Years ago the Grostiche Mountains seemed to swallow up an entire detachment of the Cadian 101^st who dared to walk its haunted crevasse and fog layered valleys. To this day farmers and Grox Herders still speak of hearing disembodied screams and seeing phantoms on the mountainside. Nothing of the dead guardsmen was ever found save for blood stained patches of snow and wrecked Chimeras.

These stories did little to impress or restrain the Sisters of the Order of the Exalted Heart, the so-called Ladies of Pain, as the civilians of Cygnus knew them. They heard tale of heretical shrines and antediluvian cities buried in the snow and ice. The idea that such blasphemous sites could exist on world belonging to the divine and beneficent Emperor of Mankind was abhorrent to them. It could not be allowed and it was by holy edict that the Canoness Preceptor of the Order dispatched her most zealous and hateful battle sisters to carry out the will of the Emperor.

Deep within the mountain range where travel became nearly impossible and all signs of distant civilization were lost to the horizon is where they found their destination. A temple complex that rested beside a frozen lake. Some evidence still stood of more recent human civilization. The Logi of the Order dated the remains of the bunker to a time before the Light of the Emperor graced this world, when men and women lived in ignorance of the Imperium.

It took the Expedition’s Canoness only a few moments to realize what must be done, that this place must be cleansed with Holy Promethium and sanctified Exorcist Missiles. She prepared her battle sisters and tanks to roll into the darkness within the temple complex.

As they neared the dark arch of the entrance the ground behind them quivered and seized from below. The ice spilt and the snow was pushed aside. Frost covered metal specters rose from an age old slumber, each one carrying abominable weapons that cast their sickly emerald glare on the snow drifts around them.

The Canoness rallied her sisterhood and ministered the hymns of battle and gave praise to the Emperor for allow them to serve his holiness. With shouts of holy hatred and cruel spite the sisters mounted their Repressors and sped toward the enemy as fast as their blessed engines would carry them. The night flickered brightly with the flash of Exorcist Missiles and the organ music of those vehicles played by organists who were oblivious to the battle unfolding around them. Only their music occupied their thoughts now.

The enemy was not impressed by the blind zealotry of their opponent. They felt no fear, they felt nothing at all. Most were barely self-aware and even the rare few that had some sense of self only knew rage and jealousy. The living mocked them with every breath, with every sensation and experience. They advanced as a solid block, each one moving without issuing so much as a single sound let alone a battle cry. The only evidence of their presence at all was he crunch of snow beneath their metal bulk and the pale light of the moons reflecting off their living metal. Beside their implacable advance a ghostly image crawled into sight from he depths of the void. A pyramid of blackish stone with veins of glowing jade that ran its faces. The zenith of the monolith burst into baleful life and unleashed a whip of energy that brought silence to the battlefield. The organ of the Exorcist was destroyed and with it the musician.

The Canoness ordered her mounted warriors on while she and her Retributors took shelter behind the damaged Exorcist. With a defiant scream she ordered her Immolator forward as well but as it reached the edge of the frozen lake the ice gave way and the tracks were jammed with freezing water and snow. Her once strong position had become nothing but a series of road blocks and places to conceal herself. She spat litanies of defiance and condemnation but her prayers halted as her eyes fixed on the conductor of the silent Necron advance.

Clothed in a black shroud and tabard that moved more like smoke then cloth, the Lord stood with his hulking Immortals. One hand clutched an orb that pulsed with wicked energy and each burst of light would awaken another fallen warrior. In one smooth motion it raised its icon of office, staff made of elegant metal and light. As it did so the rest of its army followed suit in jerky mechanical fashion. By its silent command the enemy fired and anything its weapons touched was rent down to ash, stripped layer by layer… flayed alive. Within the death mask of the Lord there were glints of witch fire that burned with a hate more ancient then any mortal could conjure. The Canoness was humbled by its fiery gaze. She knew that even in death it held more rage then she could ever muster in her living years.

The mounted sisters rolled into a flanking position and leapt from their Repressors with bolters blazing and litanies of faith on their lips. The Canoness ordered her Seraphim to descend upon the enemy’s other flank and her own Retributors to stab into the core of the enemy with blessed Heavy Bolters.

The sisters never faltered or fled in the face of the enemy but their fire power was futile. Every shot was shrugged off or repelled by the alien armor and those that did succumb to fire would soon stand, willed back to unlife by their grim master. Their only victory came when a burst of heavy fire forced silent gliding Necron weapon platforms to retreat into the depths. Beside the retreat of these five their weapons could only manage to put down another four of the Necron. By that time enemy had destroyed all resistance on both flanks and its indestructible Monolith drifted forward to block the view of the Retributors.

All was lost to them. The Canoness gave the command to fall back, though her options for escape were all cut off save for one, the depths of the benighted temple-city they came to destroy. Her and the survivors walked willingly into the blackness of the archways. None of them had any illusions about surviving the night. Their only hope now was to die well in His service.

Game Type: Annihilation

Deployment Pitched Battle

Game Size: 1500

Result: Cygnus Tomb Victory 4KP to 2KP

Necrons V Grey Knights

Game Size: 1530

Game Type: Capture and Control

Deployment: Pitched Battle

Results: 2 Objectives taken by the Necrons. 0 For the Grey Knights. 0 Contested on either side.

Battle brother Reicheim plunges his Nemesis spear through the crawling relentless remains of a Necron warrior staking it to the ground and finally ending the machine’s resistance.

“Damn these things. You have to disassemble them before they quit. There’s more fight in these Machines then in a rampaging ork. Just none of the guttural choir of the Green skin.” Reichheim comments with the same levity his squad mates have come to know of him. Though today they have no patience for it. Today they are part of the retinue of the Grand Master. If he disapproves of Reicheim’s comments then he hasn’t said a word of it.

They survey the old ruin site. A still and desolate place loomed over by a massive eroded statue of some nameless entity. A few of the mechanical things scramble about the site, less then a dozen of them and they are easy pickings for the Grey Knights. The locals spoke of demons and diablerie here. Such stories were the firelight that made moths of the Grey Knights. What the locals of Cipella spoke of were not demons, at least not the warp spawned kind anyway.

