((This is a story - but it's one with community participation! I'll post two, or sometimes more (if applicable) options after each installment and let the community pick what happens next. After... three days of voting being open I'll get the next segment up!)) They called us Angels, once… No. They called some of us Angels, once. The rest of us… we were daemons as surely as such creatures were denied to exist. We fought in the shadows, silent and deadly. We fought under skies, and fought until we died – roaring and bloody. We fought until we broke. We fought until we were ground down by the whims of a tyrant. We fought howling our deeds to the skies. Night Lords, World Eaters, Iron Warriors, Death Guard, and Space Wolves… We were the butchers of the Imperium. We were the ugly hammer of compliance. Yet not once did we want to be seen as more. For every story needs its monsters. ~~ The Dark Eldar died, writhing on the end of the fizzing and crackling claws. His fang-filled mouth locked into a grim rictus of anger and loathing as his hands weakly scrabbled at the midnight blue plate. The dying thing's fingers reached for the helmet as if wanting to make a final, defiant, act. A fist, as large as its chest, thumped into the creature and sent it sprawling from the claws embedded in its gut. “Not even worth it to take your skull,” the warrior growled, head tilted to one side, “Though… that is some lovely skin you have.” Coryphaus’ eyes flicked over the armoured warrior he had so casually butchered when static crackled and buzzed in his ear, drawing the Night Lord from his examination. “Coryphaus, if you’re quite done down there, we could so use your expert help, Brother.” Telemachus’ words were a sibilant hiss, the ending laden with his derisive sarcasm. Coryphaus just smirked, “Oh, Telemachus, if you can’t handle a few little xenos do what you did during the majority of the Great Crusade. Throw our nearest brother in front of you until the fighting stops.” “But, sorcerer, I’d rather it be your bullet-ridden corpse I march over than someone valuable,” Telemachus’ smile was in his words, his vox allowing the sounds of the combat he was engaged in to filter through. Bolters barked, xenos screamed, and joyful laughter just above the snarling of a chainsword. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, I just have something to take care of first,” Coryphaus cut the link before Telemachus could respond. The sorcerer knelt down next to the body of the Dark Eldar. He paused as he drew his knife, his head lifting up and panning around. It couldn’t have been… there it was again, a slight whimpering. “Juthai’lah,” Coryphaus hissed the word, watching as his vision blurred for a moment before changing to blacks and blues, reds and yellows and oranges. “There you are…” The large form rose from his kill, striding with purpose toward the spot the sound had come from. His unclawed hand gripped a loose grating and wrenched it aside viciously. A high-pitched scream came from within the grating as the dark gauntlet reached in and ripped out the struggling form of a mortal. He dangled from the Night Lord's fist, clutching at it as the Dark Eldar had and staring at Coryphaus in shock and fear. “P-Please d-don’t hurt me, L-Lord! I… I’m a faithful s-servant of… of the Golden Throne!” he stuttered, voice cracking multiple times. Coryphaus felt a dark smile spread across his features. “Well, this might not be the most auspicious of occasions for you, then. Now… what should I do with you?” (( Choices: A) Coryphaus breaks the boy's neck and leaves his body there, maybe some flaying. B) Coryphaus leaves the boy there on his own. C) Coryphaus takes the boy, he could always use a serf. Voting will end on 5/24 at 1 pm EST ))
Well, if it endures a while or not I'll finish the story either way! (I do have a vague ending planned out.) I just want to try something I've never done before and write some 40k fiction at the same time.
