My World, My Rules

[VanHelser]

Topic author: Van Helser
Subject: My World, My Rules
Posted on: 01/01/2005 14:51:02
Message:


Calm. At last, all was calm; it was surely over.

Van Helser could not tell how long he had been tormented. It could have been mere seconds, or it could have been decades. But as far as his memory stretched, there was only the horrible recollection of the pain that had been inflicted on him.

The agony of splintering headaches. The fear of paralysation. The crippling of muscle spasms. The searing pain of fire. The brutal touch of hammers. The tearing torture of chainblades. Every hurt he had experienced for his entire life multiplied a thousand times was played out on his flesh once again. He had been taken to his breaking point and far beyond. He had near prayed for death and had been wishing for unconsciousness to take him the entire time, but there had been no relief while he had been victim to the unrelenting assault on his body and mind.

But now there was nothing. Was this death? Was he now just a soul, bereft of body?

He hoped so. Death was the final relief he had been wishing for. No longer would he suffer at the hands of Voor’acht.

He was sure that the daemon had possessed him, stolen him from real space and dragged him off into the warp. It was difficult to comprehend how Voor’acht could have escaped the host, unless it had been set free. Had Voke made a fatal error and let the daemon trick him into destroying the host body? Surely he could not have made the same mistake twice; Ranchak had escaped from his host not minutes for. What had happened in that chamber? He would never know, but something had definitely gone awry. It was becoming clear that the daemon had wanted all of this to happen. Van Helser began to wonder for just how long had Voor’acht been scheming, letting its malice build before striking out so capriciously? Probably ever since he had had the guile to bind it, and probably long before – fiddling with the strands of fate to engineer this torment for an unknown mortal who had thoughts above his station, and tried to do the impossible; master a daemon.




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A sharp intake of cold, thin air.

Mikael awoke with a gasp, immediately feeling a tearing wind. He was naked, and felt frail, weak and vulnerable. He was lying on cold, clammy, jet black rocks which, horrifically, felt like they were grasping his body. He pushed himself away in disgust and shock, scrabbling across the scree, until his back collided with a boulder. His gasped for breath, trying to calm himself, and looked up and around. He was in a mountain range, and a deep red sun was in the sky, painting the clouds crimson. In the far distance he could make out a fiery red glow at the base of another mountain range. Plains that stretched from this range to the other dominated the middle distance. They too were tinted red. A river flowed down the mountainside to his right. Also red. Like blood.

Where was he?

An armoured boot stomped down on the boulder above his head. He looked up into the fanged face of a daemon. He brought his hands up over his face protectively and shrunk into a ball, expecting an attack. He slowly withdrew them when nothing happened.

Van Helser looked again at the figure. Its skin was a cold blue, its eyes black orbs. It wore a suit of plated armour, black, shot through with flashes of lightning blue that danced across its viciously spiked surface. A long bladed spear with a slightly curved cutting edge rested nonchalantly in its right hand, and a semi-lunar shield hung over its back. The fingers on its left hand curled slowly, one by one.

‘Hello Mikael,’ it whispered. ‘Welcome to Inferex.’

Van Helser wished all over again that he were dead. He cried out in despair and began weeping openly.

‘What’s wrong hmm? Not pleased to see me?’

Voor’acht stepped down from the boulder lightly, paced around Mikael slowly, and jabbed the butt of its spear into his neck, forcing Van Helser’s head up. It looked him straight in the eye.

‘You didn’t honestly think I was finished having fun with you, did you Mikael? Oh, you did. What a shame for you,’ it remarked facetiously. ‘This is my world Mikael, it all belongs to me, and everyone here worships me. I truly am the master of this place, and that makes you one of my minions too.’

‘No,’ Van Helser cried out in despair, ‘I will not bow down to you!’

‘You won’t bow down easily, but I’ll break you. That’s a promise.’

Van Helser noticed that Voor’acht’s voice was different from that of the host. It no longer carried the quiet menace and the hissing that had characterised the daemon is his mind was absent. Now its voice was proud and powerful. The voice of a ruler.

‘I don’t trust the words of daemons any more,’ Van Helser retaliated.

‘That’s too bad for you Mikael, but if you do not trust my words, you will trust my actions.’

With a snap movement, Voor’acht thrust the butt of the spear into Van Helser’s throat. He gagged and choked, clutched his neck and began coughing.

‘I’m going to break you Mikael, you will become one of my servants. I was your slave for nigh on a century, it is now your turn. I am going to wear you down ‘til the point of death, when all your resolve is finally gone, and then offer you the chance of survival by joining me.’

Van Helser slowly got to his feet and looked the Daemon Prince square in the eye.

‘I choose death. Kill me now and save yourself the trouble of trying to break me.’

‘You’re not getting out of this that easily. I don’t think you quite understand Mikael. I have seen what you’re capable of under the thrall of Chaos, and therefore I am not going to throw away a worthy life such as yours. You will come to worship me and I will reward you with a place at my side, at the forefront of my legions alongside Ranchak and myself. Once I have finished torturing you, you will be all too eager to accept. I will not kill you, and I’m not going to let anyone else do it either. Not even you. This is my world Mikael, and nothing happens without me knowing about it. Now we are going to go for a walk. Start moving.’

Voor’acht’s voice had become a growl, and Van Helser knew that it was being incredibly serious. He had researched this world and how Voor’acht had come to conquer it. Inferex had been moulded by the Daemon Prince into a daemon world whose population would answer to it and only it. Every last one of the degenerate barbarians that lived on Inferex worshipped Voor’acht, had pledged himself to the Daemon Prince and would follow it without question to whatever horrific fate Voor’acht would choose for them. No one would kill him and any accident that Van Helser could engineer for himself would be thwarted by the daemon’s trickery. He truly did belong to Voor’acht in body, but his mind was still his own, and that was all that mattered. Voor’acht would not find him standing by its shoulder.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To Paarthegog, and my citadel.’ Voor’acht pointed with his spear at the red glow at the far side of the plain. ‘No time to waste, Mikael. Move .’

Van Helser took his first step towards Voor’acht’s seat of power.


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The descent from the mountains was harsh. The cold on his naked flesh was biting, and the sharp stones cut his feet. It was all part of Voor’acht’s torture process, Mikael knew that, but yet the pain was foremost in his mind every time he took a faltering step down the mountainside. He had to try and block it out of his mind. They were nearing the plains, and that would offer relief.

‘This is the Blood Heath,’ Voor’acht announced as he strode from the stone of the mountain out onto the plant covered plain, ‘in times past my tribe grazed their beasts here.’ It turned to look at Van Helser. ‘I began my path to daemonhood on this plain. It’s fitting that you will begin your path to my side here, no?’

Van Helser wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixated on the red coloured, twisted, gnarled and thorned plant that carpeted the plain. His feet were already cut and bleeding from the walk down the mountain, and the trek across this plain would only do more harm. Now he knew why he had awoken in the mountains; Voor’acht had wanted him to suffer the pain of traipsing across the Blood Heath. The daemon was as cunning as ever but Mikael would not allow it the glory of breaking him before they had even reached its citadel. He snorted in a lungful of cold air and strode forcibly out onto the bed of vicious vegetation. He grimaced as the thorns dug into the soles of his feet.

‘What’s the hold up daemon?’ he called over his shoulder.

‘Nothing Mikael, in fact I’m quite glad to see your eagerness to reach the torture chambers.’

[VanHelser]

The red glow at the bottom of the mountain range that Van Helser had taken to be a volcano, or a deep, deep gouge in the earth that went right down to the planet’s mantle, was slowly resolving itself as they neared. It was with some shock that he’d realised he was looking at a city-sized forge, with fires that burned so brightly it seemed like they were out of control. This was Paarthegog, Voor’acht’s citadel, an almighty factory for things Van Helser didn’t even want to begin imagining.

He had long forgotten the agony that his lacerated feet were in, and was striding ahead of Voor’acht by a good few yards. The sights of the daemon world had created a morbid fascination in him to find out exactly what lay ahead. He had seen his first inhabitants of Inferex: barbarian men, muscled and clad in animal furs. They had taken to one knee as Voor’acht had passed them by. He had seen beasts, huge grox-like things, but with thick matted coats and jutting horns that erupted from their snouts like daggers. They looked exceptionally fearsome. The sun had set by now and horrible blisters in the night sky had become visible. They were a deep red, like everything else on this damned world seemed to be. He reckoned that they had to be ships in orbit, daemon ships most likely. The prospect did not fill Van Helser with much hope at all; if Voor’acht had access to ships then it was entirely possible that his legions could once again go on an unholy crusade as they had done so horrifically in the 37th millennium. It had taken the intervention of the Grey Knights to stop the Daemon Prince then and the Chapter would most likely be needed again if the situation were to arise once more.