The Necron, even to the Grey Knight little is known. There is far more myth and theory then actual fact. All that is known is that they sleep in places long forgotten by other races. That and they have an unyielding hatred for life.

Reicheim surveys the half buried site and then looks into the cold lifeless eyes of the Necron at his feet. How many hundreds of thousands of years have those eyes surveyed death and suffering he wonders. He’s satisfied they’ll see no more.

“Should we be on our way? There is nothing left here for us to…” Reicheim begins to address his brothers and the Grand Master but a static burst in his helmet’s Vox unit distracts him. Mixed with that static is something else, a low hidden groan and whispers… none of them knowable.

Through the static comes the voice of Hector Nevares, the Justicar in charge of security in western edge of the ruins. “approaching…. Fr… they….taking cas…”

“Repeat Hector. You’re breaking up. Repeat!” Reicheim orders into his mouthpiece.

“They approach from… we’ve tak…” Reicheim listens through a few seconds of dead silence and static bursts. “By his throne… Run!” The final words of Hector Nevares are heard loud and clear. All Reicheim sees from the west is a blinding flash of green light and a deafening crack of sound that follows several long seconds afterward.

Reicheim looks toward his fellow battle brothers all clad in the impenetrable armor of a Terminator. He knows no fear but still feels remorse. He knows the Justicar and his squad met an ignoble end against and already he can see their murderer crest the top of the hill in the west. A pyramid like structure that floats on phantom energy and whose zenith is alight with green witch fire. His brothers had no hope of harming such a war machine and would have been pressed up against the banks of the western river and annihilated.

“Mount up Grey Knights. We take the battle to the enemy!” The words of the Grand Master are heard by each of the Terminators but the Tech crews of the blessed machine have already denied that plan. Reicheim listens to them speak of the techno-curses of the Necron and that the machine spirit of the Land Raider refuses their commands to move. Just as the Grand Master is about to protest the port side Las Cannon Batter erupts in flames. A squadron of Necrons mounted upon odd hovering platforms races past. The Land Raider was just an easy target on their way to more vulnerable enemies, Justicar Gavlin’s Squad. The men of that squad are out ranged and out gunned by weapons that strip them of their armor, flesh and bones. They are flayed apart with no chance of reprisal.

“We meet them on foot then!” Reicheim screams. Knowing full well there is little hope of catching the phantoms unless they allow themselves to be caught. His fears are affirmed as a haze of shadows swallow up an advancing Necron unit only for them to reappear on the far banks of the river and well into the Grey Knight position. He can see something moving with the warriors. Something with more grace and motion. Veiled in darkness and carrying a scythe of some kind inscribed with all manner of debased runes. It holds high some strange orb that pulses with green light and sends waves of energy across the battlefield.

Reicheim is stirred from his thoughts by the sound of clattering metal on metal. The lifeless thing at his feet now moves, crawls up and drags itself on his armor scraping metal claws and reaching to grip his neck. Again he smashes the thing from him and scatters it to debris on the ground. Again darkness claims the green fire in its eye sockets. With a final flickering pulse it fades from sight completely.

“Justicar Tembol take your men across that river and hold our position. The cruiser in orbit will be targeting the Necron deployment. We need only deny them their ground and hold our own do you hear me?” The Grand Master calmly speaks into his Vox. Reicheim cannot fathom the will of a man who remains so calm under this sort of pressure. With such a figure on the field of war this day surely will not belong to the dead.

Reicheim watches Tembol and his men make way across the river but a feint haze slowly starts to block his vision of them. At first he considers fog but the temperature is not right for such a weather condition. The haze takes on a greenish pitch and the silhouette of something massive stirs within. “No!” Reichheim screams and desperately tries to reach Tembol before the second Necron Monolith phases into reality. He finds the channel and shouts into the unit with none of the Grand Master’s serenity. “Tembol take cover! Take cover now!” Already the eastern side of the ruin glows as a green sun briefly bursts into being and dies away… seconds later a crack of thunder and then silence. None of Tembol’s men register on his internal monitors. The Monolith continues its ponderous advance into the Grey Knights staging area.

The ground shakes as the cruiser in high orbit unleashes its lance salvos on the Necron position but too few of the machine things are felled to make a difference. Reicheim knows enough of these things to know that they will deny him even the satisfaction of morning their own losses. They’ll never feel the sting of death as he does.

The Terminators watch as the last of their staging grounds’ defenders is felled. Brother Ambrosio, long since interred in the holy sarcophagus of a Dreadnought. His weapons shorn from his body and legs cut out beneath him by the blade of the Necron’s master. It cuts through him as if he was but mere flesh and bone not adamantium and piston.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that he and his fellow Terminators are alone. Every other brother on the field is dead or wounded.

“Let the dead have their ruin!” The Grand Master orders “We can scour this menace from orbit.” He orders what men are left that can hear to quit the field and collect the injured. Reicheim knows the ship’s gunners will soon find no trace of the Necrons to fire upon. The Phantoms will return to their limbo taking with them any Astartes they can wrap their cold fingers around. The new priority is to take every man still alive and retreat. He knows the Necrons hate the living and the longer they linger the more they risk all they have left. Their lives.

Jovin Kiel scrambles past the cadre of Sceptis’ rot claimed terminator bodyguards as they drag down a squealing thrashing dreadnought to the ground. Its mechanical howls of defiance are drowned out by the gurgling liquidly laughter of the Death Guard Terminators.

He rolls beneath a final swipe of the belligerent machine and takes his position near old warp gate. Its frame made of something its builder’s call “wraith bone” and that frame has been sparking with unnatural energies ever since they arrived. He can feel the familiar throb of the empyrean pulsing just beyond the veil of reality.

