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History of Cygnus Primaris: The wound in the fields of Cydor

Demons of Cygnus Primaris V Cadian 101st regiment
Game Size: 2000 pts
Mission: Capture and Control
Result: 1 of 2 objectives claimed by Demons, 0 contested. 0 Claimed or contested by Imperial Guard

“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.