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The streets of Paarthegog were wide and cobbled, and were suspended from the buttresses of the towers they connected by chains with links the size of Sentinel walkers. They rose up and around the almighty metal works that formed the underside of the city and whose fires and vats of molten metals accounted for the red glow. The citadel was unbearably hot, and the people that they met on the streets wore little more than Mikael. Again all dropped to a knee when Voor’acht passed. Whether this was because of devotion to their ruler, or through fear of him, Van Helser couldn’t tell, though it was probably due to a mixture of both. Even after years without their ruler, the populations’ devotion to Voor’acht had remained intact. It was a frightening reminder of just how much power the Daemon Prince had generated for itself. Power that Mikael was going to bear witness to. The idea genuinely scared him.

‘I see that you’re intrigued by this place,’ Voor’acht said to him, ‘I think I should offer an explanation to what this place is. You will after all come to call this citadel home.

‘Paarthegog was the first of the great cities of this world to bow down to me. It is the enclave of Khorne on this world, and that was the first aspect of the four I came to specifically direct my worship to. I came to master the forces of the Blood God and their great fortress-forge. The great daemon-engines of Khorne are constructed in the forges below; Brass Scorpions, Lords of Battle and the like, this place is the heart of my war effort.’

The show of power had begun already and it was as deeply worrying as he had thought it would be. The very mention of daemon-engines had caused his heart to sink. Voor’acht had more than an army of barbarians at his call. Only a company or two of accursed Astartes could confound this any more and that didn’t look like impossibility.

‘Just where in this delightful place are you taking me?’ he asked Voor’acht.

‘To the tip of that tower over there,’ Voor’acht indicated a square red stone building that climbed up above all the others, ‘that’s where my keenest torturers await you, your body and your precious little mind. I’m quite looking forward to seeing what a beautiful mess they make of you. They are exceptionally talented group. I taught them myself.’ The daemon smiled at him with a mouth full of malicious intent. ‘If you thought your little trip through the warp was hell Mikael, you are in for an unpleasant surprise. A very unpleasant surprise.’

At once the memories of all his wounds came flooding back into Mikael’s mind and he once again felt very alone and vulnerable. His only hope now was that the torturers pushed him too far and killed him. He looked up at the tower once again and promised to himself that he would not concede; he would never become a minion of Voor’acht.

With the blade of its spear, the daemon prodded him onwards.



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'Rid yourself of the aquila too Mikael; we both know you don't believe in what it represents anymore.' - Ranchak to Van Helser on Messalon IV

Replies:



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Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 05/01/2005 12:53:14
Message:

‘A daemon world offers many advantages to the common torturer Mikael,’ Voor’acht proudly announced to his bound prisoner, ‘the diseases of Grandfather Nurgle, the pink fire of Horrors and the elixirs that the followers of Slaanesh distil. But using those would be an insult to our current host. We’re going to have to do this the old way to appease the Lord of Skulls.’ It turned towards the cloaked trio that stood patiently behind him. ‘You may begin at anytime,’ it instructed.

‘Yes Lord Voor,’ they replied in concert.

Voor’acht cast one final look at Mikael, smiled, and left the chamber. The torturers drifted to Van Helser’s side and hefted him to his feet. They forced him onto a cold stone tablet, tied down his legs with manacles, and undid the bindings on his arms briefly, before manacling them above his head.

‘Fingernails,’ one of them instructed.

Van Helser struggled as the second of them held his fingers outstretched while the third clamped a pair of pliers onto the fingernail of the little finger on his left hand. There was a subdued tearing noise as the nail was pulled out of the skin. Mikael screamed out. The left ring finger was next. He screamed again. The intensity of his wails dropped over the course of the next eight removals.

‘Toenails.’




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The torturers had only been at work for the last half an hour, but Mikael was already in agony. The bastards had systematically removed each nail from the ends of his appendages, and had moved on. They were now plaining away the skin and flesh from his left shin. He had thrown up with the trauma. Each pass of the blade shaved off another few millimetres of flesh, and another cry would escape his lips. He retched as he felt the blade hit bone. There was an awful noise as it scraped along his shin. He didn’t dare look down at the wound.

‘Chisel,’ the torturer that seemed to be their chief announced. One of the others passed him a gleaming metal tool. ‘Hammer.’

The chief stood over the leg and placed the tip of the chisel against it with an ironic gentleness. He began tapping the head in a slow rhythm.

Van Helser screamed out as he felt his shin shattering.


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‘Can’t have those wounds getting infected, Mikael, we’ll have to clean them.’

Voor’acht had reappeared to observe the effects of the torture and had congratulated the chief on his ingenuity. The daemon now stood over Van Helser, looking at the damage to his body.

‘Put him in the chair.’

The torturers removed the manacles from Mikael’s wrists and ankles and lifted him across the room and sat him down in a black metal chair. They manacled him in once more. Voor’acht nodded and the torturers dragged chains that hung from a pulley system across the chamber and attached them to the chair. The chief pulled on another chain and winched the chair up into the air. The other two guided it into position above a tank filled with a clear liquid. Van Helser prayed it was only water.

There was a sound of clinking chains. The chair dropped into the tank.

In the past Van Helser had had the misfortune to feel the touch of strong acid and caustic alkali on his skin, but they were a slight discomfort in comparison to whatever bastard daemon substance he was submerged in. He felt it sear into his open wounds, eating up the exposed tissues. His skin bubbled and blistered, and he felt it burning the inside of his nose. He thanked the Emperor that he had closed his eyes and mouth. Through agonised ears he heard the chains clanking dully. The chair began to lift out of the tank.

‘You can open your eyes now Mikael, you are out of the Trech venom.’

Van Helser slowly peaked out through one eye, and closed it rapidly when he caught sight of his arm. The skin was red raw and looked to be falling off in hunks.

‘Oh come now, its not all that bad,’ Voor’acht mocked. ‘Just wait ‘til tomorrow when you go in again.’

Mikael’s heart dropped.

[VanHelser]

‘I’m getting tired of your screaming Mikael,’ Voor’acht complained as it paraded around the stone tablet that Van Helser was again tied to. It was the fourth day of the torturing by his reckoning – he was counting in number of visits to the Trech venom tank. The torturers had spent the last two days breaking finger bones horrifically slowly and bleeding him. This morning they had dislocated and relocated his shoulders repeatedly until his visit to the tank. His arms lay useless and out of socket as the daemon spoke to him.

‘Can you guess what I’m going to have my servants do to you?’ Van Helser wailed. ‘Yes, I’m going to have them cut out your tongue. You won’t like that will you? I think you’ll be able to do without your tongue anyhow, potent telepath as you are.’

‘Screw you.’ Van Helser sent with his mind.

‘That wasn’t all that wise Mikael. Remember that Khorne hates witches and we are surrounded by his worshippers.’

‘They’ll kill us both then,’ Van Helser smirked.

‘Oh no, I have respect for the Blood God and would never contemplate using powers like that in this place. I’ll have to have someone come and teach you some manners.’ Voor’acht beckoned one of the torturers across. ‘His tongue. Remove it. Put it in a jar for my pleasure.’

Voor’acht left the chamber to the sound of screams as the trio forced Van Helser’s mouth open.


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Van Helser could no longer even count the number of dunks in the venom he had endured. He was only conscious due to the thingytail of stimulants the torturers were pumping his system full of, if it could be called consciousness at all. To Mikael it was like a semi-waking nightmare.

Something had been attached to his head. Its effects were like that of a psi-dampener, but much, much worse. The closest thing he could think it to be like was suffering the presence of a pariah, but one that had actually got inside his mind and was crushing the psychic areas of the brain. It had to be some kind of Khornate anti-psychic ward. Whatever it was, he was sure it was killing him.


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‘Lord Voor, we are pleased to announce the prisoner’s supplication.’ The chief torturer smiled underneath his hood.

‘You are sure?’

‘He wrote as much on the floor of his cell. In blood.’

‘Excellent. Let me see him.’

Light crept into the cell and Van Helser struggled to bring his hand up to protect his weak eyes. He struggled to focus, but the conclusion that Voor’acht had to be the figure in front of him came long before his eyes managed to make out its face. It was reading the message he’d scrawled on the floor.

‘I’m glad to see you have accepted my offer.’ He waved the torturer forward. ‘Remove the helm. I want to be able to speak to him.’ The chief scrabbled forward and unstrapped the warding device from Mikael’s head. Van Helser looked up at Voor’acht. ‘Do you swear allegiance to me? Are you ready to side with me on the field of battle?’

There was a lengthy pause.

’Yes.’



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'Rid yourself of the aquila too Mikael; we both know you don't believe in what it represents anymore.' - Ranchak to Van Helser on Messalon IV


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Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 11/01/2005 16:57:22
Message:

A hulk marched up the highest street in Paarthegog, towards the citadel’s highest tower. It wore a suit of what once had been power armour that, if anyone dared looked close enough, was fused to its flesh and was now bedecked in spikes and razor edges that made it as much of a weapon as it was for protection. A necklace of bleached skulls dangled around its helmeted head in morbid decoration. A snarling, horned helm looked down at the people that cowered from it and its bodyguard.

