Anonyme

1D4CHAN
Fouiller

Go

 1 histoire
o 1.1 Chapitre 1
o 1.2 Chapitre 2
o 1.3 Chapitre trois
o 1.4 Chapitre quatre
o 1.5 Chapitre cinq
o 1.6 Chapitre six
o 1.7 Chapitre sept
o 1.8 Chapitre huit
o 1.9 Chapitre neuf
o 1.10 Chapitre dix
o 1.11 Chapitre Onze : Une nouvelle écriture apparaît !
o 1.12 Writespace : Nouveau contenu non édité
 2 Nouveau chapitre writespace
o 2.1 Chapitre 11
o 2.2 Chapitre douze
o 2.3 Chapitre 13
o 2.4 Intermède : La Sombre Croisade
o 2.5 Chapitre quatorze
o 2.6 Chapitre quinze
o 2.7 Épilogue
 3 Prorogations terminées
 4 À propos de la fin
 5 Voir aussi
 6 Galerie

Storyedit
La bande dessinée qui a tout déclenché

Chapitre Oneedit
"Exitus Acta Probat : le résultat justifie l’acte." -Dictum Vindicare

Le credo du Vindicare est que les ennemis de l’Imperium de l’Homme

meurent de mort ignobles. Pas de procès pour ces hérétiques, pas de
reconnaissance de leurs capacités, pas même un enregistrement de leur
ordre d’être tué. Une intervention chirurgicale rapide, réflexive, impassible,
pour éliminer un ennemi qui ne laisse derrière lui que la moindre tache,
bientôt étouffée et couverte de peur de provoquer des exécutions
bureaucratiques plus invisibles. Traîtres et rebelles peuvent se ceindre pour
les vagues illimitées de gardes écrasant leurs villes sous les pieds, continent
désintégration bombardements orbitaux, et intrépide, imparable, impitoyable
space marines. Pourtant, comment ils caillent quand oh si désinvolte, leur
chef honoré, dieu figure, démagogue, idole, choisi, noble général, grand
héros, voisin, ami, mère, père, enfant, ou bien-aimé tomber sans vie, un trou
noir rond dans leur front.

"Ne pas échouer."

La plupart des munitions que cet assassin avait traitées auparavant étaient
des machines subsoniques, silencieuses et subtiles qu’il devait garder
cachées et assembler sur place; D’autres dogmes affirmaient que toutes les
armes devaient être populaires auprès des populations qui devaient être
touchées, pour montrer que le jugement de l’empereur venait du peuple.

Et puis il y a eu le fusil Exitus.

Assez dur pour casser l’armure tactique d’un Terminator, assez silencieux
pour ne pas réveiller le bébé que vous utilisez pour un corset. Il est immense,
énorme et encombrant, un point de huit sept mètres de long lorsqu’il est
entièrement déployé, presque aussi haut que l’homme qui le porte, pesant
huit kilogrammes déchargés, un neuf chargé.

"Je n’ai besoin que d’un coup."

Le gouverneur-militant Alexander aurait dû envoyer un Culexus. Quel que soit

le blasphème psychique que la sorcière déchaîna, il aurait été étouffé par la
pure terreur générée par elle. C’était aussi proche du monstre qu’un humain
pouvait avoir et être aimé par l’Imperium. Seulement juste.

Lukas Alexander détestait ces choses. C’est pourquoi le Vindicare avait été
envoyé. Ça, et un rappel tangible des conséquences de l’échec.

"En attente pour ordre de largage." Le réseau de visée a basculé à travers les
spectres, et s’est finalement stabilisé sur la normale humaine. Le Vindicare a
apprécié ces brefs moments où les cibles ont été confirmées.

Eldar. Peut-être un et deux cinq mètres de haut. Le cou ne se brise pas

facilement, petit os. Très souple. Le Primaire avait des problèmes avec son
casque, et le Vindicare attendait. Une mission de combat était exempte des
diverses restrictions, implications et circonstances atténuantes qui y étaient
trop souvent rattachées. Il suffisait de tuer rapidement.

"Semble blessé", murmura-t-il dans l’embout. Juste au cas où Lukas

écouterait. C’était un homme paranoïaque, l’Inquisition jouant des deux côtés
dans le conflit entre Astartes et Guard. Mieux vaut rassurer le gouverneur.

-- Tant mieux. Lâchez-la," Le commandant n’avait aucune appréciation pour

le moment. Les ordres étaient des ordres. Son doigt était sur la gâchette. . .

"Attendez, il se passe quelque chose."

"Je... ne peux pas."

-- Que voulez-vous dire? soldat? Qu’est-ce qui se passe? Le lieutenant Ardrin

jeta un coup d’œil sur les moniteurs à travers l’écran, parcourant les
différents cryptorunes qui ornaient les mécaniques archaïques : « Le
Techpriest a vérifié chacune de ces choses pour trouver des failles dans leur
esprit de machine, donc je SAIS qu’il n’y a rien qui cloche chez vous. Quelle
est la difficulté?

Silence.

-- Je répète, assassin, quel est le problème? Vous êtes attaqué ou quoi ?

L’Eldar est-il mort?

La lueur de la machine à verre devant Ardrin ne dit rien. Il a soupiré, puis

s’est tourné vers l’opérateur de vox à côté de lui, relayant actuellement des
rapports d’état sur la destruction d’un bâtiment à Lukas.

"Informez Lukas que le Vindicare ne répond pas." L’officier hocha la tête,

prononçant une parole de prière avant de la confier aux vagues du vent. La
réponse fut brève.

Envoyez deux chimères chargées. Contactez les agents du tueur. Priez pour le
pardon.

Connaître l’avenir, c’est regarder un océan de possibilités. Tournant, tournant

vaste et serein au loin. Quel bleu harmonieux il semble devant vous, mélangé
avec, mais les vagues notes de surf et de vagues bordant et rebondissant sur
le chemin. Vous l’approchez, les détails commencent à apparaître, et pendant
un moment, vous pouvez voir les lignes de marée, le contact du vent, les
roches plantées là, et les aquatiques qui entrent et sortent.

Maintenant, vous êtes sur la plage, et vous pouvez voir l’avenir venir à vous,
puis se retirer, une faim déterminée par les roches dans le ciel et la densité
des particules des centaines de miles. Vous trébuchez sur un gewgaw vomi
par le ressac, mais vous ne pouvez pas arrêter de marcher en avant. Cold, il
semble vous repousser au début, mais ensuite il tire, tire fermement. Tout à
coup, la possibilité et le potentiel illimité que vous avez vu un kilomètre en
arrière ont disparu, remplacé par le vert, le blanc et le bleu qui vous plongent
dans l’obscurité.

Voilà comment était cette bataille. Ça semblait si simple, si facile au début.

Puis elle s’est interposée, et soudain elle était au milieu, aspirée et éloignée,
ses possibilités se rétrécissant et se resserrant comme de l’eau qui coule
dans les poumons. Au loin, cris de sa famille, précieux chacun d’eux, plus
longues vies assombries et étouffées par une horde d’étincelles. Des humains
à vie rapide.

Alors c’était impossible. Elle était allée jusqu’à charger, un instant prise sur le
chemin de la guerrière, toutes ces obsédées par le sang parlaient si fort. Et
qu’a-t-elle eu?

Poignardé dans le torse pour ça.

C’était l’adrénaline, la nécessité tactique, son propre destin, de fuir. Tout sauf
de la lâcheté. Le casque était étouffant. Elle a dû respirer, pas le casque.
C’était du sang, qui remplissait sa gorge. Elle s’appuyait lourdement sur sa
lance, ouvrait sa bouche, crachait et saignait comme une fontaine qu’elle
connaissait.

Un kilomètre et demi sous elle, elle entend grincer.

La marée lui revient.

"Tu ferais mieux de me donner une BONNE raison pour laquelle au nom du
Trône tu as donné l’ordre de sortir mon assassin de ton propre chef, Ardrin!"

Lukas était en colère. Encore blessé, avec le haut du triomphe précipité sur
les rochers de la déception, il était à peine satisfait. Il avait dû ordonner à ses
troupes qu’elles ne pouvaient pas encore se retirer, et la réaction avait été
comme prévu : Dix-neuf flagellations, une exécution pour Conspiration pour
saboter le moral impérial.

"Sire, je vous ai servi."

-- Oui, de Cadia. Je t’avais fait confiance. Ne vous avisez pas de parler

d’amitié, je devrais vous tuer pour désobéissance.

"Regardez votre état."

Les medicae nageaient autour du gouverneur Lukas Alexander comme des

mouches, recousant des blessures et enlevant des côtes cassées pour les
remplacer par de nouvelles. Ses batteries avaient éclaté, brûlant la moitié de
son torse. Et contrairement à Sturnn, a dit Ardrin, Alexander a toléré le temps
de traitement plus long pour guérir les cosmétiques. Bien sûr, contrairement
à Sturnn, Alexander devait être gouverneur.
"Ça, cette maudite sorcière l’a déchaînée, elle, sa sorcellerie sur moi," a
bégayé Lukas, comme une plus grande dose des gradateurs de douleur l’a
frappé, "Et elle g-GOT loin, si vous m’aviez laissé..."

-- Laissez votre suite vous porter, avec une station médicale mobile prête, et
vos soldats distraits de sécuriser Tyra? Bien sûr, je vais inviter les Orks d’à
côté à partager un verre de Amasec sire. »

"J’ai un commissaire dehors."

"Et je sais que vous êtes assez intelligent pour ne pas exécuter un assistant
honnête," Ardrin a écarté ses mains, "Je pensais à la campagne plus grande."

Alexandre soupira, hocha la tête lentement, en grimaçant de nouveau : « Très

bien. Je vous offre ce luxe. Je dois admettre, dit-il en agitant la main non
traitée, que je n’étais guère en état d’agir. Remerciez l’empereur pour unh -
les bonnes fournitures médicales que les hommes ont obtenu de ces Tau- Pas
que nous avons besoin de dire à quiconque à ce sujet."

-- Bien sûr, sire. Et les Officios de l’Assassinorium?

"Je pense qu’ils sont déjà là."

La biologie de l’Eldar est semblable à celle d’un humain. Ils ont encore de la
sueur et des glandes surrénales, des pupilles qui se dilatent, des poumons qui
puisent plus d’oxygène en préparation d’une situation de combat ou de vol
standard. Ce qu’ils n’ont pas, ce sont les instincts d’un être humain. Un être
humain (Comme a été foré dans le Vindicare au Temple) lorsqu’il est
confronté à une situation de peur va crier pour alerter les membres de son
unité familiale, va essayer de garder le prédateur en vue, ou de fuir
aveuglément à l’abri ou plusieurs unités familiales. Un signe que vous avez
fait un travail mal est quand la cible est autorisée à afficher l’instinct de peur.
Typiquement, ces instincts se manifestent dans les "Secondaires"
spectateurs, les cibles d’opportunité, et la population que l’on tente de faire
passer le message. C’est considéré comme une victoire.

Cependant, quand il s’agit d’Eldar, ils ne suivent pas l’instinct humain. Le

Farseer dans les vues du Vindicare ne crie pas, elle tire son pied en arrière,
place les deux mains sur son arme, abaisse son centre de gravité. La sueur
n’apparaît pas sur sa peau, plutôt les muscles tendus et détendent, en testant
chacun. Un moment de sensibilité dans ses abdominaux, puis relâcher,
comme le poids se déplace une fois de plus. Une main gantée tend vers le
haut, retire de longs cheveux noirs de ses yeux.

Mais ses yeux se dilatent. Le masque espion du Vindicare zoome sur le point
qu’il regardait déjà; ces yeux effrayés qui se concentrent sur une tache de
terre. Un métal tranchant traverse la saleté sèche.

L’océan est autour de Farseer Taldeer maintenant. Elle dérive sur les remous,
s’éloignant du noir affamé. Chaque fois que la mort approchait, elle pouvait la
sentir tirer, pas la marée, mais quelque chose de faim. Le destin s’est moqué
d’elle, l’a raillée, pointée vers le bas, mais elle a dû l’ignorer, la perdre de
vue. Et l’odeur de Lameras.

Elle dérive vers le haut, les doigts coulant sur la lance hurlante du
wraithbone, les runes de la victoire, la rage, Khaela Mensha Khaine, Biel Tan,
la renaissance, la mort, et Ulthwe, glissant entre ses doigts. Elle respire dans
l’air aigu d’un monde étranger, un monde qu’elle détestait toujours, mais
maintenant sentait familièrement quelque chose. Dans les airs, il y avait autre
chose, la rouille, et l’âme innée et repoussante du Grand Ennemi. Ses yeux
battent, la lumière pâle filtrée par les cils. Un tourbillon la submerge; des voix
de terre, de pierre et d’os morts enterrés en disant, "Ici."

Elle tire ses cheveux en arrière, avale son sang, et regarde le sol. De
méchants couteaux sortent de la Terre morte. Des sifflets de Wraithbone dans
l’air étranger.

Balayez vers le bas, faites-le glisser pour le finir, il descend, plonge dans le
sol, déchirant l’herbe jaune et claquant dans la paire de mains, tirant vers le
haut, révélant les racines d’un vil squelette d’acier. Seulement la moitié, et sa
lance est seulement la moitié de la seconde main. Le premier tombe sur le sol
derrière lui, roulant et secouant dans sa recherche de chair et de sang.

Elle bondit vers l’avant, tandis que la main sort du bord de sa lame avec une
force anormale. Elle traverse et en un clin d’œil claque son pied dans le
visage de la chose, le précipitant dans le sol, révélant le cou. Un instant avant
qu’une réponse ne soit formulée dans le cerveau de la chose, Wraithbone
coupe sa tête, envoyant des étincelles jaillissant.

Chapitre 2
Taldeer devait compter sur la vitesse. Le seul moment où ils étaient
vulnérables, et même alors, c’était à peine quand ils sont sortis du sol. Elle a
peut-être déjà eu une chance, mais. .

Elle sent son côté. Sang chaud, avec des cordes de viande perdues avec son
dernier effort. Et comme pour lui rappeler, la douleur a traversé son corps,
l’envoyant à genoux. Elle lève les yeux, le Évasé découvert, émergeant du
sol, effectuant ce qu’elle sait logiquement être des vérifications de statut de
leur corps, mais ce qui pour la vie d’elle semble être les étirements et les
douleurs des prédateurs réveillés. Des fissures de pierre logées dans leur
métal vivant résonnent à travers la vallée. Il y avait une tombe en dessous, il
devait y en avoir.

L’un d’eux s’approche, il tire la tête. Assez follement, elle se demande

pourquoi il n’avait pas déjà frappé. Vérifiait-il la base de données contre des
pièges et des ruses tirés il y a des millénaires ? La vérifier contre des comptes
d’anciens ennemis réservés à la torture ou à la consommation ? Allez, pensa-
t-elle amèrement, en saisissant sa lance, cette seule ligne du destin où je ne
meurs pas, a besoin de toi

"Vitesse du vent, 4 km/h, distance, 1,6 km, réglage de 67 cm."

Pensée étrangère. Goûté

-- Necron. Cartouches à acide recommandées. Tirez sur les articulations.

Elle cligna des yeux, étonnée, car le soleil était bloqué par une main levée.

À un kilomètre et demi de là, on entend le léger son qu’on pourrait prendre

pour un claquement de doigt.

Taldeer lève une main devant son visage comme un bélier de balle dans la
cage thoracique de necron centre, éclats de shrapnel hypersonique poussé
par le destin et son esprit loin d’elle. La colonne vertébrale de l’horreur
métallique, placée à un angle de cent quarante-cinq degrés, s’incline, sa
griffe battant à l’endroit où un Eldar était dans son programme fiévreux,
avant que l’acide ne finisse ce qu’un rond de près d’un kilogramme ne
pouvait pas, et il tombe en deux.

Trois évasées regardent à l’horizon, tandis qu’un autre claque des doigts.

"Gouverneur Militant."

Lukas Alexander est resté où il était, supervisant l’incinération des cadavres

d’Eldar, les soldats vêtus de masques chimiques et d’armures biochimiques. Il
tourna légèrement la tête pour voir trois hommes éloignés les uns des autres.
L’un était appuyé sur une décharge de munitions, fumait, l’autre montait
soigneusement la garde devant un bâtiment sans importance. Le troisième,
était un homme vêtu d’un uniforme immaculé qui avait commodément oublié
toute sorte d’identificateur.

"Soldat," Alexandre se retourna pour regarder dans la fosse, promethieum

lapant les côtés. Une main faible se leva, et l’un des incinérateurs cria,
pointant vers le bas. Tous les cinq ont tourné leurs jets principaux sur la
motion incriminée.

-- Il faut que je vous informe, monsieur, fit un clin d’œil, sur la situation.

Lukas hocha la tête soigneusement, se détournant du sifflement bouillonnant,

"Et votre comr-"

The soldier stepped far too close to the governor in the space of a moment,
placing a hand on his shoulder, his pinky sliding along to the Governor's
carotid.

"My credentials are all in order, and don't bear mentioning sire. Where and
when would you like the briefing?" The pinky slid up to the base of the chin,
following the line of the pulse.

There was much the Governor Militant would have said. He would have
laughed at the false soldier, threatening with a finger. Lukas would have
loved to tell the fake all that Lukas had done in service to the Emperor of
Man. He would have struck the man, shot him, and ordered the other two
executed. Would have.

"I feel, we should meet immediately. Alone. In my command tent," He

whispered, his mouth suddenly run dry.

"Thank you, Governor Alexander," the soldier murmured, removing his hand
and turning on his heel. "But I feel that Ardrin should come, wouldn't you say
sire?"

"Of course," Said the Governor, turning, following the man, and coincidentally
followed by the other two soldiers minding their own business.

Behind him, the smoke drove high into the sky.

"Now," Said the man of the Officio Assassinorum, "You can be candid," he
spread his hands, "Forgive me, my lord, but the secrecy of our service holds
utmost sway over any respect for command. Do you wish to have me flogged,
or denied rations? I believe those are penalties that you may inflict on me."

Lukas had just sat down, and paused, looking up, "Pardon me? Just who ar-"

"Specific ranks, alas, I can not divulge, even within these sound proofed walls,
and before you say commander, the Inquisition had the walls soundproofed,
just in case of a situation like this. Helps to assure no unfortunate leaks of
confidential information. Would like to lock me up in the stocks? They have
some stocks on the ship."