There is a quick respite from the trials of this conflict as he watches the dreadnought that injured and killed so many of his battle brothers fall, its hull rotted and molded by the infectious touch of the monsters that he has worked beside. Even this bit of pleasure is filled with a hidden sting. The death of the walker did not belong to the Iron Warriors but slaves to the Dark Gods.

There is a flash of movement out the corner of Jovin’s damaged visor. More Grey Knights round the forest bend. Only by the grace of the warp did he notice them and what dark fortune spared him from every shot in his hasty attempt to find cover he cannot say.

His hearts both race with adrenalin and flare with pride as a shout echoes from the Grey Knight’s firebase.

“Iron Within! Iron Without!” The war cry shouted by some of his brothers as they open fire on the servants of the corpse god of Terra felling many of their number but not enough to dislodge them from their makeshift base.

Jovin snaps from his reminiscence to reality. The ruins of Jholinheim are still loud and the city still trembles as shots from the heavens rain down. Lance strikes from the Grey Knight’s strike cruisers pound the remains of the Iron Warrior’s fortified position. He wonders if any relief from their own fleet will be coming.

“Curse these Corpse Slaves!” He groans. This is not a war to be proud of. This isn’t even war anymore. This is a chaotic melee with no purpose or direction. Under the command of that plague ridden Septis Kohl all fell apart. Had one of the Iron Warrior commanders been present to lead the charge and purge the Grey Knights from the ruins they would have succeeded. The Iron Warriors would have become the rocks of an eternal shore and all that crashed against it would have been broken. Instead they waged war the Death Guard way, wade into fire and spill into the enemy until death or victory are all that remain.

Now the city is in chaos. No side having gained anything but a butcher’s bill. Jovin takes a final moment to soak in the nonsense that has become the field of war. He looks down and reloads his Melta gun while whispering a silent prayer to the infernal forges that crafted it. He reloads the power cell, checks the stability of the muzzle and rises back to his feet.

“Iron Within… Iron Without” he mutters to himself and marches out to the battle field again. His purpose bred into him since birth. It’s kept him company these long years. In the name of the Emperor. As a soldier for his Primarch and a servant of the Warmaster Horus and the Dark Gods of the Aether. that simple purpose, endure.

It’s no longer such a simple place and one eye full is at the same time not enough to do it justice while being too much for the sane mind to endure.

Nearest to the coastline the simple boathouse is a ruin of splintered wood and cratered earth. Scores of rubbery pus slicked Nurglings whistle and sing while they do their awful duty. Gripping tightly to writhing entrails and maddeningly long flesh suckling worms the pull and haul with all the strength their tiny bodies can muster. Hundreds of them grunting and struggling while capricious individual rots lead the effort.

All the rancid cabling leads into the ruin of the boat house.

“Oh yes, pull my pretties pull! Careful now with your dear old grandfather?” an undulating and deeply despaired voice echoes from the wreck. With a few final tugs they pull free a bloated and ichor oozing giant cadaver who’s insides are the cabling and the worms. A cadaver that moves, that heaves in and out expelling necrotic gas, a cadaver that smiles and reveals a regiment of poorly ordered yellowed needle teeth.

“Ah yes there we go… careful my dears.” The dead thing croons. One team of Nurglings yanks to hard pulling free a massive patch of flesh and spilling gallons of innards onto the streets of Coastal Row. “I said careful!” the beneficent illusion of the beast briefly dispelled. With a sweep of its quivering decayed hand it destroys dozens of its little children, ground between its flesh and the street stone. The others in the crew panic releasing the quasi-living cables and flee. Jabor the Great Unclean One slips back into the deep crater of his own making howling revenge, bleeding from split open rents in his diseased skin and trying to lure back his work team with soothing promises of forgiveness. None are too quick to return to duty.

Staffton Square was once a center for commerce and trade. It was the busiest part of the simple settlement where all its citizens came to do business and seek entertainment. Many who walked these streets with regularity are stapled to the walls of the buildings beside their would be defenders of the Ordo Malleus with bones and debris. Scores of Daemonettes enact their cavalcade while taking turns dealing debauched pleasures and unspeakable tortures upon any of the still living.

“Come now broken one, you’ve done such work in the service of your Emperor with no reward for your efforts” Words of a tempting siren spoken from the lips of an angel. A woman dressed in the sheerest of black silks lays beside the sarcophagus of a holy Malleus Dreadnought that dueled with her earlier. Her long lengths of blond hair blow wildly in the breeze and mix with the dying embers of fire created by the works of Tzeentch’s Flamers. Beside her, slithering around the prone walker are her bodyguards, her pets, her lovers. Twin serpents both as large as the dreadnought, both with lavendar skinned bodies, tall reddish back fins and head like that of deep sea dwelling hippocampus. They flick their long barbed and honey coated tongues while watching their mistress, the Demon Princess Irulen.

She runs a pale skinned finger over the edge of the metal tomb anticipating the contents. “Centuries of service all in his name and for this, for a metal box with nothing to keep you company but cords, wires and fluids. You deserve so much more.”

Without a word or gesture her pets know what she wants. Their tongues probe and seek the surface of the tomb cutting and gouging as they move till finally they pry the lid and its desecrated Aquilla away. The Princess stares into a murky viscous pit with the cadaverous remains of a once proud warrior now only a ruin of flesh and shackles of technology. She reaches in and plucks up remains, little more then a torso neck and head. The mess of a man moans an unintelligible cry of either pleasure or pain at the first physical contact it has had in centuries. “Such pleasures, such pains, you’ve been deprived to long. I shall remind you of each and every one of them” She begins teasing a bit of his very soul from his body while contemplating all the wonders to reintroduce him to.

Bloodletters stand in a great circle hissing and screeching, baring fang and forked tongue alike while watching a quartet of surviving civilians duel poorly with hellblades, each promised the last man standing will live. Each one lied to. The hell forged blades cut effortless through bone and flesh leaving even the winner with a body no worth living with. Kulak stands atop the wreck of the Malleus Crusader, the Bloodthirster flicks his whip and points with his might axe toward another group of civilians yet to give tribute to the Skull God.

