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Rapping my way to divinity in this crapsack galaxy (Skyrim/Warhammer 40K/Some D20 Elements, Semi-SI)

 Thread starterGrimmatt 

 Start dateAug 2, 2022 

 Tagscrossover dragon dragon si elder scrolls: skyrim warhammer 40k

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Grimmatt

Aug 11, 2022

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#64

The call to arms had caught the dragon by surprise, as he tended to the experimental mushroom fields, as he listened to the reports. In many ways, as the crystals sang and hummed, as small hammers struck delicate blows that were meant to reverberate in the essence of the world, he had been rather foolish in assuming that he would have more time. Then again, it was also entirely possible that this was one of those things that happened in an underhive that would not really be reported to the surface, something lost in the snarls of the rotten underbelly of the nation cities.

Then again, after a period of meditation, of focusing on Time itself as it existed in this hellhole of a galaxy, it could be a symptom of The Waning itself. In a way, it was odd to not know the exact year, down to the very smallest portion of a second, and yet all of his attempts to divine that resulted in contradictions worse than any Tiid-Ahraan, as if reality was suffering under so many time wounds that new ones were being torn into the barely scabbed remains of the older ones. It was, to say the least, deeply unpleasant.

And yet, with this came opportunity and risk. To step out of the shadows a touch, to arm his future minions with additional tools (he had just finished some armor for them as well, the basics for the most part), but the real possible prize, assuming that he did not overdo it of course and draw too much attention to himself, would be to play at being a powerful enough mortal sorcerer to command respect and to be seen as too dangerous to try and force into existing power structures, but not so dangerous that all existing power structures were rendered moot by his mere presence.

After all, the presence of a 'psyker' too great in power would draw the eyes of those who steer the Black Ships and the Inquisitors, both of which had access to levels of resources and capabilities he was unwilling to test himself against at the moment. Oh, he would most likely be able to beat back the first few attempts, he would even be generous and say that it would take some time for them to put together a suitable collection of forces able to pose an actual threat (outside of anti-air craft, vortex or titan weapons. He was willing to freely admit those would be dangerous), but at the end of it all?

He was not willing to take the risk of being the target of orbital bombardment. Because there was pride in ones abilities and ability to take a hit, and then there was thinking that you could survive relativistic megaton kill weapons with no consequences. And lance batteries. And if all else failed, even if he could use the thu'um to become ethereal? How soon before they escalated to just killing the world itself via the many, many, many, MANY kinds of last resort weapons they had in stock to take him down as collateral damage?

No, it was best to arm the mortals, provide a show of suitable force to give his word some additional weight in any future discussions and to burn this little problem in the bud. Because Nurgle cultists? Really, as he donned the cheap and paltry imitations of his true war gear, for he had not been able to get the required souls in the numbers needed to make a proper go of things in the ancient and noble art of spellsmithing (there was so much you could do when you enchanted each layer, each fold of an item individually and linked the flows together so they did not just violently explode).

Alas, the current knock-offs would have to do, with his original work likely having been long plundered by the greedy and the power hungry. Still, he wished whoever had his old work and apricated it well. Mostly because trying to unravel the enchantments to see how they would have worked would trigger some of the failsafe's and detonated all magika, internal and environmental into quite the elemental display. Not the sort of thing that one, or the building they are in, can easily survive really.

Orkan-Eta

Orkan-Eta had surrendered his name, his past, when he had been inducted as an apprentice of the Black Knives. In a way, as the man moved through the rubble and the ruins, a silent ghost that emerged from the shadows only to strike and vanish again, he was no less a weapon then the blade in his hand, the Black Knife that was his life. Still, a single strike, a single kill and that was all that mattered, as he moved towards the targets. Towards what passed for officers in this sorry band of wretches.

A part of him wished that he would have the honor of striking at the Chairman itself, to purge the world of its corpulent bulk and rotten ideology. And yet, he was merely an Eta, not the Es or Ca that would be assigned such a glorious role. And so, as clades of near spider like mechanical monsters wearing scraps of crimson followed along in his wake, sniper rifles in their hands supplementing his strikes, their red gazes not merely on his sublime strikes, but on the oddities of the Tunnel Snakes.

As it stood, he had not been given to believe that they had a fondness for fire, or access to strange archeotech, being more or less simple criminals and tribals on the edges of things, one step above being the petty chaff that rose, fell, consumed itself in the fall as oft as not and was promptly forgotten about with the next ten who loudly proclaimed they would rise to rule. And soon followed that plunge into ruin and obscurity. No, this marked a new shift, particularly those with the odd armor.

One could very well be forgiven for overlooking it, as it seemed to be only on a handful of champions, all with those flaming weapons (the axe standing out among them) were clad in something like plates of metal... and moving with grace and power that seemed almost unnatural, dancing around the filthy hordes and striking blows that managed to drive deep and clean into them as flames raged and erupted from the edges of the weapons. There were also the staff-flamers that did not seem to have fuel sources and seemed to be striking with greater power. Glorious, and something the hand would wish to know.

And then their new sorcerer entered the fray.

Military-Commander Serving on Behalf of the People in the Army United in Pestilent Comradery, Schwab

Ah, while he had wished to go with the Chairman, to see the Boar rise to gore the fools that thought their class-hierarchy and technological oppression of the people would weep the blessed tears of pus, as their bodies melted from inside, torn apart by playful parasites unknowing of their own glorious and blessed strength, he could understand that Klaus needed loyal men of vision and ability to handle the front in his absence, to make sure that the pressure was kept up and that the tears and blood of the defenders would drip down to feed the work below.

And really, as one of the blessed walkers surged forth, gurgling in delight, punting those not able to get out of the way in time that their bursting bodies would rain curses on the enemy, there was a simple joy to presiding over such a field of rot and rebirth, as choking vapors began to pour from his cauldron, the little children grinning widely as they supped on the broth inside, stomachs bloating and straining as they giggled, blackened lesions spreading in circles, as the children began to sing, dancing with such joyful abandon.

It did an old heart good really, to see the children dancing, moving and eager, dancing and prancing, singing and beckoning as the air grew fetid with the rich loamy smells of the garden. To hear the children's joyful calls and dancing, their happy and joyful crooning answered with eager slobbering howls, the children giggling, eyes crusted with mucus and blood that erupted from boils to flow and dry and flow again as they call for their puppy to come, to play with a great pet eager for friends from the grandfathers realm.

Even as ghostly tendrils reached out to hug and kiss and play with the children as they danced closer and closer to the defensive lines, clouds of smoke and flies deflecting shots that would have struck the children from their playful advance, someone had to come to ruin the fun, to deny the children their pet, and the grandfathers playful beast a chance to play with the children and wardens of the gate. It would have done with all so much good really, to have the love of a pet, the simple joys of a puppy so eager to play and that would shower you with affection and love, bestowing all manners of gifts along with that joy.

Pillars of flame rolled across the fields, scorching towers of white fire that seared the eyes to even so much as look on, as the winds picked up, howling and screaming, carrying embers and ashes with them, smaller vortexes of flame actually peeling off from the towers, clouds brewing on the ceiling as spears of ice, of killing cold fall like hail, borne along the winds that shrieked and howled, bellows of thunder and the crashing scourge of lightning rippling among them in a display of such potency, such ferocity, that Schwab could only stare, open mouthed as flies buzzed between rotten teeth.

It was a literal storm of fire, a vision of apocalypse as ancient and mad prophets and seers shrieked and dreamed, great arms of wind plucking a struggling and screaming walker up in a deceptively soft grip, curtains of electricity forming bands that trapped it, running through the metal... which glowed and began to clean itself, the blessed rot and decay reversing before their very eyes as the storm melted and scoured it, cleaning them as ice and flames met, rain forming as tornados of ash raced in the van.