--

"It's a good thing your officer is unarmed," said the man turning on his heel,
placing a too clean and soft hand on the Governor's table, "He seems the type
to resist, fortunately my two comrades are just the type to take him in with a
minimum of fuss, hmm, assaulting a fellow officer, my my, what a time at the
whipping post for me!" The man turned, a smile on his face.

"Who ARE you?"

"My name would seem nonsense to you, I'm afraid. Actually, I should rephrase
that; names, at least in my temple, are determined by missions completed. I
feel that as Governor, at least in this current crisis, you must have some
means to refer to me."

"And you would be?"

"Midilv," As Lukas opened his mouth, "I regretfully ask you to puzzle that one
out for yourself."

"Why are you speaking so deferentially?"

"Because I am a loyal servant of the Emperor, and the Inquisitor has

instructed me to obey you."
"There is an Inquisitor here?"

"He is not... Public," Midilv leaned in, his lips drawn taut across his too
symmetrical, pore-less face. "Of this you should mention in thanks to your
prayers to the Emperor tonight."

"The Vindicare," Lukas raised a hand before Midilv spoke. "And just the facts,
thank you very much. I'm not in the mood for your shame and self
mortification, or hints at machinations above and below," Lukas leaned in.
"Just. Tell. Me. About. The. Vindicare."

The two casual guardsmen entered, bearing Ardrin between them. Ardrin
looked clearly intoxicated on victory amasec. Looked. Midilv continued,
heedless of the new company.

"The Vindicare. Right. Where to start: The obvious. He shouldn't be capable of

this."

"Of what?"

-- Rébellion.

The entirely ordinary guardsmen lined themselves behind their speaker in

formation. Lukas stared at the three of them, as he sat back heavily, color
draining from his face.

-- Rébellion?

Rebellion was something that happened to ordinary men. It was something

that happened in myth to the Space Marines long, long ago. The Assassins
were an urban legend. They were a myth. Alexander was unaware of their
existence until shortly before the invasion of Kronus. They were said to be
inhuman. Machines of flesh and bone and Imperial propaganda. They were
ideas, they were mankind's secret monsters, held on short chains and
reduced to lives as valuable ammunition.

How can ammunition rebel?

Necrons.

Appeared recently. Date of origin, areas of operation, all invalid and untaught
to the Vindicare.

The N20 coolant sheath is cool to the touch. A bad sign. Heat distends
accuracy, and it should be freezing through the gloves.

The finger snaps, and the kick rams into the Vindicare's shoulder. A kilometer
away, wraithbone spear impales the already fragmented skull, and pulls
down, ramming through into the torso, pulling her up. Through the scope, she
glitters. She shines. She glows radiant. In every spectrum.
Range has to be shortened, concludes the Vindicare. Naturally, in order to
increase accuracy and allow a change to the secondary weapon. Naturally.

The Vindicare stands, and starts moving forward. His eye never leaves the
scope. And the scope always seems to find itself back onto her. The finger
snaps again.

Farseer Taldeer's hands come apart, and together, the fingers dancing and
sliding across the wraithbones, her eyes, following the head of the blade, as it
slides, up and away, traces of the bitter living metal following from the body.

Two down, five to go. The tide pulls around her, leaving her untouched where
only moments before she was doomed. How?

Heavy footsteps crash into and rise from barren earth, as another silent
Necron charges the Farseer from behind.

She feels the shot through the waves before it hits. A bullet, sliding through
the machine's equivalent of a right thigh, and ending in it's left knee. She
kneels, bringing the blade up, into the falling creature's neck, and then pulling
back to impale the one that tried to stab her with claws lost from a bullet.

A human. A human was helping her. She could tell, by the caliber of the
rounds. All brute force, no understanding of the harmony of a battle. Not
made to end the battle right, but to end the battle now.

She couldn't be more thankful. The abomination in front of her still lived,
sliding forward, scratching the wraithbone. She stepped back, pulling her
weapon free, and nearly stepped too far before she felt the fates turn down
into the dark hunger, and stopped in time to miss the claws of the one
behind.

She leaps again, soaring by her will, and glanced down. Three left. One of
them damaged. Confidence runs up and down her, as she falls back to earth,
bracing herself as the pain in her side reminds her that she isn't unhurt
herself, but she still feels so good. The three turn as one to face her.

There is a snap. Two Necron automatically track the third's head as it flies off
the already damaged neck, landing on the ground to their right. They turn
back to her. Waiting, for something. She couldn't lose the initiative.

She surges forward, low and ready. The one on the left has uneven footing,
the living metal slower to adapt to the rocky landscape under it than true
flesh. She steps first to the left, fate singing its assurances for the direction,
then drives in, spear ahead-

And sees the Necron take it. No reaction. His comrade, is a blur of motion.

The Fates laugh, as the necron metal and her armor emit a symphony of
shrieks.
The Necron she impaled looks passively on, it's hands reaching out and
holding onto the spear as she attempts to pull it back with her one good hand.
No use.

She lets go, twisting, biting her lower lip as the last of her arm guard gave
way, giving the slicing talons access to her untouched flesh, she pulls, her
bitten lip gives blood, and her arm shrieks in pain as she falls back, injured
arm held close, she pulls back.

The impaled Necron stares down at her spear, as the metal dislodges it,
slowly shaking and undulating it free. The other, stares for a moment at the
blood on its claws, the ragged cloth and skin held, and compulsively wipes
and twitches it across itself.

The two turn, diving low, scuttling forward, going on either side of her.

The ocean is gone. There are no tides, no eddies, no drifts anymore in the
possibilities. Every way points down.

She screams.

Ordinary human beings do not hold a rifle in one hand, and a pistol in the
other. Much less a rifle designed to pound a near kilogram round across a
battlefield to, if necessary, blow apart a monstrosity spawned of nightmares
and the unholy vagaries of the Warp. The pistol was little better than a sized
down version of the rifle. This is because it might break your arms. A space
marine wouldn't do it because it was stupid.

The Vindicare reflected on this as he jumped over the embankment, rifle

down his shoulder, and pistol in his hand. His eyes switch between each in the
time of a blink, lining them up with two skulls.

This is going to miss, he thought. Two snaps were matched with two
unbearably loud reports of metal rammed into. Those bullets aren't even
going to kill them, probably. Two metal skulls were reduced to molten, slightly
caustic and soggy shrapnel. I'm probably going to end up hurting something.

He landed with grace, next to Farseer Taldeer.

"A Vindicare should not be mistaken for a human being. Contrary to a human
being, who is filled with distractions, memories, and connections to others, a
Vindicare is a well oiled machine. He was raised and trained, from birth, that
the only reason he wasn't dead, raped, ruined, or suffered under any other
horrible abuse that we could think of, was because of the Emperor. They were
taught that they were selfish monsters, to even think of being different from
their fellows. Their vocabulary is limited to only that which they need. Any
deviation is punished by torture. They were taught to hide from their teachers
and administrators, and to only come out when the mission was complete,
and only when they received word from an authority figure that acted the
impeccable imperial. Any deviation was punished with torture. The sense of
smell is cultivated carefully. We have attempted to teach them to tell the
difference of weapons by discharge smell. Any exposure to perfume, or
anything pleasant and unneeded in their missions is punished by torture.
Callidus require some socialization to blend in. Culexus, with their small pool
of recruits have need to take in any they can find. Eversor, their combat drugs
do the trick. Never shall you find any more well disciplined than a Vindicare."

"So what happened to this one?"

"We failed to punish him for a botched mission."

"A botched mission? You let him live after a botched mission? And you gave
him to me after that? I am responsible for liberating a world-"

"One of a million, sire. And oh so many people want assassins. This was one
of them. An Inquisitor working on a world desired to send a message to the
governor. The Vindicare was supposed to take out one of the primary's
personal secondary's."

-- Quoi?

"His mistress. The Inquisitor added stipulations. The Vindicare finished the
job, but he failed to complete these stipulations."

"How did you manage to defy an Inquisitor?"

"His luck held. The Inquisitor was shortly thereafter purged before he could
bring his wrath to bear, and the Inquisition informed us that they would take
no action against us."

"He did kill her, right?"

-- Oui.

"Then what's the matter now? He was fine earlier in the campaign."

"Combat stress? Machines do wear out, barring proper maintenance. Some

machines sooner than others. Does it matter? What matters is that your men
out there shall not find him, even with our guidance that we provided them."

"Are you-"

"We are not sabotaging them. I'm just telling you that the Vindicare are
trained to be a force of nature. They strike as lightning upon the heretic, they
are as hard to catch as the wind, and they are as easy to find as a mote of
dust in the rainforest. Do not worry though. He will be found. There is always
a contingency."

Chapter Threeedit
Slaanesh was near.
Taldeer could feel it in every breath. Blood. A lot of blood was lost. She
shouldn't be dead yet though. A noise. A presence. It wasn't a Necron.

It shouldn't be like this. She was trusted to come, to guide the lessers to
extinguish the threat throbbing rotten in the core of Kronus, and leave them
in confusion. Yet, here she was, helpless, losing blood, fallen to fool pride; at
the mercy of something. Someone. Someone with a presence at least. She
took a small comfort in that, and the soulgem at her neck.

Primary suffering internal bleeding, blood loss severe, the thoughts came
through again. Her eyelids flickered momentary glances of a too bright gray
sky. Why did they come unbidden?

Pain, pain, currently showing resignation. Job unclean, Primary has high
chance of survival. Good mission. How, how, how to clean primary?

The thoughts were jumbled, mashed, rigid iron roads set that his thoughts ran
through, but there was something active in there.

She felt a hand touch her. She opened her eyes, and pushed out, pure
reaction.

A moment, and she was sitting up, regretting it immediately as fire lanced up
and down her. The thoughts came again.

Primary is active. Medical science far easier than expected. Damage to self,
superficial. Now... a lengthy pause, then hesitant, uncertain, Converse?

"You're okay...?" A voice flat and muffled came behind her. At first a
statement, then a question, as she tottered again. This time, she was caught.

Commissar Daniel glared out of the top hatch of the Chimera.

"This is RIDICULOUS!" he shouted, turning to the poor sergeant down inside

the chimera, who was genially standing and listening to the bellicose man.

"How so, sire?"

"The soldiers of His holy wrath should not be prancing about in the middle of
nowhere, chasing some worthless incapable who got himself lost! We should
descending upon the Orks, take advantage of our victory-"

"Do you doubt Lord Lukas?" The sergeant casually said, looking away.

"If I didn't have all my faith behind noble lord Lukas Alexander, I wouldn't be
doing this," Commissar Daniel finished with a glare. The sergeant nodded
amiably, a large happy grin on his face.

Local yokel, thought the Commissar, as he stepped back inside the

chimera. Probably never even heard of Cadia, much less appreciate what the
glorious Imperium was doing, gifting this pathetic dirtball with the grace of
His mercy to liberate it. He glanced at the auspex. Five kliks left.

He leaned back, pushing forward his cap. Commander of thirty guardsmen,

each armed with the best weapons they were ranked for, with the authority to
kill any one of them or any one in their way to recover one missing soldier,
and all he wanted was a drink.

"No, get, get, off..." She pulled against whatever was holding her, had to get
up, get away from the mon-keigh-- but she was oh so very tired. She stilled,
still looking down, tensed, waiting. The seas of fortune were still, she had to
reflect that stillness.

"Primary, I, I...I'm, I'm sorry, you're not Primary, you're..." The voice was
muffled. She stared up. Faceless. Matte black stealthsuit, a pistol in the
holster. Comm mike, dangling by a wire. Compact, hard frame, well formed
for a human.

In a purely military sense of course. She had to estimate that it was best to
just lay back. She was hardly in any shape to resist him, and he wasn't
hostile. Yet. Stay neutral. Clipped. Communicate in their gothic language, but
make clear no weakness.

"Farseer Taldeer. Your name?"

"L-I-I-V-I," He had a mind of iron, well trained to keep her out. It was always
hard to translate human thought, but she prided herself on her mastery of
psionics. Yet, frustratingly, she was on near equal footing with a mere soldier
with a gun. All she felt were some whispers of emotion. Autonomous, instinct,
identification.

"Do you always spell things out, Liivi?" Liivi? Strange name.

"I think this is my first time." She noted with surprise her captor was rusty in
his own tongue.

"Why were you shooting the Necrons?"

"Secondary objective: destroy hostile combatants."

"And the first?"

Liivi paused, looked away.

A whisper of a thought passed through her head, as she stared intently at

him. The iron bars of his mind shifted, subtly, until they stuck.

"To protect you."

"A full history of the Vindicare's career, if you please."

Lukas blinked, glancing at the now fully conscious and hurting Ardrin.
"History? You're the handlers."

Midilv sighed, leaning back in his chair, opening hands for the "guards"
behind him to place a dataslate and quill into. "We do take care of him,
keeping him in an isolation cell and maintaining his health, yes; but if you
recall, your landing at Victory Bay and the following conquests were chaotic.
He was out of our hands and served on the field."

"But," Ardrin said, "he would leave between missions, just disappear. We
assumed he was going back to you."

"Mission probability post-combat rejuvenation/isolation, reset and remaintain

for next operation in greater campaign." Lukas glanced over at one of the four
faux guardsmen.

-- Quoi?

"Don't blame him, he doesn't know how to speak. Blending with civilian
populaces isn't our strong suit; best to avoid only after one's proven his
worth. That is our temple's dogma. We have proven success by this. What he
meant was that your assassin was probably removing himself from the
soldiers, as taught, and to attain a good position with field of fire, and if
possible, meditate, insert a food pack to his veins, clean and repair his
weapon, and sleep half hour cycles. Not that that matters, I want to know
every single thing you ordered him to do in the bare three months he has
been out of our eyes."

"Support of soldiers in taking the industrials of Victory Bay," Ardrin wrinkled

his nose, "Nasty fighting. We got tipped off about a Tauphile schism. Er, Tau
sympathizers were fighting each other."

-- Et?

"And I ordered him to cover fire. Occupants were in the house, I ordered him
to clear it. There was a family."
-- Hmph. Wouldn't affect him. He understands families to be the smallest and
most informal squads, nothing more. He wouldn't care."

"Protect me?" Taldeer realized she had to remain casual. There was a lie in
his voice, even if it wasn't in his mind. Some mon'keigh thug hired by one of
their damned Inquisitors who wanted to be "enlightened" or to steal
technology, just what she needed, "Why me?" She was too injured to argue
right now.

"It is a duty." He doesn't know, she realized. And he was very confused about
it. Typical idiocy, these humans hadn't even explained the purpose to their
henchmen. Guess that's what you get when you are so many with so short to
live.

"Perhaps," Farseer Taldeer said, "You may do something about my injuries.

And cease holding on to me."

The most important thing at the moment was ensuring immobility. Her men
would come soon, she could be evacuated easily, and this one human would.
Would.

She would think on it.

-- Comment?

She was not expecting that.

-- Comment? Well, shouldn't you know that? I've felt it flash through soldier's
minds." When I hack them to screaming pieces with my weapon, let's not
mention that bit. "When, they, uh..."

"Are dying? I was taught that was a common response, the call for a 'medic'.
It replaces or supplements call of maternal member of the family squad, or
paternal more rarely. Nurture, healing, are associated with it. I am taught that
if the shot is unclean, and the target is out of sight, all those who bear the
common sign of a healer are to be shot," Taldeer stared, and Liivi stared
down back at her, then, as if to explain, "To disable any chance of the Primary
resuscitating and rendering the mission a failure."

Silence.

"Perhaps it is best if you set me down. And keep watch for more enemies,
while I treat myself."

The surf doesn't chop. The tide ebbs, insignificant, rising and falling, like the
ocean was sleeping. Farseer Taldeer sits on the beach of tomorrow and in the
Tyrea plains of Kronus.

Three kilometers away, through the rough terrain, wraithbone psychoplastic

bubbled as the last of the consecrated promethium burned off of the
Bonesinger's arts. The webway was long destroyed, reduced to shards as she
had evacuated through it.

A mere kilometer under her, the presumed home of the necrons had turned
quiet; for now at least. As she recalled, the nearest possible position of her
battlegroup was at least fifteen kilometers away.

And nine meters away was the human. Mon-keigh. Killer. Assassin. Weapon.
Savior. He had knelt down, rolling out a plastic canopy which he laid his rifle
down upon, and was cleaning it one handed. The other carried a pistol,
straightening and pointing at the rustles of wind, and the far off thunder of
ordnance. The face mask remained intently focused on the rifle the whole
time.

Farseer Taldeer took out her runestones, and after a moment's

contemplation, her shuriken pistol. She grabbed a handful of her dice, raising
them to her spirit stone. She was injured, cut off from support, alone with a
self declared assassin. Time to roll the bones.

Nine rounds used. Eighteen remaining. Hellfire, turbo penetrator, and

shieldbreaker ordnance, still in reserve.

Movement at 321 degrees. The arm holding the Exitus pistol snaps over by
reflex, the third eye sight unable to clearly catch up. Primary was rolling dice.
All of her equipment was beside her. She appeared to be dropping some sort
of smaller equipment.

The N20 coolant sheathe emits a small hiss as it slides over the barrel. The
Vindicare returns his pistol to the holster, replacing the magazines. Packing
together and reassembling his rifle.

They would be tracking him now. The small electronic whine on his person
told him as much. The terrain was rougher, the commander had chosen the
battlefield to hem in the Eldar, force their hover vehicles to slow and show
themselves above cover. Made for a difficult time sending forces out of the
base though.

The Vindicare stood up, flicking through the spectra as he glances over a
horizon purple, green, pigment streaked, ruined soup of black and white. A
concrete heat signature, atypical of a chimera half a kilometer away.

Vindicare doctrine taught that engagement with pursuers should never be

undertaken when the targets knew where you were. Misdirection, panic, and
dissolution were the three objectives when handling hostile trackers.

The Vindicare placed a fresh three round clip into his magazine, and stepped
low among the long grasses, following the yellow white smear of thermal
exhaust in the sky.

Lukas took another gulp from the water, sweating from every pore, as the
three Officio Assassinorum handlers stood before his table, their poreless
faces still. Ardrin was to his left, pale and shivering, still suffering from the
chemicals washed through him.

"So, it's very nice that you explained to me exactly how much you think I
screwed up in handling your defective wind up killtoy, who apparently was so
perfect that he fucked up a job before he came here; but you haven't
explained to me how I avoid having to worry about receiving a bullet between
the eyes whenever I go outside from the one of the Imperium's finest fallen."

"Napalm the area, a good three kilometer radius should serve to deprive him
of oxygen. Deploy the Aeronautica and carpet bomb the area. Break the
Obsterm dams up north and deploy a third of your manpower salting,
poisoning, and watching the plains flood that'll occur."