As they are led into the circle of fields and fed them same lies and handed the same hateful blades a strange snow begins to fall over them, a fluffy whitish gray furry snow, spores more then snow. The civilians do not even bother to look up but the demons do. Kulak’ wolf like lips curl into a hateful snarl as he watches the polyp like Flamers of Tzeentch bound overhead. The strange rubbery mushroom creatures point their many orifices down below and eject burning streams of chaos fire onto the civilians melting them down to runny steaming piles of every shifting detritus.

“How dare you defile the rites of battle with your debasement!” The Bloodthirster spreads his great wings and takes to their air to give chase after the ugly creatures. “Khorne cares not from where the blood flows!” A hoard of swift manta like entities joins the Flamers as they dart and bounce through the burning alleyways of Grendenglad taking great joy in mocking their pursuer. All the while the every shifting Pink and Blue horrors dance in the fires with their mix of absurd and morose behavior further taunting the Bloodthirster to fits of chaotic rage.

Grendenglade is not a place that can be summed up with one glance anymore. Soon the ebb of warp energy will fade and with it the Demons that murdered this town. All that will remain are burnt buildings, blood slicked streets and the mangled bodies of the Malleus forces that failed to save this village.

“Here me brave soldiers of the God Emperor of the Imperium!” Commissar Samuel Kint screams from atop the still treads of one of the armored Lemen Russes’ of the Cadian 101st. His voice is carried across the still plains of the Cydor Fields with the aid of a turret mounted laud hailer; the static and echo do little to stifle the authority in his voice.

“Only a few short miles from this position lies not a destination, not an enemy but your very destiny! All that you have done and all that you have endured has been for this day! This moment! This coming battle! Hell itself rages unchecked! A towering jagged barb of warp damned debris has impaled our precious Cygnus! The wound it has caused to our world is nothing compared to the rot that seeps from this poisoned blade! Reality is torn asunder and the foul taint of Chaos basks in the rancid miasma of its infamy! Dislodge this spear from our world and destroy it! And with it goes the servants of the Ruinous Powers! Brothers and sisters destiny calls to us, can you hear it beckon?”

The detachment of soldiers punches their fists skyward and cheer.

“Come then, let us answer its call and take from her the glory that is due to us! We ride now in HIS name!”

Iblis sits upon his makeshift perch, the ruins of a wrecked Lemen Russ that still smolders with strange chaos fires. The bird like Lord of Change cranes his long neck across the battlefield, first toward the tall jagged bit of warp tainted asteroid that rises from its impact crater and disgorges chaos energies for miles around and spreading. It feels like pure invigoration wafting over him and as pleasing a thing as it is, its secondary on the beast’s mind. He leans on his staff and watches the frail Daemonettes cavort around the rock unleashing upon each other both soft passions and violent debasements all of which are part of their dance. Across the way the fleshling’s command post has become the butcher’s workshop occupied by a warrior cabal of Bloodletters and their marshal Surgat bringing swift death to any unworthy foe that remains. Iblis wonders if the Bloodletters put even half that effort into something useful like scheming if they’d be less a waste of Warp matter. He settles on their inferiority and simplicity over them possessing anything even remotely like potential.

A rumble like thunder from the east doesn’t startle the Lord so much as sicken it with contempt and pretentious loathing for his lesser.

Jabor wipes a bit of pestilent spittle from its rubbery bloated lips with a single puffed and rotted hand. The Great Unclean One smiles down at numerous children, swarms of little rotund clones called nurglings who all chant his name and praise the belch could drown out battle cannon fire.

The plague master giggles and his cheeks flush with rancid stagnant blood. “Excuse me…” Jabor waves a puffed finger “Bad manners my lovelies are a sign of poor upbringing.” It reaches its hand down into a filth filled pit and plucks up one of the screaming Cadian infantrymen. The Unclean One casually balls him up and grinds with fat hands till blood and meat squish out between its fingers and rain down on its little children who rush the bits like birds to breadcrumbs.

Hunger from within its spilled and overflowing gut demands more food. Jabor’s eyes slowly fix upon the pit. Two fingers reach in and pluck out a black coated figure from among the guards.

Iblis watches the obese demon stare at the little meal as it kicks and screams. The Lord of Change overhears the crass and crooning little jokes and comments spoken to the Cadian’s Commissar with no amusement. Iblis murmurs a hushed groan of pleasure eventually. “Fitting a fleshling who makes his way by spreading misery and despair should meet his end in the belly of a same minded beast like Jabor.” What follows is some simple laughter from the bird thing as well as an annoyed moan at hearing some of the Unclear One’s relentless chatter to his soon to be meal.

“Stop your whimpering. At least he takes time to relish his successes! You do nothing but whine!” Screams the herald of Khorne Surgat atop his living metal mount, a Juggernaught from across the field. He and his bloodletters have handed over hellblades to the remaining guardsmen in hopes of teasing from them one final combat, one final bit of satisfaction.

Iblis sees nothing wrong with always planning ahead. He considers flying over to the herald and impaling him on the horn of his mount but soon more schemes and plans within plans distract him.

Jabor finally drops the lone morsel of a man down a mouth that could swallow a sentinel whole if need be. Another massive belch is loosed. A haze of greenish gas escapes Jabor’s lips and swirling within it are the wailing screaming phantoms of his meal who fade into nothingness. He’s ready for dessert, a particularly petrified senior officer.

The Eldar

“The demons have made no progress in claiming the Mon-keigh ruin Farseer.” A lone warrior dressed in what may have once been the armor of the Dire Avenger aspect path. The crested helm warped and burnt of its original vibrant colors. His armor is mutated and burnt away in most places, his cherished Dire Blade resembling burnt brittle wood from the hilt up. He was an Exarch once, now, due the tainted effects of the warp fire he and his squad suffered his aspect is barely recognizable. Coalan considers himself blessed by the ancestors and by the God of War that he is even alive. Most of his fellow Avengers suffered worse. In a single wave of rolling unnatural fire they were reduced from brave willing warriors to wounded and dying casualties of war.

