Discussion in 'Fan Art, Cosplay, & Fiction' started by Vaanes, Jan 26, 2017.
That's the point )
Chapter 2 Crusaders, Crusaders Everywhere and not a melee to fight.
First Chaplain Ash'Eru stood before the rest of the lodge, gazing out at the assembled Income Bearers around him. They had gathered here in the great halls of greed, part of the vast complex of perpetually mostly finished but wasted space, scrapped good ideas, unbalanced architecture, and never to be realized potential that Warmaster Nathan Au Revoir had built on since first landing on Arkhona and ruining everything he set his gaze upon. The halls had originally been a huge cavern, carved by daemonic energies from the warp itself, deep in the bedrock of Arkhona. The geometry of the chasm was amazing and chilling at the same time, and it was something that would certainly never be seen in the game, as it was a thing made of the purest form of evil badassery ever shat from the warp. Great warriors, fresh from the battles on the bloody fields of Canayduh, made small talk and drank bottled player tears while reading the latest steam reviews and sales figures for the Eternal Crusade. The secret Arkhona had so long harbored was soon to be revealed to all! This fact made the First chaplain smile. Behind him money continued to pour into the giant money pit that spanned a 50 meter circumference and took up a good portion of the hall. It was tended to by other disciples of the legion, they were pouring hard earned player tears, player blood, and indeed the very life essence of players into the pit. There was an energy in the air, a buzzing as if something was at a critical mass and about to explode. The first chaplain knew what others did not, like the old gods of chaos before them, the salt gods were about to die, and be replaced by the gods of MONNEYYYY!!!! MUAHAHAHAHAHHAHAA.
Ash'Eru walked from where he was about to address the assembled warriors towards the pit and looked down into it, the smell coming from the pit was intoxicating, the blood, tears, money, and life essence all mingling together to create a desperate aroma that the first chaplain knew would feed the new infant gods until they grew in power to create A SECOND ETERNAL CRUSADE! A random pauldron with what looked like an upside down toilet lid worked into it with hideously unskilled artifice floated to the surface of the vast sea that was churning and roiling across a dusty shore deep within the pit, a gift from the gods! They demanded more money! Far below on that same shore a contingent of chapter menials labored to bring many more such gifts up from the surface of the ever growing body of... money/blood/tears? that lay beneath the pit. Price tags with outrageous prices were stamped on pieces of wargear and put into containers and loaded onto great machines to be transported to the surface of Arkhona and sold by the legion's own anonymous "store".
TO BE CONTINUED...
@Vaanes @Maensith - may I add my own tale-spin to the mix?
I dont mind, the more authors we have - the better, may be we might open our own publishing house
Chapter 3 - Broken hearts, promises and campaigns
Akrhona's satellite suns glared down through the planet's cloudless skies, their furnace-hot gazes sweeping across the sprawling imperial facilities below. The facilities were named "Garrisons" - demilitarized zones on Arkhona where no rival factions, for some reason, could attack each other, despite all "Garrisons" being located, in fact, on the same planet, totally unprotected from external invasions. The Garrisons were absolutely identical to all warring factions - in fact, none of the invaders, be it the Eldar, Orks, Space Marines or Chaos Gods' minions, brought their battle barges, space ships or hulks as their own private bases and command points, instead preferring to establish command centers right on the surface of the planet torn asunder by war.
Howling banshee Fuckeldar!, of the Booty Screaming Bitches shrine, strode across her own race's "Garrison" in her full combat panoply, her black bodyglove gleaming like fish scales in the light shed from the glaring suns above (one of which was flattened for some reason - a bug still not fixed by the devs or probably the result of Chaos's influence....), bone-colored wraithbone armour shining like a polished marble and blood-red banshee mane which seemed to be made of red crayons fluttering behind her banshee mask. The Eldar had no shrines on Arkhona to train, pray or rest in, so instead they performed all aforementioned activities right amongst crude imperial stacks, crates and other stuff, honing their combat skills on crude representations of the Great Devourer's spawns - when an Aspect Warrior attacked an artificial abomination a number floated above in the air, showing how much damage an Aspect Warrior inflicted upon his imaginable foe.
The banshee shook her head and moved on. This time, she had a purpose in coming here - usually almost no one visited Garrisons because there was nothing to do in there - the Old Ones once promised to make customized unique Garrisons for each faction which would serve as multipurpose facilities - training, entertainment, rest, trading, guild meetings etc. - but those promises were long forgotten and abandoned, gone as the Old Ones themselves.....
