(This is a continuation of the fiction I am writing for my narrative campaign. Now all of the factions have a background post and soon the battles themselves will be documented. Comments and critiques welcome. Thanks for reading!)

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The Relentless Tide, records of the Death Guard. Part 1

“I wish you would stop singing, it irritates me.”

A large head encased in ceramite swung slowly to the speaker, a greenish lens glowed sickly and the long brass muzzle of a rebreather hung from the helmet’s front, a mess of pipes and tubes spilling down the chest. The figure continued to walk, matching the pace of the speaker and the head tilted slightly as if confused. “How did you know I was singing? My vox was not active.”

The first speaker sighed heavily, a wet sound that oozed out of the grill of his helmet. “Because of the Unchanged.” He pointed at a quartet of slow moving humanoid figures. They plodded along, barely in front of the massive marines behind them. Each bore their marks differently, pustules oozed and boils throbbed, bare bone exposed to wind and air didn’t seem to bother them, nor the tentacles and fleshy protrusions that sprouted like horrid crops from a diseased earth. Moments ago they all wore the same smile, a rictus grin of odd mirth and cheer. Now their features slackened, hanging as loose as their skin as they stumbled. “When you sing they smile the same and they walk with more energy. It is odd, unnatural.”

The muzzled marine nodded, the giant container of pestilence sloshing on his back. He changed his grip on the nozzle, droplets of virulent green liquid splashing on the ground as he walked. The ground recoiled from the drops, pale dust becoming a feculent morass on contact. A trail of those little spots of plague stretched behind them. “But the Unchanged enjoy it. And if they can hear it but you cannot, then I see no harm.” The vox clicked and the connection cut, but the smile grew again on the 4 poxwalkers and they continued the march, their motions even more jerky and jaunty then before.

Agrax growled, his grip tightened on his bolter and he itched to raise it, to take aim at his irritating squad mate and to pull the trigger. He could not hear the words of the song but he could feel them, they grated on his spine and caused his slow blood to churn. He stopped however, trying to ignore the sensation in his ears and trudged along. His head turned at a chuckle and he glared at the one who did. “It is not funny.”

“I disagree,” replied an equally immense figure. Archaic plate split and stretched over him, teeth poked through rents in the armor and part of the missing face plate in the helmet showed another set of unnaturally arranged fangs. “Anytime a confrontation does not end in violence is very funny, at least for our band.”

“We do possess the most discipline of the other ‘vectorums’,” Agrax replied, spitting at the last word. “Not all is lost from the Legion, not all old ideals are surrendered…Sargent.” He joined the good natured chuckling now, the two marines sharing a moment of mirth. Another in the squad chuckled as well and the fourth looked at them with obvious confusion while the first one continued his song.

“Ahhh I do still like the title I must admit.” Sargent Tarex mused as he hefting his slim plasma gun. The gun lacked all the accoutrement and even the corrosion of the other marines’ weapons. It was relatively new, a slimmer design from the ancient patterns the Death Guard used. A scant 100 years prior he ripped the gun from the dead hands of a loyalist marine and turned it against its former brothers. It has not failed him since so he bore it still.

“Still, even we have our foibles much like any other vectorum,” another chuckle at Agrax’s displeased quiver, “warband then, or we cohort if you prefer. We have the old ones, the archaic reminders as we are called like you, Jalice, and I. We remember the long war, we fought with the Primarchs and against them, we stood on Terra, we remember the taste of Barbarus still.” A moment of silence followed, a time to let old memories fester and boil. “Then you have the new ones, the new blood. Ones that came after the Betrayal and the loss of purpose. Implanted with seed that is young, changed by oaths taught instead of made.” His armor growled in protest as the shoulders shrugged. “Who is to say which is better? Is there one? Or are all brothers in arms and as long as we fight together, we are together regardless of origin.”

Agrax did not reply for a long time. The stomping of armored feet filling the air, a relentless drumming of the march. Chains creaked in the still air, a soft buzzing of bloatflies a constant undercurrent of sound, and the wet flaps of fabric sodden with mucus and pus. “The First Captain cares,” Agrax finally said. “He knows the origins of those under his command.”