‘Ah, Ranchak,’ a voice called out in greeting from an open door in the tower’s wall.

‘Voor’acht,’ he acknowledged, ‘I’m here to see our new convert.’

‘Gladly.’

Voor’acht led Ranchak and his two berserker bodyguards up to the winding staircase, their almighty forms scraping the walls as they climbed. Proudly, Voor’acht opened a door and waved them inside. They ducked to enter, and found themselves in a torture chamber, surrounded by implements of pain. At the window, a lean figure stood gazing out onto the Blood Heath; it turned slowly, supporting itself on the window ledge. Ranchak noticed its ruined left leg and puckered flesh, the latter a sure sign of Trech venom.

’Ranchak?’ Van Helser questioned as he gazed on the warrior in red. It chuckled deeply.

‘Quite right Mikael, you’re as astute as ever,’ the Daemon Prince replied.

‘Why have you brought your lackies? Were you worried what you might find up here?’

The berserkers snarled, angry at the presence of a witch in the Blood God’s fortress. Ranchak raised an arm to subdue them.

’Because there’s no need to worry,’ Mikael continued, ’I am with Voor’acht now. With you as well.’

‘They are with me through habit only,’ Ranchak replied, his voice still a growl as was true of the daemonhost.

’You are in fear of your existence on this world then?’

Ranchak laughed again, and turned to Voor’acht. ‘He has retained all of his spirit. Excellent.’ He turned back to face Van Helser. ‘You will make a great warrior in Voor’acht’s army Mikael. In the recent past, I found that firing your rage is not difficult. I see now that the same is still true. I await your recovery from these wounds with great expectation.’ He turned to leave, his bodyguards casting a filthy look at Mikael despite their faceplates.




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‘There is much anger in the immaterium Voor’acht,’ Ranchak said to his master as they strode together towards the forges.

‘I have felt it too Ranchak. The Lord of Skulls is displeased, and something else is growing in power.’

‘War is on the horizon.’

‘Indeed.’

‘We need to increase the output of the forges, we must gather more slaves and mine more metal.’

‘That is why we head there now Ranchak.’ The Khornate Prince grunted with satisfaction.

[VanHelser]

Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 18/01/2005 16:53:24
Message:

‘The pins, are they working for you?’ Voor’acht looked down at Mikael’s bandaged leg, enquiring about the metalwork that the bonesaws had installed to correct his smashed tibia after they had grafted live flesh from an unwilling donor to fill the sickening pit on his shin.

‘I can walk on it, yes,’ Van Helser answered, leaning more to his left, putting weight on his recovering leg to prove its strength.

‘Good, though you’ll need to do more than just walk.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It would seem that a few of my minions have forgotten their place,’ the daemon began to explain, his tone agitated. ‘The population of Inferex are free to worship any and all of the four powers, as long as they venerate the Gods through me, honouring the four aspects of Chaos that reside within me. This is how I control the people of this world.

‘To the north lies the continent of Assad,’ it continued, ‘a realm of sorceries and magicks. This is where my Tzeentchian followers are to be found. There is a revolt there that needs to be put down. I am sending you and a contingent of warriors from Paarthegog. It is your time to prove yourself to me.’

’Why is there disdain in Assad?’

‘Let us say that they have found something new to worship, and I don’t like it. I need unity between all the peoples of Inferex. Kill the dissenters.’

’As you wish. Who will make up my cadre? Berserkers?’

The daemon chuckled. ‘This revolt will not require the favoured of Khorne to end it, though I am sending Krakus to watch you.’

’I am loyal to you Voor’acht,’ Van Helser said defensively.
‘You are yet to prove your worth Mikael,’ the daemon said imperiously, ‘and until such time as you do, Krakus will be evaluating you in my stead. You will have forty of the best guard this citadel can provide to command.’

Van Helser grumbled, displeased that he would have one of Ranchak’s brutes casting its harsh gaze over him as he fought. It was unneeded as far as he was concerned. ‘And how will I be armed?’ he asked, trying to mask his contempt.

‘In whatever way you see fit. You leave for the port of Darvan at dawn tomorrow. I’ll have Krakus show you to the armoury shortly.’ The daemon left the chamber.

Van Helser was glad that he would finally have the chance to leave the chamber that had been all he had known since he arrived in Paarthegog, though being thrust straight in combat would be exceptionally hard for him. His leg was not yet healed and he had not handled a weapon since that train carriage on Messalon IV. He knew he was not fit either and doubted that he would have the stamina to even walk to this Darvan place without stopping for a rest. He would have difficulty in getting the warriors to follow him if he could not prove that he was worthy of their respect and at the moment he certainly felt incapable of gaining the respect of any man. It was another of Voor’acht’s tests, and one that he would have to pass in order to be granted the place at the daemon’s side he had been promised.





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'Rid yourself of the aquila too Mikael; we both know you don't believe in what it represents anymore.' - Ranchak to Van Helser on Messalon IV


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Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 24/01/2005 13:50:03
Message:

Darvan lay ten miles to the northwest of Paarthegog. The port was a sprawling mess of twisting streets and squat buildings that sloped gently downwards to the rough waters of the Grand Ocean. Decrepit ships of innumerable descriptions were moored to steel piers that stretched nearly a mile out to sea, their masts and funnels immediately visible to the formation of warriors that marched into the city three and a half hours after dawn, a massive marine and a limping man at their head.

Van Helser grimaced with pain. His leg was not repaired and every footstep burned with pain, and the worry that a slight trip would result in a fresh break had been foremost in his mind ever since they had left the citadel. The leering berserker had not helped things in the slightest; Krakus’ condescending remarks about the slow pace of the company had dogged Mikael nearly without end during the trek. It was obvious that the marine had no respect in the slightest for him, and did not believe in his ability to command. It was exactly as he had feared.

‘We head straight for the quayside,’ Krakus announced as they passed under the bronze archway that marked the entrance to the port, ‘the ship is waiting for us, and we cannot delay our sailing any longer than we have already.’ The statement was directed solely at Mikael, another snide remark about his weakness. ‘You will have time to rest on the ship’s deck. This way.’

The World Eater set off in front of Van Helser, leading the way. Mikael sighed inwardly, but turned and signalled for the warriors to follow, but most had already started moving, obeying the hulking marine ahead of him. Damn, Mikael thought as he realised just how much work he had to do in order to have the men trust him. They probably didn’t even regard him as an equal, let alone their commander. His only real hope now was to prove himself in battle, something he was looking forward to with nothing better than trepidation. He shifted the pack on his back and marched after Krakus.

The armouries in Paarthegog were extensive, as would be expected for the backbone of a Khornate fortress, but were nearly entirely lacking in ranged weaponry; guns and crossbows eschewed in favour of swords and axes. Mikael had decided that it would be better to choose only hand-to-hand weapons, mainly to keep the men under his command appeased; it would be a huge error to distance himself from them any further than he was already – a witch and outsider. He had taken a hammer, a weapon that had come to feel almost natural in his hand, and a round shield embossed with a brass skull. He wore a leather jerkin and a deep red kilt; he had chosen a uniform to match that of the citadel guard, again to lessen the gap between him and the men. He carried a fur in his pack, which would be needed to fight the cold in Assad, a knife, water skins and some cured meat. He was carrying everything he hoped to need in the coming trials.




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The Burning Axe was an anthracite burning steam ship, whose bare deck was dominated by a central wheelhouse, angular and imposing. Two funnels rose up behind it, their muzzles fashioned to resemble the monstrous faces of bloodletters. Spiked railings danced around the perimeter of the craft, hung with pedants and the skulls of its enemies and former crew. It was thirty metres long, no behemoth, but it was quick and would be able to slip into the fjords of the northern continent with ease. It was a raiding craft that had stalked the waters of Inferex for years, killing in the name of the Blood God, and was seething to take to the oceans again.

Krakus led the company on board, wooden planks creaking under his bulk as he stomped to rear of the ship. Steep steps that lead below decks were hidden under wooden doors at the stern; the marine slid them open effortlessly.

‘Stow your weapons and packs,’ he instructed, ‘that will be your home for the next week,’ indicating the hold. It would be extremely cramped, but it would at least give Mikael more opportunity to talk to his men. And that was going to be central to his success on his mission.


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'Rid yourself of the aquila too Mikael; we both know you don't believe in what it represents anymore.' - Ranchak to Van Helser on Messalon IV

[VanHelser]

Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 31/01/2005 13:16:28
Message:

Pale, bulbous shapes drifted off the port side of the The Burning Axe, gently bobbing up and down in the swell. They were sackfish, as the soldiers called them, and they were looking at the air bladders that kept the jellyfish like things submerged just below the surface where they could feed on whatever microscopic creatures they used as foodstuffs. They were a surreally peaceful looking creature for something found on a daemon world, but their dangling tendrils carried a lethal sting, and their presence was considered to be a bad omen. Van Helser could see that the men believed the superstition.

