Tales of the Rancid Blade: Pure Rapture

Ari Ashi had been to the Voir Grim many times before and he rarely tired of the show.  The Tau visitor sat in Lady Hosphel’s box, high above the general murmer of the crowd.  The gilded balustrades and sweeping statues that made up the theatre’s decoration seemed as mighty demons sweeping around him.  Below, the general audience were in a rare state of calm as the curtain on this grim stage was yet to be raised.  Thick crimson and white theatre curtains, the material looped like sagging skin, hung to the floor of the old stage.  The chatter of Kabal’s social elite wafted from below.  Hosphel rarely came to the show these days.  Her attention was else ware.  She was not happy to revel in the spoils of victory.  Once Cemephon’s human and Tau populations had been rendered and the planet plundered she had moved onto a new scheme and a new plot.  He was comfortable bathing in his new life.  The life of adopted terror.

Sometimes he tried to think how long it had been since he had stepped from the webway into his new home.  He couldn’t tell really.  The Dark City’s crimson season was unchanging and the dark light of the sun seemed to wash over the city and it’s grim neighborhoods in an eternal day.  He often thought back to the heady days of his first arrival.  He had drunk in the anguish of this city and he now knew he would never really leave it.

He glanced at the program.  The wafer thin program made of pulped and dried flesh with a sickly brown ‘ink’ described the three acts of the show.  It was to be the tale of Le Barbier de Commorragh.  The Troope Coupe-Gorge had arrived from the Black Heart’s show halls and along with local favorite The Soubrett, were reviving the show that made their name.  He turned his attention back to the crowd below and let his mind wander again.

Once he arrived in the dark city the waves of hatred he felt for his own people had been replaced by a warm simmering loathing.  He remembered the throngs of Fire Warriors, their confidence in ruin, broken armor hanging from their bodies, marching in to the maw of the dark pits.  The crowds that inspected the newcomers cheered in bloody glee as the throng of soldiers were sheparded to their long doom.  There were humans too, by the thousands.  At the end the broken corps of the Imperial Guard had been in tatters and the waves of raiders swept over their lines and wrecked them.

Once Anemos had been killed the dynamic and every responsive character of the Tau army on Cemephon had changed.  He had assumed full control of the Tau war machine and had ground it into the guns of the Imperial lines.  His glee was satisfied through unique logistical games~ always his forte.  One of his favorites was shipping the wrong type of ammunition to an advancing column just before they reached the front.  Or one that he savored the best was shipping helmets to the front with bloody heads in them. Chaos and depression were rife through the front and the Imperial forces took full advantage.  The humans’ enthuseastic embracing of the confusion of the Tau was met with similarly devilish results.  Attacking human forces, eager to get to grips with their enemy, found many of the Tau had become suicidal.  Dropships, devilfish and even Pathfinders were rigged to explode when the humans got near.  Some of the Tau killed themselves out of seer horror at what they had become while others had to be motivated.  More and more Kabilite warriors poured into the planet and in chaos and confusion the planet simply turned into a feast of brutality and misery.  Pockets of resistance amongst the Tau and the humans left on the planet tried to fight their way out but they were mostly wiped out or captured.  When Ari Ahsi left Cemephon he left it as a smoking ruin of charred and bloody stubs.  The fallen Etherial had feasted on the pain of his brothers and sisters for weeks.  The Tau Empire’s good natured dreams of colonial expansion turned into the bloody bath water of the Kabal’s luxury.

The curtain rose and it pulled his attention back to the now darkening theatre.  An expectant hush fell over the crowd.  All eyes were on the stage.  There was a palpable sence of expectation yet it was suffused with a resignation, so common in the dark city, that this wouldn’t be enough.  They had all seen the show a thousand times and while the excitement was here there was also the lingering boredom of repetition in the air.  The Soubrette’s massive bloated form stood in the middle of the stage.  Her multiple limbs moved about in a graceful way that belied her opera singer’s form.  Around her were eight or nine restrained figures.  The forms were secured on a slight diagonal racks.  Barbed restraints held them in place.  Some human, some eldar, Ari noted one was a tau.  The quiet lingered in the room and then she began.

The Souberite’s opera was a combination of her voice and the tailored screams from the various members of the ‘orcestra’ before her.  Their pain was educed by her augmented and focused song.  She would choose her victims based on how her voice and its focused vibrations would affect the various parts of their bodies.  She would sing long dead songs and with her voice eviscerate them.  She began on a human female, the horrible high tone vibrating through the woman’s brain so as to induce a particular tone of scream, then to the Tau, the creature uttered a low wail, then to another which produced a guttural beat, then back to the human female for the high pitch.  The opera had begun and the waves of anguish swept across the audience.   By the time the tide washed against the Ari Ashi it had become pure rapture.