“But we have not made any progress in taking the ruin either nor have we found the cause for the weakening in the barrier between reality and the warp. Even now the defeated demons coalesce like oil slithering over the surface of water, reforming as new.” Coalan is young compared to the woman he addresses and he has lived a dozen life times compared to a Mon-Keigh. In her tone he can sense deep anger and bitterness with all the intensity that a lifetime that spans thousands of years would carry and all of it masked beneath soothing calm. Such is the way Farseer Raelin.

The Farseer watches over the city and receives Coalin’s news while standing at the edge of what once was something called The Castellum Imperialis. Raelin has made little mention of its purpose except to say that it was once the opulent palace of Cygnus Primaris’ Lord Governor Militant. This world is a wasteland now and every continent plays host to a different nightmare. She shuns the wraithbone armor and helm of her Rune Armor and wears only a traditional and simple gown with Alatoic’s livery tastefully displayed. Her lengths of auburn hair blow freely in the sour dead air of this world. Only the light cast from lanterns hung in the ruins of this place reflect off the many soul stone bits of jewelry that she wares. Each one a grim reminder of a friend lost in the fields of war on Cygnus Primaris or any other of a thousand damned worlds in the black vastness.

“What of Autarch Tuathal?” The Exarch inquires. He is a soldier beyond all other concerns and his loyalty for his commander his first priority.

“His wounds were grave. Whether he survives or passes into the infinity circuit is in the hands of fate now. He is strong. I believe he will carry on as we must do as well.” She has insight into the fate of the Autarch but his warriors need hope and she will give it to them. “Exarch, report to the lines that we must redouble our efforts to hold the city. We’ve denied the Demon his prize for now but we must find out what warp born thorn anchors their corruption to this city and extricate it.”

“Yes Farseer” The Exarch turns and leaves. Raelin turns back to the cityscape and watches the violent storm clouds and unnatural winds dance overhead. She dare not stare into the ether that lies just beyond the veil of reality. She knows full well what waits there.

The Demons

Through the barriers that separate the material universe from the undulating tumultuous chaos is the Warp. It shadows all places and lies just beneath all of reality and here; in this city it is very alive.

Things crawl and slither and squish about the spectral warp mirror of the city: things of chaos, things with no shape or many shapes or a shape that is beyond definition.

Horrid leathery winged things soar high over a deep rotted crack in the ethereal landscape. Its filled with a fetid and languid bile that bubbles and belches and buzzes with a droning cacophony of flies.

A numberless legion stands vigil over the wound and its puss like content. This legion is short and round and hideous, each one a collection of rotted flesh, sores and teeth given life and shape. They parade and rejoice, theirs it not a silent vigil.

“Oh my children, I hear you. I hear your hunger for this city. I hear your glee and know how dearly you wanted victory!” a cooing kind bit phrase spoken by bubbling liquidly tone, its volume deep and booming and coming from the great wound. “I know how it pains you to be delayed.”

The cheerful hoard leap and dance as best as there tiny decayed bodies can. They chant the name of their benefactor. “Jabor! Jabor! Jabor!”

Another figure lingers at the edge of the grim parade. A tall demon of only slicked red muscle, blackish antlers and burning eyes. It straddles a beast, both bovine and machine and demon all as one. The iron hided creature it rides is called a Juggernaut, the demon is a Herald to his God Khorne, his name Surgat. He watches the antics of the Nurglings as they are lovingly coddled by their master. A Bloodthirster would do no such thing. War is a place for slaughter and conquest not displays like this. He recalls being cut and hacked apart by the frail Eldar. Only after enduring a hail of fire from their wraith bone totem crafts did they dare to challenge him in mortal combat. He recalls with crystal clarity his Juggernaut battering the Eldar warmonger through the walls of a ruin. The defeat at the hands of screaming mirror bladed warrior women stings deeply. He sooths that sting by allowing his beast to grind one of the Nurglings into the ethereal dirt with its hoof.

“But that is all it is my little ones” The voice slowly rolls from the great wound. “Not a denial but just a delay… we can wait…” A large bloated hand thick enough to wrap around an Astartes’ torso with ease. Ichor oozes from each crack and hole in the dead flesh. The Nurglings Rejoice. Jabor rises.

To: The Office of the Governor Militant
From: Selusia Continental Command, Col Markus Cochrane of the Cadian 101st
Regarding: Selusia Security Reports
Classification: Crimson

Since the time of last months Security Report we have little new to offer Cygnus Command with regard to credible threats. As you well know the Selusian Continent is mostly a frozen waste with ice pack so thick and temperatures so cold that no enemy could mount any feasible threat. Selusia Command remains at the ready and are ever diligent regardless.

I have little else to offer and would end this transmission here if not for the urgings of some of the field command who insist I make note of what they have dubbed the “Grostiche Incident”

Grostiche is a range of mountains that crosses the northern plains of Selusia and dotted with pits of rock but mostly flat plains and coniferous forests. An Armored Detachment from Lt Col Brunwaldt’s tank company had been out searching the Grostiche mountains that pass through sector seven looking for a lost Chimera full of tech adepts and auxiliary support staff that had been lost in a white out. Their homing beacons had seemed to malfunction as well. The Armored Detachment traced them to the point where their homing beacon failed.

The detachment found the Chimera nestled between some large rocky outcroppings to shelter it from the blizzard. As they neared within several kilometers of the Chimera their own beacon systems began to fail and Vox Casters supposedly began to broadcast Xenos whispers and odd noises. I mark up most of what I’ve said and what I will follow with as superstitious hysteria from local conscripts within the 101st Selusian Imperial Guard.

They say they spotted shapes moving in the snow storm that were draped in flayed skin that had belonged to some of the Tech adepts. They say these shapes had knives for fingers and a relentless desire to coat their skeletal forms in more wet flesh.
A survivor from the Basilisk crew mentions that specters rose up from the ice, their bodies immaterial and ghastly, and that they flew across the ground and ripped through metal bulkheads with a might that even Ogren cannot muster.

