath threatened to send her back into the haze of unconsciousness, cementing the fact that whatever had happened to her was far worse than the normal sorts of injuries she was used to getting on Commorragh. Forcing herself to remain calm, as per her training that had begun shortly after birth, T’riss began testing her limbs, as if only to assure herself that they were still attached. Neither her arms, nor legs, could do naught but twitch, with any attempts to move her torso being met with cries of distress from her shattered bones and bruised organs. Steeling herself, she opened her eyes, wanting to see her slayer before her life was fully extinguished.

Rather than a weapon held in front of her face, or a towering figure, T’riss came to stare at a wooden ceiling. The bare-bones architecture exposed the rafters, which cast shadows in the flickering light, given off by a lantern somewhere outside her field of vision. If it were possible to frown without wincing, she would have done so, resigning herself to a soft sigh instead. Wherever she was, it was safe, for the time being. Closing her eyes, she suddenly came to realize what the surface below her was: a bed. Though she had the covering of a blanket made of some crude material, she could feel that she was naked, save for what must have been wrappings and stints across her chest and ligaments. Whoever had gone to the trouble of caring for her was obviously an idiot, though, as the bindings were a hand’s width lower than they should have been.

As T’riss found her frustration growing at her current state, her ears began working once more, bringing the soft sound of drizzle against a window into her realm of awareness. Something about it was oddly soothing, and soon the silver-haired Kabalite found her mind drift away from the anguish of defeat. Regardless of her “caretaker’s” incompetence, they had at least managed to keep her alive, for which T’riss was grateful. Though, in her experience, half-born like her were only kept alive to be used as slaves, or worse. Why, then, was she here resting on a bed, rather than hanging in the hold of a ship? Try as she might, the memories of the past few days eluded her, adding to her underlying anger at being useless. Though, any proper warrior knew which battles to fight, and the one currently waged by her mind against the pull of slumber was one she could not afford.

A sharp thud and reverberation through the bed woke T’riss, which ensued by a muttered curse and clattering of tools against the floor. Her first thought was of the sheer embarrassment of being tortured by a clumsy fool, though that quickly faded as a strange language drifted into her ears: Low Gothic, the language used by the Mon-Keighs. No Eldar, dark or otherwise, would stain their tongue with the filth when among their own kind, but this brought a whole new slew of concerns to the front of her mind. Why would a mon-keigh, a human, be caring for her? Had she been captured so as to be a source of information on her people? A sacrifice to their corpse emperor? A play-thing? None of these brought comfort, least of all the later. But, much as she wished she could do otherwise, there was naught T’riss could do but listen, and wait.

Adeon found himself cursing as his big toe slammed into the bedpost, causing the medical kit to go sailing out of his hands and splaying its’ contents over the floor. Though this had been his original room, before he took over the plantation proper, he still somehow managed to be just as clumsy around it back then. As the pain subsided, Adeon began muttering to himself, “S’good thing she’s not awake. Reckon I might look a right fool right now.” After reassembling the kit’s contents into their proper container, he came to regard his patient proper. She was an odd one, but, then again, most women falling from the stars would be. His upbringing hadn’t been the most pious, but Adeon couldn’t help but wonder if this being was one of those saints his father had talked about. She was certainly striking enough to be an angel, but something about those pointed ears and angled features didn’t seem quite right to him. Regardless, she was his charge for the time being, and her bandages needed replacing.

Much to her dismay, T’riss found her covering removed, followed by the sensation of firm hands removing the bandages around her chest. This was it, she thought, the disgusting mon-keigh was going to violate her, much like they always did to those women they captured in the stories told by her parents. She wanted to cry out, offer some resistance, but the pain of her injuries only allowed her to emit a sharp gasp as the last of the bandages was removed. “Hrm… that rib a’int healin’ proper-like, wonder if I should take her to see a real doc,” the sub-eldar spoke, causing T’riss to momentarily feel a twang of frustration. “Of course it’s not healing right, you idiot, I’m not a mon-keigh. You need to set it higher,” is what she wanted to say, but couldn’t, due to a mixture of fear and pain. The human sighed, and began dabbing something wet against her side, each application of the light pressure sending a twinge of sensation up her spine. Once the wound was “clean,” new bandages were carefully wrapped around her, before the process was repeated on her arms and legs. All the while, she could do nothing but lay there, faking unconsciousness, hoping that this embarrassment would end quickly.

It took the better part of an hour to re-dress most of her wounds, by which time the rain had ceased falling. After setting the medical kit aside, Adeon strode over to the window and threw it open, bringing in a myriad of scents on the breeze. Rather than leave his charge without company, he decided to remain and keep a small vigil, in case she regained consciousness. After all, he knew how frightened he’d be to wake up in some stranger’s home, and it just wouldn’t be very gentlemanly to leave a gal like her to fret alone. Thus, he removed himself from the room for a moment, returning shortly with a chair and book from downstairs. Angling himself so as to face out the window, Adeon leaned back and began his sojourn.

T’riss debated with herself whether to chance opening her eyes, knowing that the moment the human noticed, she’d more than likely be brought to his superiors and tortured. That was what she had been told from her first breath, that these apes were savage, incapable of decency. Such was why her kin raided their supply shipments and worlds so often – why allow such a blight on the universe to continue unabated? She knew what she had to do, and could feel enough strength in her arms to know that it would be enough for the task ahead. All that was left was to catch her captor unawares, which, judging by the sudden snoring that permeated the room, would be easy.

Snapping her eyes open, gritting her teeth for the onrush of pain, T’riss turned her head about the room, coming to face Adeon in his chair. Pushing herself up slowly, she gauged the distance between the bed and her opponent. Yes, she could make it, though only if her legs cooperated. Unfortunately, both were bound in splints, leaving the only option to swing them out, hoping the momentum would allow her to rock upright. Sitting up was strain enough, she would only get one shot at this.

Adeon’s dreams of grox grazing were interrupted by the sensation of being hauled upright and leaned out of the window. Adrenaline already coursing through his veins in response, he came to, ready to fight off his attacker. But, as his eyes ceased to water and his vision blur, he realized that his assailant was none other than the woman. Yet, something was wrong, more so than the fact he was hanging-half out the window, the only thing keeping him from falling being her grasp on his shirt. Her eyes seemed to pool with liquid as the rest of her frame began to tremble. His first thought was that she had hurt herself in the exertion, but suddenly he found himself flung onto the floor, the woman dropping to the ground, weeping.

“Why?! WHY CAN’T YOU KILL HIM?” T’riss screamed at herself, as the tears cascaded down her cheeks, her face hidden behind her silvery locks. When she had grabbed Adeon, memories had come cascading down on her, overwhelming what little mental strength she had remaining. The first was of her teenage years: She was 18, leaving the slaving pens of her family on Commorragh, after her first “feeding.” She had been prepared for that moment for many a year, for it would be the means by which she would keep her eternal youth. Nothing had gone wrong, not on the surface, at least: she picked a slave that had seemed fitting, and proceeded to drink his soul after performing a myriad of techniques to make it ripe with terror. The problem was that terror now seemed to permeate her veins, leaving T’riss shivering in fear.

The images whirled, and then she was with her Kabal, receiving instructions from the Sybarite who was gracious enough to take her under his wing. Yet, she had no respect for this man, a lesson which the Sybarite chose to teach by hauling her up by her neck, choking the life out of her. As he went on and on about the values of loyalty and devotion to him, T’riss couldn’t help but recall the very first soul she had ever tasted, that same terror returning and leaving her powerless. Just as she had consigned herself to death, the hand which had been around her throat was removed, leaving her gasping for air as her “comrades” had a laugh at her expense.

Adeon stayed where he landed, trying his best to think of something to say. Try as he might, nothing came to mind, leaving him staring rather dumbly in silence at the being before him. A small part of his mind offered a suggestion, “Her problems ain’t yours. She just tried to kill you! Should be getting’ rid of her post haste like.” Yet, Adeon couldn’t bring himself to throw a defenseless gal like her out into the fields alone, with not another soul for hundreds of kilometers. So there he sat, waiting for T’riss to make the next move.

…the hatch blasted open, screams of terror and anger from the Mon’Keighs inside reaching her team’s ears. These were followed shortly by laser bursts from pathetic weaponry that did not even graze their armor, which allowed them to proceed unhindered. For a passenger ship, they were rather well armed, but maybe they were just getting smart about it. This thought amused T’riss for a moment, before she tossed it aside and proceeded before her kin. The job was simple: locate a human girl, then ransom her off to her noble-blooded father for supplies. They had done this before to great success, though it was T’riss first time being on point. After dispatching the humans in the green armor, tossing their flayed corpses aside like napkins, they had combed the ship, searching for the target.

T’riss was the first to find her, cowering behind tanks of coolant in the engine room. After coddling the ape out into the open, she quickly bound it and began dragging it towards the designated meeting spot. As they passed by the airlocks to the escape pods, T’riss’ prisoner began writhing against her bonds, eyes frantically darting about in a desperate attempt to escape. After staring at the target’s eyes, the terror within them caused something in T’riss to break, and she found herself letting go of the lead to her subject, who promptly dove into the nearest pod and departed. Standing dumbfounded by her own actions, T’riss turned to find herself face to face with her Sybarite, who had witnessed the entire affair.

What followed was a haze of pain, blurred motions, and the sound of explosions. The memories finally stopped, and T’riss was able to regain a semblance of self. Weak. She was weak. She allowed “morals” and “compassion” to stay her hand, and now she was worse than an outcast. For all intents and purposes, she would be assumed dead, but the shame of her acts would follow her to the grave, even if it was a shallow one. Wiping her face of the accumulated tears, she became aware of an outstretched hand – the human’s, “S’alright now. I ain’t mad. Let’s get ya back up into bed.” T’riss turned, eyeing his face for any signs of deception, finding none. It was then that her body decided to revolt against consciousness, sending her reeling into the darkness of a pain-induced slumber. Her last act, before giving into the void, was to reach out her hand, weakly.

T’riss found herself staring out of the window, the curtains blowing ever so slightly in the cool breeze. It had been two weeks since her…death. In the time since, she had only spoken enough to communicate how to properly bind her injuries, much to the dismay of her caretaker. But what he felt hardly concerned T’riss, given that she hardly understood herself. By the end of the first week, she had healed enough to no longer need Adeon’s assistance in changing the bandages and visiting the restroom, and he quickly gave her the space she seemed to silently cry out for. Occasionally, he would stop in to bring her food, or shout up to her window from outside. For the most part, however, T’riss was left alone, mentally tearing herself to pieces, the only betrayal of which was a small frown on her face.

Luckily for Adeon, his guest’s arrival coincided with the end of the harvest season, heading into the colder months. This left him with very little to do to maintain the plantation, and just as well, given that he only had a few servitors to rely on, other than himself. That was how it was done though, ever since he lost his entire family ten years ago, thusly leaving him the sole inheritor of the generational estate. He managed, somehow, mostly through the sweat on his brow and the sun on his back. The one thing all the manual labor did for him was allow time to think, and Adeon did not waste a second of it.

On the second weekend, Adeon went on a trip to the nearby outpost, some 250 kilometers away. There, he did his best to find out what little there was to know about the mysterious woman in his care. Much to be expected, only one other person had even noticed the escape pod coming down, and that was his neighbor, who assumed it was simply a meteorite. No ships had been in the area recently, leaving Adeon wondering how long T’riss might have been drifting through the void. He wasn’t exactly the most knowledgeable when it came to anything that wasn’t his plantation, but he knew enough to guess that it might have been weeks. No human he knew of could survive with those injuries for so long, and it didn’t seem wise to tell anyone else such. “Maybe she’s a right saint after all,” he thought to himself, “and if that’s the case, I’d be doin’ the Emperor a mighty disservice to let an angel frown like that.”

Returning to the plantation, Adeon was slightly surprised to find T’riss hadn’t moved an inch. He had half-expected her to run away, given the look of guilt that she’d given him when he told her about his departure. That evening, rather than departing immediately after bringing her dinner, he remained with her, taking up the chair by the window with his book in hand. Opening it to somewhere in middle, he began telling T’riss a story, one of a man with two souls, each fighting for control of his body.

At first, T’riss barely registered the fact that the mon’keigh was reading to her, lost in another spiral argument with herself over how pathetic she was as she picked at the meal in front of her. Something about Mr. Nyde caught her interest, though, and she soon found herself listening with rapt attention as Adeon carried on. However, something bothered her, and she couldn’t figure out what it was until she noticed that the human hadn’t changed the page he was on for some time. In fact, as she stared closer, it might have been the same page he started on. Yet, there he was, staring down at the page, reading off text that could not possibly be contained on those two pages.

“H…How are you doing that?” she whispered, surprising herself just as much as she did Adeon, the latter of which nearly jumped out of his chair. Turning to face her with a smile, “Ah, ya mean readin’?” She nodded, staring into his eyes with an unwavering gaze. “To tell ya the honest truth, I can’t actually read. I just have a real good memory, and I sorta remember stories better when I hold their books.” This was met with silence, which began to stretch into awkwardness before T’riss put out her right hand, motioning for the book. Looking between her and the book, Adeon gingerly placed it on her palm, of which she slowly drew back to regard the title proper. It was then she again did something neither of them expected: she laughed.

“It’s Mr. HYDE, not Nyde. You really weren’t kidding, were you?” she giggled, for some reason finding it simply hysterical. At first, Adeon’s mouth opened to retort, but then he joined in with her laughter, “No ma’am, couldn’t even tell ya if it was even the right book till ya checked.” Rolling her eyes, she began leafing through the pages, trying to find where he had left off, “You also got Hyde and Jekyll reversed, maybe your memory’s not that great after all.” This actually did produce a frown from Adeon this time, and something about it made T’riss’ stomach fill with dread. Sighing, she quickly closed the book and motioned to give it back, “Sorry.” “S’alright, suppose you being a saint and all, I must look mighty dumb to you.”