"Hyperbole is very charming, and useful in military situations, and not in the
least unwanted."

"And sarcasm is a pleasant and original way to respond to statements you do

not like. All I have told you are guaranteed ways to eliminate your problem,"
Mildilv waved his hand, "Of course, we can wait for him to run out of ammo
for his Exitus weapons, which would allow you to run normal operations
without worrying about officer heads popping, and then for him to run out of
food."

"That would actually work?"

"Of course. He is incapable of social contact, and dependent upon the

nutritional packs he has been indoctrinated to consume. He might well starve.
Barring any civilian assistance, three weeks from now, you won't have to
worry about him, if the Orks or Space Marines don't get him first."

Ardrin for the first time spoke, nervously. "And the farseer? What if she
intervenes?"

Mildilv raised an eyebrow. "Then he'll die sooner, with an injured parasite
clinging to him."

The chimera of the Imperial Guard is about as simple and reliable as a vehicle
can get without it being pedal powered. Long lived chimeras in active use
soon resemble their namesake, seeming mechanical abominations with piece
after piece welded to them. The hatches replaced by doors stolen from
civilian buildings, hastily covered in metal roof sheeting. Shorn off track
pieces replaced with crudely fitted boiler plates. discarded power pack
casings molded into hinges. The machines would run unwell, sending the
Techpriests and Enginseers into hysterical fits, begging forgiveness from the
machine spirits, and repairing and replacing what they could identify and find
at the parts depot. But the older chimeras would get a slow mottled look over
them, like a child mixing clays in a creche, it was impossible to separate
metals and alloys at a basic level without rebuilding the whole thing. They
wouldn't run well, but they would most certainly run.
A chimera, as taught in vindicare doctrine, was a terrible headache to deal
with. Tanks were less of a worry, as those deploying tanks against assassins
were considered tactically inept, and the vindicare gained some honor in
tying up valuable resources. Height, urban combat, and tactical use of
screens would put the tanks on even footing. A chimera on the other hand,
could always be used.

A sniper holed in a building, the chimera would bash into the ground floor,
disgorging soldiers. If the building collapsed, so what? There was always
another chimera. No illumination, headlights shot out, smoke screening
everything? Just drive. You'll find your way out eventually. As much as
anything else the turbo penetrator round was developed to counter these
situations.

Two chimera crawled through the bush and over the hills and rocks, as the
kilogram heavy, green banded bullet was placed in the chamber.

Commissar Daniel poked his head out of the hatch again. The tech guy had
said the auspex picked up something coming closer. Should be in sight range.
One MIA, and all this trouble. He hoped that this was really one huge
birthdate surprise for one of the soldiers. So that he could then shoot whoever
was responsible.

"Got a direction?"

"Should be Cardinal East."

"Left or right soldier, or pass me up a compass!"

"Just a little to your left sir."

The Commissar turned, squinting through the haze of heat at the long grass
and lumpy excuse for terrain. A glint of something.

Then a crack, a flash of light somewhere to his right, and something gave a
soft *Tink* in the chimera's lower armor.

"ENEMY FIRE!" shouted the Commissar, pulling down the hatch, as the
surprised soldiers sat up, the political officer shouting at them, "Move, move,
move! A man on every gun, and any gun that CAN shoot to the right, shoots! I
want a wasteland I can name after myself, do you comprehend soldiers!"
They followed his orders as best as they could, barring what could only be
done by consulting with the planet's geographer. A hailstorm of red stabs of
coherent light obliterated the area and the rigged flint and rock that had
provided the target.

Misdirection. LIIVI holstered his pistol, creeping low through the grass, trying
to get himself into a more advantageous position.

"Cease fire," said the Commissar, his day much improved. The soldiers
relaxed, standing at ease, hands still holding the side mounted lasguns,
venting excess steam outwards. "Driver, park us as near as you can to that
suicidal stain, and give cover to the second chimera. Chimera 2, tell your
squad to deploy and move in. Investigate the area. If there's a corpse, ID it, if
there is isn't, bring me a corpse. Copy?"

-- Affirmatif.

It was a risk, yes. Taking a squad of soldiers out of a perfectly safe armored
personnel carrier begged for snipers, traps, and a whole lot of corpses. But
that would betray targets. Feeling a bit like Ibram Gaunt, the commissar
leaned in to the driver, "Stick as close to them as possible, if they bug out,
move us out as quickly as possible, then get a bead on who fired on us,
clear?"

"Sir," muttered the driver, pulling alongside the nervous squad extracting
themselves from the second chimera.

The troops, true to form stayed close to the chimera, practically hugging the
tread guard, sweeping in close, led by their lasrifles, eyes peeled for mines or
traps. The second chimera pulled up alongside the first, the guardsmen
squeezed in between.

The Vindicare watched them, five hundred meters behind. The one at the
front, one point six meters, was the leader, the paternal. A soldier from the
back, covered in spare las cells, a tear still visible in his sleeve moved
forward, with a little undue haste to exchange words. On one helmet, the
word, "TEATIME". A man pointed at his boot, hopping forward on one leg,
speaking out the side of his mouth. Laughter.

The Exitus rifle fired.

The Commissar was next to the wall of the chimera when he heard the
squeal. He fell immediately, laspistol to the ready, facing the wall. Maybe it
was the adrenalin, or perhaps it was the initial charge of the rifle failing, and
the drill bit activating, but somehow Daniel managed to watch a steel line,
occasionally sending sparks and slivers of metal out, raise along the wall,
ending somewhere just short of the drivers hatch, shorting out lights as it
traveled along, shrieking.

In the dark, he heard the thumps and screams of the soldiers outside, the
panicked revving as the driver slammed down the accelerator, the lurch to
the right, equipment falling around them, then another, definite slam.

Outside, the Vindicare watched through the scope, watching a track fly free, a
joint broken by his shot, hanging for one brief moment before the driver hit
the gas, sending the tread whipping at the crowd of soldiers. The chimera
lurched left, lacking pull, slamming into the other, doing mostly cosmetic
damage, but serving the Vindicare's purpose. Screams, and a commissar and
a crowd of soldiers leapt out, weapons brandished and at the ready.

Panic. The rifle was slung, and low through the long grass, the assassin
moved forward, pistol out.

The most immediate problem was restoring the squad's rationality, and
calming them down before they panicked entirely. A quick glance proved
what the commissar had initially thought. Gouges in the side of the chimera,
severe damage to the soldiers, and a track torn off on his chimera. The first
thing to do in any case is be the first man to set the example.

"Spread out, fire at the first thing that moves," was admittedly a bad choice,
but something had torn a large gash through his chimera, and incapacitated a
squad, what was he supposed to do? Break out the rations? "You men, left,
the rest of you, right, drivers, up to the multilasers- fan anything coming with
fire, keep looking, it could be a Carnifex for all we know!" Another bad choice
of words.

Buzzing. Clicking insects hopping across. Rustles of eighteen soldiers, rattled,

going through the fields, rifles first. A Commissar, standing between two
chimeras wedged together, covered by two multilasers.

One of the guardsmen falls with a sudden gasp. A powersword points, an

order is given. A confused man, who had the wind knocked out of him by a
thrown rock suddenly finds himself surrounded by red searing flashes.

The Commissar, raising his laspistol, catches a glimpse of something sandy,

black, darting ahead of him. A pair of useless shots whiz into the
undergrowth. Something whizzes by the Commissar's face.

This is it, Daniel thought. Death or glory. The powersword crackles with death
dealing life, as the commissar ran forward, the blade held aloft. He had to say
something inspiring, he realized.

"FACE YOUR DOOM, foul XENOS!" he hopes one of the troops hear it.

He runs into the grass, waving his blade around. A lack of mandibles and
claws key him off that something's wrong. The grass catching fire is the
second.

Dissolution.

The guardsmen ran. What were they supposed to do?

They were spread apart, something had torn apart the chimeras, their leader
had shouted something and disappeared, and now the grass was catching
fire? What could they do?

The drivers only had the sense of mind to abandoned the crippled chimera,
before they drove off, past the soldiers, relaying the panic and breaking of
their unit to the base, heralding their failure and embellishing the story to
seem as if they encountered an entire Ork WAAAAGH! in the long grass. In
their haste, they forgot the wounded.

Private Gnaeus lay on his back, staring up at the patch of grey sky, rounded
by black smoke. He was one of those wounded left behind- perhaps, he
considered, the only one.

"Your helmet."
Gnaeus rolled his head over, to a figure, hazy and blurred against the dark
smoke, red flickering across its brow, fire licking away from its feet, ash
swirling around it, "What does it mean?" Gnaeus was paralyzed from the waist
down and had bone jutting out of his leg like wheat out of a farm. Who was he
to argue importance with an angel of death?

"Teatime?" A nod. The smoke crawls off as the shadow steps forward.

"Teatime- It was sarcastic. A joke," far times, on Cadia. "I worked in a house,
as a guard for a while. Guy I worked for always had a special time for Benzran
Tea," the Reaper cocked his head at this, Gnaeus waited a moment, then
launched on, feeling vaguely blasphemous, whispering through the pain.
"Never took briefings then, just him and his cup. Serene even during a war, so
long as he got that hot flavored water of his. So me and my mate, we said,
'all's well so long as its tea time.' We put Teatime on our helmets, a joke, that
we'd stay cool. Serene as a fatman and his cup. Guess bloodloss and brain
damage is doing that more for me, huh?" The Angel of Death did not laugh at
the joke. Gnaeus couldn't blame him. Wouldn't seem proper, laughing at a
dying man.

Flakes of ash fell around the two, smoke drifting over them. The Vindicare
considered this for a moment. He shrugged, bent down and took hold of a
lasrifle, then reached over to pull two powerpacks from Gnaeus's pockets.
Gnaeus for his part did not resist. The assassin rose, half turned, then paused.
"Do you require the Emperor's Benediction?"

"No, please," Gnaeus looked up. The gray sky turned blue, even as the
window narrowed as the smoke thickened, "Not yet. I don't want to die yet."

"Very well," Again, the Vindicare turned, heading for the smoke.

"Wait," the cripple struggled, turning, crawling after the shadow heading into
the dark, "Hold on, I have to ask you," his eyelids were like lead weights,
dragging down, but one burning mote was left in his head, "Hold on, please,
hold on," It was all dark now, "Please," pain flared anew, even as the world
was dark, Gnaeus's hands digging into embers.

"Tell me, will it hurt? Please, tell me?"

-- Non.

The Angel didn't lie.

His body was left still for a time, until eventually, uncertain hands reached
over, turning the body to face up, folding the hands over its chest, and
shutting the eye lids. Imitation to last respects it had seen time and time
again through the lens of his scope.

Chapter Fouredit
Farseer Taldeer pursed her lips to suppress a grunt of pain as she probed at
her wound. Blood crunched, as she dragged at more of the half crystalline
clotting. Maybe I won't die yet, she thought, maybe first I'll turn into a crystal
like the other old men. Make an interesting landmark for the Imperial
colonists, she reflected bitterly. Then, picked apart by mon-keigh for purposes
of romancing each other.

The runestones still lay, bounced across where they were. From time to time,
her attention waned from her wounds to glance at them. The ground splits,
the mouth smiles, the fall is good. Sweet fruit in dead mouths. The love of the
enemy. Walk through fire.

For once, she wondered as she picked off the choice stone from the stone of
the blind man seeing, wouldn't it be nice if they would say something like,
enemy troop movements, allies position, things that would be practical?

She arose, picking up her helmet, and putting it on.

"That only increases your target profile," she froze, her helmet half on. It was
like being snuck up on by your own shadow.

"Aren't you quiet," muttered Taldeer, as she finished placing her helm on,
"And aside from that, why should you care what my target profile is like?" It
seemed strangely wobbly. She felt along the chin, seeking for the pins that
held it in place.

"It is harder to maintain unit integrity and speed if we draw conflict to

ourselves," The Vindicare set down the lasrifle carefully, as he approached
Taldeer. Taldeer for her part was doing her best to ignore him.

"'Unit integrity'? Forgive me for desiring a little independence, but I'd rather
not depend upon a sociopathic mon-keigh," she tapped her helm, "I'm going
to need this."

-- Vraiment.

-- Oui.

"It has taken damage."

-- Alors?

The Vindicare stepped forward, as Taldeer turned around slowly. The sky was
turning darker by the moment, not that either of them would care, she
mused. Was he trying to intimidate her with his height? Well, she thought,
gripping her spear, she was not about to be pushed around by something that
hadn't even been born by the time she had killed someon-

The Vindicare reached forward, placing a single finger on the helmet. He

pushed it slowly, ninety degrees. She saw the hints of his psychic signature
through the wraithbone, as LIIVI stepped back.

"Did your strap break?"

"Very well," said the Farseer, removing the helmet and setting it to the
ground to her side, "You don't have to demean me."

"And the... Wings?"

"They stay," She would not toss away her soulstones so easily. Taldeer raised
her head, then glanced to the horizon, "Where do we go then... Suppose you
hadn't thought of that, did you?"

"I have thought of that. Since I have failed my original assignment, and as of
yet the planet has not been secured, standard Imperial protocol concerning
Xenos Farseers would result in-"

"They'll hunt me with killteams." A nod.

"Awfully kind of them, concerning everything," Taldeer crouched, placing her

palm on the ground, "I wonder if it's Sturnn," she muttered, her hands playing
through the cold ground, winding and dancing. She closed her eyes for a
moment, and nodded.

"I have a direction," she paused a moment, biting her lower lip before
glancing at the assassin, "You are coming with me, right?"

-- Oui.

"Good." They'll have a torch to follow.

The dirt was dispersed, the shell casings buried, and the helmet left hanging
from the wretched root that watched, the last drops of blood crystallizing
upon it.

Mildilv leaned back in the chair, staring at the concrete ceiling. "I estimate
half dead." One of his entourage shook his head.

"Standard morale dispersal, sixty three percent break."

"Just the officers, maybe two beyond that--"

"I get it, it was a bad idea to send the men after him, but I thought after all he
is--"

The fingers were wrapped around Alexander's eye and gently tugging before
the pain hit his brain, and he was face to face with Mildilv's angry eyes set in
the emotionless plastic face.

"Do NOT end that sentence. You did more than just kill, maim, ruin,
demoralize, or damage equipment and personnel, you have ARMED him. With
a LASRIFLE."

Ardrin sniggered. Alexander fell back, his eye watering, his hands snatched
over it.
-- Quoi?

"It's a lasrifle," muttered Ardrin, "Most armors just get a blister. If he's using
that, it's an improvement over that bleeding huge exitus."

"What does a laser do?" Mildilv turned to Ardrin, shaking a barrel out of his
sleeve.

"Emit-" Began Ardrin, uncertain now as the assassin's attention was turned
directly towards him.

"EMIT HEAT, quite capable of vaporizing water by the by, a main component
of our bodies, I believe the heat the average militarized laser puts out is 500?
Sure, 500 degrees Celsius, we'll aim low," Mildilv scratched behind his ear,
producing a small power pack, bits of fake flesh still hanging off of it.

"Now, what do you suppose happens when, oh, ten cubic centimeters of
human flesh gets evaporated?" The leads plugged into the barrel with ease,
as Ardrin made to move out of his chair, finding two pairs of hands on his
shoulders, the assassins at his back.

"Wanna find out?" Said Mildilv taking aim with his ad hoc laser at Ardrin's
face, held in place.

-- I-I-I...

"You're right!" Mildilv said, thumbing the powerpack, as the barrel warmed to
lethality, "I'm expecting an explosion too, as human flesh and blood is
evaporated, with no place to escape to but out! Well, usually. If you're lucky,
there'll be a hole in your face for it to fly out of it, or maybe this thing'll
disperse across the surface, frying the whole thing. I suppose we won't know
until the experiment is completed then, huh?"

Governor-Militant Alexander set his carapace armored arm in front of the

barrel.

"I don't recall giving you permission to fire upon my men."

"Hmph," Mildilv flicked the barrel, prematurely discharging what weak energy
gathered into the arm. The steel glowed red hot, forming a temporary bubble,
before fading away. "True. The lasrifle CAN be resisted by armor, a heavy
scarf, or even a particularly bad case of fog. But sometimes it blows through
both, in the case of lucky moments of inductive heat, using enough juice, or
simple Grace of the Emperor. However, an open joint," Mildilv set the barrel
down, returning to his seat as the two face dead associates returned to their
ranks behind him, "an exposed eye, a rough patchjob...these can all be
broken by a lasrifle. A rare feat for even the most accurate of marksmen, but
a possibility. And he will never run out of ammo now. Please," Mildilv bit
through his false lip, his teeth meeting with a hard click, looked up, and with
trepidation in his eyes, "I'm going to have to tell the Inquisitor."

"You said he'd just starve to death anyway."

"Maybe he'll just shoot any new Vindicare we send down to support you, and
take their rations? No, no, this is unfortunate, but I do not wish for this
damnation on my soul." He stood from the table, false blood dribbling from
his false face.

"Where are you going?" Governor Militant Lukas Alexander rose from his
chair, grabbing Mildilv by the shoulder.

"To die, probably." The disguised man brushed off the Governor's hand, and
walked out of the command bunker.

"We are heading towards the Ork lines."

"I know," The horizon carried heavy clouds, pregnant with rain and storm,
ready to match the distant horizon's flashes of light and distant ordnance.

"Do you have allies among the Orks?" Taldeer gave the Vindicare a look.

"No. I managed to manipulate some Orks, that is true," Taldeer waved her
hand in the air, "I can hardly do that again."

"The killteams."

-- Oui.

Like the noise of stones crashing into each other, the war thunder rolled
through them. Softly shaking the ground.

"It's not--"

"A mission type in the Vindicare Dictum, is to initiate conflicts between two
opposing forces. It will be done."

-- Oh!

A deep resonating cry echoed in the distance, as a rock whizzed end over end
in inexpert circles over the heads of the pair.

"You have experience in this then?"

"Negat-- No. I mostly dealt with affairs of the state."

"Which means?"

"Discouraging sedition and treason. Recently I've been employed in combat

support."

Taldeer nodded, and then picked up step to get beyond the assassin.

Ahead the choirs of the battlefield roared its welcome.

The Inquisition of the Imperium of Man is quite possibly the most powerful
organization across known space. By its whim, heresy is dictated. By its need,
armies march. By its judgment, planets burn. The Space Marines, undisputed,
mighty warriors, the grandchildren of the Emperor of Man bow to the whims
of the Inquisition, even if they do bite and champ at the bit. Inquisitors step
the range of Holy Terra's Throne, to the Black Library of the Eldar, to the
interior of the Eye of Terror. What would have a man damned and executed
for heresy the Inquisitors engage in. They are the unchallenged and ultimate
authority.