Wyches of the Screaming Dragon

Incubi of the Rancid Blade

The Soubrette

The Soubrette is one of the many Haemonculi that dwell in the halls of the Rancid Blade.  When not performing the traditional tasks of a Haemonculi she delights audiences nightly at l’opéra de la macarbe.  Her unique singing talents are in great demand.

Actev Nu~ Archon of the Rancid Blade

The Trial of Carnadine: Part 3: The Emperor’s Fulcrum

Bridge master Burrogol stood at the nexus of two catwalks looking out toward several large viewing portals.  Below him, about fifteen feet below, was the primary bridge of the Imperial Star ship Emperor’s Fulcrum. These were life long servants of the Emperor who sat and what seemed like endless terminals, banks of computerized and mechanical work stations.  Their bodies, mostly machine now, were wired into their work stations.  Their ‘unnecessary’ components replaced by mechanical limbs and cybernetic tools. Yellow desk lamps thew a poor light that bathed the lower level in a dim pallor.  Some of the work stations were made from polished wood and brass, levers and dials at their consoles, while other work stations, more recently installed, held data screens and info pads with quick reams of information.  Each presided over by a once human now machine servant who attended to the minute by minute details of the ship.  One of the servidors, who had caught the master’s eye before seemed to be steam powered, a small valve issuing steam from within the being’s chest.  Another, who attended what seemed like a much more sophisticated work station, was wired from ports in his eyes into the terminal.  All around these servants of the Emperor data cords snaked on the floor from terminal to terminal.  It seemed that the floor was covered with a bizarre tangled mess of cords and cabling.  Burrogol also observed several forms moving amongst the terminals and steeping quietly over the cords.  Hooded members of the mechanical cult tended to the servitors.  Pipes and mechanical arms protruded from beneath red robes, checking the work of the servitors, praying for them.  One of the mechanicus priests stopped beside the steaming servitor and seemed to wind a large key in its back.  Another, paused over a one armed servitor and appeared to be wiping sweat from the creature’s brow.  It seemed almost tender.

Above him, through vast oval viewing ports was the darkness of space.  In the background the stars of the cosmos winked and watched.  In the foreground lay the long spars and arms of the Amadanes orbital platform.  The old construction loomed around the ship filling most of the viewing port. The arm of the platform that was connected to The Fulcrum loomed so large in the viewing window.  Through the gulf he could see blinking lights and the tiny shapes of people in a observation lounge. The Hopeful Watch, a vast starship could see seen some distance off docked at the next spar of the platform.  A small squadron of Sword class frigates, their blue prows showing them as the Neptune squadron, scatted past the viewing window.  On their way to a system patrol he thought to himself.  And beyond the platform was the vast grey green orb of Char, the home world of the Carnadine chapter.

The master considered the platform.  It was the home of the battlefleet Adrade, one of the oldest battlegroups in the sector.  Twelve battle cruisers, five escort groups, and two heavy cruisers.  He had been working on this ship all his life and though the looked at the platform most days, he had never left this ship.  He had looked down on that world and had never been to.

The platform had once housed the Carnadine’s space marine battle fleet also.  During the last Tyranid war, almost one hundred and fifty years ago, the space Marines strike cruiser fleet had been reduced to such a meager force.  The Adreade had been reassigned to this platform to use it.  The replacement ships of the chapter would be long in coming.  At least that’s what Burrogol’s father had told him when he was a lad.  These days it seemed as though the chapter was waiting for a promise from Mars that would never come.  Few people talked about the lost space marine fleet.   Four strike cruisers did not make a fleet.  But nobody would say it.  The marines would not admit that their ability to make war was almost entirely dependant on the Imperial fleet that had come to be stationed here.  The master gripped the polished metal of the railing at the catwalk.  He watched a censor baring mecheoprest waddle along between rows of servitor terminals.  Clouds of smoke emanating from the censor swinging at the end of a chain.  He listed to the prayers of the shuffling monk.