“Indeed. He trusts all that are under his personal command as well as those that he fought with in the past.” Tarex hefted the heavy bronze and brass icon he held in his grip. It absorbed the light of the sun, radiating an oddly tinted light that seemed to devour instead of illuminate. “That is why he gave us this task, to bring more plague to this world. We will despoil Innocence and use it as a new vector, a melting pot of disease that will spread to the other hives of this world. When Innocence dies, so will Purity and it will be reborn. A new plague garden, on this side of the Maledictum, a new form of Purity remade. Glorious.”

The rest of the squad voxed their agreement and even the Unchanged moaned happily at the proclamation. The squad continued, moods mollified and temperament rekindled. The hive came closer as the march continued slowly, relentlessly.

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The Cult Commands and the Boys War, a story of the Gene Stealer Cult. Part 1

The hive pressed around them, the dark seemed almost alive as it swallowed all within it. Sounds echoed weirdly, the scrape of boot on deck sounded tinny and far away or the tiniest scratch on metal echoing titanically. The dark played tricks on the mind: creating shadows where there were none, absorbing the light and miserly letting sparks go at odd intervals, hiding those that were there from watchful eyes.

Even with Gene blessed eyes it was hard for Joe to see his brethren. His eyes, transformed from the mundane human into something more glorious, could just barely make out the curve of armor, the angles of guns, the pale flesh of gene kin as the crept along the floor. The more vertically incline clambered over the walls, finding easy purchase among the ruins. His eyes danced over the silent band, counting them one by one to ensure none had lost their way. None had, and that pleased him.

Most of the War Boys came from the same planet, a distant world that no longer existed. They were born from the blessings of the Gene Bearers, distant visitors that sired loyal servants. And loyal they were. The War Boys infiltrated the workings of the world, integrated themselves into every facet of society. Through their actions they brought the world into turmoil, confusion, disarray. With the defenses lowered and responses crippled the world was easy prey to the Ravenous Darkness.

The War Boys were able to leave the world before it fell. They wanted to stay, they wanted to aid their progenitors and be loyal servants to the end. However Joe received a vision, a future of further conflict and war caused by their hand. They would be the heralds of the Ravenous Dark, to set up new cults for the Gene Blessed. They would ply their trade again and again, gather more blessed to their cause, and mark worlds ready to be savored.

Purity was that next world. It was ripe, ready to fall as it is fought over by so many angry forces. The defenses were strong but Joe found a derelict hive, made weak from constant warfare. Here he could establish the base of the new Cult, here he would restart the glorious process again. It had taken them days to have snuck over from the major star port, posing as bondsman to join the war effort. Days spent crossing the wastes, the scars carved deep in the earth from fire and metal.

A shuddering clank, falling metal on metal filled the air. A rain of sound that permeated through the block and seeped deeper into the hive. Joe turned his head, glaring at the incompetent neophyte. He had lost balance and dropped his weapons to cling to stability, letting his weapon tumble and scrape. Muttered curses were aimed and two of them snarled at each other, inhuman teeth in human mouths bared in anger. Before they could fight a hulking brute stepped between them, harsh sound of flesh hitting flesh and the two neophytes bent, cheeks smarting and eyes cowed. The first malcontent started to climb gingerly down the wall, slowly inching towards his weapon that was lodged in debris.

“Many apologies Joe,” muttered the striker, holding a squat gun with an enormous rotating barrel. His bandolier of grenades clinked softly as he bowed. “The Things get anxious, want flesh, want rest. We have walked many days.”

“And we will walk many more Toast,” Joe replied, eyes narrowing and enjoying Toast’s subservience. “You know the Dark always hungers, it needs flesh more than we do. It craves, demands more than we can provide. That is why we are here, to bring this world into the embrace of the Dark. Once the dark holds this world then it can feed on either side of the Scar.” The listening neophytes hissed at the mention of the Scar, spitting and making signs of aversion.

The Scar, it was terrible. It tore the galaxy apart and even little Gene Blessed like the War Boys felt the loss of a whole tendril of the Dark. A great portion of the Gene Masters had died when the Scar was formed, that purple black swirl that mocked all that came near it. Joe wanted to die that day, feeling such incredible loss. However he knew that if he did then nothing would happen. Only by doing what he was born to do, to guide the biomass into the waiting arms of the Ravenous Dark, can the tendrils recover. Only then could the Masters take the galaxy and all be one with the Masters.