A horizontal river fell upon the ten thousand Liberators of Kronus stood to
ranks, as the Valkyrie landed on the pad set before them. Full dress,
immaculate, even those imprisoned, all stood to their full attention. Not a one
wished to be found wanting.

Governor Militant Alexander stood in the front, waiting unwavering as the

dropship settled down before him, whipping water into his eyes and coat. He
had to look good. Not just his own fate, but that of his world rested upon it.

Cherubim fluttered out, carrying multilasers in their bellies, as the nine foot
bulk of sacred, artifice armor stepped out.

Gilded gold wrought across the ceramite plate, inscribed with prayers of
benediction and psalms of wrath. At his waist hung a power sword, its
wraithbone sheath clacking against the ceramite in the wind of the storm.
Lightning flashed, picking out the bionic eyes under the hood. He glanced
behind him, as two figures appeared, a techpriest, and someone in a robe--

Who repulsed the Governor. "No," he whispered, staring, as the cowl of the
robe turned left, and right mechanically as it proceeded down the steps.

The Inquisitor glanced across the assembled ten thousand veterans of the
Kronus Liberators, and turned aside to walk to Alexander, who was frozen in
terror. He had felt this before, this terror that sapped at the very soul.

Lukas's reverie was interrupted by the Inquisitor's hand.

"Get rid of them," He grabbed Lukas's shoulder, "And cease your cowardice."

The nausea grew as the abomination drew closer, maintaining a respectful

step behind the Inquisitor. Lukas nodded, every hair standing on end, and
turned to his Commissar, whispering in his ear, "Dismiss the men."

The Commissar started bellowing out orders, as Lukas led the Inquisitor back
to the command bunker, ruing the treachery of the Vindicare.

Chapter Fiveedit
"It's unprecedented," The Inquisitor said, as he crowded into the bunker,
staring at the consoles, the Techpriest having taken a seat and started
rattling off the status and location of the rogue assassin, "Well, at least for
this temple," the Inquisitor shot a glare at Lukas, who sat in the corner,
rubbing his forehead, "You do understand-"

Your life is forfeit if you breathe a word of this to anyone not cleared to know
it, thought the Governor Militant.

"Your life is forfeit if you dare to breathe a single word of this to anyone not
cleared to know it."

-- Oui.

"And the Farseer?"

"No one knows. We had sent out a scouting party, but they have yet to
return."

-- Hmph. He's heading towards a combat zone," murmured the Inquisitor,

ceramite finger tracing the route of his assassin errant on the watch screens.

"Yes, a team of Kasrkin are holed up resisting Orks a little beyond the
mountains, I've dispatched some men to--"

"Call them back."

"I'm sorry? I can't see how it would harm--"

"We have the greatest opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, Governor.
First, as an Inquisitor, I know well the way the common man thinks; even if
you DO save the men, and by some miracle they all survive, they shall
criticize you for even leaving them in that situation, and I desire your
administration to remain stable without any further scandal. Second, I require
that one of the most secret orders the Imperium has ever known to remain a
secret, and beyond that, that they can be corrupted must remain a secret."

The baleful, flickering green glow immersed the inquisitor's grin, under the
red glow of the bionics. His fingers were playing with the handle of the bolt
pistol.

Lukas stared at the Inquisitor, locking eyes best as he could and slammed his
fist down on the comm button, "Ardrin! Tell Yoland to recall the men, and that
I have rescinded the order. Rather--"

Call out the Basilisks, Mouthed the Inquisitor. "Call out Tennyson's basi-" All of
them. "All. All of them. All of the basilisks."

Ardrin's reply cut out with a squawk as Lukas flicked off the button.

"Give me a show, Governor," Said the Inquisitor, as he swept out, his

retainers following.
The sea was far off, in the horizon. In the horizon, it was chopping, surf
sloshing about, but above it was a storm, thunder and lightning wrapping
around and around and around--

This wasn't right. She shouldn't be doing this, she wasn't looking ahead right
now, to be sure, she could always feel the ebb and flow of fate running along
her ankles in the back of her mind, but she shouldn't be seeing it unless she
wanted to.

The hunger. Behind her.

She turned, and beheld the glittering dust of spirit stones. Beneath a burning
sun, they danced like embers above the bodies of eldar, common and noble,
all with their hands plaintively in the air. The air, beset with gasps for breath
and whispered pleas, as under their bodies, roiled the dark and cracked
ground, flesh and blood growing under them, mouths spawning again and
again, coiling like cancer across and over the bodies. The gasps became
screams, and the whispers became cries for help.

Blood shot out in squirts like bullets, staining and stinging Taldeer's face.
Drills of flesh and bone, rammed down, again and again in the mass, a sick
parody of sexual congress. One, a bonesinger was propped up, an organ set
before her, as she was puppeteered to play to the scene, arms wrapped
around hers, snapping softly like acorns under foot. Eyes grew like weeds,
wrapping and rising, staring upon the grisly scene.

It waits, said a voice that managed to skip her ears. There's no one left, but
you. echoed the foreign thought, as the Farseer tried to spin, to turn away,
but always found the same scene going.

And you're the climax.

The pink flesh moved on, rolling toward Taldeer, leaving broken, hollow,
desecrated bodies, no two the same.

She awoke weeping.

They were maybe nine kilometers away from the Ork battlefront, when the
Primary had passed out. She had still walked seven steps more, but the sound
of a quick slowdown of heartbeat, change in breathing, and missteps grated
on the previous light footed rhythm that she had displayed.

On step six, she was beginning to fall, and LIIVI began to move. He caught her
on step seven. Her black hair fell around his hands, as he carefully lowered
her to the ground. He felt the minute stresses her breathing put upon her suit.
The small strains her muscle went through, as she slowly fell into REM sleep,
and her body relaxed control. The warmth of her through his gloves. Her eyes,
shut, her lips, twitching, whispering.

He wasn't sure why, but he held her a little more tightly at that moment. For
just one moment. Before lifting her to his arms, carefully, and moving on.
When water started to pour from her tear ducts, he was six kilometers away.
He didn't know Eldar could lacrimate. He glanced around, infrared spectrum.
Some small pockets of warmth were out there. Only one within a kilometer
and a half. He carefully set down Taldeer on her side, before shooting the rat.

He had seen people comfort others, when they had commenced the standard
grieving patterns. He had seen a lot of grieving, rarely before the mission, but
often after. He had watched them, cling and cry on one another as their
beloved died, or they bore witness to the Emperor's wrath.

Her hand wiggled about, scratching at the ground through her gloves. He
reached out, carefully, and took hold of it. She calmed down almost
immediately, as the frenzy of motion beneath her eyelids increased.

That wasn't that hard, he thought, as he kneeled down next to her. Her hair
was in her eyes, wet and plastered to her face. He reached down, leaning in--

Her eyes snapped open.

"They're all dead."

She knew it. Slaanesh had claimed many, some had been saved, but the fact
remained--

She was the last Eldar on Kronus. To be sure, that had been the last stand,
the main base and the first landing zone that had fallen to Imperial forces.
She should have thought of the practicality of it. But she had held out hope,
that there was some pocket that had passed the purges of all the other
empires and interests that were on this planet. But they were gone. Had she
known that, when she ran off, drawing the humans away from the evacuation,
ensuring the safety of the survivors? Or was she still deluding herself to some
hope.

Her hand was caught on something. She looked, as LIIVI released his hand
from hers, and drew it back.

"Are you," the spymask stared at her for a time, before continuing, "Ready for
moving?"

"I'm fine, I," her hand ran down her side, between the ribs, to where her
wound had opened again, "I-I could just...Use a hand."

Pathetic. He is an assassin, who disobeyed orders from the people that

brainwashed him. Why should he help you, with that plaintive plea for pity?

His hand took hers. Her arm was slipped over his shoulder. She leaned on
him. They walked.

He was warm.

The rain killed the smoke, but one could see the black columns spearing the
ground across the field. The central bunker, was now nothing more than a
mash of concrete, occasionally spattered red. For now, the Orks rested in the
only way Orks could, jeering, fighting, yelling at one another to get moving,
get fixing, and get fighting again. Taldeer glanced across, sensing the psychic
miasma and overwhelming presence.

The WAAAAGH! was upon these aliens. They were set on a hillside,
overlooking the lumbering mass of the Orks. Thousands of them. With
Emperor knew how many grots, noted the Vindicare as he picked out the
scuttling shapes and the noises of the servile orkoids.

"Wish those kill teams of yours would show up sooner," muttered Taldeer.

"What then?" Together, they had been putting off this question. What they
would do? And it was they were now, they couldn't help it. She couldn't help
it.

She needed him.

"I...I hadn't thought of that," She glanced down, "First, we'll think of these
things."

Down in the pit, as Uzgob Nekkstompa, a Nob and a 'ard boy to boot wit'
more bullets in 'im than a shoota perked up. A scent was in his nose. Strange
to fink of it actually, now that, true to Nob form, a momentary thought went
through his 'ead. His nose had been blasted to Gork long ago, replaced by an
iron plate to stop the bleeding. Though suspicious, one could not deny the
scent, up and through the smoke, he peered, his bionik peeper whirring and
sparking as it zoomed with the focus of the nob. Somethin' was up among the
rocks.

Somethin' unorky.

"OI! LOOKIT THAT!"

As the faces turned, it was like watching a bright green fungal bloom, as
shining green faces turned, following the raised claw of one of the bigger
Orks.

LIIVI glanced over to Taldeer, as she hissed an inhalation to say something.

He sprinted, and pushed her out from behind the rock, and down the hill as it
was shattered and pulverized into powder as well over a thousand guns,
approximately thirty rockets, six laspistols, a bolter, and three thrown grots
rained death upon it.

The Vindicare checked her. No broken bones, but she was bruised, and looked
a mite angry, "We need to get lower. To the trenches," advised LIIVI, checking
his weaponry.

"Go towards the hail of bullets?"

"CEA- SEEZ- STOP SHOOTIN THAT BIT YOU GROT SWILLIN MAGGOTS!"
Shouted a nob, with a loudspeaker implanted in his throat. The bullets
swayed, searching and spreading across the hill, knocking down what few
stubborn trees grew out of the rock, and eliminating anything that claimed to
be more than a foot tall.
"Alright, into the trenches, me in front, you in back, cover me."

They ran like mercury. She breathed a prayer to Khaela Mensha Khaine to
guide her through the coming battle, while the Vindicare made several, fatal,
statements with his Exitus to what few orks were in the trench they headed
for.

"THEYZE COMIN’ STRAIGHT FOR US! READY YORE CHOPPAS BOYS, ITS TIME
FOR SOME FUN!" The Orks roared their appreciation.

Mother dirt and father mud embraced the two as they splashed into the
trench, a final wave of fire whizzing over their heads.

"Now what?" Taldeer looked to the Vindicare.

"I was following you," The Vindicare reacts to the primary- usually to shoot
them, but the assumption in this case that the Xeno knew what it was doing.

"Oh," shit. "Do your bunkers have underground complexes?"

"Depends upon the Enginseers. But they never connect into the trenches."

"Great, well I suppose we're all just--"

Thirty kilometers away, someone shouts fire.

A bare minute later, inside of the valley above the trenches, three hundred
incendiary rounds burst, in the air and on the ground. Bright, white, light
interrupts farseer Taldeer.

And the world around the two becomes little more than fuel.

Chapter Sixedit
The Incendiary: Tactica and Proper Oblations

Honored and hallowed be the Incendiary, most cleansing of the Imperium's

weapons. Doled out by holy flamer, delivered by blessed shell, released from
our pure skies. In all forms, in all ways, it is the Most Magnanimous Emperor's
love that is on display here; to give opportunity long for the Enemy to confess
his sins, to be burned free of their taint. How can one not marvel at a God
Emperor so kind?

Application and Distribution of the Emperor's Love

Concerning when one desires to give the Infidel forgiveness at a range, one
must review these tenets in deploying the Mercy of the Imperator. 1) Proper
Prayers and Devotion; to ensure Proper Phosphorus and Detonation! 2)
Launch a volley of the Emperor's High Explosive Wrath first; to open the sinful
timbers and flammables of the Heathen (For maximum mercy, limit rounds to
ensure only injury and immobility for those struck) 3) Send the Emperor's
Mercy (Take care in setting the timer; you desire at minimum a seventy
percent airburst for a correct Storm of Penance) 4) After fifteen minutes
(Enough time for a confession), deploy shrapnel rounds to eliminate any who
would attempt to halt the Emperor's Forgiveness with mere blasphemous
water.

Depending on the Storm of Penance, your soldiers may have to wait

anywhere from one to five bells to deploy and liberate the souls from their
accursed shells.

-- Section of Kronus Archconfessor Militade's "The Emperor in the Munitions: A

Veteran's Guide to Proper Faith in Artillery", currently subject to Ecclesiastical
review.

Ardrin carefully set the roughly tied together, hand written pamphlet down,
half fearing that it might spontaneously turn "Merciful" upon him. It was,
regrettably, the best text that he had upon this subject with him. He hadn't
really worked with artillery all that much until now. Someone had to bear the
Inquisitor's whims while Lukas led the army.

Three hundred smoking barrels stared at the sky, sizzling in the dribbling rain.
Fifty rounds HE, two hundred and fifty rounds IN. Timers varied from fifteen to
seventeen point five seconds. The flashes beyond the mountain range signed
success back to the crews of the Basilisks, loading in the next volley.

"Three hundred incendiaries," Ardrin wiped the oil slick water from the
pictoslate, trying to glean what was going on from the skull servitor, "And this
time, cut the timers to a straight sixteen seconds, I think that's optimum
airburst."

A chorus grunted agreement. Ardrin glanced over the command chimera's top
again, staring out to the mountain pass far away. No firestorm yet, but this
next volley would handle it. He shut the hatch as he went down.

The incredible bulk of the Inquisitor's armor and equipment took up a full third
of the passenger space, and the Inquisitor's conscripted retinue filled up the
rest of it, forcing Ardrin to stand leaning next to the door to the driver's room.
The Inquisitor himself, now that Ardrin got to see, was actually rather
scrawny. A humble cassock, far from the glinting lesson in waste covered the
man's slight frame, what pieces weren't removed and replaced with gleaming
steel.

"I heard the initial bombardment," the Inquisitor said with a fond smile,
disturbing beneath the clicking ocular implants, "It sounded like the fanfare of
saints. Have they hit?" "Yes sir. The Orks won't know what hit them." "And the
traitor?" "If he isn't incinerated in the next volley, he'll wish he had been."

Artillery was supposed to be a non-issue, or an advantage when taught in the

Vindicare temples. Admittedly, rare would be the primary or secondary who
would stand still when being hit with an artillery bombardment, but at least
they would be out in the open, and what was one finger snap in an inferno of
noise? Serving as spotters, eliminating artillery crews, timing shots, all these
things, the Vindicare had been taught and drilled. Reacting to being
surrounded by exploding steel?

Cover ears, open mouth, find cover.

He was in cover, inside a muddy trench that was shaking and spattering all
over the place. Already he could feel the tensing of his mask and implants,
countering the noises and trying to counter the dizzying amount of shocks. He
was fine, so long as nothing hit him. And her?

She was down on the ground, hands clamped over her ears, long hair
spattered with muck sticking to her face, biting her lower lip. She was
quivering.

His hand slid away from his head, heading for hers, when her eyes snapped
open, and she grabbed his hand. Her lips parted, shaping the word 'move'
through the thunder.

Their hands held together, they slipped forward, as a white phosphorus shell
landed behind them, evaporating what little moisture had been there. Maybe
ten more feet, before they fell again, this time into a partial hole that a grot
had dug, before forming the wallpaper.

They pressed together in the momentary sanctuary. Dirt and mud slid down
in rivulets around the pair, as they held one another, the world around them
flying into the air.

It must have lasted maybe, ten, twenty minutes at the most. Ten to twenty
minutes of fire and thunder. Of that time, the moments where they were
together in the side of the trench must only have been an instant. It seemed
an hour of racing hearts. Running fingers. Fluttering heart beats. Warmth
through cold mud and napalm heat.

Then it was over. The shaking stopped, the thunder stopped ringing in their
ears, and LIIVI reluctantly let slip Taldeer through his arms. Water and sweat
reflected phosphorus fires rising on the horizon, as she leaned back, on her
knees, looking down for a moment.

The roaring laughter of Orks snapped her eyes back on the Vindicare.

"The shells, again, this time higher."

"Airburst," Assassin again, he took out his pistol, hands running memorized
lines of maintenance, cleaning what little made it through the holster,
"Fragmentation?" "No. Fire. Lots of it."

He stood, stopping for a moment, and uncharacteristically awkwardly reached

his hand to her, a second too late as she stood. "Cover. The bunker," Taldeer
stared down the maze of trenches, in her mind's eye, dark storms flashing
thunder on the ocean horizon, "We better hurry."
They stepped lightly through the mud, surrounded by dim shapes of Orks
waving in the flames. For the moment, the trenches were clear, and the
Vindicare's mind focused through the sights of his pistol, a fresh magazine
topped off inside.

Above, the sky rained water as a consolation.

"Azrael, loaded." "Sixty guns loaded, my lord." "Hold until they all load," The
Inquisitor placed his cowl on his head, and stepped up the ladder to the top of
the Chimera. "Belial, loaded." "Uriel, loaded." 300 basilisks. One driver, one
loader, one commander. Nine hundred men, at his beck and call. Nine
hundred souls saved from damnation. Inquisitor Madek's mouth tightened,
drawing his lips back in a crude curve. "Raziel, loaded." "Lightbringer, loaded.
That makes all guns loaded. Your orders sir?"

Ardrin waited below, as Inquisitor Madek sat at the side of the Chimera,
happily staring across the field.

"Fire," whispered Madek.

Three hundred shrieking packages of flame filled the sky.

Uzgob Nekkstompa wheeled about, bellowing, a squealing grot in one hand

and his shoota in the other, trying his hardest to make more noise than a
warband of Orks set on fire, and variously hitting and shooting each other.

Needless to say, he was hardly successful. Not even pointing out sum unorky
softies running through the trenches roused more than a handful of lazy shots
and rockets. Uzgob Nekkstompa, though a 'ard boy, was no Gorgutz 'Ead
'Unter when it came to rallying the fractious orks.