The few remaining Tech Adepts were loaded onto a Hellhound that had managed to penetrate the snow and were rescued. The Hellhound crew relates a fantastic tail of ice covered and snow packed skeletons carrying weapons that would strip the layers away from Imperial armor and that these weapons were no larger then a las rifle. One of them reports a pair of ponderous pyramids that phased onto the ice fields in a dim flash of green light.

They say hideous mechanical undead marched from the swirling vortex within these idols while throwing bursts of explosive green power around the battlefield. They say no amount of ordinance could penetrate their hides and any superficial damage done to it was reknits by this fantastical living metal.

The local population have many colorful stories about such odd and unbelievable enemies. It most likely is resultant from unconfirmed and unreliable Imperial reports of robotic Xenos found on dead worlds. Such outrageous stories may have found their way into the culture of the local population via the loose lips of drunk officers and naval adepts during the first days of the garrison construction.

What is confirmed is that something prevented the return of all but one tank from the detachment. It is more likely that the cause for this is revolutionist traitors from extremist groups found here in Selusia and all around Cygnus. These ignorant fools believe the gracious hand of the Emperor and his forces is to oppressive for their little world. They may have clothed and armed themselves in a manner similar to these restless dead that are part of the local color in order to shake the spirits of the Selusian guard. I assure you it has not weakened our resolve any. This is far more likely a scenario then ice phantoms.

Thought for the Day: The Loyal Servant Learns to Love the Lash

+++End Transmission+++

Cygnus Tomb Necrons Vs Armored Company of the Cadian 101st
Game Size: 1440
Mission Type: Take and Hold
Result: Solid Victory for the Cygnus Tomb

Inquisitor Gaius Reynard carefully and dutifully records the deed in his grand tome. Each word laid out on actual parchment with a stylus made from an avian’s quill as if he were some scholar of a backward and medieval world within the Imperium. Some things cannot be fully expressed by the data slat or key stroke of a computer. Any good deed worth recording should be written by hand, by the hand that carried out the deed in fact. There in the character is seen and felt. The cold anonymity of a computer fails to grasp the personality and the soul of an author. Or so Gaius has always felt.

Today’s deed is the Purge of the Jandor garrison on Cygnus Primaris. The disloyal and the ignorant guardsmen of the Cadian 101st have been put in the Emperor’s hands now.

“… and Sister Superior Rosa has noted a growing paranoia and reclusive nature among your storm troopers my lord. She notes that many of them have taken to wearing their rebreather units at all times and when confronted by the observation become hostile and…” Reynard listens to Palatine Preceptor Daniella Verlossi drone on about matters of little consequence. He pays much more attention to making sure the letters of his work are flawless.

“She talks a great deal doesn’t she my lord.” Canoness Preceptor Helena Volkham states in a cool and sharp observation. She wears none of the power armor that Verlossi is encased in. She instead has chosen a long black dress with pale red sash that hangs around her waist. Her hair is a long full blond, not the uniform like ear length crop that the other sisters of the Velvet Rose sport. She sits cross legged beside the Inquisitor watching the subordinate give her briefing. Danielle Verlossi continues on unphased by the comment

“… Sisters Superior Berghoff and Crenella have not yet found any signs of mutation among the dead Cadians nor have they uncovered heretical idols or signs of deviation from the Ecclesiarcial faith. It may be possible that…” Daniella finds it difficult to continue on with the rest of the statement. The implications of what she considers saying are to much for her mouth to bare.

Canoness Volkham turns toward Reynard with a look of stark surprise and indignation. “She thinks you made a mistake. She thinks you might have killed a company of innocent men.”

Reynard turns angry eyes upon the young Palatine. He sets his quill into the well of ink and speaks a slow and hateful tone “Palatine Preceptor do you mean to say that I was erroneous in my judgment? That it is possible that the Cadians who welcomed us to Jandor with las rifles and ordinance shells were somehow pure men? Do you think I somehow made a mistake? That I did not sense deviants and mutants, that the taint of the ruinous powers I foresaw was in error! Say what you mean girl!”

“No lord, that is not possible. The judgment of the Ordo Hereticus is without question.” She relents meekly.

“Continue your report” Reynard returns to his quill and his writings.

“Several of the sisters have noted a growing presence of vermin in the garrison. Rodents my lord and they say they are quiet malicious my lord. In fact some of the sisters bitten have become bed ridden with sickness and…”

Canoness Volkham laughs quietly. Reynard looks up briefly and cuts off Daniella. “I said continue with your report not explain to me the intricacies of the Cadian’s poor cleanliness.”

“As you wish…” She goes on with her report of the battle and the security of the Garrison now that its in Sororitas hands.

Helena Volkham rises from her chair and moves to Reynard’s position. She slithers under his writing arms and crawls into the man’s lap pressing very near his face. She cocks her head back at the Palatine as she meticulously rambles her facts. “Do you know what I think my lord?”

“What do you think?” Reynard asks in a low voice filled with urge and distraction.

Daniella Vollosi answers with a bit more force in her voice then she expected. “What do I think… I think it’s an ill omen, perhaps portent of something truly terrible my lord. When priests and Sororitas alike report violent and deviant nightmares and some say they cannot hear the voice of our Emperor any longer. What should I think?”

Reynard knows he clearly missed whatever it was she was talking about before the subordinate’s outburst. He can’t manage to tear his eyes from the pale smooth skin of the Canoness that straddles him and the beading sweat on her chest.

Helena still stares at the Palatine with contemptuous eyes and then turns back to the man she has between her legs “I don’t think she believes you My lord. I think she believes you killed the Cadians in cold blood. That there is no deviant presence here… well at least not in the Cadians. Don’t you see how she’s looking at you. What do you think she’s thinking? Maybe that there’s a mutation or two beneath your robes. I know there’s not. We’ve had more then enough time to search out mutation on each other haven’t we…”

Gaius Reynard nods in agreement with the Canoness. How dare the brat accuse him, not with words but with thoughts? How dare she question his purity?