For five days the citadel guards had been in high spirits, happy to be going to war and being given the opportunity to shed blood in the name of Khorne and Lord Voor. Friendly tests of strength and unarmed combat had filled the shortening days on deck, and tales of scraps and sexual conquests had filled the evenings while the men ate and strung up their hammocks. Mikael had been excluded from everything.

His attempts to communicate had been met with filthy stares and gobs of phlegm. The fiercely devoted Khornate warriors did not even want to listen to the words of another being projected into their minds through witchcraft as they saw it. Nobody wanted to know him and nobody wanted to be led by him. The guards even passed up the opportunity to fight him in the challenges; such was their rejection of him and feeling of disgust they had even being around Mikael. Despite the ridiculously small living space below deck, Van Helser’s hammock hung alone in a corner. It was dispiriting to say the least.

Now though, as the fifth day of the voyage drew to a close, the men were as silent with each other as they were with Van Helser. What hushed words there were concerned the sighting of the sackfish and what it could mean for their mission. No one would say it, but it was obvious to Mikael that the soldiers were worried that death awaited them in Assad, and he had to admit that their sullen faces were making him apprehensive too. For the fight to be taken entirely out of the men solely because a sea creature had been seen from the deck was quite a consternating event.

’The men seem worried,’ Van Helser said to Krakus, who was standing at the ship’s prow like a monstrous figurehead.

‘I am surprised that you aren’t soiling yourself with them,’ the berserker snarled, ‘sackfish mean misfortune, and two days from battle most likely means death. I am not surprised that the men are worried, though I am disappointed. Khorne cares not from where the blood flows, and neither should they.’

The World Eater had fought in the name of Khorne for near on ten thousand years, massacred thousands and had prepared himself for death in battle and was quite probably looking forward to his own slaying. The guards though were just men, twenty or thirty years old with only a few years in the army. They worshipped Khorne, fought in his name as the marine did, but they were mere humans. Mikael could forgive their fear of death, unlike the marine who no longer could remember the emotions, hopes and fears of a man’s mind.

‘What can we expect when we reach Assad?’ Van Helser asked, wondering what the men could be scared of.

‘Cowardly magicks and weak warriors. An army of witches like you.’ The marine turned away from Mikael and stalked towards the stern.




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Rain heralded the arrival of the sixth day and only a few people had strayed out on deck. Mikael had, to get away from the oppressive hold, and to keep an eye out should Assad come into view. He had no inkling at all as to whether or not the voyage was running to time, or was ahead or behind schedule. Krakus had said a week and a week would pass within the next twenty or so hours.

Mikael stood at the prow, scanning the horizon as two others stood equally silent, gazing out to sea. Krakus was in the wheelhouse, and one last warrior was seated over the side of the craft, the need to empty his bowel more than overcoming the desire to stay dry. The rain was lashing down, and the deck timbers were soaked. Mikael’s kilt was saturated and water dripped from his nose and eyebrows onto his jerkin. Subconsciously, he licked a drop from his top lip, but it jerked him from his serene viewing of the sea as the water ran over his tongue. There was a definite metallic tang to it, a taste he had experienced many times and one that he could not forget. Psychic energy. The storm was fuelled with sorcery. By the time he had turned to send a warning to Krakus, the screaming had already begun.

The poor man who had been relieving himself was gone, and it had been his scream that had sounded out, snapping everyone on deck’s head around to the spot where he had been sitting seconds before.

‘Where’s Craiche?’ one of the warriors shouted out desperately as he headed to the rail, seeking his comrade.

Mikael could see Krakus descending from the wheelhouse, and transmitted a message to him.

’There’s magick in the storm Krakus, something’s amiss.’ Van Helser saw the berserker’s angry helm turn towards him in acknowledgement. Another cry sounded out.

‘A kelpie! A kelpie!’

Mikael turned to see the man who had called his friend’s name spinning to run from something he had to look hard at to believe. A figure, ten feet high and humanoid, dragged itself onto the deck. Raindrops rippled in its clear form. It was a creation entirely composed of water, and it was pounding across the deck. It caught the fleeing man, engulfed him with its body and pummelled him around in a multitude of fierce currents within its liquid form. It forced water into his lungs in a jet of escaping air bubbles, drowning him. A shout of anger rang out across the deck as his fellow soldier ran at the kelpie and dived into it, crashing into his friend and tackling him out the other side of the water-beast. The two men hit the deck hard, and before the brave man could gather himself, the kelpie was on him, stomping a foot down onto his face, pumping water into his mouth and nose as he desperately tried to fight the thing off. As he struggled, the man was sucked up into the kelpie’s body by some suction force. He writhed for a few more seconds before his movements slowed, and eventually stopped, leaving his body hanging peacefully inside the kelpie’s belly. The thing turned towards Mikael and began to stomp towards him. As he desperately looked around him for a weapon, a red figure intercepted the watery mass.

With no weapon bar his fists, Krakus barrelled into the kelpie, using his bulk and momentum to try and knock the thing from its feet. It was an impossible act and all he succeeded in doing was crushing the body trapped within it. The kelpie turned red as blood seeped out of the dead man and diffused around its form, making it a hundred times more horrific to look upon. Krakus bellowed in annoyance and anger, and crashed a forearm through the kelpie’s head, leaving a gap for a split second, before the water flowed into the hole and reformed the creature’s bare face. Krakus punched into the kelpie’s body, smashing the face of the warrior within. The kelpie wrapped its arms around the berserker and stepped forward, trapping him inside its belly. Unlike the unfortunate warrior though, Krakus was wearing a full suit of power armour, capable of withstanding vacuum. He was not going to drown inside the liquid prison.

As Krakus continued thrashing away at the kelpie from the inside, Mikael could see that sheer force was not going to defeat the thing. The various cries and shouts had alerted the men below deck and they were now pouring out of the hold, weapons in hand. The warriors beheld the kelpie, and cried out various oaths, unsure what to do as they watched Krakus battle it from inside. Two men with spears warily approached the creature and jabbed at it, doing nothing except attracting its attention. It raised its arms and tried to consume them.

Mikael concentrated. Sorcery was binding the kelpie together, and he needed to overcome the psychic control it was under. He strained and focussed, trying to feel and visualise the power. He exerted his will. His brain burned with pain, and he gasped for breath. The kelpie fell apart and sloshed to the deck, dumping Krakus and the body. He had nullified it.

Krakus stood and stared at Van Helser. Gradually the heads of all the others on deck turned to look at him too. The berserker stepped towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder, before returning to the wheelhouse. Some of the other men nodded. It was as much thanks as they would give him, but Van Helser accepted it readily. He was gaining their respect at last.



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'Rid yourself of the aquila too Mikael; we both know you don't believe in what it represents anymore.' - Ranchak to Van Helser on Messalon IV

[VanHelser]

Reply author: Inquistitor Voke
Replied on: 05/02/2005 11:34:19
Message:

"I shall tell you nothing! Lord Voor will reward me for my silence! I shall never betray my Lord Voor!" the heretic screamed through tight, bloodless lips. His skin was flayed and his blood full of chemicals designed to force the truth out of him. He'd been living on life support for two weeks now after he'd had his heart torn out infront of his eyes and had been forced to eat it. Since that time he'd died more times than he could count. Nearly all his organs had been replaced, and now with every defiant reply they would be switched off, for about one minute to die again. Then they would all switch back on and he would be brought back to his never ending torture.

"He's a stubborn little runt I'll give him that, looks like you've got your work cut out for you." a rich alto female voice which had shouted too much said.

"He'll break, it'll take time but I'll manage it." the deep, commanding male voice replied. The voice spoke of horrors and betrayl and demanded the respect of command.

"But that's time we don't have" a second female voice, a thin almost frail sopranno, but sliky smooth and perfectly smooth.

The man stepped out of the shadows, his thick set shoulders hung low with grief and regret, his face draw tight due to too few hours of sleep. His green-grey eyes normally full of perpose and resembeling those of a hungry serpeant were now full of desperation.

"You right of course."

Voke switched the life-support machine back on and after a moment the heretic started to breath again.

Voke looked at his two companions still in the shadows.

"Time for a new tactic."