She entered an arched building with a single broad corridor and headed straight through it. At the far end of the corridor she could already glimpse - with both her eyes and psyche - a single figure sitting cross-legged on a high-backed throne-like chair. The banshee swallowed hard, her heart hammering in her chest, as she approached the figure and dropped on the left knee, curled fist pressed tight against her left breast, head bowed reverently.
"My mistress, we....ah...our warhost has been victorious in the recent weekly campaign, I wanted to inform you personally...", the banshee said with voice choked with emotions.
"I must admit, I doubt I have any more doubts about your undoubtful victory, though I previously doubted some doubts of our triumph could be doubted in turn - doubt cant be doubted in this undoubtful event, I think," Jain Zar replied with her incredibly musical and sonorous voice, as if dozens of females were speaking at the same time. Banshee Fuckeldar! struggled hard to comprehend what Jain Zar meant by saying these words - the Phoenix Queen's immesurable millenia-old wisdom surely influenced her manner of speech and thinking and very few of mortals could truly understand her words.
"We are pleased with your results, kin, now come closer and get your reward," the Phoenix Lord said and stood up, beckoning the kneeling banshee to approach. As she did so, Jain Zar bent over and leaned close to the banshee, embracing her shoulders and whispering to her ear "get these requisition points and rogue trader credits, kin, you have deserved it."
Confused and quite shocked, the banshee stepped back. "The...the what, mistress?"
"Requisition points and rogue trader credits, kin - didnt you know, that's what we are fighting here for, spilling blood of our race - to earn requisition points and roge trader credits," Jain Zar replied with an obvious note of joy in her voice. Tears began to prickle in banshee Fuckeldar!'s eyes.
"Why d...do we need those, mistress?" she stammered, barely keeping her voice and preventing herself from crying aloud.
"Huh! To spend these on cosmetics and weapons, of course! You know, if we win about 30 campaigns in a row, I can afford to buy myself some relic weapon - you see, I wasnt a Founder when I bought Eternal Crusade, so I'm trying to compensate it," the Phoenix Lord replied and laughed.
"B..but, my sisters....all of them dead, my kin suffering for some damn requisition points???!!!!...." the banshee stammered, tears freely flowing from her eyes. "Where are exarchs, mistress, where are farseers and autarchs, where is Iyanden's wraith warhost, where are rangers! We fight without any guidance....you dont fight alongside your daughters!"
Jain Zar stopped laughing and stared at the banshee, making her disciple shiver under this dreadful gaze. "I'm not supposed to fight in this war, mortal, I'm your commander, no matter what wh40k lore truly states on this matter - once the developers get exarchs, autarchs and farseers ready, you can have them, but until then you're on your own. Now begone and rest, tomorrow the campaign will start anew - ah, and dont worry if we lose captured territories, we can always retake them by sacrificing hundreds of Aspect Warriors - and earn me more requisition points and rogue trader credits or I'll be displeased!"
The banshee began to sob heavily and hurried to leave the dreadful Phoenix Lord alone, who by then was already standing in front of a big mirror, exploring herself from toe to head "yes, that Ebon Witch shrine costs 20k RTC, I want it...and instead of my polearm, that 500k requisition points Ebon Blade would be nice...."
Oh, thanks for that.
Dis is cool. I approve
If da ork chapta doesn't 'ave #notmewarlord an' a floatin' shouldapad, den I's dissapoint
Chapter 4 - Emperor's wrath unleashed
I'm so tired of this war I cant even remember anymore why it has started. My brothers had died on my hands, with imperial litanies pouring from their mouths like blessings, never to be repeated again....I've seen vile xeno scum desecrating Mankind's legacy by their foul presence on Arkhona and my heart is still full of righteous fury....my sacred chainsword stinks of ripe alien blood and my holy bolter (muh bolter, muthufucka!) still quivers in my iron grip as its machine spirit rages with Omnissiagh's pure hatred towards alien abominations......today, we have lost a battle, but we havent lost the war, my brother, remember that....
My name is IvotedForTrump, I'm Apothecary of the Imperial Fists, son of the proud and august Rogal Dorn, and I bear this title with honour. I've lost my brothers in today's battle, I've lost several veteran spawn tickets, I've destroyed several computer armchairs with the power of my butthurt - but I havent lost this war, my brother, I swear it. I know that this war is being waged not only on the battlefields, with ordnance, ammunitions and chainswords, but in our souls and minds as well - I had been trained as an Adeptus Astartes, Emperor's Angel of Death, defender of the Imperium and herald of Mankind's imminent and implacable stride towards its rightful rulership over this galaxy - I understand the power of words, faith and persuasion and recognize their importance in this war. By the name of Rogal Dorn, I swear I havent lost this war and despite my temporal injuries preventing me from returning into the fray I continue to serve the Emperor and the Imperium.