The Inquisitor stands, careful to make sure his robes well cover any inappropriate  displays by his body. Satisfied he smiles at the Palatine and gestures openly, still with quill in hand. “My dear Daniella we have achieved a great victory and you let your mind be derailed by minor miseries and imagined evils. You must learn to appreciate your gains and take pride in your successes.”

“There is no room for pride in the Sororitas Inquisitor, only duty” She states quizzically. “But there is the matter of the Canoness Preceptor Volkham, may the Emperor protect. Her body has been anointed and prepared for travel back to the Shrine of Celestia to be interred and…”

She is cut off by the Inquisitor’s quick hands wrapping around her throat and slamming her against his study walls. No air can reach her lungs and no amount of force can throw the man off.

Canoness Volkham moves up beside the Inquisitor as he stares into the bulging eyes and red face of the Palatine. “You have to kill her otherwise she’ll accuse you. You don’t have time for accusation questioning you to prove your faith and your purity. Kill her! Kill her Reynard kill her!” She whispers into the Inquisitor’s eye with equal parts of ecstasy and spite.

Daniella finally gets her leg in position to push back the maniac. “What… what’s wrong with you!” She coughs and starts to reach for her side arm.

“She’s going to shoot me do something” Helena screams.

Reynard reacts quickly and rights his position. “You’d gun down your own Canoness! And you think me the heretic Palatine!”

Dazed by the absurdity of the statement Daniella falters for a moment “Helena Volkham is dead.” She responds while raising her Bolt pistol at the Inquisitor but she is too late. With all the strength he can muster Gaius lashes out with one hand. Then its over, Daniella drops to the ground as dead weight. Half the quill protrudes from her left eye, the rest buried into her brain. A carpet of crimson starts to surround the corpse. The quill must have jabbed through the back of her skull as well.

Gaius falls to his knees panting. “She… she said you were dead… why would she say such an absurd thing. Dead… Those Cadians that charged you yesterday, you cut them down like a scythe leveling wheat. Didn’t she see that? You dead… why would she… what was that business about anointing a body and…”

Helena kneels down beside the Inquisitor, her lips only inches from his. “You saved me. She was going to shoot me. How awful, my destiny could have ended here on the floor of your study. Thank you.” She gently pushes the man’s back to the ground, the warm blood quickly seeps through his cloths and delights his skin.

“Well, we couldn’t have that now could we…” Gaius mutters as his robe is pushed open and the Canoness’ blood slick hand runs across it. Her own dress is quickly removed and their bodies meet.

Gaius Reynard spends the next few hours alone on the floor of his study slicked in blood. His work on Cygnus Primaris begins shortly thereafter.

They belong to a rogue trader vessel hidden in high orbit called The Intruder.  Its one of many such ships that ply the trade lanes of the Empire. The Rogue Traders are men and women that walk the fine line between privateer and pirate, straying where profitable and obeying Imperial Charter only when necessary.  Today Imperial Charter is being conveniently ignored.

The plains surround what was once a thriving city judging by its size. The name of that city is not the concern of the hushed and stealthy figures that move through its streets under the cover of darkness and brackish clouds.

The team of men enter into the toppled ruins of the Administratum building, one of there number removes his rebreather helm, the acrid air stinging his lungs but nothing he can’t handle. A stern face with heavy battle scaring and bald head surveys the room with one fleshy eye and another replaced with a bionic implant.

“Move quickly, assess the remains. Mark what can be salvaged for pick up by the servitor crew and move on. The green skins are dull beasts but we cannot expect to remain unnoticed for long. ” Surveyor Reins’ hand instinctively slides down to his holstered plasma pistol. A wonderful relic scavenged from the site of a Space Marine Massacre by Eldar Pirates.  He’s fought the Ork Before. They are a relentless creature. They do not fear death and would choose a violent end over flight every time. Not for the honorific reasons one of the Emporer’s Astartes would but simply for the joy of it, if there can be said to be joy in such a demise.

The other Surveyors acknowledge the order and move off. Their exploration and rummaging the only noise in the dead building. One of the surveyors calls over the expedition leader Tyrus Reins.

One of the surveyor team points to a still functioning data terminal with files already loaded filed ready to be viewed. Tyrus Reins notes the files were viewed several years ago long after the Orks defiled Cygnus Primaris.

“Play them” he commands

+++ Transmission Begins+++

To: Colonel Haverhill of the Cadian 7th                                                                                        From: The Offices of the Governor-Militant                                                                  Classification: Crimson
Colonel it has come to our attention that a force of renegades have made planet fall some two thousand miles south of your base command. Orbital pict captures have shown blasphemious runic configurations indictive of the Emperor’s Children. With the greatest possible expediency you are here by ordered to meet the forces of the traitor legion in battle and destroy them.

They have moved their forces into the caves of Mt. Agrathor.

Thought for the Day: No man is innocent, there are only varying degrees of guilt

+++End Transmission+++

Reins watches as the second file begins to play. Its camera feeds from the small Vox mounted camera of Guardsmen. All it shows is the quiet darkness of bleak cave with many narrow cavern tunnels. the transmission captures the hushed whispers of a few guardsmen and their command officer quieting them all.

The next image thrown up is of an Imperial Colonel ordering his Basilisk to fire up a Flare shell to give them a brief bit of light. The shell flies high and ignights casting its grey glow down. The light washes away the dark replacing it with lines of traitor marines who all stood silent in the shadows and having used their millennium of experience to encroach on the Guard position. Instantly the Marines unleash a roar across their number and begin forward. The Camera captures perfectly the strange gargoyle faced guns they carry with the many tubes and cords that trail from them and into their bearers.

Another video begins playing, this one a frantic and short series of images that are blurred by the frantic movement of the carrier. Sound is impossible to hear, everything is downed out by horrible screaming. A wave of rippling air strikes a man near the camera bearer. His body quivers and bursts apart in a spray of bone and blood. Killed by a screaming weapon.