The heretics eyes snapped open, and surprise filled them. He'd never seen his tourturers, had only heard distorted voices. The man he could see looked to be in his early twenties, his thick dark unruly hair giving him almost a look of a rogue and an adventurer. His hawk-like nose and high cheek bones gave him the look of a bird of prey-a hunter. His green-grey eyes looked like those of a serpeant on the hunt, full of purpose and knowledge. His face was clean-shaven and his skin a light colour, nearly flawless except for several very faint slightly pink lines, showing very old scares...on a twenty year old?!
The man stepped back and the heretic could see his whole form and not just his face. Although only about 5'10" he looked very daunting. His body was not powerfully built but it was clear that he was strong and fit. The man wore a black tight shirt which buttoned high on the neck. The only ornament that could be seen was a small stone, a gem of some sort. With rich swirling colours, it seemed to be ever changing, enchanting. It hung on a thin white thread of something that went around the mans neck. Although close fitting the shirt would not impair movement. A simple black leather overcoat billowed out behind him. It had no markings on it other than a rossette pinned at the neck. He wore well pollished leather boots and black trousers, again designed for freedom of movement. His hands were covered with black leather gloves, tight fitting and allowing full dexterity. Being covered in black made this man look so daunting, made him look like a creature of the night, a deadly shadow. The full black made his uncovered pale face, and especially his piercing green-grey eyes all the more impressive; looking as if they were piercing through a shadow.

The man darted up beside the heretic without the grace that would normally be assosciated with such speed in a human. The man stared down at the heretic.

"All right, Lord Voor will reward you for your silence; and you wish to die to join your Lord Voor correct."

The heretic simply nooded. What was he doing? This man had been working for longer than the heretic could remeber to get him to talk, and now he was destroying all his work to do this; why? That worried and off-balanced the heretic. Did the man know something he didn't?

"Right, now do you know what this means?"

Voke pointed at the rossette at his neck.

"It means Inquisitor"

The heretics eyes widened even further at the mention of that, good.

"Now I want to find out where Lord Voor's home world is, and you know. And don't tell me you don't. Lord Voor will reward you for silence, but how much more do you think you will be rewarded if you send a Inquisitor for Lord Voor to kill or recruit? A chance to kill one of the Emperor's most powerful servants, one of those who are so vital to the Imperialums exsistance. Don't you think Lord Voor would punish you if you didn't send him this oppertunity?"

This was a gamble but Voke was desperate. If this didn't work then that was it, he couldn't go back to the tactics he'd been using.

The heretic nodded and Voke nearly let out a sigh of relief. The heretic went on to discribe in great detail Inferex's location but refused to tell Voke anything about the planet, but he had it's location, Voor'acht's location, Mikael's location with the Emperor's grace.

With a quick slice of his force weapon Voke ended the heretics missery. He called out to his two companions in the shadows.

"Ela get word to Quirrick if you can, I'm sure he'll be interested to hear about this. Eswt tell Navalis to get the ship underaway, and tell him to get a squad ready to go investigating. I wouldn't be surprised if that heretic lied to us then, but I wouldn't be surprised if he had told us the truth, but we need to be certain before we land at where he directed us."

The two left, and to himself he muttered, "I wish I still had all those abilities, we could have learned if that thing was telling the truth, and we would have learned it weeks ago, precious weeks Mikael doesn't have. But then choas and their servants were always hard to read..." And with a quick turn he left the chamber and the body of the heretic to be cleared away by the servitors. He had alot of preperation to do. He'd been searching for Mikael for too long now, and it looked as if he might be about to find his lost friend, and then the real work would begin; rescuing him.




No one is truley sane; we are all just different levels of insanity

[VanHelser]

Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 07/02/2005 13:35:07
Message:

A cold fog had enveloped the ship and the going was painstakingly slow. Mikael and Krakus stood in the wheelhouse looking over the ship’s pilot’s shoulder at the chart he had spread out on the desk. Scribbled lines marked the Southern coast of Assad, showing it to be jagged and cut with many fjords. The pilot hummed and hawed as he ran his fingers over the parchment.

‘We are attacking Nazadi’en, get us as close to that witch-hole as you can,’ Krakus instructed, his voice firm and overbearing.

The pilot nodded. ‘We’ll take the Hakier fjord,’ he pointed at a narrow gouge in the coastline, ‘it’s out the way of the main ports, and will get you within twenty miles of Nazadi’en.’

’How close are we to the fjord?’ Mikael asked, causing the pilot to shiver with revulsion.

‘Four hours,’ he answered without turning to make eye contact, ‘and then an hour and a half in the fjord before I let you off.’

Krakus grunted with satisfaction. ‘We’ll arrive just after dusk. We’ll set camp on land and then move for the witch-hole before dawn.’

’How well do you know the land?’ Van Helser asked simply.

The berserker laughed bitterly. ‘No one, not even Lord Voor knows the land. The witches use their filthy magicks to change the landscape. It matters not. We will crush them nonetheless. Now is the time to go and muster your men.’

Mikael nodded and left the wheelhouse, a smile across his face. “His men.” Krakus was showing him respect, and it felt good. With the berserker warming to him, it was surely not going to be difficult to get the men to trust him and follow his orders now.


There were a dozen or so of them on deck, still subdued by the loss of their comrades. They had held a service for the dead, each cutting the palm of their hand and dripping their blood onto the bodies of the dead. Most had returned below deck afterwards, either to mourn or to escape the foul, cold weather. Mikael approached the nearest, a heavyset man with bedraggled black hair that clung to his face with moisture. He looked like one of the more senior members of the war party, crinkled skin encircled his eyes and a crudely applied emblem of Khorne was carved into his shoulder. Numerous scars criss-crossed the patches of skin visible, and no doubt his clothing obscured many more. He was a veteran warrior.

’We make land in five hours.’ The soldier turned towards Van Helser and gave him a piercing stare.

‘What?’ The man stepped towards him, rising up his shoulders like a beast trying to assert its power.

’There’s no way you can’t understand what I’m saying,’ Mikael replied coolly, his mind speech offering the warrior no sign of fear to jump upon, ’we will arrive in Assad within the next six hours, make camp and then strike out for Nazadi’en before dawn.’


‘You expect me to listen to you, witch?’ The warrior was face to face with Van Helser now, putting his face into his.

’You will listen to me, and you will follow my orders. Voor’acht has placed me in charge of this operation, as it knows that I am worthy of this command. If I wanted to, I could slay you, and the rest of this ship. Krakus included. Appearances can be deceiving, don’t test me.’ His mind speech was full of venom now, harsh and cutting where it had been reserved before.

It had the desired effect. The man stepped back from him.

’Go and tell the others. Have them ready their equipment. And tell me your name.’

‘Canna. My name is Canna, Lord Hellraiser.’ The warrior turned and went to speak to the others on deck, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder in Van Helser’s direction as he spoke to the first.

Mikael wondered where “Lord Hellraiser” had come from. Had Voor’acht informed the men that this what to call him? Had the men come up with it themselves through fear, or was it a name meant to mock him? Whichever it was, it seemed like a fitting name. He would enjoy being called it by the warriors under his command.




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'Rid yourself of the aquila too Mikael; we both know you don't believe in what it represents anymore.' - Ranchak to Van Helser on Messalon IV

[VanHelser]

Reply author: Inquistitor Voke
Replied on: 13/02/2005 14:26:32
Message:

The Rogue Star gently touched down on the suppossed Inferex. From orbit Voke had really begun to question the heretics claims that this was Inferex, Voor'acht's base planet. It was, astronomically speaking, close to the Eye of Terror, and that infamous region of space could be clearly seen as blot in the night sky. Voke had believed that Voor'acht would near certainly have his home planet withing the Eye of Terror, or at the least on it's very edge; to give himself more control over the planet he ruled. It looked like this planet was just a feral world, devote to Voor'acht and just wishing it was Inferex.

Voke had landed near what looked to be the capaital, it appeared as if they hadn't been detected, unsurprising considering The Rogue Star's extensive modifications; most donnated from wreckage of Eldar ships Voke had reached before the Eldar could. Voke planned to find the leader of this world, and try and find out everything they knew.

On each side stood Ela and Eswt. There was a full squad of storm troopers in The Rogue Star, but Voke found it unlikely they would be needed. Navalis was co-ordinating things from The Stellar Web, just incase the worst happened.

Voke strode down the ramp of The Rogue Star, hand on sword grip. Voke had changed alot since he had last seen Mikael. Voke looked younger and more vigerous than ever, his regenerate ability even more focused. He had thick head of rogish black hair, although fairly short he was still well built. Old scars he had never been able to get rid of were now nothing more than faint pink marks. It was almost as if his rejection of using the daemonic had lifted a black shadow which had perverted his pysical form, weakening it, and now it was gone the damage was being reversed. The only pysical thing which hadn't changed was his jade green eyes; they still had that same sense of knowledge, wisdom, and of seeing too much; but Voke was as dedicated to his calling as he ever had in his 537 years of service in the Inquisition.

But he hadn't just changed pysically. He still wore the same flak armour and full body cape, but now a carapce chest plate lay hidden within his armour. He also wore a power gauntlet over his right hand, essentially power armour but it only covered his hand and forearm, going just beyond the shoulder. It contained all the micro-pistons and rams which moved the buly armour without effort from the wearer and increased the wearers strength. On the forearm it also had a small buckler, for no other perpose than the placement of an trice blessed Aquila and a etching of a soaring eagle felling a much larger dragon; Voke had searched and had found this to be his families crest, one of the few things he knew about his ancestry. The whole gauntlet was covered in flowing scroll work of wards and prayers. It gave Voke the strength to wield Lithis one handed if needs be.