He walked along the catwalk to his work station.  It consisted of a speaking tube.  A small desk with a high stool for sitting and a monitor that could feed him data about operations.  Several small message lights flashed.  He picked up the speaking tube and tapped one of the lights.  Several voices emanated from the tube.  He knew his deck well.  He could see which of the servants below was speaking into their speaking tubes to him.  One of the mechanicus priests shuffled over to check the servitor’s work.  One servitor delivered to him several messages from the other ships in the fleet from and another tracked the movement of the sword squadron as it began its patrol.  The many servitors forwarding information to his screen. From this terminal he could relay the commands from the ship’s captain to the servitors below or to the mighty engine room, he could dispatch fire control teams or warn the ship to brace for impact.  He could and had for the Fulcrum has seen many battles.  Many wars since before he was born, before his father and all the fathers that could be remembered.  He noted another indicator light on his small console.  Once again he took up his speaking tube.  He held it before his mouth.  Licked his lips and then turned on the general speaker.  When he spoke his voice was amplified across the large hall so all the servants below heard.

“All servitors, all deck hands, prepare for the Captain’s arrival”.

It wasn’t long before the captain did arrive.  To the rear of the large chamber a door opened and from it strode the lord and master of this ship and the fleet.  Millions of souls bowed down before this man.  Billions of lives relied on the might of his war machines for survival and protection.  He was a large man.  His impressive stout frame supported a broad shoulder carapace.  A fleet of medals hung on his armored breastplate.  His bald head supported a monocle, pinched at his eye and a wreath of gold leaves sat atop his head.  The door closed behind him.  To his left and right strode a flock of attendants and servants.  Advisers and soothsayers followed in the confident stride of a mighty man.  He walked out onto a large balcony, detailed with gold leaf and ornament.  It overlooked the chamber where the servitors and mechpriests worked.  His platform, like a box at the theatre, looked down on Burrolful’s crosswalk, which in turn looked down on the servants.  Above him the stars looked down on one of their princes~ Captain Faustus.

Faustus surveyed the room below.  His eyes caught those of his bridge master.  He nodded.  His servant nodded in acknowledgement.  Then he found the eye of his chief Mechpreist far below the catwalks.  The two men conveyed a appreciation of honor and respect though they didn’t understand each other’s faith or work.  They both had faith in their god’s ability to ensure the machines would work.  Faustus took hold of the speaking tube and tapped a small lever that connected him to Burrogol.

“Deck Master, connect me to the Chapter.”

“Opening a line to the Chapter”.  A moment passed and the hollow sound of static could be heard while the message was relayed to the planet below.

“Mighty Fulcrum this is Carnadine Chapter communications, please go ahead”.  Burrogol received the signal from the com servitor and directed the message to the general overhead com.  The massive sound of the speakers projected the last few words from from the planet below into the chamber.  The captain responded and his voice boomed across the room also.

“Chapter this is the Actual Fulcrum Captain. please communicate to the Chapter Master that I have received orders from the Segmentum fleet liaison to proceed to the Galthere Cluster and engage an alien war fleet that has been detected there.” The sound of mechanical clicks could be heard through the speakers.

“Mighty Fulcrum” Burrogol relayed from the planet.  “The Chapter Master on duty requests information.  How many of the fleet will be required?”  Click click click.

“All of it” the Captain reported.  The alien force have been detected moving toward Galthere Prime”

“Acknowledged Fulcrum actual.  Chapter Master indicates his best wishes.”

Nelthas Clan Part 2: A classic fast low-profile deployment run

Druuna: a dead world. Zuzana Nelthas didn’t give it a second thought, safe aboard her uncle Petros’ private starship, The Nostramus. The ship was a Meritech-pattern light cruiser barely above escort class. Although tiny by capital ship standards, the Nostramus still seemed impossibly massive to Zuzana. At three kilometers in length and a crew of ten thousand, the ship was remarkably empty. The strange cogitator systems of the Meritech replaced many redundant systems and compensated for the lack of crew. A fully functioning Meritech cogitator was a rare and prescribed thing, and the miles of flex-cabling, squat glowing servitor-nodes, and strange whispering sounds that accompanied them filled Zuzana with unease. When she asked her uncle Petros about how he had acquired her, he replied cryptically: “For a favor.”

From orbit, the planet Druuna appeared as a dull red orb like countless other worthless, long-dead, worlds; a vacant rock. Zuzana had duteously scanned the relevant literature provided by her uncle: nothing but some Imperial survey records and one curious archived entry attributed to an unknown freelance prospector sometime during the Dark Age. Zuzana paid it little heed, intent as she was to get down to the planet and begin excavating.

Thanks to the augmented apparatus of her environmental suit, Zuzana was able to haul her own gear up the loading ramp of the ancient Valhalla-class drop ship named: Khan’s Revenge. Secure within her suit she had three times the strength of the strongest man. Stomping up the ramp; the intimidating vulture’s beak of the old battle wagon looming above her seemed inconsequential. Zuzana slammed the hard cases containing her personal effects into the cargo racks like she imagined hardened Imperial Guard veterans had done long ago. The gnarled deck hands nodded to her in appreciation. Hidden behind the black glass of the helmet of her environmental suit, Zuzana’s girlish, pixie face smiled from ear-to-ear.