Turning to the command, he gave the only possible order at the moment. "Retreat and regroup!" Because this... how were there no signs... and how was it that he could not feel the very sea of souls be whipped into its own storm from the sheer size of this effect? Instead, as his bowels loosened with terror, a trail of yellow-green slime in his wake, it was as still as glass. He needed to escape, before the monster reached his position!

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Aug 13, 2022

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#90

Acting Warden-Commander Zarko Krall

He stared at the devastation on display, as the elements howled and the world shook and shuddered, as reality bent to a single man's will. To watch as the entire front, five kilometers across and a hundred and fifty meters high became a sea of the elements, as cleansing flames were whipped into a frenzy by winds that seemed to chant out hymns? As electricity fell not from broken wires, but from water that had become a gas (clouds, he thought some texts called them), frozen spears as long as most men were tall screaming towards the ground to impale the cultists to the ground like roaches?

He watched this power on display, and he was fearful, for this could not be natural. He wondered what terrible bargain the Tunnel Snakes had struck with this creature that resembled a man, or if they even knew the full extent of its power? Seeing how they used staves that threw flames and bolts of electricity of almost the same hue as those raging against the enemy, he would say they may have well sold over their souls to a different sort of damnation, prostrated themselves before something inhuman.

And so, he watched, he instructed his men to ask questions, to learn more of this new development. Because this would need to go into the report, and the upper hive warned, for if this thing ever decided to head upstairs and contend with those above? Was this the limits (as if this was small) of the devastation it could unleash? How much preparation did it take? Or was this as easy for it as it appeared, as if this was no battle, but a chance to merely raise its voice in song as the world went mad, to conduct a grand musical of madness?

He prayed to he on the Golden Throne that this required preparation, that the sorcerer could not simply unleash this on a whim. For if he was that powerful.... God Emperor preserve them, what did they possess that would manage to stop the threat?

Orkan-Deh

This was an unexpected development, and something that caught him by surprise. Psykers this powerful should not appear from thin air, and for something like this? Quickly, he wracked his mind, as he pondered the oldest tales, of legends of the Great Crusade at the dawn of the Imperium. Through the history of man, power like this was rare, both to wield and to face on the battlefield. It was something that took the balance of power in a grip of iron and broke it over an uncaring knee, shattering and bending it by the mere fact that it exists.

Could they launch a mission to cull this, if he proved to be a threat, a danger? This would need to be something kicked up the chain of command, perhaps even to the hidden master, to decide. Still, living weapon settled in to observe, others moving to ask the questions, to gather more information, more data to make the final decision and if there was something that needed to be done. In the meantime, there were stragglers on the edges of the effect, those who fled to hunt down.

Thoughts moved from terror and worry to dispassion, to the razor focus needed for the hunt, black knife moving into the spines and vitals of fleeing cultists, often at times just hamstringing them so the approaching firestorm could consume them as he rushed to the next set of targets. After all, there was always work to be done, and the appearance of the sorcerer hardly changed that.

Cog-Beta-Screw

The events of the battle had shifted, long term prospects and objectives realigned. Appearance of an illogical of greater than recorded power levels noted and data on effects compiled, to be sent in with the report. Brief transmission, if mission objectives would alter, reply pulse that combat still primary objective, new secondary of reconnaissance, potential assassination of illogical element if it appeared to be weakened by its efforts. A return reply of confirmation, and the rifle and its machine spirit sang once more, a creature of the illogical principle of rust and decay falling with no head.

Order and logic would be maintained, all glory to the Omnissiah!

Amdor

High above and some time later, the Eldar Seer was in his quarters, enjoying a glass of nectar after a long day of making sure the mad and self destructive felines that were Imperial nobles were safely steered into the right directions through a number of rumors, suggestions and implications. It was in many ways the most exhausting part of the day, and one that made looking over the reports from the Black Knives something of a pleasure by comparison, as at least they were competent and striking down the enemy without excessive prompting.

Still, there was something in the underhive, and it seemed that the damn cult of Nurgle was on the march. If things were bad enough, he would need to actually involve the Adeptus Ministorum, if for no other reasons than to provide bodies to quickly throw into the fray before the real hammer and weapons were gathered and unleashed against the servants of decay. And so, he began to read the reports, and then he frowned. Taking another sip, he checked the words on the page, checked the psychic echoes... yes, Orkan-Deh believed that he witnessed this.

Humming, the Seer took out his bag of runes, as he began to perform the divinations... and quickly found the sea of souls was calm. Even down in the depths, there was no disturbance that he could see from here, and workings of that magnitude? Even if done by an Eldar, there were going to be signs of something as the power needed would be immense. And then he remembered overheard snippets, little pieces he was not really supposed to know, being a mere seer and all.

And so, he began to cast the runes, to divine the loom of fate... only to find a sea shadow on many of the threads, as if they were underwater. Which meant that there was something down there able to warp reality to that degree and with no presence in the warp? Further investigation was needed, even as he sent a message of the potential presence of Necrons, or a shard of a star god.

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Aug 16, 2022

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#104

Some Time Ago

Nicolai

It had been a sweet few months really, since he had gotten his hands on this totally righteous stash. There were things in here that they couldn't even get in the spires, or at least thats what his buddy, the giggling blue one anyway, told him. So hey, if his new buddy was able to lead him to stashes like this, stashes he was enough of a bro to share around with some of the smarter dudes (and cuter chicks), hey, that was just being smart, as he rolled the weed that had grown out of that armored pig's skull, the tendrils swaying and blinking as they crooned, flames turning radical blue and gold as he lit up.

And yet, his buddy, Ozzy, shook his head (or blob, eyes shifted around in lazy circles and the mouth was never still). "Look my fleshy dude, I've told ya, if you want me to show you some of the good stuff, I need some favors done. The jolly jacks having something big planned, you know what I mean?" There is a round of nodding, bobbing head to the chill music that flows through the cosmic vibrations and into their souls. "Nothing big, but hey, I got bosses." His buddy snorted, plucking up a roach and tossing the critter into his maw, the smell of burnt chitin filling the room. "Ya dig?"

Like, there was just one thing he could say to his buddy, as he took a drag and two separate instances of himself, imposed on the fragments of mirrored choices, breathed out deeply, smoke mingling with his own breath and eyes. "Hey, you do me plenty solids Ozzy, so what do you need me and the crew to do to help keep the man off your back?" Because hey, his buddy was a free soul that should run nude through the fire fields and into the waiting arms of chicks made of sweet ice powder, not be oppressed by the man.

Yet, as those fingers, none of which were alike or stayed that way overlong, took their own roll of the weed, to smoke and just vibe, there was a grin of relief on his face, that of a bro that just found himself some welcome backup. "Not much, being honest, mostly just taking some of the things the green boys are moving and swapping them out, and letting some of the product their moving have a little hit of..." His buddy looked around, before leaning in, voice worried.

"Nick, you gotta promise me to not shoot it yourself dude. This is going to save some kids lives, big hero moment shit. Just not if you pump it into your own bod like a chump." Now this, this was big. This was something that no amount of telling people the truth would come close, that spreading the word of it all could not match. He and the crew could be big damn heroes. So yeah, they could avoid pumping things down. Looked like fancy auto-injectors type things, shame the last one they had broke down.

They were just so good for gazing on the real thing. So, he nodded, as the air turned cyan and waltz, a wide grin on his face as the tears kept leaking from ruined ducts. "Sure man, we can be big damn heroes, save the kids lives. Just count on us and tell us where." Ah sweet, Ozzy was grinning in a perfect circle and rotating his head, the colors just awesome to look at, as he just watched, and absorbed what his buddy had to tell him.