Lithis was his new weapon of choice, yet to be used in combat. The weapon almost had a will of it's own; not as open as Nul'Ra had had, which was a comfort to Voke, as it had been so psycically charged. Voke liked to believe it was a small part of the Emperor's will guiding and protecting him. It would turn slightly to give the best attack, pull slightly to make sure Voke reached the most effective parry position. The sword was a power sword, ancient in creation. It had been created of Mars before the heresy and Voke had liberated it from a Word Bearers chaplain. Voke had then orded that it be purified and clensed of the taint of being used by choas. It was very different to the power sword Eswt wielded, while her's was a rapier design, lethal in a experts hands but lethal to the unskilled user, Voke's was a large one-and-a-half handed sword, broad and flat. On both sides the folded metal was etched with beautiful scrollwork, prayers and wards. Voke had wanted it to be a true dane to a daemon. Although his powergauntlet gave him the strength to wield the sword one-handed Voke often used his left hand to help with fine and precise attacks.

Voke also had a small gem on a pure white thin chain around his neck. Although the chain was extreamly thin it had never been broked. The gem seemed to constantly change colour but it looked as if it missed an inner-light of some sort that should be there. Strapped across his chest and back was a MIU controlled articulated arm, at the end of the arm was a conpact odd looking weapon. A legandary death spinner, Voke had aquired it recently and had taken to it. It proved lethal, and messy, on exposed flesh and could do damage to light tanks; the mono-molecular wire finding it's way through cracks in plates and slicing through wires.

Really all of these should have waid down on Voke but his focused regenerate gave him the endurance, eye-sight and hearing of a space marine. Unfortuantly this greatly focused regenerate had come at a price, a general loss of his powers; he could no longer effect the pysical world in any other way, and the centres of warmth that had once guided him; now one hung around his neck, providing nothing more than warding against daemons in the warp. No longer was Voke capable of taking on hundred of warriors and escape unharmed; he felt more vunerable than ever and hence the increased protection.

It appeared that The Rogue Star's landing hadn't gone completely unoticed. A raiding group of feral humans approched, all armed with rust, spiked crude weapons. All wore thick fur clothes and were covered in choas markings. It looked as if this world had been one of the ones that had pledged themselves to Voor'acht when it had launched it's crusade; and so devoute their faith they had convinced themselves that this back-water planet was Inferex.

Ela started to tense, drawing her bolt pistols. Voke gently placed a hand on her arm.

"Not yet, I want to find the leader here and keeping him alive; to do that I need to find out who's incharge here."

Their entire bodies were hiden in blood drenched fur. They stopped about five meters from Voke. One of them stepped forward to just infront of Voke, and started to shout at him in foul black language, the language of choas. Ela was just about to shoot him when Eswt called,

"No! Wait. It's a challenge. Ancient rituals before a fight. If we kill him now it's a honor for him, and we wouldn't want to please choas scum would we?"

The man brought a large two handed axe around in a lethal swipe which swung over Voke's head. He started to walk away.

"Now we can play by their rules, Ela-just to the side of the ear."

Ela brought one of her pistols up and fire, the bolt round leaving her pistol in a loud band and a spout of flame. The round flew past the man's ear, tearing off a chunck of his fur clothing but didn't draw blood.

All of the 15 paused, terefied. A magical weapon. They surly had bows, but not even black-powder guns, and certainly nothing anywhere like a bolt gun. The man who had challenged them recovered quickest, striding back towards Voke, and started to perform a set of jestures and chants that hurt the ears to listen, and the eyes to watch.

"Time to change the rule of this" Eswt said, fighting back the urge to vomit as the looked at the man. With a uneering speed she drew a small throwing knief and hurled it at the man in the blink of an eye. As Eswt had planned the hilt hit the man in the throat, dropping him, stunned.

"Now?" Ela asked. The remaining 14 men were readying to charge.

"We've worked out the leader, yes."

With cruel precision Ela set about killing the cultists. They quickly started to run away as limbs were blown off and the loud crack-bang of boltguns filled the air. As they started to retreat Ela swited her laser sights on, starting to take abit of time over each shot. The last man had only made 50 yards before Ela brought him down.

Voke strode over to the leader of the group.

"Lord Voor will kill you before you can leave this place!"

It appeared this man could speak low Gothic, even if a slightly old version.

It didn't take long to learn all they could from him, there was not much to learn. They delived that the second comming of Lord Voor was near, and it would launch another crusade soon. Voke learned that this planet had indeed fallen to Voor'acht on it's first crusade. But little else. Nothing here; Voke hadn't wanted to be it looked as if he would have to go to Nemessis Tessera and search the extensive records there. Voke hadn't wished to resort to that; it was near certain that Nemessis Tessera contained the answers he wanted but it could take years, even decades to find the answers; time Mikael didn't have, but Voke now had no other choice. Voke prayed to the God-Emperor that he would have his answers soon, he needed to reach Mikael soon, it had been nearly six months since Mikael had falled into Voor'acht's clutches.

"We have no other choice," he looked up at Ela and Eswt with grief and frustration, plain on his face, "we go to Nemessis Tessera, arrange for Quirrick to meet us there. We leave now."

Voke stabbed down into the leaders face, Lithis slicing through with ease. The cultisits blood burned when it touched Lithis; the blade hissing and steaming with the touch of choas blood. The blade hated to be sullied by choas but also relished in the knowledge another servant of chaos was now dead.

With luck Voke was be at Nemessis Tessera within a month, perhaps even less. And with even more luck so would Quirrick and the answers they both saught.



No one is truley sane; we are all just different levels of insanity

[VanHelser]

Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 14/02/2005 14:38:53
Message:

It was still dark. By Mikael’s reckoning it should have been dawn half an hour before, but the sun had yet to rise over the mountains to the East, and their march over the snow covered ground was taking place in an impenetrable darkness. It was true that they had travelled North, and that the landscape indicated that this was winter, but the sun had risen the day before above the ocean. He relayed his confusion to Krakus. A chortle seeped out from the berserker’s faceplate.

‘Inferex favours those loyal to Lord Voor. We have been afforded the cover of darkness to mask our advance. You should be grateful to the world.’

The reliance on what he knew about seasons and orbits was useless for Mikael in this place. The laws of physics had no rule on a daemon world – the planet could do as it chose, as insane as that was. The impossible was surely to become commonplace, however much the notion concerned Van Helser.




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Quirrick’s time on Helber had been short-lived. The cold planet had offered little to take his mind off Mikael and the daemons. He had spent most of his time in the bar of the hotel he’d checked into in the Capital’s up-market commercial sector. He still had access to Van Helser’s accounts, which had yet to be cancelled. It was funny; the Carta Mikael had always feared had never came, and until he was declared dead, in the eyes of the Administratum he was still an Inquisitor with all the rewards the job title could gift him, including the unlimited credit transactions Alexei had plundered. The booze had kept Quirrick subdued, but a burning desire to get out there again, and fight in the name of the Holy Inquisition had overtaken him. When a Rogue Trader named Nathaniel Falcon had wandered into the bar, and mentioned he was looking for muscle, Quirrick had jumped at the chance.

They travelled to a world called Colonia Nova, which was undergoing some kind of civil uprising. The Inquisition was there already, and Quirrick had helped them rid the planet of a corrupt Governor who was trying to offer the world to Tau expansionists. It was not long after when he received the transmission from Inquisitor Voke. He made all speed to Nemesis Tessera.

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The gleaming walls of Nazadi’en sparkled in the starlight. The cylindrical tower stretched upwards for two hundred feet like a needle, but Mikael knew not to trust the proportions. The tower was most likely as spacious on the inside as the harbour at Darvan, magicks altering the area within its metallic blue walls. There seemed to be only one door, and Krakus was leading them straight to it.

The berserker kept low to the ground as he ran, though his stooping form was still six feet above the ground, making a mockery of the need for any of the men behind him to copy his hunched form, though many still ran with bent backs.

Mikael’s leg was still sore. The frozen soil underfoot jarred his leg with every step, and he struggled to keep pace with the berserker at the throng’s head. He willed himself onwards, to prove his ability to lead.

‘Witch,’ Krakus hissed, slowing to allow Mikael to reach his shoulder, ‘the door will be hexed. Deal with the witchcraft.’

Mikael took the lead, feeling the warp for the psychic lock on the door. He was pleasantly surprised when he discovered it to be weak. Whatever false sense of security the sorcerers in the tower were under would cost them dearly. Van Helser had nullified the power before he’d even reached the door. He stopped up against the wall. Krakus didn’t.

At full pelt the berserker battered straight through the door, splintering wood and snapping metal. The warriors followed him in. Mikael joined the pack. Their presence was surely known now.