This gave her a moment’s pause – a saint? He thought she was some part of their misguided corpse god’s court? Well, if that’s what was keeping her alive, far be it from her to correct him, “Only slightly, but you show promise, mon’keigh.” “Mon’keigh?” “It’s a word we saints use to describe you common folk.” “Ah, I see. Makes sense, bet you have names for lotsa things and people like that.” As they stared at one another in the following silence, Adeon found himself shaking his head and standing, making to leave hurriedly, “Sorry if I bothered you, ma’am.” Just before he closed the door behind him, she found herself calling out after him, “Um… could you leave the book?”

My. Hyde turned out to be a far more intriguing mon’keigh than T’riss had expected. Though the story was crude, filled with childish notions native to the humans, it couldn’t be said that all were without merit. After all, there were definitely two forces waging a war within her, much like with the dear doctor. Though the roles were reversed, in her instance, T’riss found herself devouring the text as if to find a means to come to peace with herself. She had always been a quick study, and soon found that she was turning the last page of Dr. Jekyll’s letter. The abrupt ending left her staring down at the page with a strange sense of calm. She knew now what she had to do, but it didn’t make actually doing it any easier.
Following his embarrassment with the saint, Adeon had difficulty relaxing and falling asleep. Each time he would get close to slipping into the void, T’riss laugh would echo throughout his mind, causing him to jolt upright in a cold sweat. All he could think about was how much of a fool he must look like to her, and it was deep in the evening when he finally drifted off. His dreams were swirls of silver-haired goddesses, dancing about his head and chastising him for his sins.

Needless to say, this left Adeon rather tired when he eventually awoke in the morning. Stifling a yawn, he proceed through his normal daily routine: shower, shave, then breakfast, all before checking on the servitors and grox. It wasn’t until he was half-way through scrambling eggs that he came to realize that T’riss was slouched over his dining table. Turning slowly, as if not believing his weary eyes, he came to regard her proper. Strewn about her were various bits of paper, with many symbols and glyphs that didn’t seem quite right to Adeon. “Maybe they were High Gothic,” he thought, “would fit a gal like her.” Shrugging, he deftly finished preparing his meal, and was just about to walk out of the kitchen with his meal when T’riss spoke. “No…come…sit down. Sorry I…drifted off…”

Turning around once more, Adeon watched as she slowly pushed herself upright. After rubbing her eyes a few times, T’riss nimbly gathered up all of her scribblings, save one. Leaving that particular parchment on the table in front of her, she calmly picked it up and crumbled it between her clasped hands. After placing these on the table before her, she stared expectantly at Adeon. He might have been a simple man, but he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to eat at the same table as one so beautiful. The chair made a small scrapping sound as he pulled it back, taking his seat with as much dignity and grace as he could muster. It wasn’t until the fork was half-way to his mouth that he realized that he hadn’t even bothered to ask if she wanted anything. Almost dropping the utensil, Adeon quickly stammered, “Oh..I er… Sorry your grace! I shoulda asked if ya wanted me t’make ya something!”

Rather than the rebuke he was expecting, Adeon received a smile in return. “It’s…okay. Go on eat,” T’riss said, waving a hand as if to dismiss his notion. Still feeling rather ashamed of himself, Adeon could do little but bring himself to pick at his food in the ensuing silence. What did one say to a saint? Were you even supposed to speak to them? His thoughts swirled about, only interrupted when T’riss’ sweet warble met his ears once more. “…I hope you have some free time later. I’d like to teach you how to read…”
As the words left her mouth, T’riss grasp on the paper beneath her hands tightened. Scrunched up inside was written, in Eldar glyphs, “I bring the life of that unhappy T’riss Treewae to an end.”

===Chapter Two===
Utter terror gripped T’riss as she stumbled, tumbling through the darkness. All around her, the sinister laughter of a being beyond mortal comprehension permeated the void, and her soul. “Teach your little pet whatever tricks you like. You’ll be mine soon enough…”

Adeon was woken by a bloodcurdling scream, causing him to jolt upright and nearly charge into T’riss room. On arrival, he came to find her writhing about, clutching her skull and coated in a layer of cold sweat. Wasting no time, he practically dove to her bedside, shouting as he did, “Ma’am! T’riss!” The later left his mouth almost as an afterthought, even though she had made it perfectly clear weeks ago that it was how she preferred to be addressed. Regardless, it would be this that finally caused her eyes to snap open. Finally aware of her surroundings, T’riss slowly ceased her spasms and screams, coming to rest on her side. Her field of vision was consumed by the face of Adeon, his brows furrowed and his eyes darting across her face. All she could do to respond was to cry, while holding her trembling body.

Of no surprise, T’riss was absent from breakfast that morning, leaving Adeon to dine by himself in silence. It was the third such night-terror she’d experienced in the four months since her arrival, and each one was becoming worse and worse. T’riss might have thought she was doing a good job of hiding the strain on her face in the days that followed them, but Adeon knew something was amiss. Whatever caused a saint like her to scream like that couldn’t be something he could help with, though, leaving him with a sinking feeling of helplessness. He almost didn’t realize that he’d brought the same piece of grox bacon to has mouth three times. Taking note of this, Adeon scowled, tossing the food onto the plate and standing. After bundling up, he stormed outside into the snow, door slamming behind him.

The sharp thud sent a pang of guilt across T’riss’ heart, which was further amplified when she caught sight of the primate striding through the drifts below. She hadn’t slept since the nightmare, only faking sleep so as to allow Adeon to get some of his own. “The mon’keigh practically worships you,” she half-mused, still leaning against the windowsill, “yet here you are actually caring about his foolish reactions.” It was true that, ever since she had started teaching him to read and write his own primitive language, his behavior had begun changing. An added spring in his step, a constant stupid grin, all because she simply graced him with the time of day. It wasn’t anywhere near the same as training new kablites, but it still brought her a certain sense of…satisfaction to see her pupil progress.

Sighing, T’riss pushed this train of thought away, eyes straying from the snow-covered plains outside to the nightstand where her crumpled note resided. She hadn’t moved it since making it months ago, choosing to keep it around as a constant reminder of her situation. Outcast, betrayer, probably assumed dead at her former-Sybarite’s sword. All because of her weakness: she had a heart. It went against everything she had been told since being removed from her tube. Dark Eldar did not need compassion, let alone anything resembling morals. They simply got in the way of doing what was necessary to survive, to avoid the pull of the being that had been haunting her sleep as of late.

It had been close to eight months since her last feeding - the longest gap since her first, seven years ago. Though it was never easy for her to do what was required for her meals, she always found a way to stomach the dread that usually followed for weeks afterwards. Now that she was in a place where obtaining such substance was impossible, T’riss found herself questioning the entire concept as the now-familiar, constant discomfort panged from behind her temples. Did her people really need to go to such lengths to resist eternal damnation? She certainly never had any problems before her first feeding, and it always did seem that the older of her kin needed near-daily intake. This line of thought confused and worried T’riss. She had heard tales of how horrible and ruthless species like the mon’keighs were, and that her kind simply did what it had to to survive. Given her time on this planet, though, she couldn’t help but wonder, “What if *we* are the cruel ones?”

The pungent smell of grox dung assaulted Adeon’s nose as he entered their stables to check on his stock. There was little else to do in the winter months but clean the stables, and even then the servitors handled the majority of the work. Mainly, his days as of late simply involved making sure things were running as they should, and that none of the grox had keeled over during the night. Only once a week did he actually have to exert himself to scour that which the servitors missed, and sadly today was not one of them. This left Adeon with naught else to do but begin walking back to the house, a fresh coat of snow beginning to pile up as the overcast skies unleashed their burdens.

“Maybe I should tell someone about her,” Adeon grumbled to himself, not finding this idea to his liking. “After all, a saint like her don’t belong in a place like this, with a simple man like me. I’m just makin’ her miserable.” It was true, T’riss rarely did communicate her feelings, outside of the evening episodes. Even during his lessons, just getting a small smirk from her would often be reward enough to get him to push himself harder. He didn’t mind, of course, since he had no right being even able to look at such a being of grace and beauty. Still, Adeon just wished he could do more than struggle through the collective works of Shakespeare. It wasn’t until he stumbled and fell into a particularly deep snow drift that an idea suddenly came to mind.

“You’re going to have to tell him, and soon too. Else the mon’keigh is just going to be resentful of you even longer. Except, the moment you reveal *what* you are, you know full well what he might do. Are you really prepared to deal with that?” T’riss’ inner monologue was interrupted then by a snowball impacting the window. Blinking with confusion, almost wondering if she had imagined it, another scattered across the glass pane before she was able to discern the source. Down below, Adeon was beckoning, as if for her to join him outside. She returned these motions by tilting her head to the right, which seemed to be enough for him.

As Adeon wandered off to the nearby apple tree, T’riss sighed, pushing away from her spot near the window and looking about her room. Adeon had brought her a trunk of clothing to use back when she was still healing, of which now rested at the foot of her bed. Most of it fit surprisingly well, given a few modifications to the inseam. Even so, she had never been outside the house since her arrival. Her host had told her that the nearest human was some 140 kilometers away, but that did little to overcome her fear of being killed for being what the mon’keighs called “a xenos.” Plus, the sunlight was rather harsh on her pale skin, even indoors. Still, as she slowly rummaged through the trunk, it couldn't hurt to see what Adeon wanted. It was better than staying here, confused and alone, even if he did try her patience at times.

It wasn't until the wet powder began sliding down his neckline that Adeon realized that T’riss had joined him. Turning, ready with a snowball of his own, he looked about, finding no trace of her. As he raised an eyebrow, another projectile hit him square in the face, catching him off-guard and knocking him onto his back. Before he even had the chance to get up, T’riss was standing over him, offering out a gloved hand and a smile.

Time seemed to freeze as the pair stared at one another, the snowfall whirling about them silently. Anyone looking at the scene would first only notice Adeon, in his brown furs, lying on his back. Only when staring very carefully would anyone even be able to notice T’riss. Between her white furs, pale skin, silver hair, and the powder blowing about, she blended in like a natural arctic predator. The moment passed as Adeon took the outstretched hand, T’riss pulling him upright and brushing him off. “Sorry,” she said, “but you are dealing with a warrior here. You have to be more aware if you challenge her to a duel.” Following this up with a wink, she stepped back, motioning at the area around them before clasping her hands behind her back. “So, what did you really want?”

“Well..I uh…” Adeon began to say, falling over his words, “you look…nice ma’am. I mean T’riss.” The returned head tilt and raised eyebrow sent his eyes casting about frantically. He hadn’t actually expected her to join him outside, as she seemed content to remain inside, reading. Yet, here she was, and he was without any sort of plan. Well, that was a half-truth. He did have one, but it was rather childish. “I…thought you might be likin’ to help me build a snowmarine.” The eyebrow exaggerated, her eyes narrowing slightly, “A…snow…what?” “Ya know, a Snowmarine! Here, help me roll this.”

Dropping to one knee, Adeon quickly began the makings of the base portion. Rolling the growing snowball through a particularly deep pocket of the powder, T’riss remained as she was while Adeon exerted himself. By the time it was big enough to reach his knees, Adeon was unable to roll it any further, taking no time to begin the middle section. “Come on now, ain’t as fun doin’ it alone. We’re gunna need ‘nother one about half the size of that one.” T’riss rolled her eyes, *this* was what he had called her out for? To pointlessly roll ice crystals into bigger clumps? Still, the earlier door slam was still fresh in her mind, and soon she found herself working alongside Adeon.

The end result certainly wasn’t going to be entered into the art archives of Commorragh, but it did have a certain appeal to T’riss. As she stood back, watching Adeon add the finer details using twigs and bits of rock, she couldn’t help but beam. Here was a tangible monument to her efforts to be better than her old self. None of her kin would dare stand such a pointless exertion, let alone with a mon’keigh. Plus, it felt good to take direction for once, even though doing so annoyed her slightly on some subconscious level.

In any case, Adeon finished by drawing the Aquila in the middle portion of the sculpture, stepping back to admire their work himself. “Mighty fine, if I don’t say so myself. He’s got a bit of a gout though.” He laughed, and soon T’riss found herself joining in, “Yes, he does look rather… shapely, doesn’t he?” The two turned to look at each other, their eyes locking for only a moment. T’riss was the first to break the stare, turning away to face the house. “Thanks. For…cheering me up.” She left him standing near the apple tree without another word, both grinning from ear to ear.

In the days that followed, the snowmarine soon found himself surrounded by his chapter. At first, T’riss snuck out while Adeon was on his morning rounds, but this was quickly thwarted. After walking out of view from her window on the third day, he doubled back to hide behind the apple tree. Sure enough, not moments later T’riss came bounding outside with a speed that defied logic. Just as she leaned down to begin assembling another snowmarine, Adeon coughed, causing her to leap into the air with a yelp. Landing in a combat stance, eyes frantically looking about for the source, it was Adeon’s turn to laugh as he poked his head out from behind the tree. Scarlet infused T’riss’ face as she glanced awkwardly between him and the ground. Before she knew it, Adeon was nearby, delaying his rounds to help her roll up more snow.

Something about the mindless task put T’riss’ mind at ease, and the physical exertion certainly helped to augment her daily exercises. As she put the final touches on one particularly fierce-looking Astartes, she paused. Why was she making mon’keigh sculptures? It seemed rather foolish now that the thought had occurred to her, and she deftly knocked her work down to begin anew. “Uh… you alright there, T’riss?” Adeon called, looking over with a mixture of worry and confusion. To his surprise, her limbs became a blur of movement, and before her came to stand a rather slim individual. Moments later, T’riss added pointed ears. Standing back, she nodded approvingly at her snoweldar, then wandered back inside, humming. Adeon ended up being distracted for the rest of the day, the sound of her song mixing with the image of her “snowsaint” in his mind’s eye.