A Week (and a few days) Later

Overseer of the Rituals to Establish a Better Tomorrow on Behalf of the People, Benameur

She pondered how well the expeditionary forces under comrade Schwab were faring, even as she watched the rituals, long and laborious, almost be ready to reach the second stage. It had been a most pleasant week, as she partook in several aspects of preparing the cauldrons, as they had taken fifty-six men and fifty-six women from the upper reaches of the hive, all free from any sign of the Grandfather's gifts, all healthy and clean of body, mind and limb.

Well, they had been, a week ago. From their numbers they had taken seven of each to form the cauldrons themselves. For the last seven days they had been subject to a range of delights and attentions, foulness and corruption fed into them via all sorts of delightful manners, even if she would admit to a particular enjoyment of the rape of the men, of their utter violation by her sisters in the people's army ritual corps. How they wept and broke, turning from such strapping young things into much more pleasing forms, their skin rotten, manhoods green and with buboes, sores and infected lesions across their knees and backs, pus drooling from empty eyes, speech stolen with swollen black tongues, only for at least, as they gave a last shuddering breath, to have that breath extended, limbs writhing!

In seven places, they joined with their female counterparts (who had been treated the same by her brothers in arms), bones and flesh stitching and melding together, twisting and screaming until there were seven delightful cauldrons appearing, the inner parts of their materials twitching and spasming, the vessels ready for the fecund and fertile rituals, but only after, with a delighted call, they added the fertilizer to the mix. Ah, the pleasing smell of the base of their work, the bile, blood and flesh turned liquid with age and rot, a most pleasing and noxious foundation!

And yet, even as she oversaw, at each cauldron one of the Brewers of Delights and Wonders began their work, having assembled and prepared their own lists of ingredients for their own brews. Bones, fungi, scraps of flesh, organs and metal were added, each brew calling for seven ingredients, five of their own design, plus the base and of course, eyes looked to the forty-nine of each that remained, all so very pure... all kept disgustingly clean and healthy to provide the final part of this grand offering.

And so it was, on the seventh hour of the seventh day, she waddled to the stage and rang the bell for silence, as teams were finishing the long brewing, clouds of flies and swarms of maggots writhing around the cauldrons, bubbling and frothing ever so vigorously. "To all those assembled, I thank you for your effort and time on behalf of the Peoples Committee for Prosperous Progress and Spiritual Enlightenment under the Glorious Guidance of Grandfather Nurgle, and of the People's Army Ritual Corps in particular. Your contributions to the cause, as the valiant soldiers of the People's Army United in Pestilent Comradery fight against the heretical and blasphemous Gate Wardens and their blind allies will be commended!"

She nodded a smile on her face, even as she turned her gaze to those in the pens, to the final ingredients. "And yet, the time is now, to seize the blood and guts of the spoiled and privileged high dwellers, to allow them to finally serve their fellow man instead of living rich on the blood and sweat of those they deem to be beneath themselves!" Granted, these were only of the hive city and not lower reaches of that, but then again, they were all the same. "So take your final ingredients my brothers and sisters, for the dreams of a blighted tomorrow!"

They cheer, thunderously as the ingredients whimper and scream, as they are taken and added to the cauldrons, screaming and rotting, puking and releasing their bowels, as they become one with the mighty gifts in the cauldrons, the noxious fumes rising, becoming vast and twisted choking clouds, the sight of a garden of unparalleled beauty, of fecund rot and rebirth becoming clear, blood, pus and tears running down her eyes as she beheld the vision, those sworn to Papa Bileguts forming up, smiles on their face as they are ready to march.

Soon, those that held the ones touched by the deathless plague would fall, and her kin in disease would feast on the fattened sheep above. It was then however, that the unthinkable happened. From first one cauldron, and then then another, as the final ingredients were added, came plumes not of rot and decay, but of something that was lemon and pine scented! Cleansing instead of rotting, as the smoke writhed and the ground shook, screaming as the smoke began to burn and immolate those of the righteous, those united under the rotten gaze of the greatest of the gods! Shuddering, she moved, or attempted to anyway, as the glorious brewers....

Well, she was no fool and began her own retreat, as behind her the emerging Foulspawn roaring and moving towards the tunnel that would lead down to the gate. Which, as she reflected, her legs fusing together, bulk slick as she began to ooze, while it was not the host she had promised, a force of seven foulspawn would be likely to help turn the tide with the support of the vile knight, would it not? It was all the comfort now slug like woman could really take, as she had failed the Grandfather, failed Papa and failed the Chairman!

She would need to find what traitors, what sabotage had undone their work... and if they were lucky they would have been devoured by the foulspawn!

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Aug 17, 2022

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#110

Chairman Klaus

It had not taken him more than a day of hard marching to reach the site of the fallen knight, half buried in the muck. It was a beautiful thing, the swamps in the sump. The clinging much rich with elements of ancient reactors that tingled and grasped, attempting to pull one down into its depths, the rancid bubbles that boiled and erupted, witch-lights dancing in the gloom and giving hints of ruined and shifting shapes alike, figures that moved and slide inside of the deepest part of the hive. The howls of the hungry dead, soon acknowledging his authority as they bowed and fawned before him.

There had even, among the swarms of the blessed, been packs of once-men, their forms altered by the strange blessings of the deep, even as new and wonderous gifts were given to them in order to live off a diet of the flesh of their fellows... only for them to rise once they died. Born to die, born and reborn ravenous, it was a delight to stroll through, as he heaved, grin wide. And yet, as he performed the rituals, as he woke the knight and invited in those of the garden that would contest with the spirit of the Black Boar, he could not linger.

He could not just simply indulge in a sweet bath of that radioactive muck, nor could he hunt some of the beasts of the deep sump, to carve them open to see how their parts would brew and stew in those delightful concoctions, what joys and gifts their bodies could hide! To be sure, as he pondered the ghouls lurking about at the edges of the lights, this place was ever so willing to seed his mind with fertile ideas, to help improve his own small and personal garden.

After all, it would be no hardship for him or the other party officers to replicate some of the conditions that allowed the ghouls to form, to have the commoners refined to a more pleasing and bestial state, free of the burdens of weighty and complex thought. No, such was a burden too great for common minds, and would instead be the burden the party leaders to bare, allowing the commons the freedom to wallow in the blessings of the garden, to revel in the simple joys of life and to delight in the great feasts they would make of their fallen kin and of traitors, heathens and blasphemers.

Why, such gifts and blessings it would be, that he would be forced to put aside under the yoke of leadership, to surrender the frivolous luxuries and distractions of the bourgeoisie of the upper hives. No, these children under his care would remain pure and strong, as they were caressed with his loving hands, filth and rot to be ground into the wounds, the rancid flesh of those who would dare be counter-revolutionaries placed in their waiting maws. And yet, these were but pleasing dreams and aspirations for after victory was achieved.

No, as the blessed oils of rancid fats, the incense made of crumbling bone powder, as the chants were spoken from the implants of a techpriest, who had them torn out, the priest remaining alive as leeches and maggots formed a chain to the respirator and vox that had replaced hos old voicebox, trading away the flesh that could feel the blessings of the Grandfather best for mere metal! Metal could rust and warp with age, this was true, but it was a poor second choice to experience the many gifts and joys bestowed on mortals.

Yet soon, soon the Knight was screaming as it rotted, as fresh new life bloomed in its ancient corpse, vines spreading and cancers blooming, servos and hydraulics replaced with bands of screaming muscle. Oh, to laugh, as the dead nourished the returning, as all pranced and danced until they fell, only for a mighty hand to reach out, devouring the flagging dancers, their laughter echoing in screams, flowers and pustules clear, as the knight began to walk! Oh, what joy, what grandeur! It was time, as he gestured, all in this sunken glade turning their attention to him, voice booming with eager mirth.

