Textdoc
Zipdoc
Writeurl
Loading…
Nikephoros walked bound in chains of black stone and hooks digging into his flesh with every step he took. His skin was scared and tattered held together with barbed wire like thread. Yet this Drukhari captors had taken 'mercy' upon him so he could still fight in their Gladiator Pits. Time lost meaning in this hellscape of Obsidian Spires, stolen suns, screams and cruelty, but he knew he'd not been here long simply going by the length of his own hair...a month maybe two? His world had became a haze of pit fights and torturous sessions under his 'owner' a Haemonculi Coven Leader whose accursed Workshop squatted in the bowels of this place; Commorragh. They cut him, they flayed skin and mind, they tinkered and pulled at his soul but yet it was all in vein; The Journey and his Primarch's teachings made him anathema to them; poison. Yet it was a curious thing for being so toxic to them they desired to break him all the more for the satisfaction their pride not allowing them to simply do away with them...fools. The was a member of the Panther Company and so while he wouldn't wish for it or for the others to risk themselves.... the others would come guided by the flicker of his Father's soul that now rested within him, a beckon in the labyrinth of the Webway. Even as he lay on the table, even after his tongue was removed, his lips sown shut...he tore them to speak the lines he knew by heart. Even as they took one eye he smiled at them in pity, shame for what they could have been and pity for the doom that was surly drawing closer by the moment; he had no doubt. --- Deep in the depths of the Obsidian Den of Tyrants shadows upon even shadow moved swifter than thought and more silent than a whisper of a fresh falling snow. Through dense and smog clogged dens no less than four dozen Astartes slit throats, silenced sentries and gutted damned Aeldari with blades of psionic metal created by Magnus of Prospero...stealing their souls and bbinding them as the soul stones of the craftworlders would. Not a shot fired only the glint of blade and the power armour assisted thrust of spear. Forty eight of the company had come and with them the Panther King himself; whose very path was death. To cross him was not to court death but to willingly embrace it his gold flame wreathed strikes leaving only scorched shadows where his enemies had once been... none were spared, no quarter was given, they swept through the Undercity as if it were their own domain even the skulking mandrakes either avoided or slain. But there was another in their Hunting Party a welcome guest; Angron himself whom upon hearing of the Taken Son was brought to a rage so mighty he toppled a mountain in contrast to the sheer silent black smoking fury of his brother. They were taking Nikephoros and drawing closer by the moment securing an escape route, planting charges and leaving those corpses that remain a macabre chandelier, until finally fifty human surrounded the Coven holding their Kin, yet only two approached the compound the others securing the area...no help would come. --- Khenekis the Sower felt a cool tinkle trace down his spine and smelt blood in the air. Slowly he rose from his still warm throne of flesh and bone, taking a sip of a cocktail then thoughtlessly throwing the glass at a bound slave whom cried in pain as the crystaline glass shattered across their face cutting it to ribbons. With a simple tilt of his head Incubi black shields formed up around him and he left his quiet courtroom and moved towards his workshop the smell growing stronger, yet as he walked there were no signs of any others in his bastion, not a soul? Not a single being but those whom had been with him were answering? Was this the work of a rival? Some play to scare him? Pathetic! He had seen the Fall! He had endured a thousand thousand greater threats than any upstart could muster even Vect! For a moment he paused seeing something out the corner of his eye, vulpine eyes in the dark shaking a shadowed head at him...a sickly sweet smell catching on the wind for a heartbeat. He froze....impossible?! Had She whom Thirsts breached the gate?...no... no he was imagining it the wards were strong. Finally his and his escorts echoing steps stopped outside the door to the halls of his trade, they were closed, but from beneath he smelt it...blood, ichor, burnt flesh and ozone. He drew the Djin blade he always kept by his side the sentience of his own former master still bound within, Weapons were loaded and the order given. The great door was throne open and they charged into the smoke within. --- Morgathal was not a man prone is fear, he'd served over a thousand years, honed his skills and slain the primitives of the galaxy all that time, he'd witnessed many pretenders to the Galactic Throne even this new 'Emperor of Man'. He'd battled their exemplars, these Astartes in the void above what they called Pluto and found them challenging foes but still unworthy of him... each that had challenged him had fallen. He'd seen his employers garden of flesh and ruin, a menagerie of suffering and finest agony. But this scene was something else the garden was burning in golden warp fire, the slaves gone and thrown around like discarded toys were the Wrack hordes whom made up the majority of the Covens forces torn utterly to pieces as if some great blade toothed predator had found a den of fowl. Standing in the centre of the chamber beneath the hanging bodies of all the students Khenekis possessed stood a figure of rumour and dread...he knew who this was, the Father of his Master's most recent purchase, he muted his helmet and cursed. The figure in armour of blackest night, wearing a heavy fur of silver starlight turned to regard them eyes beneath a snarling patterned helm blazing, that gaze? He felt his hairs stand on end as he felt like every inch of his skin was passing through the very fires the flickered around them. He knew the couldn't face the Son of the Anathema, not with so few numbers. His heart was tearing itself to pieces even knowing that fact causing him true pain. “We must withdraw, Lord.” He spoke calmly, “My research much be reclaimed you coward, go FIGHT!” Morgathal frowned an he swore he could feel the Panther King's smile even beneath the armour goading him. He knew there was no escape; so he charged Warglave raised...dying because of a fool master's failed plans, such seemed to be the Incubi's lot. --- Angron roared in triumph as he threw the head of a colossal abomination to the ground before cells of terrified slaves, the creature may have stood head and shoulders taller than himself but it was a slow and mewing thing. He strode forward and without a thought began to tear doors from their hinges paying no heed tot he spokes that pieced his flesh, chains were broken yet the cowering slaves didn't move. He reached out and felt their fear, their worry...they thought this salvation a cruel trick. He took a moment to kneel even as he smelt his brothers conflagration spreading through the Coven's higher levels. His scared and bloody hand reaching out gently to the terrified souls in the dark. “Do not be afraid my friends” he spoke in low gothic and dying his words with his gift to provide hope. Slowly a single boy reached forward keeping two younger children behind himself, he took Angron's hand that broke the dam. People fled pulling one another out of the gloom and following the primarch as he led the host of freed slaves through the nightmarish underworld. He smiled as he saw half hidden in mist and smoke the panther Company now deploying heavy weapons to down flyers which were coming to investigate the now blazing structures, spreading further and further into the Dark City. Steadily they fell back but he remained awaiting his Brother's return. --- Khenekis the Sower was dead, his body naughty but a smear across the floor and a crushed head dropped at the feet of Lieren. The Incubi all but for one were dead, one whose black heart held within it the slightest glimmer of something...the normal drive to be better stained in pain remained but there was something else to it, his sight unfolding the mind, the dreams and intent of this; Morgathal. He was not a noble soul, but there was a way he could become one. A chance at redemption and so he knelt down and even though the Incubi's broken body tried to crawl away he placed a hand upon his head and showed him, he showed him Isha, he showed him hope and goodness, he showed him a life beyond the need for dying all Creation in pain. The Drukhari shuddered and convulsed, he threw up blood and coughed up bile such was the light touching his inky black soul. He spoke Aeldari “You can be better, you should be better. Not just for you, but for them”. The incubi wept as he was picked up and bodily dropped beyond the fire now raging. Angron was at his side in less than a heartbeat his voice hard. “Why did you spare it” Lieren watched the broken figure crawling away, “Sowing seeds, brother. Sowing seeds.”