That evening, after dinner, T’riss found herself being led to the living room window by an insistent Adeon. Pointing towards the Snow Chapter, he motioned at a new addition: a smaller, normal-sized human standing next to her snoweldar. Rather than wait for her response, Adeon left T’riss by the window, rummaging through the cabinet on the opposite side of the fireplace. She took little note of this, a sort of pain building up in her chest as she gazed at the pair of sculptures. She had to tell him, tonight, before it would be too late and she began believing her own lie.

As she opened her mouth to speak, a strange sound began to permeate the air. Spinning on her heels, trying to locate the source, T’riss’ eyes came to rest on an odd device. The needle arm was scratching against a rotating disc, producing what must have passed for human music. Though she didn’t understand what chestnuts were, or why they were roasting on a fire, it was mildly soothing. Adeon was nowhere to be seen, but she took the blanket on the couch and the crackling fire for what it was. Minutes passed, the sizzles and pops of the flames adding to the occasional ones omitted by the record player. All the while, T’riss huddled beneath the blanket, the warmth rather welcome. Weariness began to press against the edges of her eyes, and she probably would have fallen asleep right there if Adeon hadn’t returned right then.

Taking a seat on the couch on the opposite side of T’riss, Adeon offered out a mug of a brownish liquid. “Hot Coco, just like Ma’ used to make.” A sip later, and T’riss found herself enamored with the sweet concoction. “I…this is good, for a mon’keigh,” she whispered between tastes, which was met by a laugh from Adeon. “I’m mighty glad you think so ma’am. I mean T’riss. Sorry. I don’t reckon I’ll ever get that right, your saintliness.” “It’s fine, really. I just wanted you to actually use my name, rather than some title or honorific. I’m…nothing special.”

It was Adeon’s turn to raise an eyebrow and tilt his head, as T’riss stared down at her mug glumly. “But, ya are! Really! Even if you’re a saint, only my Ma’ and Pa’ were as nice to me as you are.” T’riss face was ruined by a grimace, one which was met with a frown on Adeon’s as she replied. “What…What if I wasn’t a saint?” Silence, followed by a simple, “But, if ya aren’t a saint, then what are ya?” Tears began to well at the corners of T’riss’ eyes. This was it, the end of her peaceful stay on this idyllic world. But it had to be done. She couldn’t let the guilt of the lie burden her further, on top of the added symptoms brought by her lack of feeding. “Do you know what…an Eldar is?”

“Can’t say I do.” “Well…” she bit her lips, steeling herself, “…they’re what you mon’keighs call xenos.” Adeon sputtered, nearly choking on the coca as he came to stare at her with wide eyes. She didn’t strike him as one of those bogeywomen that came to steal children away at night, like in his mother’s stories. His silence, though not intentional, caused T’riss to begin to cry profusely. “I’m…Please don’t be mad with me. I wanted to tell you earlier…but then you were so nice to me and I didn’t want you to hate me after all you did…” Tears cascaded down her face, the pain in her chest overwhelming that in her head. Why did she had to have a heart? Why couldn’t she just be a heartless monster like the rest of her race?

A pat on the head interrupted her sobs. Eyes widened in fear and surprise, T’riss came to regard him smiling back. “S’all right. Easy now. I don’t mind much what ya are, so long as you’re T’riss.” Words, if you could call them that, sputtered out of her mouth as she tried to reply, but failed as her tear ducts kicked into overdrive. Adeon simply took a few sips of his cocoa and waited, knowing that what she needed now was time, not his badgering. That was when he found T’riss suddenly beside him proper, crying into his chest. Doing his best to offer comforting words, he readjusted the blanket about them and stared into the fire. Monsters certainly didn’t cry, and, as far as he cared, it didn’t matter even if she was one.

===Chapter Three===

The Pellietier Plantation was rather quiet in the days that followed. The only soul that stirred among the desolate plains of white was Adeon, preparing for the rush of activity that would start in a month’s time. He didn’t need to start this early, but it was better than the alternative of waiting for T’riss to come out of her room. After she had fallen asleep on his lap, the night where she confessed being a Xenos, Adeon had carried her to her bed. Since then, she only had come out to use the restroom and to quickly snatch up the food he left her around mealtimes. Adeon did tell her he would be downstairs whenever she was ready through the door when picking up the dishes, but he never got a response.

“Just take him already…Why you insist on rebelling against your blood is beyond logic. Give in…” T’riss awoke with a gasp, clutching her head as the laughter from that terrible being faded from her mind. Each night since she had revealed herself to Adeon, the pain in her head had grown worse, and it was beginning to permeate the rest of her body. Everything ached, as if she had been recently disciplined back on Commorragh. Though her self-control was easily able to handle these two sources of annoyance, it couldn’t deal with the dull pain that seemed to cling to her heart. A small part of T’riss wondered, “Was this really better than being dead?” If it hadn’t been for the smile that crept across her face when she looked out the window at the snow sculptures, she might have listened to it.

Although she couldn’t bring herself to face Adeon yet, that didn’t stop T’riss from continuing her daily exercises. Her injuries had healed completely by now, but she found her left side responding far slower than she was used to. Focusing her efforts on correcting this problem, T’riss became completely engrossed in her stretches and mock swings. As she flowed through one of the more complex forms, the remnants of her armor in the closet began to stir to life. Adeon had showed T’riss them when she had asked, but they had been otherwise ignored – thought to be broken relics. That was true, for the most part; yet, soon after awakening, a slow, steady beep began to emanate from the folds of the dark material.

“Defenses?” The projection of Sehella whirled as the Sybarite found himself pacing around it. “None that we can sense,” came the reply from one of his kabalites, “The primitive apes seem to only have one space port on the world. Population is minimal.” Nodding, he pointed at the pulsing red dot on one of the upper continents, “And what about the area where that traitor’s equipment landed?” “It appears to be what the Mon’Keighs call a ‘farm,’ your grace. No armaments or fortification to speak of.” Smirking, the Sybarite nodded and waved a hand to signal the termination of the projection. Reclaiming his equipment would be far easier than he had hoped. As he left the bridge, moving towards the slave pens to feast, he found himself secretly hoping that enough of T’riss had survived to mount on his wall.

The first indication that something was amiss was the faint smell of ash that wafted through the small crack of the window. T’riss paused, looking up from the novel she had secretly snuck out and obtained the night prior. The fire downstairs hadn’t been lit since that night, yet there was no mistaking the odor. Swinging her legs off the bed, coming to stand upright, T’riss wandered over to the window and stared out. The Grox pens were ablaze, a few servitors desperately trying to put it out while a few beasts, engulfed in flame, ran from it. Worried for Adeon, given that she had seen him walk that way not an hour beforehand, she found herself bundling up and sprinting outside without a second thought.

T’riss barely managed to get past the apple tree when she found herself diving beneath a blade. Instinct from all her training kicked in, turning the dive into a rolling somersault to bring her face to face with her assailant. Her heart panged with fury as she recognized the lilthe form of one of her former comrades. How had they tracked her here? Had they gotten their hands on Adeon? There was little time for such thinking, as the kabalites soon began a deadly dance through the snow. Using the snowmarines for cover, T’riss was able to evade the blows unarmed for the time being, but she was running out of options.

As the last members of the Snow Astartes found their heads cleaved by blows meant for her, T’riss found her back against the apple tree. She’d get one chance at disarming her opponent, assuming the Eldar inside the black, barbed bodysuit would fall for her trick. The wicked edge of the impaler gleamed as it was thrust forward, but T’riss was ready. Mere nanoseconds before impact, she twisted, allowing the weapon to move past her and embed itself into the wood of the tree. Not giving the kabalite the chance to recover, T’riss unleashed a rain of carefully timed blows. Overwhelmed, her would-be-assassin was forced to go on the defensive. After one particular nasty kick to the side of his head, T’riss had enough time to pry the impaler free. As the bark released its’ grip on the metal, splinters flying, she found herself laughing: she had finally found something to feed on.

“WHERE. IS. MY. ARMOR. MON’KEIGH?!” Adeon found himself whirling through the air, thrown against the wall of the Grox Pen. The bastard had snuck up on him while he was cleaning out one of the troughs, and was now taking great delight in beating Adeon senseless. Coughing up blood, Adeon slowly picked himself up, glaring at the Sybarite in front of him. Now *this* was what he had expected Xenos to be like, but that thought didn’t help at all when the agonizer gauntlet found its’ way around his neck. Pain began to rocket throughout his nervous system, and his consciousness faded as the glove began to tighten. His last thought before the void took him was of T’riss crying, and how sorry he was that it was all his fault.

The human’s body went limp, and the Sybarite tossed it aside with scorn. He hadn’t killed the ape, but that was the least of his concerns. Not mere seconds after doing so, the remnants of the door were sent flying into the pen. In their place stood T’riss, face twisted in fury as she came to regard the scene. Various nicks and cuts adorned her entire body, as did blood that was not her own. It had taken her too long, she thought, and now Adeon was dead. All because she was weak. All because she couldn’t even protect the one thing that gave her a reason to exist. At least now she could make sure the job she had started five months ago would be finished, one way or the other.

Unleashing a primal roar, T’riss closed the gap between herself and the Sybarite. The latter of which was barely able to bring up his own impaler in time to knock aside the blow. Even now, in her weakened state, he couldn’t believe that she was still as much as equal. But such thoughts were unnecessary, and soon the two found themselves waltzing through the pens. As they strayed into one of the burning sections, the clashing metal began to send sparks through the acrid smoke, adding to the flame around them. Regardless of the impairing conditions, neither combatant could afford to divert their attention any further.

Yet, T’riss finally found her wounds catching up to her, what little strength she had fading away as she barely parried a particularly nasty blow aimed at her kneecaps. Soon after, her acquired weapon was battered from her hands, the Sybarite driving her against the wall while laughing. “Even though you managed to survive our last encounter, I must give you credit, traitor. I haven’t had the pleasure of such a battle in a long time, but that is not enough to spare your transgressions.” T’riss glared back, the only form of attack left for her as she steeled herself for the inevitable blow. Just as the impaler was raised above his head, three prongs of a pitchfork emerged from the Sybarite’s chest, causing him to cough up blood before falling to the ground before her. Tears began to well in her eyes as Adeon stood before her, smiling. “Does this count as bein’ more aware?”

He would pay for that, later. For now, though, all T’riss could do was bound forward and tackle him to the ground, hugging him tight and apologizing over and over.

===Chapter Four===
“-chii not –che. And you want to stress the second syllable more.” Adeon sighed, rubbing his temples as T’riss corrected him for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day. She had taken to teaching him some of the Eldar language to pass the time, of which they seemed to have plenty of. This latest word was giving him particular difficulty for some reason, but he was determined to not to disappoint. “Dru…Druchii?” he sounded out, eliciting a smile from T’riss. “So, what’sit mean then?” Pointing at herself, “It’s what I am, a ‘Dark One.’ You’ll probably hear it quite often if we ever meet more of my kind.”

With the arrival of T’riss’ now-slain former-associates, the pair gained a means to leave Sehella behind. Though the Pain Weaver was little more than a glorified shuttle when it came to Corsairs, it was enough to get them to a nearby mercenary outpost. Though, given the vastness of space, Adeon soon came to realize that the term “nearby” was all but relative. It was now the second week of their journey, and already he regretted not bringing more to do.

He had, at first, been rather reluctant to leave his home behind. Given the damage to his stables, and the blatantly obvious Xenos dead on his property, there wasn’t much choice in the matter. Wanting to follow T’riss certainly helped sway him, but he insisted on at least taking a few items with them. After releasing the slaves from their hold, the pair filled the makeshift cargo-bay with trunks of supplies. The slaves had, of course, offered to aid them after being released onto the snowy plains, but Adeon would have none of it. Instead, he took the last few moments before departing to show them a few tricks about running the farm. With any luck, they’d avoid detection so long as they filled the Pellietier portion of the tithe. It wasn’t true freedom, but it was better than being doomed to endless torture and slaughter.

“-eon? Adeon? Are you alright?” Snapping out of his reflection, Adeon came to realize he had been staring rather blankly at T’riss for what must have been, at the very least, a few minutes. “Yeah…I’m fine. Just still a bit…overwhelmed, s’all.” She smiled once more, this time supplementing it with a quick squeeze of his shoulder. “You’ll get used to it. I know the first time I left Commorragh it wasn’t easy, even though I wanted to get away ever since I was little…” Trailing off, T’riss frowned slightly, swiveling in her chair to stare out at the stars. It was true, speaking of such matters was easier now that Adeon knew what she was, but reliving those memories wasn’t at all pleasant.

The respectful silence from Adeon soon motivated her to speak. He had a knack for it, she mused, as she began, “Imagine…Imagine being trained from birth to be little more than a puppet for others. You’re told that you represent the continuing struggle of your race to survive, only to be beaten moments later for asking a simple question.” “Right awful, that.” Adeon grumbled, T’riss nodding in response. “Oh, it gets worse. Eventually, you start to *like* the beatings. They’re the only thing that reminds you that you’re alive, that the seemingly ritualistic torture you inflict on others is not without karmic retribution. As far as I know, most lose themselves in it, soon becoming nothing more than slaves to their vile passions.” “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m mighty glad you didn’t,” came Adeon’s response, returning the shoulder squeeze before the pair found themselves staring at the heavens outside.