"Friends! Comrades! We welcome you to the fold, to the ranks of our revolution! We thank you for indulging in our little foibles, and most of all, we would thank you for wedding your vision to that of the party!" There are feral and ragged cheers that drown out the softer and politer applause, but what can one expect when dealing with the soap of the earth? And yet, he grinned widely. "And yet, all I can offer is a promise, the promise of a feast at the end of a pestilent parade, as we break open the walls of a great fortress and ascend to feast on the flesh of those who would reject Grandfather Nurgel's gifts!"

Oh, how they roared their hate, their hunger, as they gnashed their teeth and howled, a few licking their chops and nibbling on fellows that had been torn to pieces in their desire to play, showcasing their eagerness. And so, what was he to do, as he lifted his scythe and gestured. "Come children of the garden, let us spread the joys and gifts into the upper reaches of the hive!" All howled and cheered, from the zombie, to the ghoul, to his retinue to the knight itself...

And so, they marched to war.

Military-Commander Serving on Behalf of the People in the Army United in Pestilent Comradery, Schwab

He had rallied the surviving troops, and spent a sleepless night impressing more of the local citizens into proper military service, pinning them down and infecting them with sweet contagions, fevers that would spread rapidly among those of their kin if they attempted to flee. It was not much, but he needed the numbers, as he drove them towards the gate. For he needed to be in place to fulfil his end of the compact... even as he made sure to note the locations of the mining machines and walkers.

Really, even as the conscripts were pressed forward, crude stubbers in hand when they were not just holding clubs instead, those were the vital parts of the offensive, and he needed a screen to shield their advance... and a location of that monster from before. Really, as he sent runners through the tunnels to link up with Benameur and inform her and the waiting host of Papa Bileguts of the grave threat to their plans, he pondered his own options for shielding their advance.

In many ways, it was a simple thing, as the cauldrons bubble with liquid shit and vomit, as guts are liberally added alongside rotten food and the swarms of flies begin, far more than could be natural. Swiftly they gathered, swiftly they swarmed around the anointed in choking black buzzing clouds, something able to block out the scans of the auspex and other targeting methods, the better to allow them to approach closer to the walls. Of course, even with this, there was no excuse for not sending the chaff out first.

So of course, as he heard the screams, as runners informed him that there was no great and glorious incursion from the garden, but there were masses of cancerous flesh hurling themselves forward? He shook his head at his comrades abject failure... and at the fact that she was not even among them. To be fair, she was now half a slug, oozing and constantly drenched in her own feces and urine... but of that, the second part seemed to be a rather good consolation prize, not a punishment! Alas, it was the Grandfather that decided such things, not he.

And yet, as they waited to see just where the sorcerer would strike.... well, the positive side was that they seemed to have covered most of the ground to the walls!

Ahkroonikaan

There was some numbness in the dragons bones, as he looked at the massive and rotten form the knight making its way forward. The sorcerer, dragon really, shook his head and rolled his shoulders, drawing the eyes of all that looked at him, some of them drawing back at his narrowed eyes and contemplative expression. Still, it was large, it was heavily armored, seemed to possess a forcefield and could regenerate.

As far as offensive weapons? It had a chainsword that was dripping with gunk that was melting holes in the floor. It had an acidthrower that smelled like thousand year old vomit left to ferment in the dark, with a hint of radiation. It also seemed to be able to grow rad missile growths along its shoulders. Thankfully, it seemed to be slow, and it was not a proper titan. Dealing with one of those would be... problematic at the moment and he needed to accelerate some of his plans as it stood. Yet, it was time to say what needed to be said.

Because if they thought a giant mech was enough to tangle with him? They had best be ready to hold his beer. So, he nodded at the men and women around him, as he moved forward (and ignored the piss in their pants), as he lifted his staff. "I think I'll have to not hold back as much with this one." Granted, that was at least partially because he HATED undead armies. Why, in the name of Akatosh and Arkay did it have to be Nurgle Cultists with vampire counts units?

He waved a hand, incinerating a bat swollen with disease. "It is going to take forever to get the smell out of my scales...."

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#113

He had known, when he had realized just where he was, that there would be war. This was a galaxy riven by violence, whose gods were thirsting abominations that lurked beyond a veil of thought, in a realm forged of ancient nightmares and modern atrocities. And yet, he had tried for the moment, to help and heal in what small ways he could. He was sure, that at the moment he seemed to be an old man, leaning on his staff, giving the sigh of a disappointed patriarch overlooking unruly children, or at least, like an old man who had hoped the new generation would have learned from their elder's mistakes.

Yet, while he had hoped for more time, he had always prepared for war. He was not sure if he liked moving onto the front lines, to take the active role. Much rather, he preferred to whisper wisdom into mortal hearts, to give them the tools they needed to seek their own paths and destinies. Yet, this was the forty-first mellenium, and in the words of an old and long forgotten Bethesda franchise... "War, war never changes." In some ways, it was so simple, to just... relax and reach out.

For, as the flames gathered, bright orbs moving into the sky around him, as he began to sing, to hum, the world and hive shaking around him as his voice swelled, corpses pulping under the weight of his voice, he was a Dov and he was made to conquer, to break his foes before him in storms of fire and ice, to command the world itself to turn against those who would dare stand in his path. The orbs, hundreds of them rippled, pulsing as his staff slammed into the ground, nets of raging fire now connecting them, even as they exploded and it rained napalm.

Some would think it was indiscriminate, as it rained down on the entire battlefield, a molten rain meant to purify and wash away the foe, soldiers faces looking up with horror even as the song shifted. As the dragon marched, he spoke to them all, as the firestorm spread, as inside of it a singular flame grew. He fed it, that eldritch wyrm, as he grappled with the despair and rot, throwing it into the pyres to allow for courage and valor to be born, as the flame of humanity was lit in the deep, as his voice thundered and built.

In many ways, as he began to shift, shields of starlight slapping away the rays of entropy as they erupted, winds directing the missiles with localized gale forces into the knights own ion shields, rippling and cracking even as from the downwards pyre emerged not a man, but a great serpent, head slamming into the Black Boar's chassis, knocking it to the side before the tail came up, slapping the arm with the plague sword, deflecting the blow that would have slammed into his spine. And never was he silent, as his voice swelled and the bones of the hive itself shook.

Acting Warden-Commander Zarko Krall

This was something from out of myth and legend! For at the least, out of dreams and nightmares, as the flames washed over him. They did not burn, but were warm, almost soothing and relaxing as they sank into his flesh, into his bones. Aches that he had grown used to vanished even as a fire was lit inside of him, energy rushing to fill him as he felt a clarity, doubt and hesitation burning away as his resolve hardened. Quickly, he bellowed the orders to his command staff, as he drew his sword.

No longer patched together and made of desperately and barely maintained parts whose days from the forge of their creation and the days of glory were long, long past, he did not pay much mind to the gleaming metal, to the fact that it responded with such ease, to the pristine state, as he pointed his blade towards the foes that the sorcerer, a xeno possibly, or maybe a legendary Salamander, but something to worry about after the battle was over with. No, it was time to sound the charge.

And so did the Gate Wardens march in the middle of a firestorm, howling voices joining the screaming firestorm, for what was there to do, but fight? It was what the God Emperor willed, so under this holy fire, under his gaze, they would purify the depths of one of the worst scourges that it had seen in centuries! For humanity! For the Imperium!