So, figured Nekkstompa, him being canny and whatnot, he should go out, and
'unt some 'eads. If Gorgutz could get an army behind him by waving around
some skullz, why couldn't he?

The characteristic shriek of incoming basilisk shells only proved to

Nekkstompa that his course of action was in the right, as he barreled through
the flames after the pair fleeing for the bunker.

The tiniest of taps, a spray of mud, and another step was taken by Farseer
Taldeer down the trench. Her lungs ached, and she could feel the scrape of
crystal clots inside her armor, but she had to move. A storm would come
soon, and she needed to be in port then. An ork stumbled into the trench, fire
dripping from him, a gun in his hand. A sharp sound, and a rush of air from
behind, and its wrist is reduced to bloody scraps.
Maybe he wasn't as fast as her, she thought hesitantly. Maybe he was
keeping her in front of his gun because he didn't trust her. That moment in
the trench-

Did not merit reflection, she thought, as the tell tale shrieks of artillery
sounded over the hills. The ramp was just bare steps ahead, to the shattered
bunker.

LIIVI had already consumed the first magazine when he saw the bunker, and
Taldeer moving into it. He was just stepping out of the trench, when his head
suddenly felt like not moving.

"Oi fink I can kitch 'er jus' foine, 'oomie," The Vindicare was thrown down into
the muck, as the mass of green muscle clanked past him, "You'll just have to
siddown there and hannle the heat for a bit, 'fore I come back. Hope you'll
have a lil' bit of fight leff in ya."

LIIVI managed to see the Ork nob ram into the bunker, cracking the concrete
sides, before the air and sky caught alight.

"No other species in the galaxy has had quite the relationship that man has to
fire. The Eldar have used it in war, and left it behind, on occasion to bring it
forth, or to refer to it in poetry interchangeably with molten metal. Chaos
draws inspiration to fire only insofar as mankind has influenced them; and
even then, warpfire is its own entity, something diseased and gnawing,
generating none of the warmth of a comfortable flame. Tau barely understand
what fire IS, considering it a dangerous weapon; their fire caste serves in duty
and shame, not pride. Orks are the second to men when enjoying the fires;
but even then, they hold no passion to refine and craft the flames which they
like to see and feel.

But man... Man has a love for fire. Napalm, white phosphorus, promethium,
oil, gasoline, meltas, plasmas, firestorms, incendiaries, firepower, fireline,
flamethrower, fireteam, firefighter, the flames of war, fire, fire, fire. What else
could be said to have benefited as much from man as fire? What other
element has been defended, nursed, tutored, fed, and loved more than fire?
Our cities, our books, our people, our enemies, our friends, our dead, our
living, our greatest works and most heinous feats; all of them, fed to the ever
hungry flames," Inquisitor Madek chuckled, turning to Ardrin, "And there it is,"
he pointed to the roiling light beyond the mountains, "Years of brilliant minds
worked on that one. For warfare, for country, for humanity? No. We wanted to
see what fire, raw unchained flame, could do."

"Yes... Yes sir," Ardrin stared, as a dark angry cloud formed, crackling with
thunder, waves of hungry lapping flame roiling and struggling against the
rain, spewing ash high.

"Return the basilisks to the Governor. I am happy. Put forth my symbol of

office, and take me closer. I'll need to speak to the victors."
Taldeer crawled forward, coughing, eyes watering, as a wind pulled past her
and heat radiated at her. She had to get down the stairs, she thought, as she
felt for the steps. Ragged, broken. She couldn't breathe. She fell, into the dark
and jagged rock. She tried to control it as best as she could, her hands out.
Eyes closed. Lungs burning.

By the time she reached the bottom, the sting had left her lungs a bit. Flakes
of burnt paper danced in swirls around her as she came to a rest on a bed of
shell casings and ash. She glanced up, the steel door far above, the wheel
lock handle firmly shut. She reached up, grasping the steel. She closed her
eyes, in brief thanks that it was cool to the touch. She heard thumps on the
steps, and involuntarily breathed easy. LIIVI survived.

The ocean screamed. Her eyes bolted open.

Her hands shot out, leaving the spear on the ground, grabbing the wheel,
pulling with both hands, up, up and away in a swirl of ashes, from the
powerclaw that tore up the concrete. She glanced up, bracing her feet against
the ceiling, seeing for a moment the murderous red glint of the eyes of an
Ork, a grin displayed in what pieces of his face weren't iron.

"'Allo poinny ear," The double barreled, four magazined pistol clacked a
challenge, "I loike yer 'ead."

How does one survive a firestorm?

Dig.

Dig deep. The sizzling of the rainwater hitting the thermal bubble above. The
shriek of the cremated orks. The sting of the infrared radiation burning the
skin within his suit. Dig until you don't feel it. Mud ran through his fingers and
slammed into his rifle. The N20-

He pulled the cover out of his pants pocket, and held it close to himself,
ignoring the pain. The Hellfire round, the Shieldbreaker. They'd have to be
covered. His pistol was already in the mud that was baking to clay, the rifle
halfway after it. He smelled his flesh cooking, as he clung to it, crouched
hugging the side of the trench. The red and white waving around him, the
shadows of orks rushing this way and that, the ashes shearing across past
him.

He would burn or live, based on the whims of thermodynamics.

Through the dim roar of oxygen being devoured, noises could be picked up.
Orkish ammunition cooking off. Grots squealing. An argument, laughter.

A lilting voice.

A call. A voice more suited to song than terror.

The fire swept through the trench, greedy and hungry, roaring challenge to
dissent. Hairline cracks began to appear in his visor.

Outside, fire whistled. Taldeer was short of breath, and clinging upside down
to a steel door bracing herself to the ceiling certainly wasn't helping. The Ork,
mass of muscle and steel he was, didn't look the least bit taxed, as he lifted
his power claw, clacking the wicked edges together. A spark flew.

"The... the world outside this bunker is incinerating... And you want to claim
my HEAD?" She put up a hand carefully, delaying, "Listen, ork, I-"

"Oim Uzgob Nekkstompa, yur PoinnyEar SoontobeNekkStomped, and dat's as

much talkin as I can stan'. Gimme a foight!" The Ork lashed out with his
powerclaw, as Taldeer folded up, cursing the human who HAD to stab her in
the most important muscle group. Sparks flew as steel tore, and the Ork
pulled his claw back, lifting his pistol, yelling gleefully as it began to bark and
kick.

Ricochet filled the hall, as Taldeer rolled forward, grabbing her spear, her
nervous system following the skeins of the warp. She relaxed, her muscles
flowing and jerking like a marionette on the strings. Her hair, caught, slipped,
and flashed around her. The ocean tide carried her around the Orkish
ammunition, as her fingers ran and slipped along the wraithbone runes.

Her spear struck powerclaw. The Ork gripped, and pulled, bringing Taldeer
face to face with her enemy.

"HIT ME!" Roared the Ork. He was granted his wish, her foot whipping up into
his face, aided by the leverage of her caught spear, her whole body behind
the blow, knocking the ork back into the steel door.

The Ork grinned, spat a tooth. Barely phased by her full force. His pistol
raised, with a slurred, "Juss' the right distinse," dribbling around its teeth.

Just the right distance to spray her with automatic fire, which she couldn't
dodge in the narrow end of the hall. She gave a sad grin. The ocean was
calm.

Her singing spear batted aside the blood spray, as the Ork was struck clean in
the shoulder untouched by bioniks. The Ork glanced to his right shoulder, as
with a crack, his clavicle snapped, sending the arm to the ground.

"Well thass jus’ queer," muttered the Ork.

For a moment, some of the ashes floating in the air were illuminated with a
red line of light. A sizzle, as the ork's exposed left knee cap was bathed in
photons. Then it exploded.

The Ork fell over, shrieking, as the Vindicare let loose the empty power pack,
slapping a new one into the muddy mess of a lasrifle.
"You were expecting me?" LIIVI stepped into the room, lasrifle at the hip,
covering the obscenity slinging nob. "I am a farseer. Surely you'd've been
briefed on my capabilities," she glanced over, keeping her face still and an
eye on the ork. LIIVI looked unharmed. But there was something... "Mmm,"
The Vindicare stepped forward carefully. The suit, was designed to be
fireproof. This did not help the skin underneath it that much. "Are you-" "The
door's open," The Vindicare tabbed the lasrifle to ‘Full discharge’, and shot
another blast at the Ork's other arm, "You can take sanctuary in there. I'll be
along soon, I have to recover my equipment."

The door was a mangled mess, nearly torn off its hinges. But it was insulated,
and would serve better than nothing.

"It's still on fire out there." "Most of the fuel in the area has been
extinguished, the storm has ended. I should still be capable of being
predictable when you're in trouble."

LIIVI crept out, heading for his supplies, when he turned towards the sky.
Streaking meteors dropped in the distance. Meteors with atmospheric brakes.

Chapter Sevenedit
Taldeer stepped for the dark, rubbing her side. At least this time, the blood
wasn't clotting crystal. Or maybe that was a bad thing. And LIIVI's comment-

Was he, it upset? It was hard to tell. And more than that, it was hard to tell if
she should even care or not.

"I'll be predictable," she mumbled, stepping through the hatch. She received
a vicious kick to the shins.

Hopping back, grabbing her leg, she stared down at the ork, who had
managed to prop himself up against the door with stumps and a leg, who was
giving her the glaring of a life time.

"C'mon poinny ear! See if'n yoo kin take me wivout yer pet 'oomie!"

The wraithbone spear communicated the displeasure with the ork's inability
to suffer from bloodloss. The leg flew free, and Taldeer kicked the still
yammering torso to the side, and sealed the door shut behind her.

Well, she thought bitterly, soon he'll be gone anyway. And she won't care. Her
people's fate depended upon her. Who could care about one mon-keigh when
the potential lives of thousands of Eldar, and possibly the galaxy depended
upon her being alive?

She sat heavily against the wall, and slid down it. Just keep telling yourself
that, taunted a little voice in her head, that you can get another chance to
make up for the hundreds lost in this useless mission. Keep lying to yourself.
From his vantage on the hillside, Captain Diocletian could see the Orks were
shattered by the Guard's bombardment, mostly, true to the Inquisitor's
predictions. No Guardsmen were in sight too, a relief (at least to Captain
Diocletian), just as the Inquisitor promised. And the Grey Knights were
marching alongside their fellow marines... Just as the Inquisitor promised.

One could ask what they were doing, marching upon mere xenos, but Captain
Diocletian already knew the answer that would not be given: they were there
to watch for heresy among the Blood Ravens. "For the Emperor," he
whispered, before stepping down, to join his fellows in securing the pass. His
eyes lingered on the ringing grey armored soldiers, nemesis halberds at the
ready.

LIIVI stepped back from the trench, his visor clicking unhealthily as it zoomed
back in and reverted to standard. He gathered his things, and sprinted back
to the bunker, as Astartes and Ork met in battle.

Brother Onus, of the Grey Knights, cocked his head. The xenos before him fell
back on the point of his halberd, spasming and shrieking, before turning into
ash. Contemptibly, he flicked the sparking instrument of the Emperor’s wrath.
A waste, for this precious blade to be used on contemptuous xenos.

Something… A purity seal rustled on his arm. A rune gently creaked. Through
the smoke and vaporized mud, he smelled the foul stench of the warp on the
air for a moment. The bunker.

Through the flame and the bullets, Brother Onus starts forward, stalking his
prey. A prayer of thanks on his lips.

Light from the fires drifts through what flecks of ash remained disturbed as
LIIVI stepped down to the shelter. The Vindicare reaches for the door, then
hesitates. Through the gash, illuminated by a single dim bulb above her was
the primary. Staring into space, head leaning against her shoulder. A black
lock of her hair straying over her eye, down her lips, over her pulsing jugular,
the adrenaline crash had struck her, he wouldn't even have to use a bullet,
just quick and painless. If he had to kill her.

He shouldn't be thinking this. Some part of him knew. He opened the door.

"LIIVI," she started looking up, "Listen, I have something-" "No time," The
Vindicare shut the door behind him, shoving the lock into place, "Evacuation
necessary, conflict is starting anew. Space marines are far more thorough
than orks," LIIVI took his rifle from the shoulder, and rammed a clip home into
the internal magazine. It was still dirty. He had to hope it wouldn't jam.

"At least they'll be distracted by the orks." "Tunnels usually lead to Imperial
outposts. Judging by the directions the marines came from, we probably won't
come into hostile contacts. Marines don't have the forces necessary to mount
garrisons in this province yet." "That's, that's great, LIIVI," smiled Taldeer.
"Come?" LIIVI looked at her, sitting. He reached out his hand, after a
moment's hesitation.

She took it, regret filling her mind. The ocean current was pulling her, no
matter what she wished..

Captain Diocletian was disappointed. This was a cleanup operation, little else.

"Engage at will, there's no challenge here," the order carried across the
combeads, as the marines separated, many putting aside their bolters in
favor of monomolecular knives. No need to waste good ammunition on
undesirable scum.

Craters, fires still raggedly burning. Little else remained. He had to hand it to
the Guardsman, give them artillery, and they can-

His shoulder pauldron shattered. Captain Diocletian frowned, and glanced

over. Across the way, he saw a grot duck into a trench. He sighed, and took
out his bolt pistol. A tink, and a bullet ricocheted off his arm. And he heard a
strange call.

"Mo' dakka." Another voice picked it up, and it became a chant. "Modakka,
modakka, modakka, modakka," By this time, Captain Diocletian had eased
back, and marines across the field picked up their heads, staring, the voices
seeming to come from everywhere and melting together.
"ModakkamodakkamodakkamodakkamoDAKKAMODAKKADAKKADAKKDAKKAD
AKKA"

Across the trench, green heads popped up, one or more guns accompanying
each.

Captain Diocletian gave a grim grin. No atonement for idle waste today.
“Engage them, meet your foe,” he started forward, pounding across the
cracked and dried mud, chainsword lifted, “And sing praise to the Emperor,
for letting the enemy wet your blade today!”

Brother Onus stopped in the trench, cocking his head. Orders to charge. He
saw several of his brothers obediently marching back, to fight xenos. He did
not care. He had come to hunt the Enemy. Not to waste sacred relics on
enemies material.

He stood in front of the ruined bunker. The Enemy had been here.

He stepped down the stairs, as the war started anew behind him, and the
guns drowned out the thunder of the storm above.

The rain was pouring down the steps like a waterfall when the Assassin and
the Witch came to the end of the hall. The door was knocked off its hinges, a
guardsman broken on it. They carefully stepped over him, avoiding signs of
passing by.

The outpost had been manned by two men, both now dead. The dead ork in
the center of the floor, strangled by a wire spoke of their courage.

The rain outside had rallied against the fire, attempting to drown and smother
it for defying the weather, even as treacherous lightning aided and abetted
the enemy.

This is it, thought Taldeer, sparing a glance for LIIVI. Just a while more.

"Let's head out," she said, "Quickly, come on, we can get moving," She
reaches for him when he raises his hand, and freezes.

-- Attendez. I heard something."

Clang.

"Back there, in the tunnel."

Clang. Clang. Clang. It picked up speed. Clang.

Like an iron gavel pronouncing judgment. The pair, stepped back and out of
the outpost, the Vindicare raising his rifle. The rain and wind swept along,
spattering the two in cold, as the outpost glowed with inner light.

Clang. There was a scraping, cracking sound, as something moved against

the ceiling. Clang. The light grew closer, and there was a faint hum. Clang.
Then it was there.

The Grey Knight stood in the doorway, as LIIVI and Taldeer stared up from the
bottom of the hill, blazing and glowing with the light of his manifest wrath.

"FOUL ONE," the voice resonated, deep, echoing through the armor, "THE
STINK OF THE WARP IS UPON YOU," The Grey Knight stepped forward, and out
of the outpost, setting his halberd behind him. It crackled in anticipation.

This is it.
To her left, the Vindicare, the mon-keigh tensed. She could see it all. His
finger touching the trigger, the weapon jam.

A ton of blessed ceramite artificer steel pounded down, one leg slamming into
Kronus's flesh after another, tearing great gouts of soil up.

This is it. The Mon-Keigh, he'll reach for his pisto-

"Taldeer!" An unexpected hand shoved her away, a note of panic in his voice,
now for this moment bizarrely familiar, "Get away from he-"

The Grey Knight's back hand slash, the halberd, tugging into his flesh, lifting
him up into the air.

A disposed toy. Mon-Keigh. "SCUM!" The mon-keigh, it's usefulness expended.

Living the moment it was fated. The mon-keigh... falling. The mon-keigh's
blood. On her face. The mon-keigh- "M-Mon-Keigh..." She shouldn't care.

"THIS IS THE JUDGMENT OF THE RIGHTEOUS!" The Grey Knight, stood over his
corpse. LIIVI's corpse. Raising his halberd.

She shouldn't care. She shouldn't be hurt. She shouldn't look in his vainly
struggling form.

"KNOW REDEMPTION IN- *HRNNK*?"

The light blazed, and a keening noise could be heard, as runes of warding,
protection, and holiness brightened.

"W-W-WHAT WITCHCRAFT- IS THIS?"

His arm, his arm, it was bending, bending the wrong way. He stumbled back,
struggling, to execute the traitor. Something cracked. His middle finger
waved, popped out and broken.

"EL-ELDAR?!" His felt lost touch of the ground, and he felt the armor dragging
at him. His left arm waved around, as he pulled on the bolter trigger, firing,
uselessly somewhere behind him.

He heard his seals cracking. The sacred runes breaking. His arm, broken, in
three places. His neck, pulling, pulling. He spun, slowly in the air, and then
suddenly fell. Crack, headfirst into the ground. Again. Again, again-

Snap.

The invisible grip loosed, and he fell, sliding down the hill. A rather heavy, well
accoutered mon-keigh ragdoll.

Taldeer stood, stumbling, slackening staring, breathing in and out evenly. The
cacophony, the snickering peals of the warp faded away from her mind. She
had risked so much, and for what-

"Liivi!" She rushed forward, running over to the fallen assassin, "Please,
please, Liivi, get up human, get up!" The blade had entered the small
intestine, and worked its way up, searing and tearing as it went. She drew her
hand away, and found blood and ashes.

"No... Please?"

Above, the atmosphere eddied, wrapping and softening the rain, sending
snow down as paltry recompense, as the assassin took stuttering gasps.

The rain from the night before had reduced the battlefield to a muddy ditch.
The burning Ork corpses left a black smear of smoke across the horizon, as
Ardrin sat next to the pilot of the command chimera, waiting. He couldn't
stand to be in the same room as the Inquisitor, as his pet Culexus just gave
him the heebie-jeebies. If the heebie-jeebies came in nightmare form of
endless oblivion.