Dinner that night passed with an awkward sort of tension, neither really finding words to bridge the gap that existed between them. It wasn’t until Adeon made to return to his quarters that T’riss finally found herself asking, “Um…What was it like? Having a family, I mean.” Adeon paused in the doorway, looking back at the small cantina that served as the Weaver’s kitchen. “Suppose it was nice. Ma was always frettin’ about somethin’ that didn’t matter, and Pa was always real strict. Never really had problems gettin’ along, always there for one another.” He sighed, adding, “Shame they got crushed in that Grox stampede, I never told em how much I appreciated them.” The momentary flash of pain across his face caused T’riss to nearly cringe as the dull ache in her chest increased. “I’m…Sorry. I didn’t mean…” she whispered, looking dejectedly down at the remnants of food on her plate. “I was just curious since…”

It was Adeon’s turn to feel guilty, eliciting another sigh from him before he replied, “S’all right. No harm done. But whatya mean? Don’t they have families on that there Commorragh?” As he took the seat to the right of her, T’riss looked up, eyes watering slightly, “Yes and…No. It’s very rare to actually give birth among my people, so most are simply born from tubes. Since it’s easy to make more half-born, there’s no point in coddling them. Either you quickly learn to survive on your own and prove your worth, or you’re sent to the slave pens…” T’riss trailed off, an awkward silence growing between them. Suddenly, she whirled, coming to face Adeon proper, “What am I to you? Are we family now?” This stymied him, leaving him speechless between the abruptness of the question and the look of mixed longing and pain that was T’riss’ face. “Nah,” he began, T’riss’ eyes spilling over with tears in response, “We’re somethin’ better.” Before she could do more than widen her eyes, Adeon pulled T’riss close, and the two shared their first kiss.

When he awoke, Adeon wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The events of the past few hours were a blur of sensations, of which parts of his body still protested against. Yet, as he turned his head to regard T’riss, he couldn’t help but smile. Though she was still asleep, her face positively radiated happiness, and that was certainly worth the temporary injuries he had sustained. Before he drifted back to sleep, Adeon made up his mind – he would do whatever it took to make sure T’riss never lost that smile of hers.

===Chapter Five===
As it turned out, calling Yttri Alpha an outpost was a slight exaggeration. Little more than a Defiant-class cruiser embedded into an asteroid, the only way in or out was via shuttlecraft. T’riss argued against letting Adeon come along, but soon acquiesced after one particularly convincing promise to stay out of trouble, followed by a warm embrace. Over the past month and a half since leaving Sehella, the pair had grown closer in ways neither had expected. At times, it was even enough to let them forget their collective troubles. “At least being weak isn’t all that bad…” she thought to herself, boarding the Weaver’s shuttle with Adeon in tow.

After docking in one of bays, T’riss lead them to the Screaming Skull, one of the popular bars on Yttri Alpha. Having been here a few times, back when she was still a Kabalite, she knew of a few places to begin asking questions. They couldn’t keep drifting through space forever, and going back to Commorragh was out of the question. That left either signing up with some mercenary band, or trying to find an uninhabited moon to live on. Either way, they needed more information than the database on the Weaver could give, so off they went.

Much to Adeon’s surprise, a majority of the outpost’s inhabitants were human. Granted, he didn’t notice anyone he would have associated with back in the Imperium, but it was still slightly comforting to be around others of his kind. After pushing past one particularly grumpy pair of Kroots, he paused before the entrance of the Screaming Skull, raising an eyebrow at the sign. “Odd name for a bar,” he mumbled, causing T’riss to laugh as she led them inside to a table in the back. “See the barkeep there? She’s a psyker, some say ex-Inquisition even. Most give her a wide berth for fear of being turned into a daemon, but she always seems to have the best information on the Imperium’s convoys. Plus,” T’riss winked, “she makes a mean mixed drink.” Adeon wouldn’t be talking to the bartender after hearing all that, but he couldn’t argue against the allure of a nice bit of liquor.

Rather than immediately asking around, T’riss and Adeon enjoyed a couple of bottles of Rotgut while sizing up the rest of the bar’s occupants. Other than themselves, there was the standard array of mercs enjoying their downtime, though two individuals stood out in particular. The first was a Rogue Trader in a booth in the opposite corner of the bar, and the second was a hooded figure at the bar. While the later was of note simply because no one else in the place was hiding their face, the former was hard to miss. Recounting tale after tale of his “heroic” efforts to his comrades, the man grew louder and louder as he consumed more and more drinks. Adeon was simply content to ignore the idiot, but T’riss found herself glaring at one particularly odd piece of jewelry on the Rogue Trader’s person.
Nudging Adeon under the table with her foot, T’riss pointed over in the Trader’s direction, “That necklace, wonder where he got it.” After turning around to look for a moment, Adeon shrugged, “Dunno, probably more of his spoils, if I had to guess.” Rather than reply to him, T’riss slowly rose and found herself walking over to the Trader’s table. As she approached, the Trader raised his glass and called out jovially, “Ah, and here comes the entertainment boys!” She resigned herself to rolling her eyes, deciding it best not to start a scene. Now opposite the Trader, T’riss asked, “Yes, well, we can talk about *that* later. First, tell me more about that necklace. It’s quite beautiful.”

The Trader took the chain between thumb and forefinger, admiring the jewel set in the pendant, “You’ve got a fine eye there missy. This here is supposedly one of them spirit-stones you pointy-eared freaks seem to love. I took it as compensation when the Xenos scum decided not to make good with his payment.” Anger rushed through T’riss, but she could do little more than ball her fist tightly before Adeon appeared by her side. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a little wager?” he asked, causing the Trader to laugh in response. “Trying to impress your little pet are ya lad? I’ll humor you. What do you have in mind?”

Adeon smiled, walking over to the bar to obtain a pair of paperclips and piece of paper. “Now then,” he began, returning to the Trader’s table, “the challenge is to interlink these two paperclips using only this here piece of paper. If ya can do it, I’ll let ya have some time with my ‘pet.’ But if you can’t, and I can, you hand over that there necklace.” T’riss shot him an incredulous glance, but had grown to know Adeon enough that she wasn’t overly concerned with him losing. Still, as the Trader began fumbling with the paper and clips, she couldn’t see how such a feat was possible. Eventually, the Trader gave up, shaking his head as he passed the materials back to Adeon, “Can’t be done, not unless you’re going to use fancy mind magic like the bar witch.”

Laughing, Adeon simply curled the paper into an S shape. On each end, he attached the clips to the inner loops, then snapped the ends of the paper apart. Perfectly intertwined, the pair of paperclips fell to the table before the Trader, causing him to scoff, “Fancy parlor trick you got there boy, but you got one thing wrong – I don’t take kindly to being tricked.” With a snap of his fingers, the Trader’s retinue crowded around T’riss and Adeon, raising various forms of weaponry ranging from simple brass knuckles to laspistols. Just as they began advancing forward, the Trader found himself hauled into the air by his collar, causing the mob to pause as he choked out a cry of alarm. Turning to look at their leader, they came to see the formally hooded bar patron had pinned him against the wall.

The strange individual was wearing a multicolored jester’s outfit, and had red hair that spilt out from behind a mask. Though T’riss immediately knew a Harlequin when she saw one, the rest of the mob was clueless. Abandoning their former two targets, the gang advanced, soon surrounding the woman and their boss. Quietly, the woman muttered, “I suggest you make good with your promise, else you’re going to find yourself losing more than a simple piece of jewelry.” The Trader glared back at her, then nodded at his men. What followed was too quick for Adeon’s eyes to follow, but the results couldn’t be argued with.

As each of the now battered group cradled stumps of various limbs, running from the bar, the Harlequin threw the headless corpse of the Trader back into his seat, taking the necklace and tossing it to T’riss. Barely catching it, T’riss stared down at it before replying, “Well, I guess we owe you a drink now.” Laughter emitted from the masked face, and soon Adeon was playing third wheel as the two rapidly conversed back and forth in Eldar. He didn’t mind, of course, as T’riss seemed to grow more and more excited as the conversation carried on. Finally, the Harlequin stood, bowing her farewell before departing. “What was all that about?” Adeon asked, raising an eyebrow at T’riss. She could barely contain her glee as she replied, “I think we’ve just found a new home.”

===Chapter Six===

The retinue of Harlequins departed the stage, save for one, as lights dimmed. Remaining center stage, she opened her arms wide and spoke. “From there, the pair traveled to the fair Exodite World of Quor, where they would live lives of happily seclusion. Accounts vary of their exploits, but one thing remained constant: their love of one another never faltered. “ Bowing, the actress drew to a close, resulting in a thunderous applause from the crowd as the rest of the troupe retook the stage. Soon after, the curtains fell, and the Eldar of the Alaitoc Craftworld began shuffling back to their homes.

Backstage, the starlet found her family waiting for her with watery eyes. Leaping forward to squeeze her tight, her sister happily extolled, “You did great sis! I told you there was no need to be worried!” “Indeed,” T’riss added, standing beside Adeon as the two proud parents regarded their daughter, “you did a fine job telling our story, Nydia.” Laughing, Nydia pried herself free of her sister, “That’s enough, Mist. But yes, I suppose it probably helped that I had a first-hand account of matters.” Together, the family shared a caring embrace, a small sense of sorrow overtaking them. It would be a long while before Nydia’s troupe would be near enough for a visit again.

After saying their goodbyes, Adeon, T’riss, and Mist returned to the Weaver, which was docked in one of the Alaitoc’s bays. While her twin was content to travel about, spreading stories of their race, Mist preferred to remain with her parents. It was true, their home on Quor was rather isolated, and few exodites ever came to visit. Still, she found the planet of her birth to be a welcome alternative to her brief stint as a corsair. Plus, her mother always needed a helping hand about the temple, whenever her father didn’t require aid maintaining the fields.

Once Mist had taken her place in her quarters, T’riss and Adeon found themselves alone on the bridge of the Weaver. Taking each other’s hands, the pair silently watched as the Craftworld faded from view into the darkness of the void. By now, neither needed words to know how the other felt, but that never stopped Adeon. “S’alright. She’ll be fine,” he said, squeezing T’riss hand lightly, “Nydia’s a strong girl.” Wiping a small tear from her eyes with her free hand, T’riss nodded, “I know. Still, it’s hard to let go, even now.” It was a fair point, Adeon thought, taking up his bride in a hug as they regarded the heavens outside. He hadn’t quite figured out all the mysteries they contained, but he was content with simply knowing that they had brought him true joy.

<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="width:800px">
'''Original Version''' (Preserved for Posterity)
<div class="mw-collapsible-content">
Unlike their trip from Sehella, the journey to Quro only took a week. Granted, they had the fortune of using the Harlequin’s vessel, so the ability to enter the Webway greatly sped matters along. After the encounter in the bar, T’riss and Adeon had docked the Weaver in the bay of the Othello, a grand Wraithship under the control of the Avatar’s masque. As T’riss explained it, these traveling performers were headed to an Exodite World to spread their brand of entertainment to the Eldar there. Though Adeon was skeptic at first, his fears of being led into a trap fell by the wayside as the jesters aboard the Othello went to great lengths to make T’riss and him feel welcome. They seemed eager to teach him about their culture and race, and Adeon was all too happy to learn more about his beloved’s people.

Meanwhile, T’riss found herself under the tutelage of the masque’s High Warlock. Though she had obtained a spirit stone, she lacked the proper means to control and utilize it. Still, after being lead through numerous exercises and trainings, the Warlock was content that his pupil would no longer have to worry about the eternal damnation of her soul. The one matter to which he could not help T’riss with was kicking the addiction to drinking souls, but she found herself facing that prospect with renewed vigor and optimism.

When the Othello finally put into orbit above Quro, the pair found themselves being given a set of coordinates to land at. Apparently, the Harlequins had contacted the world during the journey, and arranged for T’riss and Adeon to have a small plot of land some distance away from any main exodite populaces. Adeon found himself asking what they had done to warrant such kindness, though it would be T’riss that supplied the answer. “They found our story to be worthy of remembrance,” she said, as she piloted the Weaver down towards the planet. “I think we’re going to be the basis of some new play they’re working on.” Adeon didn’t know how to feel about this, but he wasn’t about to turn down such a generous gift.

On arrival, the pair emerged from the Weaver to find a sparse forest, along with several bags of what Adeon quickly discovered to be plant seeds. Wasting no time, the pair set to work building a home together. Though it took the better part of a month, the sturdy and spacious abode that resulted was more than either Adeon or T’riss could have hoped for. All the while, Adeon began cultivating the crops he had been given, adding in those that had survived the journey from Sehella. T’riss supplemented their food supply with the occasional game hunt, but was not above helping her beloved whenever needed. Though they knew the nearest settlement was but a two days walk away, both secretly enjoyed the feeling of having the world to themselves.

Over time, Adeon’s little farm expanded, and it came to pass that the local populace came to seek his guidance and trade with him on a near weekly basis. As for T’riss, she began a sort of martial temple, teaching any who were willing the battle-arts of the Dark Eldar. Though many were weary at first, soon many an exodite made a pilgrimage to learn from her. It was not long before a small settlement grew around the Weaver, though it never grew larger than a simple hamlet.

Six months after they had put down their roots, T’riss began showing signs of pregnancy. Adeon was overjoyed to learn he would be a father, but his enthusiasm paled in comparison to his companion’s. When it came time, with the aid of one of the local doctors, T’riss gave birth to a pair of healthy twins. Both beautiful little girls, the couple agreed on the names Mist and Nydia for their children. Though raising such bundles of energy proved to be a challenge, the proud parents couldn’t have asked to be happier.

One night, some eight years after T’riss had landed in his field, Adeon found himself staring up at the stars again. His girls were fast asleep in the house, and there was a cool breeze flowing from the south. As he sat underneath the apple tree, which had grown from the supplies he brought from Sehella, he couldn’t help but feel as if all was right in the world. He hadn’t quite figured out all the mysteries the heavens contained, but he was content with simply knowing that they had brought him true joy.</div></div>

=Side Stories/Arcs=
This section contains links and snippets of derivative works.