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'Rid yourself of the aquila too Mikael; we both know you don't believe in what it represents anymore.' - Ranchak to Van Helser on Messalon IV


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Reply author: SlaaneshBen
Replied on: 19/02/2005 11:03:49
Message:

Suyan felt himself flung through the Warp faster and faster as he made his way for Inferax. In the Warp the fullness of his daemonic form was revealed - his face was beastial and brutal, marked with the scars of hand to hand conflict and a bronze symbol to Khorne riveted to his thick forehead.

Gone was the uniform of a general, replaced instead with living armour that smouldered with the unquenchable fire of Khorne's finest smithys, that had been imbued in the armour. He roared with a powerful burst of fury, spreading whatever barely sentient entities were barring his path through the leering faces of the Warp.

With a brutal crash of shattering the barrier between Warp and reality he found himself streaking towards the surface of Inferax. Ahead in the middle distance he could see the towering Paarthegog, a magnificent structure erected to celebrate the power of Lord Voor. As he descended rapidly his flaming armour left a fiery vapour trail behind him before he came to the ground.

The earth splashed around him as he crashed into the ground, sending ripples through the dirt around him and sending huge clods of earth showering into the air like water droplets. They came back down creating ripples of their own in the ground as they rejoined with the planet. Suyan smiled. Daemons.

It was good to be amongst his own kind again.





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"The God-Emperor is dead, and no one cares. If there is a hell I will see you there."

-Landen Dosdamt

"He was a good man once... But then they broke him... This is what is left..."

-The mysterious V. on Landen Dosdamt

Need to find other players to burn? Look here!




Role Playing in the Old World





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Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 20/02/2005 14:43:00
Message:

An arrow shrieked downward from the gatehouse and thudded into the ground a few feet from Suyan. It was a warning shot, he knew that it would take something much more monumental than an arrow to kill him, and he reckoned the guards would probably have guessed as much. The heat of his armour was already causing the feathers of its flights to crinkle and blacken. Stepping forward, Suyan turned his attention to the figures on the ramparts.

‘I seek an audience with Lord Voor!’ he called up to them. There was no need for deception.

‘Who are you, stranger?’ one of the nondescript figures called back, his voice wavering.

‘That doesn’t concern mortals such as you. Tell your master that I bring news of the coming war. I know that Lord Voor will want to see me.’

The men discussed something amongst themselves in whispers, the occasional nervous glance flitting in Suyan’s direction. One of them disappeared from view. The speaker turned back to the daemon.

‘We’ve sent word to Lord Voor. We won’t open the gates until our master gives us permission.’

‘Very well.’

For fifteen minutes Suyan stood, the flora around his feet smouldering, facing the citadel’s almighty brass clad gates. They were set into deep red walls, the stones of which were quite easily Baneblade sized: boulders set together by titanic forces. Paarthegog looked impenetrable to all but the most heavily armed force. In other times it would have provided Suyan with a great challenge. It would have been a glorious victory indeed to take this fortress.

Great gouts of steam and smoke plumed out of the towers to the side of the gates, and the dull background noise from the forges was suddenly out-shouted by the clanking of gears and chains. The gates were opening. Wide and high enough to allow a Warhound titan to pass through without risking damage, the gates swung outward ponderously, creaking and groaning in protestation at the strenuous movement. Their complaints were rewarded when the chains stopped, leaving an opening no more than twenty feet wide – the two doors of the gate presenting an apex for four figures to walk through. One was a veritable hulk, towering a good foot-and-a-half above the tallest of the other three. Two were near equally sized, clearly power-armoured and wielding chainaxes. Berserkers. The final member of the party was the slightest figure, in dark armour and carrying a spear. It had taken the lead. Lord Voor.

‘You wished to speak with me?’ Voor’acht asked, looking the visitor up and down, its gaze fixing on the emblem of Khorne on his forehead.

‘Yes Lord Voor. War is coming.’

‘We know. We have begun to ready ourselves for war. What have you come to propose?’

[VanHelser]

Reply author: SlaaneshBen
Replied on: 20/02/2005 16:20:49
Message:

"I've come on behalf of my Lord, Landen Dosdamt, the Furious Angel of Khorne. War is coming, and looming over us all. The shadow of Tzeentch's chosen is cast over us all - if it rises, there will be another power. That cannot be allowed to happen."

Suyan took a few considered steps, hands behind his back as he summoned his next words.

"Lord Dosdamt is to confront the menace of AmonDull himself. For this, the Blood Lord has pledged him a force of eight hundred and eighty eight champions, each having carved his name into the Skull Throne with their individual victories-"

"Speak more of this AmonDull," commanded Lord Voor, with the confidence of a diety in his own nirvanic dwelling.

"AmonDull, chosen of Tzeentch, Lord of Hatred. This entity is nine shards, one consciousness, striving to become the next birthed god of the warp. It feeds off the deep rooted hatred of mankind. As you can understand, this is stepping into the domain of the Blood Throne, and thusly cannot be allowed to rise."

"What would you propose unto me?"

"Lord Dosdamt is one of the first Witch-Champions of Khorne, very much like your own Lord Hellraiser. I believe he is taking the first steps towards his own daemonic ascension as your own champion, Lord Voor?"

Voor said nothing, waiting for Suyan to continue. The mention of "Witch-Champions" had caused the beserkers present to spit in disgust and loom a little more menacingly, anger and hatred smeared across their face.

"Lord Dosdamt wishes an alliance of our forces to help destroy the threat of AmonDull. The fopping Prince, Slaanesh, has already chosen to align itself with Tzeentch in these matters, for reasons as yet unknown and undiscernable."

The mention of Slaanesh, and the possibility of conflict with their sworn enemy, had caught the ears of the beserkers, who listened more intently.

"It is thought Nurgle will not stand idly by and let the plans of Tzeentch manifest, though it is not known who his chosen champion will be. Regardless, Khorne has called Landen his champion for this, and commands all who would follow the Skull Throne to mass at his banner so that this pretender to hatred is defeated and our seat of power is maintained."

"Of course, reparations to your war costs will be made. Khorne has also pledged rewards to each of those who would fight in his name in this most glorious of wars. What say you, Lord Voor?"

Suyan bowed his head slowly.




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"The God-Emperor is dead, and no one cares. If there is a hell I will see you there."

-Landen Dosdamt

"He was a good man once... But then they broke him... This is what is left..."

-The mysterious V. on Landen Dosdamt

Need to find other players to burn? Look here!




Role Playing in the Old World





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Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 22/02/2005 18:22:33
Message:

Voor’acht pondered, intrigued at how knowledge of Van Helser had spread so quickly. The whispers of Inferex must have reached far and wide within the Eye. The daemon was not concerned though; knowledge that Inferex could wield such a warrior as Mikael was not something to conceal. If the other daemon-states were aware of the power that Voor’acht wielded, the respect that its armies commanded would increase, and that was good.

To hear of another “Witch-Champion” was unexpected, but was a sign that the forces of Lord Voor and those of Dosdamt should surely come together.

Its understandings of why some of his sorcerer-children in the north had rebelled were now clear – no longer did the Tower of Nazadi’en worship Tzeentch and their Lord Voor, they worshipped this Amon Dull, new pretender to the legacy of hate that was rightfully Khorne’s. The budding God could not be allowed to rise.

‘Inferex is ready to answer the Blood God’s call,’ Voor’acht answered, raising bestial growls of excitement from the throats of the Khorne-worshippers behind. ‘The legions of Paarthegog have been amassing, my forges have burnt fiercely for weeks, and now we have our purpose.

‘We will see Amon Dull destroyed!’

Voor’acht raised its spear to the sky and bellowed.

‘Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!’

Ranchak repeated the cry, as did the berserkers. Suyan leant his voice to the prayer. Along the battlements, the guards of Paarthegog heard the chanting to their patron, and joined the call. The people on the citadel’s streets shouted in time as the chant rolled over and enveloped them. The workers in the forges downed their tools and cried out. Hundreds of thousands of voices sung out together, and the cry echoed across the Blood Heath to the Black Mountains in the West, and to the port of Darvan in the East.

‘Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!’

[VanHelser]

Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 02/03/2005 12:31:12
Message:

Another blast of warp-fuelled, blue fire shrieked across the lurid green, nine sided, summoning room, enveloping two of the bloodied warriors, they screamed out as the mutating flame of Tzeentch attacked their bodies, turning arms to tentacles and faces to sealed fleshy orbs. They dropped to the ground, mewling through their closed mouths, suffocating as the fire played across them like the hands of a mad sculptor.

The attack was faltering. Krakus had led them through the first corridors like a crazed carnivore, slaying everything that had been too slow to get out of his way. The berserker had spilt the blood of dozens of thralls within the first few minutes, leaving little for the company behind him to do. They had reached a staircase, which led up and down. Krakus had called for Mikael to head for the top, where his abilities as a witch would be needed to combat the sorcerers. He would head for the bottom to protect their rear. They had each taken half of the warriors with them.