Zuzana joined her uncle on the command deck of the drop ship. The old bird was designed to deploy an entire company of Imperial Guard troops; typically 100 men plus their associated vehicles. On this trip she would be travelling light, carrying a compliment of only 30, plus three vehicles. Zuzana felt exhilaration as they fell out of the launch bay of the Nostramus. The low-density atmosphere provided little in the way of a re-entry show, and their descent and landing was uneventful. None-the-less, their old combat-veteran pilot brought them in on a classic fast, low-profile deployment run (a fact that likely saved their lives later on…).

As they came in, Petros watched the auspex until the last moment, and then caught Zuzana’s arm and they dashed together quickly to their vehicle. The exhilaration of it filled Zuzana with joy – only later did she realize the life-and-death nature of such actions. As the Khan’s Revenge touched down they were aboard the heavily-modified alpha-pattern land raider, known affectionately as “Grumpy Bear”. It was the first to roll off the ramp. They hit the surface of Druuna in a rusty red cloud of dust. The ramshackle chimera and rhino known as “Koon” and “Varmint”, followed closely in the Bear’s tracks.

Cemephon II: Turn 2

Cemephon II: Turn 2

The Trial of Carnadine: Part Two: The Settlement

By the time Apir reached the bottom of the trail from the Prominent Chapel the rain had passed but the gray clouds high above remained.  They cast the sky as a vast granite ceiling.  A trail of hard worn earth lead from the premonitory to the settlement.  He quickly crossed the small field through which the trail led.  Small stones marked the edges of the trail.  Tufts of green and blue grass, blue like a stormy sea, filled the field through which the trail led.  He passed several groups of pilgrims, clad in a similar red garb as he, heading along the trail toward the winding path. The cold wind still pushed against them all as they traveled toward the chapel.

The settlement itself had been built millenia ago.  It was carved from the rocks that made the mountains.  The settlement comprised two distinct districts.  The Outwards lay at the entrance to the settlement.  They consisted of a series of low stone buildings, mostly square and sparse.  When looking at them, as they crowded on the slight slope leading to the upper part of the settlement one could see that they were made by hand and tool.  There was no standard template construct at work here.  And the knowledge to build these buildings was older than those revered plans from the dark age of technology.  Small red and yellow pendants hung from windows and eves, they cast about in the wind.  Hardy yellow Pomatac flowers grew by the doorways of many of the buildings.

By the time he reached the Outwards the morning was well underway and by then the village was so much more alive than when he had begun his pilgrimage.  Groups of Epigone hurried about the streets faithfully carrying out the business of their masters.  Some carried parcels and others scurried about delivering a message or running an errand.  All of them carried an urgency and purpose within their peach colored robes.  Smoke rose from many of the buildings and Apir could smell breakfast cooking.  There were a few others in the Outwards, family members of the Epigone made up the majority.  There were also regular Imperial citizens, off worlders, whose business had brought them here.  There were several of his kin, warrior brothers, whose forms towered over the others.

Apir strode through the main road that led through the Outward of the settlement toward the Chapter Temple.  Some called the Temple the “Inward” but this was not its real name.  Its massive form dominated the settlement.  It had been built by the founders of this settlement many thousands of years ago and formed the center of life on this planet.  Its bulky gray form rose from the low buildings, it presence dominating.  Square towers rose up capped by black wooded roofs.  Buildings were nestled among the towers and walls.  Dark windows looked out.  Red and gold square pennants hung from windows and walkways bright against the gray.  It housed the all the facilities for the warrior clan that Apir belonged to.  From armories, to sleeping quarters, to command bunkers and on and on.  The only thing the fortress did not hold within it was the chapel.  Nesbel’s chapel looked down on the Temple as some distant star looks down on a world offering guidance.

As Apir approached the gate there were more crowds.  There was a town square at the entrance to the temple.  Flanking the large gateway to the temple were two statues of armored warriors, similarly clad as the statue in the chapel.  Each was about twenty feet tall.  They were situated in the center of the square so that were one to enter the gates from the low village one would have to pass between the two.  Their heads were masked in the grimace of warrior helms.  The cobbled square was filled with vendors and crowds.  A market was occurring.  Villagers traded before the gates of the temple.  Apir strode through the marketplace ignoring all the activity and the crowds parted before him with a reverence that belied his rank in this place.