===Feeding the Soul===
Agony gripped T’riss’ entire body as the latest round of painful throbs rocketed down her spine. It had been eight months since her last feeding, and her body was beginning to revolt against having to once again endure the ravages that came with the passage of time. Her spirit stone had helped somewhat, eliminating the visits from the terrible daemon that used to visit her in her dreams. Still, as she writhed about, T’riss found herself wondering if it would be less painful to rip off her own arm before beating her brains out with it.

All the while, Adeon stayed by her bedside, doing his best to offer what little aid he could. She had, of course, warned him this might happen when they had landed on Quor, but that didn’t make it any easier to endure seeing his lover in such discomfort. He had offered multiple times to let her take his soul, only to have various objects thrown at him in response. This left Adeon with little to do, other than offer his moral support as T’riss battled through the symptoms of her withdrawal. It wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but he wasn’t about to let her deal with this on her own.

Two days later, her fever finally broke, bringing a wave relief over T’riss as she managed to drift into a restless slumber. A clap of thunder woke her some time later, the room around her a myriad of shadows accented by the flashes of lightning outside. Next to her was Adeon, sitting in a chair with his upper body slumped onto the bed. He had only left her side twice during the entire affair, and now he was fast asleep getting some much needed rest. Smiling weakly, T’riss reached out and stroked the hair from his face, a sense of warmth growing in her heart as she did. It couldn’t have been easy for him, to sit there helpless as she fought against her own blood, but that just made her love him all the more.

When Adeon awoke, the strange cries of the local fauna outside signified that the thunderstorm had passed. Quor’s weather was highly unpredictable at times, and it had taken months to finally build a shelter that could withstand the elements. Still, as he yawned and straightened up, he realized with a start that T’riss was no longer in their bed. Worried, he began combing their home, eventually finding her in the kitchen. There, she was preparing breakfast, humming gleefully with the aura of a happy housewife. A sense of admiration came over Adeon as he silently took his normal seat at the dining room table, not wanting to disturb T’riss, despite the fact she was a terrible cook.

With her abnormal, above-human hearing, she knew he was there as the quiet sound of the chair legs scrapping against the wooden floor reached her ears. Beaming, T’riss finished up the stew she had been working on, pouring it into two bowls before joining Adeon. “Well, go on, tell me what you think,” she said, motioning for him to take the first taste. He hesitated, eyeing the black, bubbling liquid before him. The last time he had tried her cooking, his colon had rebelled against him for weeks. Yet, as he took the first sip apprehensively, Adeon found himself surprised. It was actually quite delicious, and soon he found himself slurping the bowl clean to sate his hunger. Placing it back down on the table, he came to realize T’riss was avoiding his gaze, blushing profusely.

“That was…delicious, T’riss,” he offered, reaching out to place his hand on hers. Grinning, yet still not meeting his eyes, she nodded, “I…got some help from the exodites. They showed me how to properly combine the ferrgus root into…” Before she could finish the thought, T’riss found her lips being met with Adeon’s. Drawing back, he smiled, tapping her lightly on the nose, “I don’t really deserve ya, do I?” A moment of silence passed, then T’riss returned a kiss of her own before replying, “No, my dear, it is I who doesn’t deserve you.” Staring at one another in deep admiration, the pair then passed the rest of the day in the throws of their collective passions before tending to the crops in the evening. Such was their new lives, a mixture of pleasure and hard work that left both hardly believing it was real.

===50 Souls of Pain===

“There’s no way he has two of them!” Nydia argued, taking the book from Mist as the twins poured through its’ contents. Soon, they resumed their incessant giggling with each turn of the pages, prompting T’riss to poke her head into their room. “What’s all this about then?” she asked, causing the girls to nearly leap out of their skins in surprise as they scrambled to hide the novel. “N…Nothing mom!” came Mist’s hasty reply, who cringed as T’riss’ eyes narrowed. Striding over, T’riss reached beneath the pillow to remove a book bound in gray, her children recoiling as her eyes roved over the dust jacket.

“Who gave you this?” came T’riss’ reply, voice laden with a deadly sort of venom. Nydia steeled herself, then answered, “It was one of the Harlequins, they said it was a favorite of the Exodites.” Sighing, T’riss shook her head, walking from the room in mock disgust. “You’re lucky I found this out before your father did. I expect twenty laps around the farm and for the temple to be spotless by dinner.” The twins knew better than to complain, but their spirits raised as their mother added, almost as an afterthought, “…taming a savage primate through her loins? Who could believe such drivel.”

=Drawfriend Contributions / Etc.=
<center><gallery>
Image:T'riss'SnowEldar.png
Image:T'rissConcept.jpg | Pretend she doesn't have wings.
</gallery></center>

=Other Links=
[http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/26426265 Original Thread #1]

[http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/26451101 Original Thread #2]

[[Category:stories]]
[[Category:Stories/Warhammer 40,000]]
[[Category:Warhammer 40,000]]

Waiting For Godot: 40k Edition

2020-03-28T20:49:38Z

2607:FB90:D41E:656F:23E2:43DF:26E9:AD5C:

A story written by [[writefag]] Phaeron Phaussett in which a disabled [[Necron]] Lord is trapped in a cave with an equally disabled [[Imperial Fists]] [[dreadnought]]. After trading insults and empty threats for a few days, the two eventually begin to have actual conversations in which they tell the histories of their races while waiting to see who's army reaches the pair first. Now with two new endings from the original author!

----

“HERETIC.”

“What is it now?”

“YOU ARE ON THE EMPEROR’S SIDE OF THE CAVE.”

“What? No, I am not. Look. You are way over there, and I am way over here. Is something wrong with your optics?”

“ALL SIDES ARE THE EMPEROR’S SIDE.”

“If that is how it is, then all sides belong to the exalted Gidrim Dynasty and its glorious ruler, the esteemed Nemesor Zahndrekh!”

“HERETIC.”

Akhentomen stared at the enormous machine across the cave from him. He almost wished one of the injuries he'd sustained in their earlier struggle had been beyond his body's ability to self-repair. As it stood, the machine now believed him invincible, and thought it should wait for backup. Akhentomen himself was doing something similar. That armor was devilishly hard to penetrate, especially when one was armed solely with a staff of light.

That had been five days ago. The day of the cave-in. The day they’d both been sealed into this forsaken pocket of earth. Since then, they had sat in their respective sides of the cave and stared at each other, rarely speaking except in insults.

Not that the situation wasn't already insulting enough. Five days. The caved-in rock was too thick. The machine couldn't punch them out. And so they sat, with their respective retrieval beacon devices activated, each hoping their faction would win the battle that was presumably still raging outside, and would send rescue for the lucky one and death for the other.

"HERETIC."

"Oh, shut up."

Akhentomen checked his internal chronometer. Eight days now. Eight days, they had been sitting and looking at each other. He couldn't tell if the machine slept. He suspected not. That was fine. He didn't sleep either.

He couldn't tell if the machine knew what boredom was. But Akhentomen knew.

"What are you?"

"SILENCE, HERETIC."

"It is not like we have anything else to do here. What are you?"

"I AM YOUR DOOM."

"What are you?"

"THE EMPEROR'S WILL MADE MANIFEST."

"What are you?"

"I AM A DREADNOUGHT."

Finally, the machine had stopped simply spouting religious dogma and was answering his questions. Akhentomen was almost shocked.

"And what is a 'drednaakht'?"

"I WAS ONCE A SPACE MARINE. NOW, IN DEATH, I AM MORE."

"Explain."

"MY BODY IS DEVASTATED. I LIVE ON IN THIS MOBILE PLATFORM. IT SUSTAINS ME AND ENABLES ME TO CRUSH THE EMPEROR'S ENEMIES. LIKE YOU."

Akhentomen thought about this. So the machine -- dreadnought, Akhentomen corrected himself -- did know boredom. It was, ultimately, an organic in a sarcophagus.

And that meant he could outlast it, even if it took an eternity.

"WHAT ARE YOU?"

"What?"

"WHAT ARE YOU, HERETIC?"

"I am a Necron."

"AND WHAT IS A NECRON?"

"I was a Necrontyr."

"WHAT IS A NECRONTYR?"

Akhentomen would have frowned if his face was still flexible. He was playing the same game the dreadnought had been playing earlier, and quite by accident.

It didn't matter what he revealed, he concluded. The near-dead organic would be dead before he could reveal anything to his comrades. And even if that wasn't the case, at least the humans would know to fear the Necrons.

"The Necrontyr are...were...my people. We were flesh and blood once, long before you existed. Long before your kind existed. Before even the eldar."

"EXPLAIN."

"We fought a war. A war with the Old Ones."

"THE OLD ONES?"

Akhentomen was almost taken aback by this. The humans had never heard of the Old Ones. He had thought the eldar or some other race from that time would have preserved the memory of the Old Ones and revealed it. Evidently, they had faded from history.

How fitting that the "immortal" ones were gone without a trace now, and the Necrontyr still endured. The thought was pleasing. Humorous, even.

"The Old Ones were immortal. They were powerful. They could create life. They created the Eldar. And now, they are dead. We killed them. It was glorious."

"AND THE NECRONTYR?"

Akhentomen stared blankly, trying to find the words to explain. Even after all this time, the memories were still vivid. They were painful. They were the only pain he could still feel.

"We...we made a deal. A deal with the C'tan."

"WHAT IS KETANN?"

"In your tongue, 'star-gods'. We--"

***

Akhentomen had been out for no more than a few minutes by his internal chronometer. His face was unfolding back into its correct shape.

"I WILL CRUSH YOU AGAIN, FOUL MINION OF CHAOS."

"Wait."

"FOR WHAT?"

"They weren't gods. They weren't Chaos, and they weren't gods."

"EXPLAIN."

"Get back to your side, and I will."

The dreadnought stomped back over to its side of the cave. Taking his eyes off the machine for the first time in over a week, Akhentomen looked back towards the cave wall behind him. The machine had punched him into the wall as soon as he had mentioned gods. A touchy subject, it seems.

"The C'tan are aliens. Fully material aliens."

"THEN WHY CALL THEM GODS?"

"A poetic turn of phrase. We discovered them when they were dispersed energy clouds, eating stars. They were eating the star of our homeworld, the star that cruelly cut our lives short. We--"

"AS YOU DESERVED, XENO."

"...I am going to let that one go. For now. As I was saying, we found them. Szeras, the head scientist under the Silent King, was the first to communicate with them. Thanks to him, the C'tan were given tangible form, in necrodermis bodies."

"NECRODERMIS?"

Akhentomen held up an arm and rapped his knuckles against it.

"Necrodermis. With the C'tan in tangible forms, they were able to communicate with all of us. They helped us in the war."

"AND THAT WAS THE DEAL."

Akhentomen looked down at his hands. He stared at the cold metal.

"No. This was."

"EXPLAIN."

"The war dragged on. Szarekh was getting old, and old is something Necrontyr hate to be. It means disease and death. The C'tan offered a suggestion: just as we had given them necrodermis bodies, they would help us shed our mortal forms and take on necrodermis bodies of our own."

"AND THAT WAS THE DEAL."

"Yes. We did not realize the cost at the time. They stripped our souls. Our minds -- my mind -- was bound to the will of the Silent King. We could not go against it. Our exploits were glorious. With our new self-repairing bodies, we were able to crush the Old Ones swiftly. But the C'tan controlled us, through the Silent King."

The dreadnought sounded like it was about to speak for a second. Akhentomen paused. After a long while, the dreadnought droned its response.

"YOU SPEAK OF THESE C'TAN IN THE PAST TENSE. WHAT OF THEM NOW?"

"The Silent King freed us."

"EXPLAIN."

"The C'tan now -- the Nightbringer we unleashed upon your forces outside -- are shards of their former selves. With the Silent King's help, we broke them. We are their masters now."

"AND THE SILENT KING?"

"...I don't know."

"EXPLAIN."

"He made us hibernate until he could give us organic bodies again. When we awoke, he was gone. There have been rumors of sightings, whispers of him fighting the..."

"TYRANIDS."

"What?"

"INSECTOID INVADERS. A COMMANDER FROM THE BLOOD ANGELS CHAPTER SPOKE OF A NECRON FORCE THAT ALLIED WITH HIM FOR A TIME. THEY FOUGHT THE TYRANIDS."

"...we have heard the same rumor."

"THE COMMANDER LET YOUR FORCES GO AFTERWARDS."

"The Silent King lives, then."

"HE WAS EXECUTED FOR HIS COWARDICE."

Akhentomen did not know how to react to this.

"The...'Teerahnidds' are the greatest threat this galaxy has ever faced. Why would he be executed for facing them?"

"HE WAS NOT EXECUTED FOR FACING THEM. HE WAS EXECUTED FOR NOT GRANTING YOUR KING THE EMPEROR'S JUSTICE."

It was Akhentomen's turn to ask and listen now, and he willingly rose to the role.

"Explain."

"YOU ARE XENOS."

"And?"

"FRATERNIZING WITH XENOS IS HERESY. THE GALAXY SEEKS TO DESTROY HUMANITY. SO SAYS THE EMPEROR."

"...I am not sure if your barbarism or your megalomania offends me more."

"HUMANITY WILL CONQUER THE GALAXY. THE EMPEROR WILLS IT SO. ALL ALIENS WILL BE DESTROYED."

"You will never take our galaxy. We will outlast you, just as we have outlasted everything else."

"WE WILL SEE."

"We will."

Akhentomen was no longer bored.