My body may have been hurt and disabled but my mind is as unbreakable as the Imperial Palace's fortifications built by my glorious primarch. This diary is a testament of my faith and determination - it has been written for you, my brothers, take as much courage and support from this source as you can. We hunt the alien, the mutant, the heretic!
Apothecary IvotedForTrump was sitting before a wooden desk, a stylus in his left hand gently scratching data-slate's surface as the noble Apothecary recorded his words - he was exhausted, even his Astartes superior physiology failing to keep his body from fatigue - he had been fighting nearly 15 matches in a row against Traitor Marines, Eldar and Orks repeatedly on three locations, of which only 8 victories were taken by him and his brethren. This was outrageous and absolutely intolerable, the Apothecary thought - something must have been done and the sooner - the better. He would not simply sit here, idle, restoring from his wounds in wrists and fingers from pressing keyboard's and mouse' buttons too hard - he would contine to fight for Mankind in this way or another.
IvotedForTrump tensed and pursed his lips. His muscles bulged as he prepared to fight his next battle, one which might potentially cost him his sanity, his faith and his soul - but he was an Adeptus Astartes and, more importantly, he was a scion of Rogal Dorn, and he would never fail in performing his duty, no matter how hard and dangerous it was. He knew what needed to be done. After a fractional reluctance he put his data-slate away and stood from the wooden desk. He sat cross-legged on the floor, closed his eyes and began to pray, diving deep into holy meditation. Slowly, the spiritual maws of the Warp opened before his psychic vision.
"Are you ready, brother?" Sergeant GirlSpaceMarine asked the Apothecary from nearby. The Imperial Fist nodded weakly - sergeant GirlSpaceMarine was sanctioned by the Librarian of his Chapter to perform simple and not too deep dives into the Warp to help IvotedForTrump to perform specific tasks. "Get ready, we are coming, brother", the sergeant whispered and, with a psychic blast from his mind, pin-pointed a particular region of the Warp where daemonic entities were coalescing - eternalcrusade.com, this region was called...
"Ok, guys, it's obvious that the devs completely ruined the balance - LSM are the least balanced faction, our weapons are too weak and we have too few cosmetics. I mean, when the hell do we get auto-aiming bolters? Frigging Orks are too tough and space elves are too squishy to aim at them....." GirlSpaceMarine and IvotedForTrump had bombarded the Warp with these and other countless whinings about how underpowered LSM were for several hours, scrupulously reciting all buffs and nerfes their favourite faction got and how things needed to be changed. It was a regular practice for Emperor's Angels of Death - create dozens of micro warp-storms by bringing holy words of the Emperor to confuse daemons and xenos and make them weakened.
"Brother, they are too many! Pull back, that's enough for today!" GirlSpaceMarine sent a psychic pulse to the Apothecary, signalling that they needed to retreat - Eldar farseers and Orks' wierd-boyz were already gathering around these warp-storms as well, defending their own factions and blaming LSM in ridiculous demands from the developers.
"Your fucking heavy plasma is OP, nerf plasma cannon!" one eldar farseer screamed.
"Shieldbroes are too tough, nerf shields!" the other roared.
"Powerfists and JPA are OP, reduce JPA's fuel trinkets and fix powerfist's bug!" a wierd-boy rumbled.
"Stalker bolter is one-hit weapons, we are too weak!" another foul eldar complained.
Apothecary's mind wavered under these vile and foul lies spread by filthy xenos, he roared in frustration and anger at these false accusations. "Brother, we must do something! We cant retreat now" he cried to GirlSpaceMarine who was desperately trying to pull both of them back from the Warp.
A terrible and tremendous shadow loomed over the assembled xenos and space marines, its unearthly malice and power making everyone shudder in terror. Suddenly, several eldar farseers were sent out from the warp, screaming in pain and anger. Panic gripped even wierd-boyz who were, to their credit, trying to defend themselves against this newly-appeared Warp entity.
"This is Asheru the Dark Guardian, brother, we must escape until there is time!!!!" sergeant GirlSpaceMarine cried desperately and dragged his mind, and that of his brother, back into their bodies. Both of them stumbled and crushed on the floor, sweating profusely. IvotedForTrump stared in shock at the sergeant who simply nodded in return.
"I know, brother, the Dark Guardian is a terrible figure, dont try to battle him, just run and dont stop", with these words said, he turned to leave. "You have done well today, brother, we will change this game balance in our favour, mark my words" he added and walked away....