One of the Grey Knights had gone missing; no sign of any corpses matching
the Adepta Orthodontia molar records. The Inquisitor was rather pleasant
about it.

A bunker had been discovered, with a tunnel. The marines were too busy,
setting up a base in preparation to launch assault against the guardsmen
over the hill. The Inquisitor hadn't wanted to go through the tunnel on foot.
So, they drove out to the outpost.

The pilot nearly ran over the Chosen of the Emperor.

The APC was pulled over. Faceless gasmasked elite glamour boys stepped
out, putting up their hellguns like it would mean a damn to a space marine.
The Inquisitor stepped out, flanked by his Adeptus Mechanicus, and Culexus.

Ardrin stayed inside, staring through the viewport. The Inquisitor approaches,
pushes over the Grey Knight with his foot. Nothing. Everyone relaxes.

Then they jump, a momentary flash illuminating the armored figure. The
Inquisitor leans in. Beckons for the Techpriest. The helmet is pried off. The
face... A glance, Ardrin got, but he saw it was flattened, bludgeoned.
Whispers. The Inquisitor nods, stands, and waves one of the stormtroopers
over. He speaks on the radio. Everyone gets back in the Chimera. Except for
the Inquisitor. He stops, and tosses a word over his shoulder to the marine.

The marine's face turns stony. Seizes up. Asks a question. The Inquisitor
shakes his head. Steps into the chimera.

"Well," announced matter of factly, "This is interesting." "What did you say to
him," it isn't exactly a question. It's an accusation. That face. It was of a man
doomed.

Inquisitor Madek glances up, "Did I speak to you?" "No, no, but what," Ardrin
gulps, "What did you say to him?" "The truth," the optic units stared,
emotionless, "That he was damned, for his failure to apprehend the enemies
of the Imperium. When he dies," The Inquisitor looked down, for a moment
admiring his boltpistol with a distant smile, "He will be denied the Emperor's
Grace."

The chimera goes silent, as the soldiers stop their breathing. Shock, all
around, save for the Culexus and the Techpriest, who stare downwards.

"And also, Ardrin? Don't speak back to me," The Inquisitor settled back,
staring at the ceiling, the ghostly smile still on his face, "That's a sin."

"Make for the spaceport. There've been interesting developments, and I

believe they'll head there eventually. Felix? Contact my barge. Tell them,
Psalm, 144:1. Make all necessary arrangements. Now I," whispered the
Inquisitor, "To sleep, pure of heart and worry..."

Inquisitor Madek's personal barge is in a little bubble of calm, in an orbit at

constant war. Imperial Naval stand off with the Blood Raven fleet, all the while
fighting Orks, Tau, errant eldar raids, the Chaos fleets and the occasional,
mysterious necron vessel. Their fortunes turn and twist, but always the same:
Inquisitor Madek's vessel is guarded, and never touched.

Psalm 144:1, of the Litany of Hate.

The Barge is devoid of human life. But it is filled with abhuman life. Servitors
scuttle around, Tau shriek and cry in cages, and the cargo-

Currently, it lies empty. Save for one reinforced casket. No glass faces outside
to allow a viewer to look in, for it would be too weak.

Blessed the Emperor, my strength, be.

A grasping metal arm swings out, wraps around it, and drags it, emitting
sparks the whole way, shrieks of metal falling on deaf durasteel. The odyssey
across the vast and lonely cargo bay does not quiet the hunk of steel. At the
end, it is placed before the doors, set on a steel bar.

With loud, shrieking claxons, the doors part, and the Tau prisoners gasp for
air again. The doors part a bare ten feet, before with a sliding snap, the bar
sends the casket flying with what air pressure couldn't do.

It spins, end over end, as around it thousands of navy men fight and war to
hold a place above a planet.

The casket falls towards it.

That teaches my hands to war...

Molten layers of durasteel dribble off as it falls. It was not specifically

designed for orbital entry, but it serves. End over end, it falls and falls, and
the outer layer slips off. It has a rough aim of where it needs to go. A rough
idea, and a rough mission enters the skull.
Vindicare. Farseer. Dead.

A bare ten miles above ground, the outside of it detonates, bits at a time. The
fall hiccups, again and again, as layer after layer is blown off.

Ten meters above ground, it seemingly detonates. It manages to arrest its

speed, to only half of terminal velocity.

It is driven three meters into the ground, and kills an unfortunate Odewillin
that strayed too close.

It hisses, and pops, as the last powder of explosives detonates. The slag runs
off, leaving behind a mere steel plate blocking it and the world.

...And my fingers to fight.

A clawed hand pierces through, and tugs off the steel like paper.

Fear me, for I am your apocalypse. -Dictum Eversor

"And call up Governor Alexander, your friend," Inquisitor Madek sways with
the bumps, optics still closed, unsmiling. "I want him to explain to me how my
asset managed to get tainted by Chaos."

Chapter Eightedit
I should have left him there. He had served his purpose.

He owed me nothing - yet he gave himself to me willingly.

Why? I know not.

He is nothing more than a pathetic human.

An inferior race.

A mon-keigh.

But still I broke off my wings so that I might carry him easier.

I took him from that place, into the snowstorm where our tracks will not be
found.

He is heavy. And he is dying. And he is slowing me down.

But I will save him.

Why? I know not.

He is still warm. I can feel his blood ebbing across me. For every beat of his
heart, another, slight spill of heat. The heat blows away on the winter wind.
His blood is still warm. But fading. And I have spilled scarlet myself.
The snow laps greedily at our footsteps and our lifeblood, covering them
without a trace as we fade away.

Battle still raged behind them. Far off, in walls of steel and concrete, trenches
of dirt and burning promethium, space marine and ork reveled in fire and
bolter. Taldeer stopped a moment, breathing in and out, her lungs burning.
She held the human over her shoulder, his feet still dragging in the snow. His
rifle sheath, with frost covering it. She looked around. Disputed territory. Ork
banners held up, some burnt, some empty, some shattered and buried under
the snow. Exhortations of war broken and buried under the white blanket. The
Vindicare beside her coughed, tensing for a moment, his hand digging into
her own- then he slackened again. The blood warmth washed over her side
again. She had no need to watch the skein of fate to see that survival was
improbable. She was needed elsewhere. She shouldn't die, freezing, clinging
to a weaponized man. She shifted his weight again, and pulled forward with
her spear, panting again as she passed under twenty meter high declarations
of war, pulling through the winter.

"Inquisitor." Inquisitor Madek snorted sharply, blinking away the sleep. He

frowned. He was cold. He should have packed more clothes than just a
cassock. An idiotic desire to empathize with the guardsmen perhaps. "I've
heard tell that cleanliness is one of the signs of divinity,"

Madek roused, sitting up, slipping on an ill fitting gentle smile, "I don't think I
have to fear any usurpation here. What is it, Felix?"

"The storm," Felix pointed out to the wall, where some diodes sputtered, "The
corpus mechanica would be better served if I-"

"I can barely give a damn, we're on the road to the spaceport, we can get it
fixed there."

"That's another thing," Lieutenant Ardrin, resembling nothing more than a big
black fly came into the room, holding a buzzing comm, "The city, currently
our forces command it and will be reinforced, but, the agents of Chaos are
attacking it. They hold the entrance to the city we're heading for." Veteran
soldiers. No courage, no faithful bone in their body they. Merely the survivors,
benefit of the brave souls of the Emperor's truest servants. A fine degree of
cowardice uncaught by commissar, that's all that experience breeds. They
that survive are just rewarded for their base desire of living. Disgusting.

"I believe we'll be fine," Inquisitor Madek gave a serene grin, "The Emperor
protects."
Sponge Weeds seemed to be an architect's dream come true. Plentiful,
verdant, and tough, to early colonists of Kronus, they seemed to be a
nightmare, great wide fields of sticky, dark, meter high reeds, choking
swamps and rivers, ensuring most of the southern continent was a morass of
stagnant water and painful to clear reeds. Chop them down, more would grow
from the inevitable chunks that rushed out of the thing when it was cut, the
water held within flooding out. They would gum up the irrigation, showing up
in every single farm. "Spongeweeds," became synonymous with unwanted
guests, and even became momentarily popular as a term for rapists before
use of this term was purged and suppressed by the Ecclesiarchy. Until one
ambitious young pioneer decided to attempt to use it to make a house.

Foolish idea, was the universal thought at first. The soaking, stinking reeds
would make for a great big mess everyone was convinced. At least until
lacquer was applied to it. Cyanide, bacteria, toxins, as soon as the living reed
felt under threat, it would stiffen up and hold, sometimes for years at a time if
the rudimentary immune system sensed the poison was still there.

Furthermore, reeds cut together would eventually mold together, sealing the
area with a near vacuum grip. The house would generate warmth in the
winters and hold off the heat in the summers, as the still living yet paralyzed
plants reacted to the climates. This architectural fad and art material lasted
fifty years before a pysker wandered too close and felt pain. Other pyskers
had entered houses, but registered no complaints, and the people protested,
but to the Imperial Church this was evidence enough to burn the lot of the
suspicious, ugly living buildings. They said the fires were responsible for the
harsh winter and cold summer that followed. Standard imperial architecture
was followed from then on, but on occasion, out in the wilderness, you found
the occasional hut. Like this one.

Taldeer stopped, falling to one knee, the weight of the assassin driving her
down. Her muscles were stiff cracking against one another, wishing only to
lay down and die. She wheezed, staring down at the snow. Little red spatters
filled it. Hers and his. She couldn't tell them apart, they were both bright hued
and crimson.

Maybe if she stared long enough, she would see one shrivel and crust and the
other crystallize and powder. She slapped the ground with her hand, fighting
the welcome hands of a sleeping death.

She looked up. A small house. Wooden. Some shelter from the biting wind.
Just a few more steps. She bit her lip as she rose to her feet, carrying her
savior, blood spilling from her side as the wound broke once again. She
dragged forward, heading for the leathery wood flap of a door. Her hand
reached for the door knob. She hesitated. A slight scuff of a noise in side. The
pistol is steady in her hand as she pushes open the flap with the barrel. The
noises getting louder the whole time.
The door turned, squeaking and crackling on frozen hinges, the unfrozen edge
flapping in the blizzard wind. Didn't look like there was anything. A gas tank
stood in the center of the room, a line running into the cast iron stove,
radiating welcome heat. Two doors, one ajar to a chair with the bottom cut
out over a bucket, and the other firmly shut.

Taldeer shrugged off the assassin, leaning in to whisper, "You'll be warm in a

moment Liivi." She slipped inside, sweeping the room with her shuriken pistol,
the singing spear unslung and behind her. The noise was coming from above.
She was moving, her gun pointed at the ceiling, when she felt something
catch her other hand from behind. Her hand- She whirled around, pistol
raising to free her spear hand- The assassin's glove was wrapped around her
own, slackening, as it fell down in the door way, shivering. The door opened
as the Vindicare was dragged in, a slight trickle of blood running across the
absorbent floor. Taldeer leaned next to him, leaning in close. His heart had
slowed since last time. An occasional shiver would wrack a part of him. The
gash- She gulped down the bile as she something shift and slither through the
mess of blood and ribs. He shouldn't die. The door creaked.

"X-X-Xeno!"

Taldeer spun on her heels, spreading her hands and kneeling before the
Vindicare, her shuriken pistol and Singing Spear out. Someone stood, stark
naked but for a sheet over his shoulder, in the door way, a primitive slug
thrower at his shoulder. Underweight, hairy, and yellowed by liver failure. A
shivering blue eye held between the bead, pointed at her head.

"I-I-I never thought they would send another, to me, to my nightmares!" The
gun rattled, parts scraping and clacking together, "I, I've killed before! I'm a
veteran. A veteran of a secret war of soul and damnation. You won't have!
Have! Have me! That's not yours to take, I never let you!"

A madman. Dribbling in whatever local dialect that the humans paid courtesy
too. She could barely glean the words meaning, much less the order. In all
probability, she could move and slice him from jaw to groin before he could
fire his pathetic gun in the wrong direction. But- Her brows furrowed together,
she whispered in low gothic, "We only seek shelter from the storm, we are but
mere travelers," couching her words in a recognized story, she tried to
manipulate his mind. The discharge practically deafened her, and the human
brought the black smoking barrel up to her eye.

-- Des manipulations! Orienteering, on basic desires?! Fuck you bitch! No

more," He leaned in, eyes furious, "No more. I used to be a good man, before
you showed me! Emperor..." He whispered, "Emperor protect, are you my
daughter? I can't tell. I thought, I thought I ate you earlier. I can't tell," he
stared down, squeezing his eyes shut, yellowed tears leaking out of his eyes.
The gun rose, the man inarticulately sobbing into a hand, it wavered above.

"I," am your daughter of course father, don't shoot me, and your son, you had
a son didn't you, followed by a shot through the throat. Eminently survivable,
reasonable action. "I am not going to play along with your delusion, mad
one," Taldeer brought her shuriken pistol up, and into the watery blue eyes.
One shot that would be it. "Leave us be. I do not wish infecting his wound with
your blood. And for the sake of your family, get a hold of yourself." Stupid.
The old man turned, the slugthrower up. She could get off two shots in the
time it took him to get aiming.

"Deat-"

Whizz. The first nicked his hairline.

"-h is the"

The second cut through his thigh born artery.

"path to redempARRRRRGGH"

The bullet fired, hitting wide, thumping into the ceiling, sending filthy half
frozen water across the room. Taldeer moved back, and snapped her spear at
his hands. The blunt end of the wraithbone snapped his hands like a carrot,
the broken bones held within a sack of meat. The gun fell to the floor,
discharging into the wall. The wraithbone blade was held against his neck.
"Surrender."

He opened his mouth to speak, and all that came out was blood. The
shriveled old corpse fell back. Bullet had entered by way of the esophagus,
tumbled through thalamus, hypothalamus, medulla oblongata and
cerebellum, then, by his estimates, got lodged in the occipital lobe. His Exitus
pistol lowered, the Vindicare let his head drop back to the floor. His mask was
full of blood. He panted through it. His eyes closed. He was superficially aware
of a presence standing above him. Through the numbness, a cold drop
prickled his right arm.

"He was hardly a threat." Primary. Taldeer.

"It was necessary."

"Well," her voice came closer, as hand fell on his chest, "I'm not about to
berate the man nearly disemboweled, but somebody's going to have to clean
that up if we're going to be staying here more than an hour. "Is there
plumbing?" He heard the gentle sloshing of water. "I don't know about your
species, or even about you yourself, but amongst my people," Splash. A fire
ran down the numb line that the Grey Knight had cut into him, "Cold or no,
the wounds need to be sterilized," the assassin, for his part only twitched.

He stared at the pistol in his hand. He had never gotten around to reloading
it.

The blade had started at the base of his bottom, leftmost rib, and worked up,
ending at the right clavicle. It was a surface cut, the first rib was cut and the
second broken, but after that no other bone damage. The muscle had been
shorn off, and it looked like that where it had gone, the flesh had fried. The
heart was barely visible, thumping and pulsating.

Fortunately, she reflected, humans had a whole lot of space in their body as
opposed to eldar. The blood loss was the most important thing. And sterilizing
the room. The alcohol would help a little. And the corpse. Of course, the man
had to be eating. Why did he shoot him? The damn silenced pistol, it could
have been any time during that fight, and she wouldn't have known. But. It
was only after she had told him to surrender. His mouth opened. The blood
splattered. She shook her head, as she wrapped the body in the sheet it had
been wearing, and dragged it out into the snow. He shoots a lunatic who was
waving a gun at you. Most people would firmly place that under the pro
column. It just means-

She let go of the sheet on the corpse. As if on cue, the man splayed out, a
shiver running down his veins and arteries.

Teeth. Teeth on his tongue. And two noses in his hair.

Her eyes widened, and she turned back to the cottage, as the door slammed
shut.

Her feet barely touch the snow.

To Eldar, all mankind move clumsily, and slowly, kittens staring about in the
dark, their arms blindly reaching to the sky like teetering towers, waving back
and forth, unsure nerve and tendon spasming.

Men looking upon Eldar see disquieting grace. Deliberate steps. The care of a
surgeon in the movement of a runner. Even the enhanced assassins, and
those among the Space Marines unimpeded by their armor seem to have no
instinct about them, their speed the speed of a pneumatic press, or an out of
control piston. All forcing through the air, no cutting.

But the Vindicare had seemed different. It wasn't speed, as much as being in
the right place at the right time. She should've known damn it. She rammed
into the door, the half frozen bark, far from its native swamp, dully creaking.
She pounded into it again, pulling at the door. It warped and stuttered, held
shut by something.

More foolish than a human, she thought bitterly. Her spear was still inside too.

She glanced around, running around the house, as she felt the pull of the sea.

Back, a bare hour maybe, that's when she should have seen. (shortly after the
Grey Knight fight)

"Come on!" by instinct, her hand reached up, flicking away the blood on her
face. She felt more warm blood smear on. The rain was turning to snow, and
his breath had started to turn irregular. Shock? He had to live. From stem to
stern it had cut, running more shallow along the way. His bottom two ribs,
one was cut clean, the other hanging by a sliver of bone. The metal plating
had done little good, still bubbling where the marine's glaive had touched.
Fried nerves, cooked skin- Human. Mon-keigh.

There were more of them than the stars. Why should she care. A hand slipped
under his head, and another one ran across his back.

She shouldn't be caring.

His body shuddered, as he hacked. The mask. Blood was catching under it.
Flooding it. He couldn't breath. Her hands ran up the synskin collar, reaching
under it, pulling it up as it went along. The mask fell into the snow, taking a
lot of blood with it. It dribbled across the snow, and she gently tipped him
over, as he hacked, bloody froth coming clear.

"Liivi," she whispered. His eyes were squeezed shut, as he fell back,
breathing, coughing occasionally. Dark hair. Short cropped. His cheekbones
stood out. What wasn't a smear of blood was- No. Nothing to think about. The
snow was falling quick and fast now. She had to go.

She grabbed the mask, and pulled it back onto the Vindicare as gently as she
could, but in the middle, he leaned in. Lips brushed. And maybe. Just maybe.
They might have held together, a little longer than was appropriate for a
bleeding man's comfort.

He fell back into the snow, immediately, as if by some miracle, calmed. She
stared. Through the blood, she could taste something else. Lemara. He tasted
like lemara.