----

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since they had been trapped in here, and six days since they had last spoke. Akhentomen did not want to grant the primitive human robot the satisfaction of further conversation.

"HERETIC."

Akhentomen did not respond. Surprised though he was to hear the dreadnought speak after days of silence, he did not respond.

"HERETIC."

That word again. That word, so condemning, and yet so empty in its superstition. It grated on him.

"HERETIC."

Please, shut up, shut up, shut up...

"HERETIC."

"What is it?!"

"YOU ARE ON THE EMPEROR'S SIDE OF THE CAVE."

"And what is the corpse going to do about it?"

Akhentomen could see the dreadnought was stunned by that statement. He had half-expected to be punched into the wall again. He had been prepared to welcome the death with open arms.

"You did not think I knew about that, did you? We've worked with you kind before. The other human faction. They told us a great deal about your ruler, how he was slain by their hero Horus, how you venerate a maggot-ridden, decaying, emaciated --"

***

With a start, Akhentomen woke again, to feel his ribcage setting back into place. He looked up at the dreadnought, its fist positioned again.

"Do it! Do--"

The dreadnought was back in its corner. Its fist hung with a strange limpness at its side, Akhentomen noted, through his only currently-functioning eye. Gradually, the second was coming back online.

It seemed the machine had thrown too much into that hit. Gas leaked from the arm's piston, and the machine leaned towards it, as if the arm were now simply a dead weight pulling it down.

"YOU KNOW NOTHING OF THE EMPEROR."

Akhentomen's other eye finally came back on line, giving him three-dimensional vision again.

"Oh? Then tell me, oh great one, of your idol."

With a strange sound of inhalation -- the first such sound Akhentomen had heard from the dreadnought's vox, added, he supposed, for dramatic effect -- the dreadnought began speaking.

"THE EMPEROR IS THE GREATEST HUMAN TO HAVE EVER EXISTED. HE HAS LIVED FOR FORTY THOUSAND YEARS."

"Impossible. Your kind dies by a century. We have found medical records in the ruins of scores of your cities."

"HE IS A GOD."

"There are no gods."

"HE IS A GOD."

"Explain."

"HE IS THE MOST POWERFUL PSYKER IN THE GALAXY. HE IS IMMORTAL. HE LED HUMANITY OUT OF THE AGE OF STRIFE TEN THOUSAND YEARS AGO, AFTER GUIDING HUMANITY FOR THIRTY MILLENNIA. HE IS A GOD."

"By that standard, the Silent King is a god."

"HERETIC."

"And what, pray tell, does this god of yours do?"

"THE EMPEROR PROTECTS."

"Explain."

"THE EMPEROR PROTECTS."

"No, explain more."

"THAT IS THE EXPLANATION. THE EMPEROR PROTECTS."

"How?"

"THE EMPEROR PROTECTS."

This was clearly going nowhere. Akhentomen decided to try a different line of questioning.

"Why does the other faction say he is a corpse?"

"HE SITS ON THE GOLDEN THRONE OF TERRA."

"And?"

"HE HAS SAT FOR TEN THOUSAND YEARS."

"How does that make him a corpse?"

"HE HAS SAT FOR TEN THOUSAND YEARS," the machine repeated, but with a strange emphasis on the word "sat".

Something clicked into place in Akhentomen's mind.

"You worship a being that has not moved from one spot in over ten thousand years?"

"THE EMPEROR PROTECTS."

"Stop saying that."

"THE EMPEROR PROTECTS."

"...Why hasn't he moved?"

"HORUS."

Ah, the hero of the other faction. Now he was finally getting some answers.

"THERE WAS A WAR."

"THE GREAT CRUSADE RAGED FOR TWO HUNDRED YEARS."

"The Great Crusade?"

"THE EMPEROR UNITED HUMANITY ACROSS THE STARS."

"From his chair?"

"HE COULD WALK, THEN."

"Go on."

"THE EMPEROR LEFT HIS FAVORED SON IN CHARGE OF THE WAR."

"A worthy choice."

"NO."

"No?"

"NO. HORUS BETRAYED THE EMPEROR. HE FELL TO CHAOS."

So Horus was the Emperor's son...this was a new detail.

"The other faction spoke of chaos a great deal. I understand chaos in one sense, but what do you mean by chaos?"

"CHAOS IS THE WARP."

"He fell to the Warp?"

"YES."

"What does that even mean?"

"THE GODS OF THE WARP CORRUPTED HIM."

"There are no gods."

"THE EMPEROR PROTECTS."

Akhentomen reminded himself to humor the machine from now on, or else hear that again.

"The Warp is just another dimension. How can it corrupt?"

"IT IS NOT. IT IS THE REALM OF CHAOS. IT IS THE HOME OF THE FALSE GODS. IT IS THE HOME OF DAEMONS."

"They are simply other aliens."

"THEY ARE DAEMONS."

Another line of questioning not to pursue. This narrow dogma made understanding difficult.

"So these...'demons' spoke to Horus?"

"YES."

"And convinced him to turn on his father."

"YES."

"And?"

"HE BROUGHT HALF THE SPACE MARINES DOWN WITH HIM."

"I see."

"WE FOUGHT OUR BROTHERS."

"Wait, you were there?"

"YES."

"How long have you been in that casing?"

"TEN THOUSAND YEARS."

Akhentomen had to admit, for a human, that was impressive. It was a fleeting moment for a necron, but for a human, it was notable.

"HORUS FOUGHT THE EMPEROR."

"Yes, like the other faction said. He killed the Emperor."

"THE EMPEROR KILLED HIM."

"What?"

"THE EMPEROR SLEW HORUS, BUT HIS WOUNDS WERE TOO GREAT. HE WAS PLACED ON THE THRONE. HE HAS BEEN THERE EVER SINCE."

"Why do you keep a corpse around? Why not make way for a new emperor?"

"HERETIC."

That word again.

"THE THRONE PRESERVES HIM. HIS PSYCHIC INFLUENCE GUIDES THE IMPERIUM. HE CANNOT BE KILLED. HE CANNOT BE DEFEATED. HE IS ETERNAL."

"It sounds like he was defeated."

The dreadnought's arm twitched, but still hung limp.

"HERETIC."

----

Two weeks and three days, now.

The conversation had ended there. Akhentomen's attempts to probe further had been met with more calls of "heretic". Clearly, it was a sore spot for the dreadnought.

A thought occurred to Akhentomen. A strange one, but an interesting one. For a moment, he almost dismissed it as ridiculous. It was absolutely stupid. He would be rescued soon, and none of this would matter anymore, except for what information he could relay to the Vargard for conveyance to the Phaeron. Obviously, Zahndrekh wouldn't listen to any of this; he had to get this information to Imotekh.

Of course, the dreadnought would have to die first.

"I'm sorry."

"WHAT?"

"I'm sorry you had to fight your brothers. That must have been difficult."

Silence was the machine's answer, for a long while. Then, with a strange, choked sound to his vox, the dreadnought responded.

"WE DIDN'T THINK THE EMPEROR DIVINE THEN. HE ALWAYS SAID HE WAS NOT A GOD. IT WAS NOT UNTIL HE WAS ON THE THRONE THAT I REALIZED IT."

"..."

"YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN HIM."

"The Emperor?"

"HORUS. BEFORE HIS FALL. BEFORE THE HERESY. YOU WERE RIGHT. HE WAS THE WORTHY CHOICE FOR WARMASTER. HE COULD CHARM A SYSTEM'S RULERS AS EASILY AS HE COULD CRUSH THEM. HE WAS INSPIRING."

"I see."

"THE CEREMONY WAS INCREDIBLE."

"I bet it was."

The dreadnought didn't respond. Akhentomen allowed its silence.

----

An hour had passed. Only an hour.

"I'M SORRY."

"What?"

"YOUR PEOPLE. SEEING THEM CHANGED, ALL AT ONCE. SEEING YOUR CULTURE DIE. I'M SORRY."

Akhentomen stared. He had never expected this. A strange sensation stirred in his neck, a sensation he hadn't felt in millions of years. He felt like he was choking. He didn't breathe anymore, but he felt like he was choking. His eyes were clear. No moisture. No tears. But he felt like he was crying.

"It...it was magnificent. Our culture. Our monuments. Our poetry, our music, everything. And now it is all gone. All of it, lost to time and memory lapses from the long sleep. I can only barely remember what was once...what I think was once...my favorite song."

"..."

"We cling to existence. Not even life. Just existence. We wanted to live forever. We died the day we made that choice."

"I'M SORRY."

It was Akhentomen's turn to stop responding.

----

Another day had passed.

"What should I call you?"

"WHAT?"

"I get the feeling we will not be leaving here any time soon. What should I call you?"

"FOKAAL, OF THE IMPERIAL FISTS."

"Focal?"

"FOKAAL," the dreadnought replied, with an emphasis on the second syllable.

"Fo-kaaaAAAAAaaaaal."

"CLOSE ENOUGH."

"It is a strange name."

"AND YOURS?"

"I am Lord Akhentomen, under the brilliant Nemesor Zahndrekh, of the Gidrim Dynasty."

"LORR DAKENENTOBEN."

"Lord. Akh. Enn. Toe. Men."

"AKH-EN-TO-MEN."

"Yes."

"AND YOU THINK MY NAME IS STRANGE."

A rasping sound issued from the dreadnought's vox. It took a few seconds for Akhentomen to realize the dreadnought was laughing. A new wheezing joined the cacophony. It took still longer for Akhentomen to realize that he was laughing too.

They laughed together. As Fokaal laughed, Akhentomen laughed harder. As Akhentomen laughed, Fokaal laughed harder. The solid, unchanging, mechanical rhythms of their laughter grew together, into a sound not unlike the pounding of a hammer on an enormous anvil. Their laughter grew so great that the cave itself began to shake.

As their laughter started to subside, however, Akhentomen noticed the cave was still shaking, in the same pounding rhythm.

Salvation was at hand. For one of them.

As the rocks blocking the entrance of the cave began to crack, light began to shine in. The dreadnought -- Fokaal, Akhentomen corrected himself -- stood. Akhentomen stood with him. They stood together, gazing at the crack, less than an arm's length from each other by either of their measurements.

"I'M SORRY," said Fokaal, as the hole grew.

"I know," said Akhentomen.

"NO. I'M SORRY FOR THIS."

"Wh--"

The arm was still barely functional, Akhentomen noted. He could see that clearly, now that its hand was firmly clasped over his face. He felt himself being flung, and light flooded his optics as he flew through the cave mouth.

Landing hard on the ground, he looked up to see who had freed them.

A loud, mechanical shout issued from the cave, from Fokaal, behind him.

"DIE, HERETIC! THIS IS THE JUDGEMENT OF THE RIGHTEOUS!"

== Necron Ending ==

Fokaal burst through the rubble surrounding the cave mouth, charging as only a dreadnought could.

A Gauss flayer shot tore a hole in his front. He did not slow. He did not falter.

Five more.

Ten more.

One hundred more.

By the time Akhentomen had reclaimed his feet, a smoldering crater was all that was left of Fokaal, of the Imperial Fists.

He looked out at the battlefield behind his rescuers, and saw days-old corpses in yellow armor littering the ground. The previously light-violet sand was now stained with the red of human blood. Only a few grains of the original color were still visible.

"Ah, Akhentomen, it is good to see you are still breathing!"

"...my Nemesor."

"It is always a shame to slay a Necrontyr, even one as mutated as these strange hulks. I will never understand why this 'Ehmpyryahm' dynasty can't use skimmer technology effectively."

"...nor I, my Nemesor."

"Obyron will debrief you. Come by my chambers later, Akhentomen. You look like you could use a drink."

"...yes, my lord."

Akhentomen ventured one last look toward the cave, and the black mark on the landscape that was Fokaal. Obyron approached.

"As per usual, forgive his lordship for his...eccentricities. Are you ready to give your report?"

"Yes, I am. I learned much from the machine. Much of the Emperor. Our allies were right. These humans worship a corpse. How they have survived this long, I will never know..."

== Imperium Ending ==

Akhentomen looked up. He saw the same yellow in front of him, the yellow of Fokaal's armor.

Fokaal burst through the rubble surrounding the cave mouth, charging as only a dreadnought could.

A chorus of bolter shots and melta fire rang out, as the dreadnought's charge slowed. Akhentomen had died on his stomach, face down, in the dust.

Fokaal had heard the reports. A sufficiently damaged Necron phased out, back to its tomb.

Why was Akhentomen's body still in front of him?

The marines kept pouring fire into the body. A light green haze began to form over it, and then it fizzled out. The metal corpse stayed right there, on the ground.

Whatever it was that made Necrons phase out, it wasn't working anymore. Lord Akhentomen, under the brilliant Nemesor Zahndrekh, of the Gidrim Dynasty, was well and truly dead, in a way few Necrons would ever be.

"Brother Fokaal. It is good to see you are still well. The Emperor protects."

"THE EMPEROR PROTECTS."

"Let's get that arm fixed. The foul xeno must have broken it."

"YES. HE DID."

"At last, back to war!"

"EVEN IN DEATH, I STILL SERVE."

== Ork Ending ==

"Dis is a good 'ead for me bosspole!"

"Right, boss!"

"Youse don' get metalman 'eadz very often! Dey do dat whooshy fing and the body goes away!"

"Yeah, boss!"

"An' we tore down one of the 'umiez' big stompy toyz, too! Tie it to da battlewagon! I want to show all da boyz in the WAAAGH what we'z done!"

"Uh, boss?"

"Yeah?"

"SHUDDUP AND LET US WORK!"

== Bad Ending ==

[This ending kicks in BEFORE the rumbling, obviously, because otherwise it just doesn't work.]

Five. Hundred. Years.

They had been imprisoned for five hundred years, with no end in sight.