Papa Bileguts

Well, this was a right bloody kerfuffle. Why was it that all these prats and chavs had to get in the way of his jolly little adopted children's antics? Oh, to be sure, most of them Imperials were right proper muppets, yet all that meant was that he and the lads just had to get cracking to show them the bountiful gifts of the garden. Granted, it was a bit dodgy how some of the things appeared, but he would put a fiver on one of the schemers birds being behind it... at least until the bloody dragon appeared.

Well, that and how the 'sorcerer' from before was not acting all buzzin' about their own cleverness and the lack of mutations from the fires, which were not, on reflection, warpfires. Rather embarrassing to just notice that, but he had been having a cuppa that rotted his eyes out at the time. Still, no reason to lose the plot just yet, as for the most part, it was just the communists that were acting all gobsmacked and knackered. His jolly lads and lasses in the other hives?

Oh, there things were right on track and he was proper chuffed. To be sure, it might not be the whole seven hives, might just be three of them given how resistance was just a touch higher than expected, but still, there would be room to lay the groundwork for the next batch of bevvies. As it was... well, the Jolly Cooperators would be gutted, but if the knight fell? Well, if they could not be arsed to lose it like a quid, well, it would bring a tear to his eye, but a parent has to teach their child proper fiscal responsibility if they wish them to grow up to be strong and independent.

Ahkroonikaan

He had finally managed pin the damn thing, knocking it down and slamming claws into its elbow and knee joints. Frankly, the entire thing had been... tiring in more than one way, as he continued to sing the song of war, bellowing explosive blasts of flame. His hide was weeping from wounds, injuries he had purged with flame and notes of song, even as actual healing would need to wait for the moment. There were tears in his wings, acid having burned holes to the bone in several places.

And yet, as he looked down, there was no rage in his eyes, as he began to croon a melody that made it writhe and scream, thrashing as his claws parted the knight's chest, tearing out its heart. Once a noble power reactor, it was now a mass of rotten sludge wrapped in vines, pulsing to screams, boils, pustules and bones forming and melting back in, cancerous growths growing only to rot, die and be reborn across its surface. To which, there were only three things he could say.

"Yol Nilz Nok!" And from his maws flames erupted, burning with golden purity, a light that ravaged the demons inside of the heart as they screamed, as the knight itself glowed and began to burn, washing over in hues of gold, silver and something more strange and subtle, shuddering through the cracks and the vents. And yet, when the flames stopped, there was no trace of the corruption that had taken hold, no sign that this had ever been a Bile Knight.

No, the dragon stood over a fallen knight, the suggestions of ghosts appearing as they gave a salute, only to fade away.

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#123

Hive Bordeaux

At first, they had assumed it to be a hivequake, something that happened from time to time, as the man made mountain shifted under their feet. Except that it did not stop. Every vox, some of the ancient and long lost and forgotten communication arrays inside of the hives, the vast web of technology, it all hummed and moved, vibrating as it echoed along the buried communication lines, as every line of communication was torn open, as song rang out, echoing and thundering through the entire hive, from the darkest depths to the tips of the spires. And yet... it was a song of hope.

It called them to rise again, it spoke to their humanity, to the struggles they faced. It rang out to all, as they lifted their eyes. None could understand the words, not in the waking flesh, but to the soul? It spoke to humanity, to the fact that they were human. That in the end, they who were so small and meaningless would be the ones to put the dark gods in their graves, the ones who would see the age of gold, of freedom for all ushered in. To rise, to stand as one.

Alone, they may be weak, this is true. And yet, as a million boots take to the streets, as a million voices are raised as a singular demand? Who are these gods to stand in their way, the way of humanity? Who would seek to break them apart, to sunder and divide them, to see them supine and weak, slaves to corruption and despair? No, they would be bound no longer, they would shatter the chains, break the shackles and tear it all down! No gods, no masters! Humanity would be free, no matter the cost! And yet, barely an hour after it began, it faded into silence.

To some, in the upper hives and spires, the silence was not a relief, but something that almost seemed to be threatening, a darkness holding untold terrors, as in the eyes of the commoners there was a spark, a whisper of something untouched by the warp, even as it was noticed. And none of those princes and princesses dared to speak, or allowed to speak, of how every church and cathedral bell in the Hive had rung in time with the song, fear gripping their hearts, as they refuse to discuss the approval of the bells.

Bordeaux Underhive

They watched, as the sorcerer became something other, some grand and terrible. In some ways, as they looked on the inhuman creature, some felt relief, others vindication, and yet others a grim and terrible resolve, even as it clashed with the knight, even as the monster tore out the beating heart of corruption and bellowed forth a condemnation. And so did the crucible of flames they were inside rise to new heights, an inferno that should have reduced all to ash and slag.

And yet, even as they had fought, even as they stood their ground, as guns and blades sang that ages old song of war, as the forces of rot burned and crumbled , blindly charging forward while gibbering and moaning to escape the flames, the great furnace that consumed them as each squad of humanity took the role of forge hammers striking out the impurities, casting them down into molten ruin as they wept, as they grasped and cried out for their 'grandfather' to save them, for them not to end, but to endure, that their lives could continue just a little while longer! And yet, silence was all that answered them, as the flames took them.

In the middle of all this, there was a dragon. A dragon who had let the chains slip, who had finally cut loose for the first time in an age, in a place were cutting lose was somewhat acceptable. Freedom in a way, as flames danced and flickered along his wings, molten droplets of purification made into a sea of flame. And yet, as he looked to the walls, to the fact that guns were now trained on him, as the song began to fade... he would end this little performance with one last song, one last note. For now anyway.

And so, the dragon roared. He roared purity. He spoke restoration. He proclaimed renewal. And as the flames consumed the waiting mortals, or rather, as it consumed their corruption and mutations, as it made them reborn from the flames of war, the dragon whispered the name of humanity, a species and a virtue, the latter of which was long forgotten, choked under the grim necessity of survival. And as they wondered, as they looked into the flame, the dragon vanished, as the last drops of the firestorm faded.

And so, it was that there were only humans left on the battlefield at the end, wondering and wondering if they dare dream of hope? Of redemption for their ancestor's sins?

The Warp

There were several players in the Great Ocean, even if only a handful could really be said to be meaningful players at the moment. And for the most part, not much attention was spared on the small and largely insignificant world of Palaisdesfleurs (renamed a handful of centuries ago). It was, despite being a hive world, something of a backwater, with little of importance to draw the eye other than its population, which as ever for the predators of the Warp (or Adeptus Administratum for that matter), was all that needed to be said.

Of Hive Bordeaux and the events that transpired in its depths? A handful knew and cared of what transpired there, but these were by and large minor dramas compared to the events unfolding. And of them, only Papa Bileguts was in a position to really know anything overmuch, having had a glimpse of the creature, of the dragon that had so ravaged his children in the hive. It was something that was hard to see, one of those with a weak connection if any to the Ocean, and that presented... problems. And yet, the festering horror looked at the uprisings elsewhere with pride and glee, as that lizard would be brought down soon.

A horror known as Ozzy to some was rather distracted, as he wove lies and truths together higher in the hive, leaving crumbs for some to follow, conspiracies and tidbits that would entice pawns into moving in such ways as to produce the desired effects in his targets... only for several of them to shake and shift, pieces unraveling and blooming ahead of schedule, as he squealed and moved, trying to douse the fires and get things back on plan!

And a last presence took note, eyes closed as they listened to ancient songs, and on Terra, those in the palace would report hearing strange music drifting in the halls, even as the lights seemed to be a touch more clear.

Last edited: Aug 19, 2022

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#134

While many across the events that had raged in the underhive of Hive Bordeaux would be of great significance in the coming months, the truth was that Papa Bileguts efforts in five of Palaisdesfleurs ten hives had borne a most deadly fruit. Great gates had been cracked open and hordes of the hungry dead had been loosed into population centers even as demonic incursions erupted like boils from the depths of Nurgle's Gardens, weeds soon choking out the more delicate flowers and bastions of humanity, plague cultists roaming and killing, infecting their ways upwards, slowly but with increasing speed as the dead fell and rose again.