Joe did not need to relay all of this to his band of Boys. They knew in one way or another, some knew more of course but they were all united in will, in effort, in goal. They knew that their lives were nothing to the Masters, and that they could do a lot for the tendril.

Properly chastised, Toast vented his shame by hissing at the Things, they groveled and whispered until the Thing that fell clambered back up onto their level. Without waiting for him to recover Joe walked off, knowing the others would follow. He was the leader, he was the most blessed, and in the absence of the true Masters he was the Leader.

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By the Cog and the Forge, annals of the Skitarii Of Forgeworld Haven. Part 1

The sun had left Purity, plunging the war torn world into night. It was not complete darkness, flashes of light from all directions flared in the night and briefly illuminated fighting that waited for no specific time. Even battles in the void above could be seen on the ground below, needles of plasma preceding an eventual rain of fire and metal. The night was especially dense on Purity however. Some reason of atmospherics made the night even darker, faraway moons barely shone enough reflected light to be seen. Stars twinkled weakly, mere specks of light on the canvas of space.

However to some individuals, the night was merely an annoyance. Despite the dark, they were not truly hampered. Some could see without external illumination or did not rely on what is arrogantly called the visible light spectrum. Some are gifted from genetics, from biological evolution that allowed their eyes to see without the aid of artificial illumination or the sun. Others used technology, mechanical wonders to look past the veil of night towards goal and quarry.

One of the latter stood on the upper floor of a watch tower, a structure built on the edges of the hive. Heavy robes hung over muscled stature, an array of mechanics that hummed quietly beneath the layers of machine made cloth. The head moved back and forth, encased in metal and blessed by priests, it scanned the jumbled array of broken buildings, scattered stone, and other detritus. Such uneven terrain would have challenged the skills of most to pick a safe path, yet to this one’s eyes the landscaped glowed. He could see easily enough, to tell where vermin hid in burrows of scrap, where the structural integrity was weak and unsound, and the tracks of those that disturbed the ground before they did.

Another robed figure walked up the steps within the tower, the metallic floor creaking slightly beneath ironshod boots. The walker cursed, a blurted string of code. Without turning the watcher replied, to any other listener the noises were garbled and nonsensical. To those blessed of the Adeptus Mechanicus, they were clear and far more elegant than any spoken language. Yes Haven-984, the metal is inferior and poorly made. If this was our Forgeworld it would not have happened and if it did then the fabricator would be soundly chastised.

The walker adjusted a heavy back pack, an antenna array poking from the top and even though his sounds were just as unintelligible to the layman, one could tell the disgust within. Shameful Haven-002. Little wonder this world is fraught with tension. A real Forgeworld would have true metal, true defenses. The forces of the foe would crash against the bulwark and dissipate. Not like the dregs that threaten this.

If only every world was as ironclad as our own, the Vanguard Alpha replied. However they are not and we can only pray to the Omnissiah that one day this world can be fully equipped against the foes of the Imperium. Until then we can only do our duty when called. Now, report.

The communication specialist set the vox unit down, plugging a new wire into the base and adjusting a dial. The gene defiled are here. We followed their chemspoor and tracked them to this derelict hive. Same spoor as was left on one of our cargo ships.

Haven-002 allowed himself a little anger. He was still galled at how the genestealer cult had managed to stowaway on one of their personal cargo ships. The Enginseers were still trying to determine how the savages managed to do that. It was not until some time later after arriving on Purity with much needed munitions and support that they discovered the traces of the genestealers. Haven-002 as a Vanguard Alpha was tasked to find them, determine why they came to the planet, and then eliminate them for their crimes. However when it was known that the tracks were leading to the near deserted Hive Innocence the war band received new orders. The primary goal was still to enact their vengeance against the xenos filth. Second, they were to investigate the hive and see if there were any archaeotech worthy for them to bring back. Third if possible, they were to determine if the hive would be salvageable for future operations.

There is something else however Alpha. Haven-984’s electronic tone took a wary note. As Alpha looked at him he continued. On further scans plague spoor was scented, and electromagnetic readings that resembled ancient patterns of Legion era power armor.

Haven-002 allowed a longer moment of anger to course through him. Plague and ancient armor, Death Guard. Traitorous heretik Astartes. Send a message to command, we must investigate them. To foes of the Imperium in one place, far too suspicious. We must investigate.