For the first century, it had been nice. They had become friends, as the burned-in "A+F BFFS" engraving on the wall now attested. They had scratched and burned pictures into the walls, traded stories, generally talked about their respective lives.

Around the second century, the enthusiasm was gone. They spoke only to avoid insanity.

In the third century, familiarity bred contempt. Contempt bred hatred.

And in the fourth century, hatred bred silence.

For two centuries, they had not spoken a word to each other. Before, they had loathed each other in ignorance. Now, they loathed each other in absolute knowledge. They simply sat and stared, as they had that first day.

"HERETIC."

"..."

"YOU ARE ON THE EMPEROR'S SIDE OF THE CAVE."

== Good Ending ==

Fokaal burst through the rubble surrounding the cave mouth, charging as only a dreadnought could.

Akhentomen looked up and saw a dim yellow armor, in hoof-like boots, in front of him.

"FOR THE GREATER GOOD!" a voice yelled, as he felt a rifle press to the top of his skull.

The crumple of metal on armor met Akhentomen's auditory receptors. The rifle flew away, and its bearer with it. Craning his neck to look up further, he saw the fist of Fokaal's good arm. Moments later, he felt it lift him up. He readied his Staff for battle as he took his position on top of Fokaal.

"Much appreciated!"

"ANY TIME," replied Fokaal, punching more of the armored xenos. Rifle fire pinged off of his armor, scoring it, denting it, but never dropping him.

Akhentomen took aim with his Staff and laid down his own killing field.

A sudden, earth-shaking explosion at the cave mouth knocked them both to the ground.

The Tau had a railgun. That was how they'd opened the cave.

And that was what Fokaal was charging directly at now, trampling Tau and Kroot alike as they stood in his way.

***

"CAN YOU OPERATE THIS EQUIPMENT, AKHENTOMEN?"

"I've never seen anything like it before."

"THEN WE ARE STUCK ON THIS PLANET."

"Incorrect."

There were a few noteworthy benefits to having a Necrodermis body beyond immortality, Akhentomen thought to himself as he jammed a finger directly into the computer's interface socket.

The Tau shuttle began to lift off, its cockpit full of Air Caste corpses, its hold stained with Fire Caste blood and full of tools and munitions.

"Once we have left the system, we can see about fixing up those marks and that arm."

"THANK YOU, AKHENTOMEN."

Akhentomen felt good. He felt great. He felt absolutely fantastic, as though nothing would ever be wrong again.

"WHERE ARE WE GOING?"

The feeling was gone.

"I...I honestly do not know."

"YOU CANNOT RETURN TO THE IMPERIUM WITH ME. WE WILL GO TO YOUR DYNASTY."

"Bad idea. The Vargard would have you destroyed. Can we hide on one of your hive worlds?"

"I CANNOT HIDE."

"...good point."

Akhentomen puzzled over this and checked the star map. The Imperium wasn't safe for them. The Dynasties weren't safe for them. Neither one would be tolerated -- or would tolerate -- the eldar. The Tau would not take them, not after this. The Orks were safe for no one, and Fokaal would never be willing to live in Chaos territory. After the Thousand Sons incident, Akhentomen didn't want to see Chaos again either.

"We have all the time in the universe to find somewhere. Perhaps the universe will calm down by then."

"PERHAPS."

Akhentomen felt good again.

"HERETIC."

Something in Fokaal's tone sounded soft, as though it was a term of endearment.

"Hmm?"

"...YOU ARE ON THE EMPEROR'S SIDE OF THE SHUTTLE."

If space could transmit sound, the laughter would have filled the galaxy.

[[Category:Warhammer 40,000]][[Category:Stories]][[Category:Stories/Warhammer 40,000]][[Category:Necrons]]

Brass

2020-03-28T17:23:06Z

2607:FB90:D41E:656F:23E2:43DF:26E9:AD5C: /* Story */

A random story by a sleep-deprived anon. moderately interesting.

==Story==
Time stopped.

The old officer didn't. Years of training and muscle memory conspired to wheel his arm around and level his [[bolt]]-pistol on its next target.

He was startled, however, when he saw the angry red light of the shot that would kill him. The world remained frozen as he stumbled out of himself. His body didn't move. The world didn't move. The fatal bolt didn't move. A shell from his bolter remained fixed in its tumble to earth, a beautiful pirouette of smoke marking its trajectory.

Circling the scene, he had to admire the angle. The shot would hit him right through his eyepiece. And that was when he felt the presence. Overpowering and coming from everywhere at once. He knew at once it was what had frozen this moment. And he knew at once it was of Chaos.

''You know what I am.'' It wasn't a question.

"...Yes."

''I have watched you. I have not come to tempt you in this moment of mortality. You do not fear your own death. I know you are loyal to your Emperor. You will not turn from him for anything I can offer.''

"No."

''No, I cannot sway you. But I still have an offer for you.''

He remained silent. The voice continued, each word seeming to reverberate through him.

''Your life has been one of war. You were conscripted in your childhood, sent to die time and again, daring the front lines on a dozen worlds. Neither wounds nor age have slowed you.''

"I do my duty."

''Yes... you do.''

Acknowledgement.

''You know what I represent. The countless battles you've fought, in not one have you faltered. You felt fear and overcame it through force of will. You cared for the soldiers under your command. Without hesitation you have laid your life on the line for that of your race.''

''You have served with honor.''

It sounded like an officer at an award ceremony, now.

''If you will agree to serve my ends, I will intercede and save your life. You would not need to join my flock.''

Amusement.

''You would not even need to do anything different.''

"You know I can't trust you. You could be lying...or an agent of the Changer."

''I could. But...that is the sort of maneuvering Tzeentch favors. There is little deception in me.'''

Musing.

''The ways have changed. Less and less desperates turn to Chaos as the eons go by. Though your technology stagnates, its employment has been most effective. Things need to change for our continued survival. I need to change. Chaos as it is, is dying. Does that please you?''

It did, but he listened quietly.

''You are the first I offer this boon, but you will not be the last, whatever you decide.''

And, with some satisfaction, it added ''I think not even your Changer will anticipate this.''

"Why me?"

''Wherever you have gone, you have answered the call to war. In your wake you leave only bodies. You know war, but you know honor, as I have said. As long as you live, you will continue to fight, continue to kill. Traitors, aliens, 'heretics...' it matters not. Exalt your Emperor. Fight with distinction as you always have.''

The voice fell silent. There was a long, long quiet. He thought.

"What must I do?"

''One day you will die and your soul will be mine...but that day will not come for a long time, I think. You serve both our ends while you live. Speak the words, and be returned.''

Sweeping over the preserved second one more time, he looked from face to face. The hate in the eyes of the enemy. Desperation and determination in his men. Fear in all of them. And like the eye of the storm, his own weathered countenance in the middle, illuminated by the flash of his gun.

He had so much more he could do. Rally his men, take this planet, then this sector. Beat them back to the warp storm they flew in from and leave shattered fleets orbiting it as a grim warning to those who would try again. And that was just to start...

''Say the words.''

"[[Khorne|...Blood for the Blood God."]]

Time resumed its flow.

+++++

Report on the defense of Alstaire, Sanctus system of Segmentum Tempestus.

+++++

Casualties high, but tolerable. Enemy routed, remnants likely amassing for continued assault (see Scouting Report 15562; attached). Governor and Force Commander wounded on front lines; of note is his survival of an almost certainly fatal wound. A brass casing from his bolt-pistol chanced to very slightly redirect and absorb part of the laser shot, causing his eyepiece to take the full impact. Though this wargear was rendered utterly inoperable, and indeed, the Governor has lost the use of that eye, it is doubtlessly a miracle of the God-Emperor that he is not only alive, but fit to return to the battle almost immediately.

+++++

Thought for the day: Success is measured in blood; yours or your enemy´s.

+++++
[[Category:Warhammer_40,000]] [[Category:Stories]] [[Category:Stories/Warhammer 40,000]]

Brass

2020-03-28T17:17:02Z

2607:FB90:D41E:656F:23E2:43DF:26E9:AD5C:

A random story by a sleep-deprived anon. moderately interesting.

==Story==
Time stopped.

The old officer didn't. Years of training and muscle memory conspired to wheel his arm around and level his [[bolt]]-pistol on its next target.

He startled, however, when he saw the angry red light of the shot that would kill him. The world remained frozen as he stumbled out of himself. His body didn't move. The didn't move. The fatal bolt didn't move. A shell from his bolter remained fixed in its tumble to earth, a beautiful pirouette of smoke marking its trajectory.

Circling the scene, he had to admire the angle. The shot would hit him right through his eyepiece. And that was when he felt the presence. Overpowering and coming from everywhere at once. He knew at once it was what had frozen this moment. And he knew at once it was of Chaos.

''You know what I am.'' It wasn't a question.

"...Yes."

''I have watched you. I have not come to tempt you in this moment of mortality. You do not fear your own death. I know you are loyal to your Emperor. You will not turn from him for anything I can offer.''

"No."

''No, I cannot sway you. But I still have an offer for you.''

He remained silent. The voice continued, each word seeming to reverberate through him.

''Your life has been one of war. You were conscripted in your childhood, sent to die time and again, daring the front lines on a dozen worlds. Neither wounds nor age have slowed you.''

"I do my duty."

''Yes... you do.''

Acknowledgement.

''You know what I represent. The countless battles you've fought, in not one have you faltered. You felt fear and overcame it through force of will. You cared for the soldiers under your command. Without hesitation you have laid your life on the line for that of your race.''

''You have served with honor.''

It sounded like an officer at an award ceremony, now.

''If you will agree to serve my ends, I will intercede and save your life. You would not need to join my flock.''

Amusement.

''You would not even need to do anything different.''

"You know I can't trust you. You could be lying...or an agent of the Changer."

''I could. But...that is the sort of maneuvering Tzeentch favors. There is little deception in me.'''

Musing.

''The ways have changed. Less and less desperates turn to Chaos as the eons go by. Though your technology stagnates, its employment has been most effective. Things need to change for our continued survival. I need to change. Chaos as it is is dying. Does that please you?''

It did, but he listened quietly.

''You are the first I offer this boon, but you will not be the last whatever you decide.''

And, with some satisfaction, it added ''I think not even your Changer will anticipate this.''

"Why me?"

''Wherever you have gone, you have answered the call to war. In your wake you leave only bodies. You know war, but you know honor, as I have said. As long as you live, you will continue to fight, continue to kill. Traitors, aliens, 'heretics...' it matters not. Exult your Emperor. Fight with distinction as you always have.''

The voice fell silent. There was a long, long quiet. He thought.

"What must I do?"

''One day you will die and your soul will be mine...but that day will not come for a long time, I think. You serve both our ends while you live. Speak the words, and be returned.''

Sweeping over the preserved second one more time, he looked from face to face. The hate in the eyes of the enemy. Desperation and determination in his men. Fear in all of them. And like the eye of the storm, his own weathered countenance in the middle, illuminated by the flash of his gun.

He had so much more he could do. Rally his men, take this planet, then this sector. Beat them back to the warp storm they flew in from and leave shattered fleets orbiting it as a grim warning to those who would try again. And that was just to start...

''Say the words.''

"[[Khorne|...Blood for the Blood God."]]

Time resumed its flow.

+++++

Report on the defense of Alstaire, Sanctus system of Segmentum Tempestus.

+++++

Casualties high, but tolerable. Enemy routed, remnants likely amassing for continued assault (see Scouting Report 15562; attached). Governor and Force Commander wounded on front lines; of note is his survival of an almost certainly fatal wound. A brass casing from his bolt-pistol chanced to very slightly redirect and absorb part of the laser shot, causing his eyepiece to take the full impact. Though this wargear was rendered utterly inoperable, and indeed, the Governor has lost the use of that eye, it is doubtlessly a miracle of the God-Emperor that he is not only alive, but fit to return to the battle almost immediately.

+++++

Thought for the day: Success is measured in blood; yours or your enemy´s.

+++++
[[Category:Warhammer_40,000]] [[Category:Stories]] [[Category:Stories/Warhammer 40,000]]

Story:False Immortality

2020-03-28T17:16:29Z

2607:FB90:D41E:656F:23E2:43DF:26E9:AD5C:

A story about a ancient [[Necron Immortal]] pondering his (un)life as he stands guard over his lord and master.

Beware! English fails and a rip off of the Jedi and Sith codes ahead.

===Story===

Inner peace is death, there is only passion.

Through passion, I gain distinction.

Through distinction, I gain strength.

Through strength, I gain victory.

Through victory, my chains are broken.

My rage has set me free! – Attributed to Retvayn. Reluctant Immortal

I awoke. Yet I had been awake for millennia upon millennia before. I had died. And yet I had been reborn. Countless times. And yet I had never lived for eons. And each resurrection left me a little more dead. A little less awake. Conscious but brain dead. Brain dead but possessing no real brain to speak of. Yet I awoke. And maybe I had been awake for millennia. My immortal body fell from the face of the glacier like fruit from a long dead tree. My mind so lacking in stimulus for so long had lost any form of a concept of time. For so long there had only been the now and the past. In the now there was nothing but the relentless pressure and the cold of the ice. And in the past there had been nothing but dimness. all things drab and dull and boring. In the height of battle, in the moment of dying in the soothing sleep. Everything experienced, removed in the spam of a second. Nothing alive. Nothing vivid.

[[Category:Necrons]]
[[Category:Warhammer 40,000]]
In the dawn time, a time before coldness, in a time of hate and apocalypse unending. I remember… I remember the carnage and the slaughter. I remember… I remember the slaughter. I remember… I remember the blood on these hands. Blood on these cold hands now animate but utterly dead. I killed and I butchered and I massacred beyond the measure of numbers, and I felt nothing. None of us did. None of us felt anything. Ever.