Tech-priests and servitors were targeted, water purification systems now vectors for the twisted minds of chortling cultists, sanitation systems being reversed to drown and fill entire layers with filth. Even the spires were not immune, as nobles sought to flee, only to find themselves subjected to venal infections, plagues of a sexually transmitted nature and hidden parasites that erupted from their corpses to feast on those who thought themselves safe. It would take weeks, mere stragglers and incidental encounters, reports that were by and large ignored, for the spires to be aware of the chaos below, which as was often the case, meant it was far too late.

In some ways, the disaster could have been averted, the impacts less severe, if one of the hives not struck the hardest by the uprising was Hive Burbon, the planetary capital. There, the Queen-Governor Marie-Antoinette was baked into a cake while still alive and her children rendered into pastries for the common folk who rose up in rebellion. With Hive Burbon in the hands of rebels and diseased to its core, the clear orders were, for a time, confused and garbled, morale plummeting... even as the canons of Hive Verdun sang.

The most militant of the hives, and one that even boasted its own proud martial traditions and the fact that in that hive one was not considered to be a proper noble until they had served a term of service in the Imperial Guard or Navy, its discipline, armories and the fact it hosted several military academies served it well. With ferocity and dauntless courage, the uprisings were crushed, and messages sent, attempts to rally and inform other hives of potential danger falling on largely decadent and indolent ears.

Yet, the simple fact was, that even as mortals warred and strove against each other, that unity among the ranks of the damned was far from assured, and one could even say laughable. To be sure, those under the leadership of Bileguts were able to maintain cohesion, even link together across multiple hives and each individual warlord was able to be crudely bludgeoned into something resembling a proper fighting force with a single overarching commander. And yet, the deamon prince could not lead them in person, not outside of Hive Burbon. There, in the center of the worlds power, there was now a great and pestilent garden from which commands flowed.

And the first blows would not be against the dragon, as a more rash commander might desire. Nor was it even directed at the fields of Hive Verdun. No, as rotten eyes looked at the plentiful targets and marshalled available forces, as warlords took control of orbital defences and moved to seize landing zones and space ports, the eyes of the host of decay were turned to a forge complex that hosted the majority of the world's production ability for fighters, bombers and chimeras. For Bileguts was wise enough to gather some transport for his slow moving forces.

And yet, even as chaos reigned and the might of Nurgle was on the march, there was opposition, and his victory was far from assured as in the shadows, he sparred with an old friend turned deadly rival. Alas, such was the nature of things, that those we once loved so dearly can sip so deeply from that bitter and melancholic brew! And yet, as black and yellow teeth move in a wide smile, as maggots fall, twisting and writhing as the mouth on his stomach drools and chortles merrily, that would make besting the blagger all the better!

Amdor (Same Day as Warsong)

How had he been taken so unaware of things? This was, as his Twilight Hunters, Deathmask Servitors and Black Knives busied themselves on missions of assassination and intelligence gathering, so far beyond a mere screw up or failure to collect intelligence and data that it was absurd. While the bulk of his attention and assets had been in Hive Bordeaux, he should not have been able to miss an entire mass incursion force being readied. He reached for the runes, more than a touch of desperation in his soul.

And yet, as he cast them, they wept and it was all the Eldar could do to avoid being set aflame! Which, based on his observations of local gangs, pointed to the horror that had been spreading small cabals of cultists in the hive, marked by drug addictions that made them weep uncontrollably. And now seeming to impede his ability to psychically gather information. And it was unlikely that the nobility had any information on what was happening below them.

And so, he nodded to one of his disciples. "Ready a messenger, try and find the dragon of the underhive and ask if he would be willing to grant a seer an audience to discuss matters of mutual interest." Because the first reports? Frankly, he needed to speak with the creature and confirm things, because if it was capable of banishing corruption... the creature's value could not be understated.... as would the target on it's back.

Best to try and get a foot in the door early, as the humans say.

Ahkroonikaan

Down in the deep, down in the dark, a dragon felt the sudden itching between his shoulder blades, even as he revealed to the Tunnel Snakes a reward for their valor, the mushroom farms just for them and the many mushroom varieties he had created for them.. and cautioning them to always make sure to eat two kinds of mushroom together at once of course.

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#137

If one was being honest, the aftermath of showcasing ones strength, the better to be left to ones own devices for the moment, had both its strengths and its weaknesses. Because whole cutting loose, even to such a small extent was liberating in a way that was hard to describe, he was also wary of the fact that this was a cosmos on which he would need to indulge in displays of grand arcana and sorcery, to showcase his might in ways that could not be questioned by the mortals that cower beneath his wings. And yet... the levels of magic in the air were minimal.

Still, things were stable enough at the moment, he had a marked location in his lair and so could recall himself as needed with his prize, and so, he could afford to go... well, less treasure hunting and more treasure calling. No, as he made his way out of the hive, as he snuck his way through the tunnels and eventually to the walls, slipping out onto the surface while mantled in spells to avoid detection, Alduin was not the only one that was able to call meteors. Granted, the reason the mystical wyrm learned to call them was somewhat different.

For you see, the heart of a great welkynd stone was that of meteoric iron and glass, but after testing, it did not need to be one that fell naturally. It could be called, beckoned by the might of ones voice echoing into the silent dark above. Which had the added advantage of knowing the where and when of the materials and saved a good deal of hunting and searching. No, much neater, as he winged away from the hive city, and looked up at the stars and began to sing.

It was, for the most part, a simple song. "Fil ag hez, Skuld wah tovok, Bo wah zey mirodah fil, Bo wah zey, ko strun do yol ahrk beyl, Zu'u tolaan wah mindok hi, Wah dwiirok ahrk brii hi, Hin ag fah pah wah koraav, miin do krein ahrk fil, Lu ag hez!" It was a simple song, a short song, but it had words of power mixed in it, sky darkening as high above the stars gleamed, several pieces torn loose from the firmament, hurtling through the night sky. On the way down, they were refined, melted and impurities sloughed off via heat and motion until they arrived in front of the dragon, impacting the earth and dragging great furrows into it.

And yet, as he examines the pieces, examines the heavenly rocks, a few have... promise. They would still require testing, requiring carving and dedication. Yet, for the moment as he gathered them up, they would more than suffice for the first of his plans, for his first major enchanting project since his arrival. And in many ways, as he looked on the pieces, four of which were the size of men, it offered him the chance at greater freedoms, and options now that war was coming.

With a thought and a pulse of magic, the dragon vanished to his lair, as he began to carve, as he began to sing into the stone, breath burning all the while. It was not a hot flame, but rather, as he sung starlight and magic into the stone, as he carved and polished it, as it began to gleam with an inner light and radiated magicka into the air, rich and sweet in constant streams... it would provide him with the power he would need, with the tools and the options he required in this mad galaxy.

So, as the stone, humming and glowing began to float, a star in the dark, the dragon breathed deeply, drinking in the starlight, and feeling more at home than there were words to describe. To have magic in the air, proper and rich? That was a blessing, even as he looked to the others... and to some options. The truth of it was simple, as he began to move, to carve and sing new stones, their hearts and cores glowing with radiance. A Hive was a big place, and so it would likely pay to have a few hidden and scattered about before he introduced the Tunnel Snakes to the next round of magical training tools.

Staves would help them get a feel for magic and how to mold it... and yet, that was largely a personal thing. With the arrival of Nurgle cultists, as they make big moves... on the one hand, the mushrooms would do much to help prevent disease, and yet... there was always more to be done on that front. That, and they would need additional water for the mushroom farm. As the one gifting it to them, it was only polite to solve that little issue.