Mikael had noticed as he fought his way up the stairs that the weak bodies of the thralls were tinged purple, and all bore the same distinctive scarring, seven circles within circles on their foreheads; seven eyes to aid the two they were born with. Nine eyes. Nine, the number of Tzeentch.

Such ritual devotional scars were not odd – many of the Paarthegog guard bore the mark of Khorne on their arms – but the face of the sorcerer that now opposed them was horrifying in its deformity. Nine green eyes stared and blinked at Mikael as the devotee of Tzeentch charged his hands with blue flame. The “blessed” champion of Tzeentch was killing them.

Mikael jerkily leapt out from behind the pillar that had been affording him cover and dashed for the next one, slowly bringing him closer to the sorcerer. Another fireball jetted across the chamber, catching the unfortunate man behind him who had left cover too late. He tried to ignore the warrior’s gargling screams. The sorcerer shouted something, no doubt a hex of some kind, and the walls seemed to begin vibrating as a gathering of psychic energy pulsed through the air. Blood began running from Mikael’s nose as the presence of something daemonic began manifesting in the pit in the centre of the floor. Van Helser cried out in rage, spun around the pillar and charged at the sorcerer.

The nine-eyed man was quick, and had brought his staff up deftly to block Mikael’s hammer. With preternatural dexterity, the sorcerer twisted his weapon away from Van Helser, leaving Mikael off balance. The sorcerer’s left hand unleashed a stream of fire, which Mikael barely blocked with his shield. In disgust, he tossed it away as it began transforming into something with insectile feelers. The sorcerer came at him, swinging his staff like a club. Mikael ducked, and rammed his hammer into his opponent’s guts, bending the sorcerer double. Spinning behind him, Mikael crashed the hammer down onto the sorcerer’s skull, staving it in in an explosion of bone shards, blood and grey matter. The nine-eyed monster went down like a sack of stones. Van Helser sighed in relief as the throbbing miasma in the chamber subsided.

‘Lord Hellraiser, where to now?’ It was Canna, the veteran from the ship. Blood ran down his arm, from a wound that would in time form yet another scar on his weathered body.

‘We keep going up,’ Van Helser panted, his leg was burning with pain, ‘Krakus should meet us anytime now. We’ll need him for the final assault.’

‘Yes Lord Hellraiser.’ Canna turned to the others. ‘Blood for the Blood God, skulls for the Skull Throne!’ he yelled, drawing a chorus from the remaining warriors. He turned back to Mikael, nodded, and headed for the doorway the sorcerer had been guarding. Mikael joined the other men of Paarthegog as they fell in behind.





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'Rid yourself of the aquila too Mikael; we both know you don't believe in what it represents anymore.' - Ranchak to Van Helser on Messalon IV

Winner of the Short Story Category, Conclave Writing Competition 2004-2005


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Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 09/03/2005 14:20:18
Message:

The stuttering wail of a chainaxe biting through flesh and the accompanying screams of the pain it inflicted could be heard echoing up the stairwell like an orchestra of bloodlust. Krakus was ascending.

The lower levels of the dimension-challenging tower now swam with the blood of its inhabitants, their dismembered limbs floating like logs in a crimson sea. The berserker had led the slaughter of the thralls and slaves as only a devotee of Khorne could. None had been spared from the brutal death that the World Eater and the warriors in his charge had inflicted. Nazadi’en had borne witness to a massacre the likes of which any passive observer would have wretched at. The tower, however, was not as inanimate as it should have been.

In the topmost chamber Mikael found himself sprawled on the cold jade floor, his leg screaming out in protest at the work it had endured. The wound was bleeding again, and the limb had given out from under him. His head too pounded with pain, and it took him some moments to assess the situation. His hammer was still in his hand, and he used it to push himself upright, transferring his weight to his good leg. He balanced uneasily in the centre of a swirling mulch of madness.

The sorcerer had been waiting for them. The helmed man hung from the ceiling from tentacles that sprouted from his back and inserted themselves with the fabric of the tower. He was the tower’s horrific child; joined like an embryo to its mother’s placenta, being provided with sustenance and information. They had entered the tower’s womb.

Warriors, not thralls, had ambushed them, sliding out from unseen alcoves in the chamber’s walls, rushing at the men from Paarthegog with swords that shimmered in the magick luminescence that painted everything green. Touched by Tzeentch, the warriors became insubstantial on a whim; axe blows and spear thrusts passing through disassociated molecules to no effect. It was like fighting the kelpie all over again.

Mikael had immediately began trying to nullify the sorcerer’s control over the warriors, but the chamber was linked to the all encompassing power of Tzeentch and his attempts to block the power were laughed aside. The situation was hopeless. Men died all around him. Van Helser readied his hammer knowing that it was little more than a futile gesture of defiance.




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The blood, the skulls and the chanting. The blood, the skulls and the chanting. The blood, the skulls and the chanting.

The basest of entities heard its followers’ calls and saw their offerings.

Things that should not be rose from the bloody mire, growling like the beasts of hell they were. Clawed paws stretched and scaled skin steamed. The flesh hounds roared and took off up the twisted staircase.


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‘Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne!’ The call roared from Krakus’ lips in a seemingly endless stream. The World Eater burst into Nazadi’en’s womb, every one of his pounding steps and swinging arms showering the floor and walls with the blood that dripped from his armour in an unholy baptism. His chainaxe swung in his grasp, screaming as its motor wailed in distress from near constant action. The first warrior was too slow to react to the marine’s appearance, and his nine-eyed head hit the wall as the axe chewed through his still corporal neck. The others melted into their ethereal forms as Krakus battered through the room, his onslaught fuelled with hatred for witches and those that associated themselves with them. He screamed in uncontrollable anger as the Tzeentchian’s avoided his blows with their trickery, and he plucked the head from the shoulders of a guard for some form of solace.

His end now delayed by the marine’s appearance, Van Helser turned his focus back to overcoming the sorcerer’s hold on the battle.

The psychic grip was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Followers of Tzeentch were nothing new to Mikael, but something was exceptionally different in this place. The power that radiated from the tower around him was an adjunct to the sorcerer’s will; that augmented it far and beyond any hexed arena should have had the capacity to do. It was another sign of the daemon world’s effects. He fought with the web, snapping filaments where he could. It became clear that it would take an age to complete – another aided each of the near infinite components – and that was with preparation and concentration. It was an impossibility.

Then the world changed and became dark and constrictive. It was like being in that cell again. Mikael collapsed to the floor, his good leg letting go as well.

The flesh hounds bounded into the room, baying, lapping up the scent of blood. They leapt at the warriors, collars around their necks suffocating the sorcerer’s power. The Tzeentchian’s screamed out as the dogs of Khorne gorged themselves on their flesh.

The sorcerer wailed as his power ebbed away from him, Nazadi’en no longer able to aid him. He brought his feeble hands up in front of him as two of the daemons leapt.



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'Rid yourself of the aquila too Mikael; we both know you don't believe in what it represents anymore.' - Ranchak to Van Helser on Messalon IV

Winner of the Short Story Category, Conclave Writing Competition 2004-2005

[VanHelser]

Reply author: Van Helser
Replied on: 22/03/2005 14:11:56
Message:

The Burning Axe rested in the cover of the fjord, gently bobbing up and down on the waves as it waited to head back into the open sea. Its passengers had completed their task, and green smoke could be seen swirling into the air as Nazadi’en burned in the cold daylight; Inferex had decided to reveal the destruction of the worshippers of the Nine Eyes and had allowed light to bathe this part of its form again. Lord Voor had won, and Inferex was pleased.

The warriors had gone below decks, leaving the blood-crusted form of Krakus topside alone, fearful that his death lust was not yet spent. Mikael lay on his hammock, sleeping, his injured leg freshly bandaged. He had survived Voor’acht’s first challenge. What the next would be he was not sure.

He had blanked out in the sorcerer’s chamber, and he now knew why. The daemonic beasts that had appeared, lesser creatures of Khorne, were gifted with collars that destroyed the twisted magicks employed by witches. Canna had told him as much. The veteran had survived another fight in the name of Khorne, and had seemed proud of the injuries he bore. His scars were his trophies.

Mikael reasoned that something like one of the collars had been used on him in Voor’acht’s torture chambers, it was the thing that had broken him and made him subservient to the daemon. He feared his next encounter with one.

A week later the port of Darvan witnessed the return of one of its fleet. The Burning Axe coasted into the docks with no show of force, or pomp, or celebration. It arrived as every other ship on the quaysides did, quietly. Twenty-three men and a marine disembarked quickly, and returned to Paarthegog.

The streets seemed busier to Mikael, and if anything the air seemed warmer as if the forges were burning more ferociously. Something was at hand. He climbed the road to Voor’acht’s tower, expectant.





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'Rid yourself of the aquila too Mikael; we both know you don't believe in what it represents anymore.' - Ranchak to Van Helser on Messalon IV

Winner of the Short Story Category, Conclave Writing Competition 2004-2005