The boy had gone pale as he stared into the cruel visage of the helmet. The burning red eyes, the skull painted across the dark blue, the row of spikes that trailed down behind the Space Marine’s head. The scent of his fear grew stronger as a thin stream of yellow pattered down against the metal floorboards below his dangling feet. He was sure he was going to die. He had the overwhelming sensation that his death was imminent and couldn’t bear to look at his murderer in the face. A rush, a solid hit which drove the air from his lungs and filled his nose and mouth with the stench and taste of ammonia had the boy gasping and retching at the same time. “On your feet, mortal – your life has been spared for now,” the sibilant voice forced him to his feet; he was so small compared to the looming figure of Coryphaus in his power armour and robes. “Th-Thank you, My Lord,” the boy stammered. Elation welling in his chest, he wasn’t going to die. “I-.” “I don’t care what you’re about to say. Do not thank me, either, in time I’m sure you’ll have wished that I gave you a merciful death here and now instead of what I plan for you. Now, strip that creature of its armour and start dragging it with you, I’ve already wasted enough time on you.” Coryphaus watched as the small mortal leapt to the task, hurrying over and gingerly – inexpertly – peeling the armour from the dead xenos. “Be quick, Nihil, I can only keep Telemachus annoyed for so long before he truly wishes to kill me.” “N-Nihil, My Lord?” the boy asked, still working diligently to finish removing the alien armour. Completing his task before Coryphaus could respond and grunting as he took the full weight of the xenos onto his shoulders. “Your name, you can’t expect me to bother learning your old one,” Coryphaus responded curtly, turning and marching off with Nihil struggling behind him. Hissing static filled his ear again, causing Coryphaus to growl, “What is it now, Telemachus? Did the mean xenos frighten you?” “Sorcerer,” pain inflected Telemachus’ words. “Hurry here, now. The Dark Eldar… heavy resistance,” the transmission ended, and Coryphaus was cursing. A large arm scooped up the surprised form of Nihil and the Eldar corpse before the sorcerer was rushing down the corridors of the station his warband had boarded. Drawing nearer, the sounds of combat were louder. Unceremoniously, Nihil and the corpse were dropped and Coryphaus rushed into the battle alone. Night Lords hid behind what they could, trading fire with the xenos warriors. He found Telemachus soon enough, his Captain laying on the ground and firing his bolt pistol at the enemy lines. Moving without fear, the ammo of splinter rifles fell harmlessly at Coryphaus’ feet with only a brief flare of psychic energy to show how they were defeated, Coryphaus made his way to kneel beside Telemachus. A small glance showed the debilitation, a series of neat little holes in the muscle fiber bundles of his armour. “Really, Telemachus, letting yourself get shot? That’s just sloppy work,” Coryphaus chided, he could feel the poison in his brother’s veins and knew that it wouldn’t defeat someone as stubborn as Telemachus. “I told you, you weren’t near enough for me to throw in the way. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, stop utilizing your powers of condescension and clear this damn hallway!” The words were a vicious snarl; Telemachus was at the end of his patience – mostly from being forced into a position of infirmity. “Right away, brother,” Coryphaus thumped Telemachus’ chest lightly, before rising to his feet and staring down the hallway. In a direct fight his brothers were struggling to take the Eldar positions – a weight of numbers and fire restricting them to maintain position here. Coryphaus marched past his brothers; he knew his shield would not last much longer as the rate of fire focused heavily on him. Stretching out his hands, Coryphaus unleashed his power, hissing out over the vox, “Whirlwind of fangs…” The Dark Eldar, so tightly packed together in the hallway, couldn’t avoid it nimbly enough. Four pulsing waves of psychic energy, fueled by the hatred and spite of ten thousand years, tore them apart. Bodies were ripped into the sum of their parts; flesh and muscle were flayed from bones. The xenos died shrieking and in pain, in a pain so horrible none of them could feel an ounce of pleasure for they knew what this meant. They knew what would be waiting for them with this death. As the last pulse of energy died away, Coryphaus let his hands drop. He turned, marching back to the side of Telemachus as his brothers fled down into the now empty corridor – not a one making a sound as they headed deeper into the station. Kneeling down, Coryphaus just shook his head, “Whatever would you do without me?” “Not need to rely on a witch, for one,” Telemachus snapped – voice still tight with pain. A slight shuffling caused his attention to turn and focus on Nihil, the boy staggering with the weight of the corpse he still carried. “You’re picking up strays again, brother? Disgusting.” “Help is hard to come by, and it’s not as if Nihil has gotten in my way, yet,” there was a snort from Telemachus at the boy’s name. “Now, do you want me to get that poison out of you, or shall I leave Nihil here to guard you?” (( Choices: A) Telemachus swallows his pride and accepts Coryphaus' help so he can join the fight. B) Telemachus decides he'd rather be 'guarded' by a mortal child than accept Coryphaus' help. Voting will close May 27th at 1 PM EST! ))
A) It would be more humiliating for him to be "guarded" by a mortal then to utilise the power of his Brother and show weakness that he already has shown by calling him for aid in the first place.