She carefully pushed the mask back on his face. Around them, the storm
begin to howl. She lifted him to her shoulders, and then fell back. There was a
cracking noise. The wraithbone had had enough, evidently. How carelessly
then she tore off the other spirit stone mounts. Leaving her with just one
refuge, in case of death. She had reasoned, she could come back for them.
Isolated place. Wouldn't be that hard. They were just getting in the way
anyway.

She hefted his arm onto her shoulder, and he had just barely enough life to
push with his legs. She stood.

’"WHY-"’ The hollow roar of the Grey Knight's audio must have been
malfunctioning, she heard something else whispered. She probably should
have been listening.

"He saved my life."

’"YOU-"’ more hollow whispers ’"YOUR GREAT ENEMY?"’

"No more words," She turned, dragging the Vindicare off into the snow storm
with her, "You should die soon out here."
The Grey Knight had sounded confused. She had chalked it up to his ego's
breaking at defeat. He had been beaten severely. And his attempt to kill the
enemy of the Imperium he had seen had been foiled by another agent of the
Imperium. The Grey Knights are the greatest weapon mankind has against
Daemons.

In all their years, they have never had one fall to chaos. They are the few to
be entrusted with the full secrets of what the Imperium knew of
daemonology, chaos, and the warp. Their very presence pains demons,
makes them sluggish, ineffective. They hunt daemons, first and foremost, and
in this task, they must be expected to be the best warriors that humanity can
dredge up.

Taldeer ran around the hut, looking for any entrance, as the wood boards
creaked at her presence. Why would he engage a farseer alone? Her fingers
ran across boards merged together, one flesh over another, warm and
twitching to the touch. Why would he try to finish off the Vindicare, if there
was another opponent in the field? The Great Enemy.

"Wake up Vindie," the Assassin blinked the sleep from his eyes. Taldeer
entered the door, shaking the dripping snow from her spear, smiling serenely
at Liivi.

She Who Thirsts.

"Wake up." Liivi started, sitting up, as a flustered Taldeer approached, with a
smile, shaking the wet off of her spear. "How are you?"

"I'm-" the Vindicare tested himself, and set himself back, "I'm going to need a
moment. The nerve endings are still broken."

"Good... We'll have to pass the time then, won't we?"

"The inhabitant. I don't smell him."

"I took him out," Taldeer shrugged, setting her arms straight and jamming her
hands between her feet as she sat in a position of mock meditation, "Figured
we wouldn't like any dead guy laying around here."

"The defecation," the Vindicare turned his eyes towards Taldeer, "The blood."

"Shh, I was just lucky to find a mop and soap in this hick's place," Taldeer
placed her ungloved hand on Liivi's shoulder, pushing him gently back down,
"Just go to sleep, hmm?" The wood groaned under the Vindicare, as he lay
back. A fresh magazine was struck home into the pistol. A nervous system of
wires and thrice blessed metals kicked in, as the pistol rose to Taldeer's face.
She grinned.
"Do you get off on this?" The pistol made six very good points in reply, while
the Vindicare kicked himself back.

Taldeer started, as she felt the ocean kick, before stepping back. Two large,
holes burst through the wood, the rubbery sacks burst and making a
squealing, squelching noise. The problem with the architecture of Kronus, that
caused the Ecclesiastical purge was the pysker's report. The pain he felt was
purely sympathetic, a crude intelligence, but an intelligence en masse was
inside the homes. The local Arch Cardinal had wanted any reason he could
find to burn the homes, as disgusted as he was at the concept of living
houses, and he had found it. They were aliens, possibly intelligent aliens. As
the homes burned into the night sky, and the reeds, already depopulated by
the rapacious desires of the colonists, were uprooted wherever the crusaders
could find them, they were nearly driven into extinction. Whether they had
gone on this path for centuries and they had somehow managed to keep it in
secret, or it was started in response, no one can ever be sure.

But the plaintive, stupid, mewling minds of plants turned their thoughts to
Chaos. The shaking reeds vomited forth the filthy, turgid water into the
snowstorm, as Taldeer leapt back. They rustled and undulated, swearing and
cursing in ways only the grass and wind could respect. They called upon a
goddess that had long grown bored of them. The weeds shriveled and shrunk
desperate to hold onto what water they could. Taldeer reached with her
hands, and broke and tore the twisted remnants of an empire that never was,
and broke through.

"Hah... Haha..." The pseudo Taldeer fell back against one of the walls, as it
twisted in vegetative joy, she spread her hands, "You wound me."

"That was the intent," an empty mag thudded across the floor, as the
Vindicare reached for another.

"Do you like it?" The Taldeer fell forward, her eyes watering, her delicate, pale
hands reaching for the hole in her throat, she stared upwards, mouth running
blood, at the Vindicare, "Is it better, when you can just kill those that you
make the object of your affections? Simplifies the fun parts, I bet?"

"Quiet," The pistol coughed, ramming a bullet through the forehead, blood
spattering against his visor. Small lasers immediately evaporated it. The
Vindicare stood, hand at his side. He switched through the spectrums. All of
them showing the same thing.

"Something wrong?" whispered the heap from the floor, "Would it have been
better if I didn't talk?" The visor was in error. The sounds weren't matching up
right. The gun was too loud. There wasn't that much blood. He didn't smell
death.

-- Sorcière.

"Close," Thermal signatures rose in the shape of a smiling woman, covered

barely by black stained leather, "It-"
The pistol coughed too loud again as a round black hole appeared in the
forehead.

The house shouldn't be this big. Taldeer stepped forward, her shuriken pistol
drawn. A small comfort. The wood walls seemed to pulse and breath, as water
passed down the reeds. They pressed in, weak, minds drawn together by
some human that wanted a place for the summers. Her ocean was dark. She
was in the waves. She was strong here.

The Great Enemy. She had been a fool.

No one falls in love outside of their species. Not without some manipulation.

"So, why are you going back?" Mused a voice. Taldeer held, her pistol raised,
her hand squeezing, crackling with energy.

"I have no reason to explain to you, or your ilk."

"She was bored, you know," Something stepped out of the shadows,
something that was a color and a smell and a industrial accident, "She has
been waiting soooo long, to finish what you started. You can't tease a girl
forever," A hand touched Taldeer's shoulder. She shot up. Something hissed
and shrieked, and for a blink of a moment, Taldeer was standing in a kitchen,
strange, viscous blood dripping across her. Then, she was somewhere else.

"I know you are impatient beast. Your kind always are. When you come back,
I will kill you."

"Oh, I will be entertained," The voice had changed pitches, almost

recognizable, on surrounding on all sides, "I will be entertained by your other.
Your savior, as we jerk him by the chains we gave him and he shoots you full
of holes!"

As if on cue, a buzzing noise of a hundred bullets whizzed at Taldeer. She held

still, and waited for the thing to get bored.

General Governor Militant Lukas Alexander rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Inquisitor Madek, I do not know anything more than what my trusted officer
Ardrin has told you. If you will pardon me, I have a war against those beloved
space marines you invited into the pass my men softened to run."

"There is something more, Governor. There must be."

"Your Grey Knight declared somebody reeked of the warp, he was next to an
Eldar, he could have sniffed the warp enchantments she used on him."

"It is not the same, neophyte. Tell me again, where you deployed him."
"Initial clearing of Victory Bay, deployment along with Operation Hammerfall
as a spotter-"

-- Détails.

"He cleared a house, used it as a firing position, dropped hundreds of rioters

before they surrendered."

"Inhabitants of the house."

"A family, family of six."

"Hm. Last of the reports on the kill roster for him-"

"Oh good, that makes me ecstatic. I'm so glad you found that out. Beautiful.
I'm going to get back to my war, that you helped my enemies with now."

"The weight will be upon your soul if you do not hel-"

"What else can I do? I'm not going to recite records that Ardrin has already
told you about all day. Governor Militant, out."

"If you-" Inquisitor Madek stared, stunned as the vox buzzed silent. Then
frowned. That would require retaliation. He turned to the Enginseer, "Brother
Felix, if I could have a word with you about the newly deployed unit..."

Lukas switched off the comm, panting a bit. That was unwise. He closed his
eyes, and sighed, before crawling back into the tank. He stood, taking the
third door down the corridor, where the technicians saluted, pointing him to
his seat. He gave a nod, before sitting down in the command chair. "This
thing is checked right? I don't feel like going through a long checklist of what
works and what doesn't."

"All eleven weapons, check, fuel check, tracks check out, everything is good
to go my lord."

"Good," Lukas Alexander shifted uneasily in his command chair, glancing

across the technicians. He had been a bit rude. He licked his lips, loosening
the bolt pistol at his side, "No one in here leaves, no one in here enters, until
this battle is over, you read?" A wave of nods, "Good. Set course for the space
port." A deafening crunch of ice on steel, as the many engines in the
Baneblade roared to life, pulling the tracks forward across the snowing
landscape. Eleven guns waved over the horizon, searching for targets, seeing
only the flanking forces of the Imperial guard, rolling behind. Greasy black
smoke sailed up into the sky joining their brethren above the Kronus
spaceport. Strangely, the assurances of Midilv seemed even less comforting,
at the end of a tank column.
"It's not going to be of any use," The Daemon stood, shaking her head, blood
and brains dripping from two dark red holes.

"True," The Vindicare lowered his weapon, his hand pressing against his side,
the adrenaline was fading now, and he could feel something drifting in his
body, "Leave me then, or kill me abomination. I shall not be diverted from my
duties."

"No, of course not. You have the Farseer for 'diversions' from your duty, don't
you?" The daemonette spread her hands, approaching the assassin, "You
didn't- You didn't think these feelings were genuine, did you?"

Snap.

"If we're going to have a conversation, you REALLY must stop shooting me."

Chapter Nineedit
The contents of Chapter Nine were deleted by the writer; supposedly, nothing
relating to the story was lost.

 Absolutely Unacceptable*

Don't bother checking this entry's edit history. I already did. Chapter 9 was
never uploaded to 1d4chan. "The contents of Chapter Nine were deleted by
the writer" was added by the same anon who added Chapters 5-10 in 2009.
Supposedly this chapter contained a sex scene with semen demen disguised
as Taldeer or something. Which is a reasonable assumption, since fa/tg/uy is
known to get frustrated when protagonist gets NTRd the average reader
frowns upon desecration of marital bonds. Whether it was the author or the
archivist who deleted the part is unknown, but both are probable.

To expand further, it's also possible that the original author at some point has
abandoned the story altogether and somehow somebody was able to
impersonate him, since the writing progressively gets worse. So this leads me
to my final point - there is no ending and chapters 10-11 are pretty shit, so
you can either read on or check out alternative fanfics - most of them pick up
from Chapter 8. And the one provided below has whooping 20 chapters which
I didn't bother reading since it's probably anon's cheesy as fuck love fantasy.

Chapter Tenedit
"Of course, you would have known that... If you had looked inside of his
head," the abomination's clawed feet tacked on the floor, annoying, precise,
like a metronome by five, "Which I assume, you didn't?" Taldeer stayed,
kneeled, still. The thing was confusing to her, trying to make her distrust, lose
focus, but... The soft noise, like leather being drawn taut heralded the
monster's smile. "You DID."

"I delved into his mind while he slept. His memories...they horrified me. The
things they did to him as a child and even worse - as a man. They twisted his
mind and body endlessly. Till there was nothing left. Nothing but a weapon. A
tool for the Imperium. Barely a soul in a body, this man, LIIVI, was utterly
alone in this world. Even more so than I. He has nothing and nobody to go
back to. I broke free from his mind. And after a moment to collect my
thoughts, I laid beside him and slept," Taldeer turned, her head tilting up
slightly.

Amusement, rippled on the tide in her head. "You were horrified?" Laughter,
mirth traveled along the waves, "Horrified? You soft bitch, you delve into his
skull while he sleeps, while he TRUSTS you," The voice paused a moment, and
for a moment, the utter darkness that blocked Taldeer's senses lifted, her,
lying on the kitchen floor, the wall above filled with holes, before it returned,
"And you dive into his skull?" The daemonette was behind Taldeer. She could
feel it. Rasping along her soul, crying out that all that was wrong behind her-
Yet she listened to the daemon's words.

"I MASTURBATED to those thoughts, you little innocent bitch," Taldeer's eyes
made the lie that the daemonette strutted ahead of her, glittering
multifaceted eyes reflecting her a thousand times being tortured, "How
couldn't it arouse you?" The daemonette spread her arms, a viscous
substance dribbling from her fingers, strands still leading back to her person,
"A man, reduced to a machine, single minded, devoted to destruction and
eradication, and you, you have him as your servant. Your patsy. The one who
adores you,"

The Slaaneshi leaned in, smile playing across her lips, "Without even fucking
with his head, or at least doing a damn fine subtle job of it, tell me you don't
get a little wet at things you could make him do, wrapped around your little
finger."

"I mean, at that as well, with just a single glance, A SINGLE GODDAMN
GLANCE, you had him?" The Daemonette shook her head as she walked back,
"Lucky, lucky little whore..." The illusion stopped, turned on her heel, staring
at Taldeer. "Well? Say something? Anything Juliet?"

"No," Taldeer said, serenely, "I think you've told me everything I wanted to
know already." The daemonette narrowed her eyes, snorted, then rounded on
her heel. Imaginary tortures sprang anew across her, as Taldeer grinned,
fearless now.

In the Temple of the Vindicare, all times were measured by the times of Earth.
It took three days, nineteen hours and twelve seconds for the disobedient,
alien sun to set. Eighteen hours and three seconds for the blasphemous
second star to rise. Eighteen hours of tyranny before it fell. So on. So forth. All
attempts to form an unofficial, logical time, were broken by the lash.

Yet, in those first few free months, the assassin kept a new time than the one
he had once on his home world. It had been driven out of him. With burning
rod and crackling leather, it had been erased. Expunged. With the rest of him,
pulled out by the roots, taking great big bloody clots with it.
It was noon, on Holy Terra. The sun was high above Holy Terra. The Inquisitor
had always told them that the clock was right. Checked by twins, they were.
What light could make through the atmosphere, would be glinting off of the
palace right now. The moon looked beautiful, this noon of Holy Terra.

"If you're done ruminating...The mission you fucked." The Vindicare looked
down from the moon, to the longlas in his hands. He stood in a field where
nothing grew but weeds, tall as his thighs. A flower was growing at his feet.

"Do not fail," intoned, from a year away.

"You're an awful good sport about this," whispered the daemonette across the
road. She smiled, sadly, in the lips of Taldeer, sad eyes of Taldeer peering
from under the sad brow of Taldeer, in the garments of Taldeer, "If, if you
want this to stop-"

Taldeer's long lashes cast downward, covering aged eyes, wet and ashamed-
"Yes."

A ground car trundled by, its primitive combustion engine hacking and
coughing as it went. When the ton of motored steel passed by, the warp
spawned abomination shrugged off the skin of Taldeer, a frown cracking its
face. "Guess it ain't vulnerability then," muttered the deviant, dispelling the
illusion.

"The target is going to Nightmarket," 12:34, on the minute in Pier delle Vigne,
the streets blossomed. Under noon in Holy Terra, under moon of their world.
No spymask. Stealthsuit and hood were under his coat and trousers, but he
wasn't expected to have to use them. Inquisitor Uberti wanted to send a
message. Already elements of the 5th Hastati were moving, securing spots
for the Vindicare to fire, securing avenues of escape, securing the proper
delivery of the message. A year ago, the Vindicare's hands moved,
disassembling the weapon, placing the pieces in his coat. A year ago, he
moved off, heading for the night market in full bloom. The red flower, fairer by
any other name, a relic from twenty thousand years ago, a genetic miracle, a
year ago crushed under his foot.

"Stepped on something," the voice from across the road lilted over. The world
had no technology to speak of. The governor enacted dictums and creeds
long ago, that forbade the populace from dealing with Imperial traders, "To
preserve the culture and lifestyle of the honest folk of Florent." Currently on
his two hundred and eleventh year by virtue of Imperial immortality drugs,
rumor stated that the governor had gone into seclusion more as a concession
to good taste not to flaunt hypocrisy than any sort of secret to hide.

Generations had the same portrait of the governor, smug, a little jowl, the
Imperial regalia suiting him. Rogue traders freely tracked back and forth,
even as lasgun bearing Adeptus Arbites patrolled the streets, keeping an eye
out for citizens bearing too much technology. "You ever felt guilty?" Asked the
voice, now on the other side of a building, as the Vindicare stepped along the
sidewalk. The longlas disassembled, held in pockets on his person. The
assassin did not answer. Night Market was a festive time, a relic of happier
days. Night time used to be times of fear to those of Pier delle Vigne, long
ago.

But how the city celebrated with gas lighting. They revered it to this day,
elevating the hero of the city, Vigne the Gaslighter, with sainthood in their
local Ecclesiarchical branch, and with his name upon the town. In celebration
of their newfound safety, and liberation from criminals, the Night Market was
opened. In recent years, it had become considered practically a form of open
welfare for the criminal element, but, a reverence for tradition drove the
Florents on to the market, nearly every night they could afford to.

Including one unfortunate young woman.

Third floor. Brick building.

"So nice to be able to see you fuck up something once. Well, this and falling
for something that isn't even your species."

The long barrel spins, clicks in place on the main body of the lasrifle. A
powerpack is shoved home. A whine, subsonic, pierces the Vindicare's ears.

"Always shooting chicks too, alright, the last lil' scene we played through, she
wasn't that good, but this one," The daemonette was leaning on some boxes.
Some sort of warehouse, she leaned over the edge, peering out the window,
"She's something I'd like to spend a bit of time on, if ya- Oh by the way, good
peripheral vision there, that all natural?"

The scope slid down the hollowed line, as the Vindicare stood at the window,
his target coming along in peripheral vision. She was a courtesan. She was
smiling, her parents had been mixed, one of them belonging to the dominant
darker ethnicity with the silver highlight genetic tampering, and the other a
plainer, more yellow woman who gained his attention by being an heiress.
Somehow, they managed to produce a beauty enough to capture the
attention of the planet. And the governor.

"Too high," muttered the Vindicare, words that were in his memory.

"Oh good. After that bad ass, click clang assembling bit, you go down a floor?"
The daemonette rolled her eyes, "Real professional."

Vindicare walked by, his longlas fully assembled at his side. "Playin' hard to
get," she mumbled. She hated being direct. But bit by bit, it seemed the only
way. Canvas flaps crisscrossed the streets, like the product of a manic spider.
Within the folds and turns and twists of the Night Markets tent city,
merchants established their benches, displaying their wares for all to see.
Behind the canvas, the Vindicare waited.