Another clip, a group of Storm Troopers emerging from the hiding of a rock cluster to open fire on a crawling crab like bit of infernal machinery. Their weapons lancing into its legs and shearing several off. They charge into the wounded thing and the image turns to static.

A few seconds of footage shows the Colonel and his officers dashing into a group of alluring succubi like temptresses and hacking them apart.

The camera bearer and his squad all shout and scream at a heavy weapons team who walk down a darkened tunnel rather then holding their position. The weapon’s team says they got a call over their Vox to fall back and this is the tunnel to fall back down and they make a mad dash down it. The camera bearer watches them leave through the tunnel and then tunnel walls shake, vibrated by those etheric anguished screams. Gore is flung from the tunnel.

“No command was given to fall back he shouts to his own squad. No one’s talking over the Vox Sir!  I don’t know what those men heard but they’re all dead!” The Camera Bearer shouts.

There is a brief few seconds of tape that shows a group of the enemy marines on a fortified position levying weapons toward one of the Imperial Battle Tanks. Their commander points toward the behemoth vehicle. “Let the roar of the missile be as a warcry unto the Gods!” One of the rockets finds it mark and the mighty machine is consumed ina ball of fire.

Only a few seconds of video shows a group of men falling back toward a figure that looks like the Colonel. When the men arrive the figure’s visage falls away like dry sand carried by a breeze to reveal a massive astartes in Terminator armor. He sweeps his blade across the men killing men.

“Fall back damn you! If you value your lives fall back!” the camera shows the Colonel and his men fighting the Terminator Magus. He turns to lead the retreat only to find a las pistol staring at him. The Colonel falls to his knees and then to the ground, his Commisar kills him and screams to the unsure soldiers “Hold your ground you worthless excuses for humanity. Did the Emperor turn and flee during the Siege of Terra! No! He did not abandon your souls to damnation that day! Now you must pay him your debt!”

“Tell me mortal…” A soft deep voice comes from the Terminator, made slightly mechanical by the vox system of its helm. “What do you know of souls?”

“I know that you have forfeit yours traitor! It pains me to even spill your unclean blood on His world but better that then suffer your presence here any longer.” The Comissar charges with sword raised high. THe Terminator beckons with his sword.

“Come to me Commissar, I can show you such pleasures…”

A final vid begins. The Camera Bearer zooms in on a group of guardsmen that open fire on something. A haze of pinkish fog obscures part of the view and the dimming flare above does not help any. The fog rolls into them. The flare above finally dies. everything gorws quiet in the caves. For a second the darkness is gone, where the pink fog was a rolling unnatural flickering light is born. In that light the camera picture captures something. Two massive sinewy creatures. Their long serpent like bodies adorned with rows of breasts and slick mauve skin. Long membranous frills rise from their backs. Their narrow heads cast out thin lash like tongues. Between the two beasts stands a woman dressed in very little aside from sheer silken black robe. Her long golden hair billows like a cloud around her. the shapes of the guardsmen are seen as well, their bodies falling dead on the spot and feint glimmers of light passing out of their eyes and mouth and into her. She can be seen briefly licking her fingers and lips and then all is dark again.

The Surveyors look at each other and then at Reins. The gruff old vet seems unmoved by the display.

“Right then. Leave that behind.”

“Who do you guess was looking at those records sir. The origin date of the vids is hundreds of years ago. You think the orks would look for something like that?”

“No i don’t” Reins answers quickly the surveyor “But i don’t care who was. we have a job to do and quickly.”

Reins walks to the remnants of the buildings balcony to look out at the plains. Outside the building are the mercenaries his captain took on. They keep watch on the perimeter.  Just a bunch of thugs from House Van Saar. He can hear his surveyors working quickly and efficiently. He’s trained them well and good training in this line of work is all that stands between Imperial Credits and an early grave.

Something draws his bionic eye’s attention. A brief movement, something quick like a bird’s flutter. There are no birds here anymore. Something else moves in the opposite direction. More shapes in the dark. Then he catches it, dressed in crude camouflage, an ork crawling over a wrecked balcony above the Van Saar mercenaries. Before he can grab his vox from its belt clip the ork grabs a large sack off his back and dumps the contents down on the men. Small pumpkin sized balls of muscle teeth and tails all propelled by thick little legs. Attack Squigs latch on and bite anything that moves. The Mercenaries below die in a frenzy of teeth panicked gunfire and screams.

“Surveyors!” Reins turns to the team “Pack it up! we have ork Commandos in the ruins!”

Canoness Lovegood it is my understanding that your Preceptory has earned a rather unique moniker among my storm troopers and the Imperial Garrisons throughout the entire segmentium. The Ladies of Pain i believe. It is in that capacity that i now come to you.

I wish to draw your attention to the world of Cygnus Primaris in the Ultima Segmetium. The world was at one time heavily populated.

Many great hive cities sprawled across its three great continents. It was a center of trade and industry. But heretical seeds in its underbelly festered. Heresy took root and the world was plunged into a war that destroyed all its infrastructure and left Cygnus Primaris a shattered ruined husk of a world with a fraction of its former population. In that time it has become a blighted breeding ground for all manner of Xenos, mutants and heretics. The largest continent has become host to an Ork Tribe known as The Planet Smashas and led by a belligerent warlord named Worldbreaker. Of the other remaining continents they are largely a mystery to us. All manner of fantastic stories have come from their distant shores but they are not important at the moment.

I want you and your preceptory to go to Cygnus Primaris and secure the old Hive City on the largest continent. Flush out the green menace and break the back of any burgeoning Ork Crusade that may be in the works. Beware their witches. The green skins have their own dangerous brand. Once we have taken the Hive cities back and purged the Xenos threat we can begin retaking the world and bringing faith and penance to those refugees that still lurk in the darkness. You have my full authority to exercise this task. Now see it done.

Thought for the day: Zeal is its own excuse

+++End Transmission+++