A fountain most likely....

Tunnel Snakes

As they went to tend to the fields of mushrooms, more than a little shock on their faces at this fortune, well, it was hard to miss the thing that was like the font, yet so different. Water came from it, rich and clear, even as it seemed to sing, and there was a clean light from the top, as if it was a light, or a star from the myths. Yet, in many ways, as they took the water and tended to the mushrooms, they found it a peaceful place to be, calm, clean and vital in some odd way.

What few among them would be able to say with great clarity, was its effects on the people, as it cloaked the fields and tunnels with mists of magic, the fog entering their bodies and helping to wash away disease, to make it harder for disease to take root... while burning Nurgle's followers like acid. It was no cure, it would not remove the diseases... and yet it was all too easy to dismiss a greater resistance as access to clean water, to good food. After all, that those things would help was even true!

Spoiler: Song Translation

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Aug 23, 2022

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#140

Volks, the beating heart of the worlds industry (and given how the only other world in the system was a feudal Agricultural world, one could say it was the workhorse of the system as well), and one that stretched the boundaries of hive and forge city. For this was a remote system in a remote sector, a backwaters backwater as it may be, and yet at one point there had been some wealth and power. Hardly enough to prevent it from having ever been more than a dimly recalled footnote in the roll of tithes, and not nearly enough to attract a full Forge World, but there had been enough that one could say they had some industry.

All said and done, the main products of Volks were simple and either farm machinery for Urkyaz, or destined to largely be sent off world for the tithes. Chimeras for the most part, as the Volks pattern rolled out across battlefields in the sector. There were variants, such as the basilisks, hellhounds, ordinator (produced for the Ministorum, this variant had flamers and vox projectors to allow the priest to inspire the troops while driving onto the front) and Uhaula (a dedicated transport variant, meant to ferry troops and supplies quickly around the battlefield) chief among them.

Of course, it also produced the limited number of fighters, bombers and cargo haulers available in the system, and from heavily guarded sections of the hive came the once a decade roar of a frigate destined for service in the Imperial Navy... and once every twenty years, a holiday is declared when a light cruiser rises, glorious and proud. Of course, none of the vessels built here possess the most vital components for interstellar travel, lacking warp drives or a gellar field, as these patterns were not granted to Volks. No, they slowly move to the meeting place in the outer reaches of the system, there to wait for the arrival of those that will install the final components and take possession.

Now, this is a matter to think of, when one considers the fact that Volks is fairly important to the worlds ability to contribute to the tithe, and a major part of its combat effectiveness thanks to mechanization and armored support. And so, it was no wonder, that when the first strikes of the Nurglite uprising failed to breach its defences, that greater thought and attention would be focused on it. Even if the events at hive Bordeaux had proven to be a setback for the plague cultists in more than one way.

The Bile Knight had not been meant to simply be something that could be used to wreck havoc in the hive it was recovered from, no, its worth was far greater than that. For Papa Bileguts had a card left to play, that was deep in the Underhive of Volks, subverting machines and infecting them with digital contagions, machine spirits shrieking in agony as metal and circuits were profaned. More or less intact, the knight, when combined with the facilities and materials at Volks, could have allowed for his hired Warpsmith to have produced at least a handful of additional Bile Knights, as he examined and unraveled its secrets.

And yet, the first step was of course, the probing attacks into the nature of the defences... and of those taken to act as sleeper agents. Or compleated as the warpsmith liked to call his work, the line between mortal and machine blurring and fading away to nothing at all under the madman's tender cruelties. And yet, even without the knight, many promises and pacts had been made, alternative arrangements found and worked out. After all, it was a wise gardener that contemplated more than one approach when working with new soil.

The Plague of Perfected Form

The first the adepts of the machine god knew of the plague that had come to Volks was in the fact that there was a darkness in the air, a twisting in the sense of things. Each shadow seemed to be longer, darker, hiding something as they moved from rite to rite, as they appeased the increasingly frightened and unruly spirits of the machines with sacred oils, oils that gleamed and glittered most pleasingly as they anointed the divine. And yet, as they labored under the clouds of industry and progress, as the flames of the forge rumbled below, these adepts reported the strange phenomenon to their superiors.

Of how the menials, largely unagumented, seemed to be gathering, their expressions resentful and hard, disrespectful glares quickly hidden as they passed, of increased signs of the failure of flesh in said humans. And as word came, as hives fell and their own defenses below were tested, the dead rushing forward with screams of hunger and disease, as cults backed by the lord of rot sized open control, the highest levels of Volks began to reverberate, to look at those inside the walls who were weak of faith, of mind... who clung to the weakness of the flesh.

In the noosphere debates raged, as the machine spirits screamed around them, as the world seemed to be darker and more twisted, as hidden enemies multiplied and the order they imposed on the hive seemed to be about to fall into biological chaos at this terrible time, with all the non-thought expected from the emotional and illogical baseline humans. Still, as the adepts applied the holy oils, as they bathed their true flesh, the solution was simple, was it not?

The menials did not need free will, did not need to cling so feebly to the distractions and weakness of flesh. No, they would serve much better, be much more efficient as servitors, would they not? And so, filled with conviction, a sizeable minority of the tech-adepts of Volks, all of who had been using the most holy of oils, lit the censers with fragrant incense pleasing to the machine, whose scent was digital, and started their hunt, dragging work crews, menials and their families into the processing centers.

By the time they were stopped, as fires raged inside of the Hive-Forge, as PDF forces clashed with insane kill servitors, with tech-adepts whose flesh and machine were indistinguishable, almost twenty-two million souls had been converted. Several dozen factories were writhing with unclean flesh and circuits, with cables of muscles and pipes of intestine, bones used as building materials even as nerves were harvested for cognitors. It was a rotting and writhing pit of tech-heresy, of blasphemy towards the holy machine and divine human form both.

Several hundred of the now discovered hereteks managed to flee, their bodies having absorbed their implants, cybernetics having become something strangely organic even as their biological components warped into something mechanical. There, as they expunged the weakness of mortality, of morality and humanity from their victims, cutting cold and efficiently and implanting gifts and powers, as they innovated and experimented in ever new and horrid ways, they looked on with eager eyes, with hungry eyes.

Oh, the secrets they learned, as they drank of the holy oil, as it burned away weakness.... and as they sprayed it on those who fought them. And in the weeks to come, reports would spread, of those exposed to the profaned oils beginning a hideous transformation, of spontaneous cybernetics forming and erupting from their bodies, as they howled to unknown cants on the noosphere. And as the Magi looked to the source of these transformations, to the profaned oil, identical in all ways to the sacred oils so commonly used in all their own rites?

Despair and panic raced among the wise and learned of the hive, as they uprooted the rebels and burned them out. For this profanity, this heresy, could not be allowed to fester and spread!

Mutants at the Gate

Even as the eyes of the Magi were turned inwards, as entire hab-blocks were converted into forbidden patterns of war servitors and cursed oil flowed and multiplied inside, another threat emerged. It was not, as some would fear, the ranks of a marching plague host crossing the wastes. No, it was something that had been largely ignored by those inside of the cities. Among the mutant tribes of the wastes, several warlords had risen in recent years, and now they were all yoked to a singular will.

It was a simple will, as they began to move, driven forward largely by hunger and an eagerness to get at the soft and rich hives, to plunder the riches and make sure that their tribes would endure. That their children would not be as desperate as they were. And so, they moved. At first, it was simple strikes of scouts on attack bikes, of simple smash and grab raids, of intelligence gathering and patrols as the tribal coalition arrived and set up its camps around Volks, as they put into place stolen technology and machines, as shamans started their rites to cut the city off.