Leather and patchwork cloth didn't hide her from the IR on the scope. It was
good enough. He really had no need to reach through, and pull apart a seam
on one of the flaps, to see with his own eyes. She stepped lightly, a bag at her
waist, over her arm, holding it like the farmgirl she once was distributing
seed. Gift from the governor. No stitches. Molded together. Doubtless bought
off world.

"X-L-I-I-I, do you have the target in sight yet?" The bored tones of Inquisitor
Uberti crackled over his subdermal. For a moment, his skin twitched, set
abuzz by the faulty installation just behind his temple. The next module
performed much better.

-- Oui.

"Good, good, my men will need a moment to get into position, just hold on."
She twisted, the shotgun of genetic fate on full display. Coconut skin like her
father, mother's fair hair, save for what silver patterned across her, flashing in
the gaslight. "We're good, look to your right." The Vindicare glanced out of
the corner of his eye. Inquisitor Uberti stood, a good nine blocks away on one
of the sprawling balconies of the governor's equally opulent and space
wasting manor. The Inquisitor's arm over the shoulder of a quivering,
frightened man stuffed with great care into an officer's regalia. "Fire at will."

The cotton skirt blew in the wind, as she turned, the grin at the common folk
faded, as she looked down the street, in curiosity at the waving man in the
golden armor. Her head, flapped in the breeze, as she spun a last pirouette, a
lazy circle falling down. The Night Market, within a moment, emptied,
stepping and fighting each other to get away from the signature lasblast.
Some of them trod upon their former maiden idol.

"That was it?"

"You're the one picking through my memory."

"And you remembered this as a botched job becau-"

"Pick back through the briefing witch," said the Vindicare, turning and
pointing the lasrifle at the daemonette, "I am not in a verbose mood."

"You're going to try to shoot me again?" The Daemonette stepped forward, as

Liivi felt her hot breath on the back of his neck, "You do know- I control
everything you see. Slaanesh is the god of pleasure, sensation, excess- I, I
control everything you can possibly see, hear, smell, touch, and taste, waving
a pretend gun at a pretend me and pretend to pull the pretend trigger is not
going to do a thing."

The memory faded, pushing LIIVI back into the dark. The gun, dripped and
melted away with cinematic abandon. "Just sit tight there miboyo. I'll be back
later." The daemonette opened her eyes again. Back to reality. The assassin
in front of her had flailed about like a puppet with the way she had to
manipulate his every sense before she had gone ahead and tied him up with
a belt. The Eldar was at least still, but, at this the abomination felt her side,
the wound still raw, "Bitch is tricky," the Slaaneshi murmured. She felt it
again. The weak wash of a primitive intellect. The house called again.
Noiselessly tunelessly. Begging for feeling once more.
"Barely a step above Tau," the daemonette murmured as she turned from the
room with the tied sniper, standing at the precipice to the kitchen. The farseer
was still there. Kneeling in the standing water. Fuck she hated that bitch.

"Still caught?" Asked Taldeer. "Well, I would go but-"

The daemonette drudged up a quick dream, a flash of her the head of the
assassin in her hand, him naked kneeling in front of her, bound and gagged,
"We haven't even gotten into anal yet, so I'm not about to leave this nice
coz-"

"Cozy house of an abomination that had an intellect that you could barely
sustain yourself off of and you reduced your last guest to a gibbering wreck,
leaving you stranded in the middle of a blizzard, left alone-"

"Chaos is on this planet," The Slaaneshi sniffed, "I could just hop into the warp
and back out on a battlefield somewhere, enjoying myself."

"I've never seen any of Eliphas's men deploy a single daemonette."

"Oh, so suddenly you're the expert on Daemonology."

Silence.

"He'll turn," The daemonette turned away, heading back to the assassin, "We
have all the world and all the time in it." The claws tacked away, angry.
Taldeer waited, the ocean drift in her head whispering. Then, with some care,
she crept forward another inch. A bare three inches away from the gun she
remembered the mon-keigh had dropped.

Chapter Eleven: A new writefag appears!edit

This happened on February 2nd, 2016. A Writefag showed up with the intent
to continue the story, and so he did with the full support of /tg/

As the daemonette walked towards its prey, Taldeer desperately tried to find
LIIVI's weapon. While her head was fighting a battle against the sea of Chaos
that battered away at her mind, she barely registered the violent spamming
of the mon-keigh.

"Doesn't it make you swim with ecstasy knowing your plaything, will eat out
of the palm of your hand with a single thought?"

At this point, Taldeer was doing all that she could to not burst into either tears
or anger by the sheer mockery of this, this. THING! Tempting her like some
sort of child or animal. That's when she felt a sharp pain on her back
immediately stopping her, as if a piece of the house had fallen on her. No, it
was the HOUSE ITSELF that was holding her in place. Panic began to swell
within her as she felt wooden claws dig into her wraithbone and skin.
"Well even if you aren't into it, I'm certainly excited!" Cried the cackling
daemon.

She struggled with what little energy she had, but it was no use.

The daemonette turned around to look Taldeer in the eyes. There was a look
of cynical mischief plastered on its face, like it was stolen from another and
pinned on. Out of the corner of Taldeer's eyes she saw LIIVI had stopped
spasming; he was breathing shallow, slow breaths, like he was dreaming. Or
consumed in a nightmare. Taldeer knew the daemon would consume their
souls, and soon, if something wasn't done.

She felt the house increase its pressure on her back.

"Try as you might, I can smell your fear. I can see your soul, how it burns with
anguish and despair."

"I fear nothing, you disease of Ulthuan!"

Now Taldeer was hearing demented howling, high pitched screams of terror.
And the unforgettable stench of Warp-tainted flesh burning. Taldeer could feel
hot streams of tears rolling down her cheeks as she witnessed the hellishness
unfold before her mind. The screams, though incoherent in the beginning,
began to shout at her.

"Traitor!" "Save us!" "Mon-Keigh sympathizer!"

Truly, this was the hell that was awaited her. Then she felt a pain in her
cranium that burnt as if the very same energy of the Warp was trying to
invade her mind.

"I promise you, this human won't be spared the same fate."

New tears rolled down Taldeer's checks being formed from the pain.

"I will corrupt every single fiber of his being until nothing remains, and you'll
have the privilege of watching me work."

"N-no. Please." Taldeer pleaded. Everything was distorted, twisted, and

violated. Taldeer could see the twitching fingers of LIIVI. She was scared,
scared in some warp-tainted house, and scared that she would die only to be
fed to "She Who Thirsts", and she was scared that she might not live long
enough to save the soul of the one human who would risk his life for her. She
was scared of losing the one person on this Ulthwe-forsaken rock that she
loved.

That's when the daemonette turned from LIIVI to watch Taldeer attempt to
claw herself out of her wooden prison. To watch this eldar slowly loose control
of her emotions and break both spiritually and emotionally was its own
satisfaction for the daemonette.
This however created a shift of powers, mostly focused on Taldeer's suffering.
This left LIIVI in a position to awaken from his comatose state and for him to
tackle the daemon from behind.

With all his strength, LIIVI worked furiously to not only beat the daemon into
submission, but also beat the everlasting emperor into the abomination's
would-be soul. It was easier said than done; the daemonette, at the height of
its power, was stronger than it appeared. While they both fell to the floor, LIIVI
wasn't expecting a human sized daemon to give a space marine sized kick.
This sent LIIVI flying into and through a wall.

Standing and shaking the stars from his eyes, LIIVI noticed Taldeer confined in
wood... and his gun, just a few meters away from her.

"HOW!? How can you resist my influence?" Howled the daemon, moving
towards him with a hip-swaying gait.

"You would dare defy my will, you corpse loving loya-" was all it could spout
out before LIIVI threw himself straight forward again, fist extended outward
and into the hellish being's face. He then followed up with a kick to its Warp
mimic knee, that gave way with a satisfying snapping crunch. Before he could
continue his onslaught of beatings, the abomination lashed out a punch to his
abdomen and howled in rage. Though it couldn't stand, it could still influence
the house to do her bidding. Pipes shot upwards from the floor and nearly
impaled LIIVI, but did bruise him severely on the back of his head. Fighting
through both a wall of pipes and a concussion, LIIVI managed to somehow
wrestle part of the piping free and use it to fight off the other possessed
items.

During all the insanity unfolding in front of Taldeer, the wood flooring barely
began to relax their hold on her. While the daemon focused on LIIVI, Taldeer
focused on crawling towards the gun with every fiber of her being. Even
though the wood wasn't digging its way into her, it still hung onto her. It
wasn't until the steel piping from below burst forth did the flooring's grasp on
her slacken. Inch by inch, millimeter by cursed millimeter did she grasp the
gun into her hand.

Taldeer stood herself up and, leaning against the wall, aimed the rifle at the
living embodiment of her people's sins. Peering through the scope, she found
her mark, steadied her aim. Put her trigger on the finger and...nothing. The
trigger is stiff and won't budge against her fingers desperate pull. "It must be
jammed or on safety," she thought. Taldeer began fidgeting with the rifle,
trying to fix whatever the problem was.

"Don't think I'm not aware of you, Taldeer." the daemonette said, each word
dripping with malice and filled with loathsome venom.

With renewed vigor, Taldeer found the small finger sized lever. She flipped it
and prayed to any gods listening. She exhales and bears the rifle on the
daemon. She pulls the trigger and the whole room is shook by the sound of
the Exitus. The round found it's mark in the daemonette's shoulder and out
into the wall. Taldeer fired again, this time the bullet hit the left hip. She fired
a third time, only this shot was stopped by a wall of piping six inches thick.
Taldeer pulled the trigger in rapid succession in an attempt to fire a bullet into
the atrocity. The gun clicked with each pull of the trigger as it ceased to burst
another shot.

"HAHAHA!" The daemon was laughing like it was a child being tickled, despite
the fact it's arm lay still on the ground withering away with Chaos sorcery.
"How desperate. I haven't had a good laugh like that since I invoked the wrath
of a Loyalist Dreadnought."

Taldeer hated this thing mocking her, she hated how it persisted, and worst of
all is how she hated the damned thing's inability to just die. That's when the
pipes reformed into a hole large enough for Taldeer to see the daemonette
kneeling on its good leg while the busted one began to fix itself. The
daemonette stared at Taldeer and grinned its blood stained grin.

It began to open its mouth as if to speak, only to be cut off by LIIVI's pipe
brought down on top of its skull. Then again, and again. Soon matter of warp
tainted brains and daemon blood began to splatter in unfashionable spray.
The house laid still, silent except for the beating of a long dead being. Before
LIIVI could sate his anger, the body began to return to the Immaterium where
it belonged.

Mentally, psychically, and spiritually. Taldeer and LIIVI collapsed onto what
remained of the floor to let sleep whisk them away.

Taldeer and LIIVI awoke in the ruins of a house in the middle of the swamp,
the sun climbing over the far off mountains bringing light to wash over the
land. The house showed its true age while bathed in the pinkish orange
sunlight. The walls were decrepit at best, mold-lined ponds that formed from
rusted piping. Wood creaked from just the weight of either one person moving
around. The roof fell onto the ceiling and it sagged incredibly so. While
unsaid, it was decided to leave the house as soon as possible.

The air was humid and sickly moist, it clung to skin that exuded sweat in the
heat. The bugs were unbearable, constantly biting and swarming around. But
the worst was the dehydration, the dryness of the mouth and scratching
throats desperate for water left them both feeling light-headed. They would
take small swigs from what little water was left from the house, only
aggravating their mouths for more. LIIVI would once in a while look at his
mapping-chart, to guide him and Taldeer.

"River's close." Exhaled LIIVI, while he wrestled the map away and keeping
the Exitus secure on his back.

Taldeer didn't say a word, she was thinking over on the daemonette and how
it claimed she didn't care for LIIVI. Surely it was just the daemon trying to
cause mischief and lower Taldeer's guard, right? No matter how hard she
tried to reassure herself, the pit of uncertainty continued to nag at the back of
her mind. She was so wrapped in her thoughts that it took LIIVI placing his
hand on her shoulder and a gentle shaking to bring her back to reality.
"You... alright?" His mask was off, held under his arm now, and his piercing
eyes stared into hers as she turned to look at him, dazed, but alive. Taldeer
wasn't sure what to do other than nod, and continue to the river. When they
finally did reach the river, both Taldeer and LIIVI could barley contain
themselves to eagerly quench their thirst and clean their gear. LIIVI got onto
his knees and threw water onto his face, then drowned his head down into the
river drinking as much as he could.

When LIIVI came back up for a breath of air, he could make out a silhouette
on the opposite side of the river. Though quick to draw out his rifle and aim,
the target moved back into the dense forest. "Enemies. Probably more than
one." he thought. Reluctantly, he put away his rifle, but never taking his eyes
off of the last place he saw the shaded figure. Then, the foliage began to
tremble.

"Unidentified target, eighty meters across." Whispered LIIVI. Taldeer, who was
busy washing the sweat and blood from her wraithbone chest piece, looked
up to see what LIIVI was seeing. She could already see that there were more
than one. They were being followed. Behind them, Taldeer sensed movement.
The waves were stirring. LIIVI could barely make out distinct features of the
creatures across the river. They were small, quick, and armed as seen from
the glint of metal that pass now and again between the brush. Taldeer could
hear the ones from behind whispering. It almost sounded like that of a similar
tongue the Mon-Keigh spoke, but more aggressive and disoriented.

"WWWAAAAAAGGGGHHH!!"

Green skins. First Gretchens, then Choppah Boyz burst forth from the jungle
in front of them, charging Taldeer and LIIVI in a sudden wave of metal
weapons, war-hungry faces, and rough dark green skin.

Writespace: Unedited new contentedit

Expand

This contains additional written content from "I Am Become Namefag" that
has been transcribed, but has not yet been edited.

New chapter writespaceedit

Expand

This contains additional written content from a random Anonymous that has
been transcribed, but has not yet been edited. Flash forward content for
Chapter 11?

Expand

This contains the transcription of 5 chapters and 2 other sections of content,

concluding the (unfinished) Love Can Bloom, set after the final chapter of the
original (10). It is not at this time reviewed by the wiki or its staff and is
therefore not in any such manner 'official' or 'legitimate canon'. --
Woodbundle (talk) 01:57, 9 May 2016 (UTC)

Completed Continuationsedit
As it says on the tin, herein lay completed continatuations.

 Story:Another Continuation of LCB

 Another Continuation of LCB PDF full version
 Another Continuation of LCB TeX full version

About the Endingedit

This is just one oldfag's recollection, but I figure it's better than nothing.

The ending exists- or it did for about half a day. It was posted in an obscure
way, I want to say a troll-ridden LCB discussion thread that was nearing
autosage. No one saved it, apparently.

This is all secondhand, mind you. But it fits my impression of Bloom Writer-
he'd always struck me as very shy and self-effacing, possibly to the point of
having genuine self-esteem issues. I also recall that he was struggling to keep
going; the "final chapter" may not have been very good or actually reached
the end. (Or maybe the dude just had a shitty net connection, it's way too
easy to read into these things.)

Either way, the anon who did see it gave us the gist of it a day later, and the
plot points he passed on are worth sharing.

-The inquisitor was heretical and had been making knockoff assassins,
including LIIVI (whose defects were limited to things like love blooming- he
could snipe as well as the genuine article).

-LIIVI managed to cover Taldeer's escape but was captured as a consequence.

-Taldeer makes it back to her ship but winds up joining some rogue traders
rather than returning to the craftworld. The implication is that she intends to
find and rescue LIIVI.

So if you ever hear people talk about Space Pirate Taldeer, just remember:
it's totally canon.

(In the absence of any undeniable evidence to the contrary, the vast majority
of /tg/ acts on the assumption that Taldeer and LIVII escaped back to Ulthwé,
where they eventually have a daughter.) ((That being said, the oldfag's
recollection is correct- the ending summary posted here was confirmed to be
true by Bloomwriter themselves.))

See Alsoedit
  Love Can Bloom Epub Edition (Chapter 1-
10): [Link]
%20Bloom%20-%20_tg.epub
 Rape of an Eldar

Compilation of above writefaggotry

 Love Bloomed In Her Mouth

 Bedroom Infiltration
 A Tender Moment
 Meet the Ulthran, in which Eldrad Ulthran meets LIIVI and decides he
approves.
 Sister Sinai, in which we see LIIVI in action before he meets Taldeer.
 Imber
 Now also in video format [Link]
v=jkj8KmxYpkQ
 And for you Lazy Readers Audio
format [Link]
_O6fVeUFTSawAw3UX2MqiHPzNQJpL0

Galleryedit


Even /co/ draws these two

Macha gives her opinion, also why is Taldeer a child in 30% of the Gallery?

"Don't worry, honey. I'm sure IG will be in the expansion."

 

FOR THE EMPEROR

Hormonal Taldeer is hormonal. And violent!

Love Can-DOOMRIDER NA NA NA NA

Scout Sergeant Cyrus is less sympathetic.


 BadGoodBad End.

They're gonna get blamed

Bad end. You know, besides being Heresy, the Emprah was also thinking practical.

I tried using this line with my girlfriend. She laughed at me. ;_;

DRAMA


 Daemonette hookers + prescient spouse = D:

"Look into my perfect eyes, you filthy mon'keigh."

"I want you to draw me, like one of your Craftworld boys."

AH A CHALLENGE WORTHY OF MAH SKILLS

"This is my grimdark face. It makes me grim and dark."

 

IN THE GRIM DARKNESS OF THE FAR FUTURE, THERE IS ONLY oh what the
fuck is this shit

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

R-ripper-chan ;_;

FUCKING FAGGOT IHBACVKJASUDKFHA\[Link]\NVzd\cgblhkjbcvhj

A rare scene of the happy couple in something other than Blam!-o-vision

 

Angry Marine haet LCB

Idranel gives her opinion

Apparently.


 More writefaggotry, plus bonus armor nipples

Guess who's canon? Tho it isn't Taldeer.

Looks like the story LIIVI and his big tiddy Eldar waifu continues in canon.

This article contains PROMOTIONS! Don't say we didn't warn you.

I'd let my love bloom in her, if you know what I mean

Now with additional heresy!

 

Extra extra heresy!

I JUST ADVANCED IN RANK

Categories:
 Awesome
 Stories
 Heresy
 NSFW
 PROMOTIONS
 Warhammer 40,000
 Stories/Love Can Bloom
 Stories/Warhammer 40,000

Navigation
Wiki tools
Page tools

 This page was last edited on 11 December 2022, at 07:49.

 Privacy policy

 About 1d4chan

 Disclaimers