As he walked a figure fell in behind him from the crowd.  A young woman who wore a peach colored simple robe. Short cropped blond hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.  As soon as she began following him Apir began speaking.  It was as though she had been following him all along, or he had seen her in the crowd some distance off and known she would fall in behind him.  This was true, in fact, because she was one of his Epigone, his attendants.

The Epigone were the servants and attendants to the battle brothers who lived in this place.  There were several thousand who lived in the Outwards for each battle brother was attended by a handful of these servants.  They had once been villagers who came from across this world to be selected to serve the brothers of this temple.  They were selected by the chapter masters for their faith or their skill.  Or perhaps on a whim.  Their primary duty was to attend to the daily needs of the brothers; cleaning their quarters, cooking meals, washing clothes.  Sometimes they would be privileged enough to pray with the brothers.  Because the brothers would live so much longer than humans many Epigone would serve their entire lives from their arrival in the settlement until their deaths serving one brother.  Some battle brothers who lived on through dozens and dozens of decades would have a proud tradition of Epigones who would pass dictates of service, the habits and interests of their brother, from generation  to generation.  In the case of the death of one of the brothers, in battle, the attendants would continue on to serve their fallen masters, building and attending to the shrines of the fallen.  Their service would continue through the years until the Epigone themselves expired.

Once through the gate the couple entered a similarly crowded open air courtyard.  Here, however, the crowd consisted of only the Epigone and brothers.  There were no civilians.  They would have been stopped by the gate by larger than life versions of the statues in the fore.  The guards at the gate were dressed in red armor, large shoulders forming a split carapace.  A grim grill of a mask.  The boltgun and chainsword at their side.  The deep red, and gold of the Carnadine Chapter signified their allegiance.

“Master, while you were visiting the chapel there were several communications from the Sergent of the squad.  He wished to be apprised of the opinion of the priest.”  Apir nodded grimly.  Though Apir served as a formal messenger for the Captain, his first allegiance was to his Sargent. Sargent Tossel had lead the second squad for almost fifty years.  He had succeeded Halirax who had died almost one hundred and fifty years ago during the last Tyrannic war.
“Are we in readiness?” asked the marine.
“The prayers have been spoken and Grithmog has anointed the first of the bolts as instructed” she said as they walked,  she a few steps behind.
“Antrada, you will come with me and Grithmog, Fenil will stay here to tend our shrines.”
“Yes my lord” said the woman.  “We are going off world?”
“In deed”.
“Where?”
“That is unknown to me and unimportant to me” Apir replied.  They crossed the courtyard and headed down a narrow street, walkways strode above them. The martial presence of the space marines could be felt the further into the chapter temple they walked.  They crossed another square, quite large this time.  There was pair of small landers settling down in the middle of the square.  One touching down in a storm of jet backwash and another with its front hatches already open.  Marines exiting.  One red clad brother limped, leaning heavily on another, his leg missing.  Another, his armor blackened, cradled his arm.  Apir shook his head.  The raiders in the south plains were clearly becoming more bold.

They crossed the square and on through the now narrow walkways and paths through the temple.  Antrada recognized they were heading back to their quarters.  The temple itself was actually a continuation of the settlement, cordoned off from the Outward by the great wall and the guard.  Antrada had lived in the temple since her sixteenth year.  She was the youngest of Apir’s Epigone, having tended to his needs for only four years now.  She shuddered thinking of the injured marines in the square.  She couldn’t imagine her feelings were her master to be injured.  This was to be her first journey off word and though she showed no outward sign of it she brimmed with excitement.  To confess, she had hoped that Apir would take her off world this time.  She had waited in the market for his return with the hope that the marines would depart and take her with them.  She considered the vast number of Epigone that would travel with the righteous marines, supporting them, repairing their equipment, tending to their wounds.  Whenever Apir had departed for war in the past Fenil and old Grithmog would go.  She would remain behind with Pitin.  Not this time.  She inwardly beamed at the prospect of travel to distant stars.  It was a thrilling idea. Thrilling and terrifying.  She recalled last year when the marines had returned from their mission to aid in the pacification of the rebels on Malraux.  Many of the chapter’s finest had not returned.  She recalled the stories, told to her by Apir and Gothmog, of the last Tyranic war.  Stories of how so many brothers had not returned.  So many lost.  She shuddered with fear and excitement.

The two walked in silence through the now empty street.  She clasped her hands behind her back, her excitement telling in the spring in her step and the bob of her short ponytail.

Cemephon II Deployment and Turn 1

Cemephon II at Deployment:

Cemephon II: Turn 1