Raiders, heavily armed took the ground based convoys when they passed out of sight of the city walls, those guarding it being devoured, alive if captured, and with cargo haulers being shot out of the skies if they remained in atmosphere. Camps were placed near the train tracks, rail lines were cut and Volks was cut off from the outside world. All they had to do, by the pacts and bargains sworn, was to maintain the siege until either a signal was given from inside of the hive city (in which case they were to swarm and plunder), or when the legions of rot arrived to reinforce them.

Having been paid for this already with tons of food and water? This was a dream for the elders and war leaders of the tribes, even as inside of their ranks, seeds had been planted, crawling inside of their veins and guts, coughing and sneezing in the polluted fog banks.

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Grimmatt

Aug 23, 2022

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Threadmarks Siege of Volks; Scarlet Blooms New 

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Grimmatt

Aug 24, 2022

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A significant portion of food consumed by the menials and lower orders of Volks also doubled as part of the air recycling process, as one examined the algae beds. Vast pools and cisterns full of teeming plant life that consumed the polluted air and produced that vital life giving gas. It was also harvested and made into food and clothing products, and from it, much of the hive (and indeed, many hives on the world with their own, similar vats) could survive, lurching along for a time. And yet, one would think that they would be better guarded, secured against tampering.

Yet, one cannot think too ill of those in charge, as the ranks of those that worked in the vats had, over the course of years, been subverted, hidden implants deep inside of them waiting for the correct codes to be transmitted. Sleeper agents really, and ones of sophistication beyond single use weapons. No, as thousands of workers picked up sacks of fertilizer for the algae, sacks they were told came from the Biologis looking to improve the yields, they merely shrugged and obeyed, mixing in the chemicals and viral agents into the vats. It would take days, as the red began to spread, overtaking the vibrant and lush green.

Oh, people noticed, and their bodies were added to the vats, rotting away at the bottoms as those who knew completion watched on, not a shred of shame or delight in the murder of co-workers and friends if they asked too many questions or refused to accept that it was just a variant that the magi were cultivating now that they were under siege, strains that would be resistant to disease. And so, in the final cycles, as the blooms were harvested and sent out, as new spores were sown in the uncleaned pools... another blow would soon come from the inside.

For it was not just the pools for the production that were compromised, not by the plaguefather! No, if you were going to sabotage a hive's food production to the lower classes, it would only be wise to also infiltrate and contaminate, in more than one sense, the Soylent production facilities, as the algae was taken for processing into flour, to be baked into the rations eaten by so many of the poor. Just a pinch or three of the scarlet blooms into each batch, and it was ready to be spread.

And spread it did, as the poor workers at the many factories, from guns, to ammunition, to the mighty vehicles, and even the lowest ranks of the PDF forces stationed there took their ration bars and ate (more than a few grinding the bars into a powder and sprinkling them on rats). And then, they began to change. Oh, it was a slow change, as the spores settled into their hosts, as they made roots in the veins, as they would begin to spread. It took time for the scarlet rot to spread, to fully take over the hosts, agony gripping the souls as they were colonized.

And yet, as these red growths lodged themselves in the brain, as fungi burst from their skin and the souls turned on the uninfected with howls of pain, the need to spread it, that others must suffer as they do, that if they spread it, the pain would stop for a time. Their thoughts less and less coherent, less and less able to hold onto abstract thought, devoured by fungal blooms, hunger and pain. To be sure, it took time, but those who followed Nurgle were patient, as quarantines were put in place, as probing attacks just barely fought off and infections spread like wildfire.

A thousand small and infected cuts, a million plagued pinpricks and yet the targeting of the food supplies (and then 'leaking' the source of the scarlet rot to investigators and information brokers) would cause something much more serious than just another wave of attacks inside of the hive city. No, as food was restricted and controlled, as it needed to be made sure it was untainted and starvation gripped the already terrified and hungry lower classes? This was a blow with more than one purpose.

Food Riots!

Often has it been said that humanity is just three missed meals away from devolving into savagery and barbarism. While that was simplifying things, it remained that the conditions for the vast majority of the billions living inside of a hive city were places of abject poverty, were that a full plate of food, five hundred millimeter glass of water and eight hours of sleep in a room large enough to stretch was considered to be a luxury undreamed of. No, as it stood, malnutrition was endemic and a lack of water and sleep caused untold damage to countless generations.

In a very real sense, the common folk of a hive city were always missing two meals and just barely clinging to life, as they prayed to the Emperor for salvation, as they prayed that the afterlife would be one of rest, where their children could grow up innocent and free, to be more than then parents were. It was a futile hope, a rarely answered prayer, as the depths cried out in despair and pain, bountiful mounds from which Nurgle and his brood sucked and lapped the finest of creams and delights for garden parties.

And so, as taint made its way into the ration bars, as they were seized to be examined for taint and in many cases destroyed wholesale just in case, mothers wept and fathers starved so that their families could live just a little longer. And yet, all men have a breaking point, and rumors spread that the hive overseers, on hearing of the tainted bars, were now seizing the bars and hoarding them, keeping the main thing between the commons and death by starvation for their own use, to reward cronies and ensure that the overseers did not starve.

The riots were not planned, not by the commoners, as they rose up in small groups, as they starved and broke for their families... as children began to starve to death. Pushed beyond all reason, what were parents to do, but to rise up and try and secure what their children needed to live? To make it so they stopped crying and that the greedy bastards who clearly had turned from the God-Emperor would be punished. It was a powder keg long in the making. This was merely the event that ignited the spark, and so as above, so below, as the masses converged on the overseers dwellings, and on the Arbites strongholds.

Some souls would call it a bloodbath, as fortress after fortress dedicated to law and order was overrun, at first almost by sheer numbers, and increasingly as fotresses fell, by looted weapons turned against their consecrated purpose. By the time that order was restored and the riots quelled, several dozen hab blocks had been reduced to burnt out husks and a hundred and twenty square kilometers of Volks along with three hives had seen fighting and substantial damage, including three ammunition depots that had been overrun and looted.

Distractions along the walls had resulted in nearly being breached in no less then twenty locations, and using the riots as cover there had been a wave of assassinations and bombings that disabled several communication nodes and severed at least three internal rail lines. However, the worst was still yet to come, even as fire purged the tainted vats and processing facilities. For the spores were already inside of the walls, as in seven places, seven mounds of rotting flesh were tended, spores coating them as they began to grow and feast, maggots tunneling into the flesh of a chosen in each pile.

A glorious cocoon one could say.

Scarlet Ruination

From these cradles of rot and despair emerged seven women, warped and twisted. Neither fully human, not any longer, they were also not, in a fashion, classic deamonhosts. No, as the plague roared and rippled inside of them, they were host to a disease that existed as much inside of the warp, an entity of plague and corruption. And so, they looked upwards these seven women and they screamed hymns of praise and joy, of deliverance and rapture, blades pressed into their hands, cloaks of flies bursting from their back, flesh warping and skin twisting, and they were clad in the blooms of a scarlet lotus.

And so did these maidens of rot go forth, shrouded in spores, leaving trails of corruption in their wake to scar the very fabric of the hives. Soon, all those touched by the scarlet blooms could hear them, could feel them, as they howled, bestial and savage, as the mushrooms twisted them into forms of war, into weapons for the maidens to wield. And so, even as flames were raised to purify the rot, did the scarlet spores spread, trails of infected bodies now rising into unlife in their wake.

Four descended into the dark, to slay and spread the spores among the beasts. Two stalked the halls of Volks, never resting, vanishing without trace. And one was spotted making her way into the ranks of a wasteland tribe, mushroom towers sprouting from poisoned soil not long after.

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