Our immortality was a lie. We are not even echoes of our former selves. We are… were… shadows of shadows of shadows of our former selves. I was present when we finally coaxed the gods down the Light Bridge and into the bodies we had built with the utter heights of our sciences. We were so proud of our selves. We were so overjoyed. We were triumphant beyond the dreams of arrogance. We were so damned. Damned beyond the measure of any hell you care to name.

And here I stand now over an incarnation of a god. An aspect of divinity. I see it begin to stir in its sarcophagus. A living tomb to withstand the barrage of time. Eternity may well be relentless but inside that glorified coffin it could never reach. A void in both entropy and energy.

And here I stand. Gauss flayer in hand.

I remember… I remember the gift of immortality. Many, so many, resisted. But not me. I was one of the first. Others had to be dragged kicking and screaming. But not me. I skipped and danced gleefully over the lip of damnation. I was burned and devoured utterly. And I was killed. But I was reborn. Transmuted from one form into another. My blighted, irradiated, flawed, beautiful flesh was nothing but an empty husk. A discarded remnant. I had shed my skin. I was re-made. I was immortal. One of the first of legions upon legions.

Immortality is a lie.

To be alive is to die. To be transitory is to grow. To be ephemeral is to change. To be mortal is to feel. To be immortal is to be untouchable. To be touched at all is to give meaning to a worthless existence. Now I am never to be touched. And it is cold. Utterly cold. Utterly dead.

And here I stand. Finger ready on trigger. Watching over my sleeping god.

We did it out of hate and resentment and envy. We did it because… we did it because… we did it because… we did it because… we envied their life. We envied them their immortality. We ended our lives to tear away theirs. We deserved our damnation. And we deserved worse besides. We would cry out for forgiveness for our sins. But no one would listen. And we do not deserve forgiveness. We are beyond absolution and pity and mercy. We are utterly damned. Damned and forsaken. And it is cold where we are.

We were promised release from our wrecked and broken flesh. Promise fulfilled. Desire given. Wish granted. By a beautiful being in golden skin. And a smile like hateful sunlight.

Wretched Deceiver.

Here I stand over your resting place. An incarnation of you. A mirror of your many aspects. One avatar among many. How you have flourished.

I was your first. Damnation is on my head.

You lied to us.
Here I stand gauss flayer in hand.
How I watch you sleep.
How I hate you

My finger on the trigger.
I was your first.
And for the first time in eons I feel ANGRY!

I shall commit this deicide.

How you writhe in agony.
How I envy that you can even feel that.
How I envy that you can die.
How I envy your death.

We have slept for too long. False gods awaken us to unlife everlasting. This shall never be again. Every last incarnation of the star gods I shall erase.

It is time for my brethren to rise.

The hunt is on.

Story:False Immortality

2020-03-28T17:14:38Z

2607:FB90:D41E:656F:23E2:43DF:26E9:AD5C: /* Story */

A story about a ancient [[Necron Immortal]] pondering his (un)life as he stands guard over his lord and master.

===Story===

Inner peace is death, there is only passion.

Through passion, I gain distinction.

Through distinction, I gain strength.

Through strength, I gain victory.

Through victory, my chains are broken.

My rage has set me free! – Attributed to Retvayn. Reluctant Immortal

I awoke. Yet I had been awake for millennia upon millennia before. I had died. And yet I had been reborn. Countless times. And yet I had never lived for eons. And each resurrection left me a little more dead. A little less awake. Conscious but brain dead. Brain dead but possessing no real brain to speak of. Yet I awoke. And maybe I had been awake for millennia. My immortal body fell from the face of the glacier like fruit from a long dead tree. My mind so lacking in stimulus for so long had lost any form of a concept of time. For so long there had only been the now and the past. In the now there was nothing but the relentless pressure and the cold of the ice. And in the past there had been nothing but dimness. all things drab and dull and boring. In the height of battle, in the moment of dying in the soothing sleep. Everything experienced, removed in the spam of a second. Nothing alive. Nothing vivid.

[[Category:Necrons]]
[[Category:Warhammer 40,000]]
In the dawn time, a time before coldness, in a time of hate and apocalypse unending. I remember… I remember the carnage and the slaughter. I remember… I remember the slaughter. I remember… I remember the blood on these hands. Blood on these cold hands now animate but utterly dead. I killed and I butchered and I massacred beyond the measure of numbers, and I felt nothing. None of us did. None of us felt anything. Ever.

Our immortality was a lie. We are not even echoes of our former selves. We are… were… shadows of shadows of shadows of our former selves. I was present when we finally coaxed the gods down the Light Bridge and into the bodies we had built with the utter heights of our sciences. We were so proud of our selves. We were so overjoyed. We were triumphant beyond the dreams of arrogance. We were so damned. Damned beyond the measure of any hell you care to name.

And here I stand now over an incarnation of a god. An aspect of divinity. I see it begin to stir in its sarcophagus. A living tomb to withstand the barrage of time. Eternity may well be relentless but inside that glorified coffin it could never reach. A void in both entropy and energy.

And here I stand. Gauss flayer in hand.

I remember… I remember the gift of immortality. Many, so many, resisted. But not me. I was one of the first. Others had to be dragged kicking and screaming. But not me. I skipped and danced gleefully over the lip of damnation. I was burned and devoured utterly. And I was killed. But I was reborn. Transmuted from one form into another. My blighted, irradiated, flawed, beautiful flesh was nothing but an empty husk. A discarded remnant. I had shed my skin. I was re-made. I was immortal. One of the first of legions upon legions.

Immortality is a lie.

To be alive is to die. To be transitory is to grow. To be ephemeral is to change. To be mortal is to feel. To be immortal is to be untouchable. To be touched at all is to give meaning to a worthless existence. Now I am never to be touched. And it is cold. Utterly cold. Utterly dead.

And here I stand. Finger ready on trigger. Watching over my sleeping god.

We did it out of hate and resentment and envy. We did it because… we did it because… we did it because… we did it because… we envied their life. We envied them their immortality. We ended our lives to tear away theirs. We deserved our damnation. And we deserved worse besides. We would cry out for forgiveness for our sins. But no one would listen. And we do not deserve forgiveness. We are beyond absolution and pity and mercy. We are utterly damned. Damned and forsaken. And it is cold where we are.

We were promised release from our wrecked and broken flesh. Promise fulfilled. Desire given. Wish granted. By a beautiful being in golden skin. And a smile like hateful sunlight.

Wretched Deceiver.

Here I stand over your resting place. An incarnation of you. A mirror of your many aspects. One avatar among many. How you have flourished.

I was your first. Damnation is on my head.

You lied to us.
Here I stand gauss flayer in hand.
How I watch you sleep.
How I hate you

My finger on the trigger.
I was your first.
And for the first time in eons I feel ANGRY!

I shall commit this deicide.

How you writhe in agony.
How I envy that you can even feel that.
How I envy that you can die.
How I envy your death.

We have slept for too long. False gods awaken us to unlife everlasting. This shall never be again. Every last incarnation of the star gods I shall erase.

It is time for my brethren to rise.

The hunt is on.

Trapped

2020-03-28T16:46:40Z

2607:FB90:D41E:656F:23E2:43DF:26E9:AD5C: /* Epilogue: */

{{Story}}

A touching story inspired vaguely by ''All Quiet on the Western Front''.

==The Story==
The Guardsman awoke in darkness, his head spinning. His day came back to him slowly, bit by bit. An Eldar attack. The Commissar leading a counter-charge. His death on the end of a monster's bloody-hand. And then...what?

An explosion of some sort. And then only blackness. "Friendly fire?" he thought to himself. He quickly nixed the idea. The Guard's heavy weaponry had been the xenos' first target. But they themselves weren't much for explosive weaponry so who...?
"The Orks," came a voice from the shadows. It was only then that the Guardsman realized he'd been thinking aloud.
"Orks?" he replied, incredulous. "But-"
"Orks." The voice cut him off, impatient. "Trust me." A female voice, he noted. But not a familiar one. He ran down a mental list of women in his unit, and came up with nothing matching this particular voice.
He settled into a corner, his eyes still adjusting to the poor lighting filtering through the cracks in the rubble above. "So, what unit were you with?"
Silence.
"I was with the 401st Cadian. Well, AM I suppose. Assuming we ever get out of here."
Still silence.

"Noticed your accent. Where you from?"
"You wouldn't have heard of it. I doubt you could even pronounce the name." A wet cough punctuated the woman's sentence. The Guardsman's eyes better adjusted, he could make out the silhouette of his tomb-mate: it was clear she was holding tightly to her side.
"Are you alright?" he asked, making to move closer.
"Stop. I-I'm fine." The figure moved a little in the darkness, sitting upright.
"If you say so," replied the Guardsman quietly. "Bitch don't want my help, bitch won't get it", he thought to himself.
There was a moment's awkward pause. "So you never told me where you were from," the Guardsman hinted.
"Rimward, I think you would call it." came the reply.
"Ah, xenos space. I take it you're familiar with these Eldar then?"
A muffled laugh came from the shadows. "You could say that." The Guardsman furrowed his brow at this, but offered no further comment. He sat still in the dim light and waited for his sight to return to him fully.

He found comfort amidst the rubble and lost focus...
He awoke with a start. "Ugh, was I dozing?"
"You were...snoring?"
"Hell, sorry. How long was I out?" The Guardsman knew the answer himself almost immediately. The dim light that had been filtering through had faded to a yellow-red. Sundown.
His companion didn't deign to answer the question.
"You doing alright?" His sight returned, he could make out a small, dark puddle amidst the rubble at the woman's side.
"I am...fine. The pain diminishes when I focus on my h-" The sentence was cut off by a wet cough. The Guardsman could almost hear the blood flecking his companion's lips. "My husband," she finished, after a moment.
"You've got someone at home too, then? My wife and son are waiting for me to finish this tour of duty." His eyes wet a little thinking of them, but he forced it to pass. Even as he did so, he realized the foolishness of his haste; the woman could not possibly see his face amidst her pain and the imminent darkness.
"Tell me of your boy," she requested ("Somewhat forcefully", thought the Guardsman, but he made no comment).

And he did. He told her of his boy Philos. Of the letters he wrote to his father, all broken grammar and backwards "e"s. Of the pictures his wife passed along: his boy in a Guardsman costume, his boy playing magne-ball, his boy asleep in the sandbox. He told of his wife: her constant stream of letters, her voice, his memories of their meeting.

After awhile he realized his compatriot was only half listening. "Why don't you tell me of your husband?"
She either ignored his inquiry or didn't hear it over her bloody coughs. He thought to ask again, but ultimately resigned himself to silence.

"I am passing, Mon'Keigh."
"Hey don't say it like that. Help will come soo- What?" There was a tense pause.
"Had you really no inkling before now, Mon'Keigh?" She sucked in breath tightly, her teeth clenched against the pain. "Not even a race as young as yours could spawn one so naive."
The Guardsmen scrambled for his lasgun and flicked on the flashlight scope. He targeted the Xenos filth. The crosshairs focused instantly. He slid his finger to the trigger and...
Nothing.
'Emperor forgive me my Heresy.'
He propped the light on a rock and, his hands freed, moved to the Guardian's side. He got his first good look at her wound, and all his prior thoughts were confirmed. "That's one helluva wound, miss." She nodded weakly, moving her face away from the light as she did so. He tried to move her hands aside, to put better pressure on the wound than her shaking hands possibly could, but she held firm.
"I am already passing, Mon'Keigh. Do not let me bloody your hands." He shook his head slowly and sighed.
"Why are you so set on dying? Have you no desire to see your home again?" he asked, incredulous.

"I bear no illusions, child. Even if your people somehow stave off the Ork horde, my allies are spent." She coughed lightly, her lungs not possessing the air to repeat the forceful coughs of the earlier hours. "I...need a favor of you, Mon'Keigh."
"I- There's no way...! It's heresy enough that I'm helping a-a-" A pause.
"A filthy xenos scum like me?" she said quietly. "It is not much I ask of you." He nodded, ashamed at his outburst. "When I pass...the stone on my chest. It will-" A cough. "It will fill. And glow. Take it to the webway gate my people were guarding. It is my only hope for return."
"Return? I-I don't understand."
"There is not time. Just do it, please. The webway is my last chance to see my husband, Mon'Keigh. My last-" Her coughs were interspersed with tears now as the pain began to overcome her defenses. "Please," she whispered.
He nodded solemnly.

After a time, she smiled faintly. "Tell y-your boy Inaya said...hello." Her head lolled to the side, bathing her fine features in the light. The stone at her chest began to glow fiercely, as if the spirit trapped within found renewed vigor in its undamaged shell. As the Guardsman pried the stone loose of her breastplate, he noticed a small piece of twine snaking from between her fingertips. His eyes followed it into the darkness near where he had awoken. Pocketing the stone, he redirected his rifle's light to continue the path. His eyes followed the twine to a small flicker of blue-black metal embedded in the rubble where he had lain, unconscious, for so long.

"A plasma grenade?" he said aloud. "But then why didn't she..."

=Epilogue:=

Two decades later, another battlefield with an all-too-similar story. Again the Imperial Guard, alone and spread thin, stand as the only protectors of a lonely world. This time the Tyranids are the threat. Eldar forces, led by a Farseer, join the fight at its climax, knowing that if the IG fall that an entire craftworld will be lost. In the heat of the battle, a lone Guardsman pinned and swarmed, but he is saved by a flamer blast from a nearby Wraithlord. For a moment, young Philos feels the bone construct probing his mind through the Warp. He gives the xenos walker a weak salute, and charges back into the fray.

The walker smiles internally, its red stone glowing brighter for just a moment. "I'm sure his father is proud."

[[Category:Warhammer 40,000]]