#Taralus

[yandins-beleagured-historian]

Entry #001.v2.final

I have had the pleasure of meeting Yandin once before, in the aftermath of the Indomitus Crusade's arrival over Taralus. The navigator records on the Macragge's Honour had listed that dusty old ball of drab rock and snow as an Armoury World, so there was a fair amount of bemusement all round when we got word of a sizeable contingent of Astartes dug in on the planet's surface. Initial communications indicated they'd been holed up for some time in an old ruin near one of the old space elevators. They identified themselves as Iron Fists, and were claiming the planet as their ancestral chapter world. By all account, Crusade Command spent no small effort to screen them for foul play, corruption or infiltration. While the Iron Fists' claim to Taralus was eventually upheld, there was a general interest from higher up in gathering more information about the chapter and verifying some of the accounts that were coming out of Taralus. Remembrancer Anjelika Biscari led the effort, and took a small team down to the planet's surface to conduct interviews, appraise structures and write reports. I was still fairly new to the role then, and my visit to the Godspire anchorage terminal was the first time I worked alone in the field. Biscari had gone down a few hours before me and had emphasised an unusual need for brevity. "Broad strokes only", I believe her words were, and I didn't understand what she meant until I stepped out of the lander and saw the planet surface for the first time. The sights of war stretched all the way out to the horizon, and the ragged landscape of the Godspire mountains were littered with the husks of drop pods, tanks and bunkers. You couldn't walk twenty meters without passing a pile of burning dead, and it was here I first encountered sergeant Cosrau Yandin, sixth squad, second company Iron Fists. The moment stuck in my head rather prominently, as I recall he was helping a couple of disposal operatives clear a maintenace passage. The two men had been struggling with the body of a metahuman, still in its power armour, and as the sergeant reached in and dragged it out, I decided on a  bit of a whim to snag a pict-capture. It was only once I looked up that I realised I'd just got my first ever look at a Chaos Space Marine. Regrettably, I was only able to spend a few hours with the sergeant on Taralus. Broad strokes, Biscari had asked for, so that was all I could really capture. The Crusade did not linger long at Taralus, and before long the Iron Fists were well behind us. It's only been in recent months, as the Grand Conclave of Baal winds down, that I've had the opportunity and freedom to track the Iron Fists down and produce more of a complete history of the Chapter. It also gave me an opportunity to present Yandin, now Captain of the seventh company, with the pict-capt I took on our first meeting. (or rather, a remaster: most of my original pict-logs were scrambled quite badly during a brush with the bleak coil two years ago, so I had a colleague of mine, Artov Ilqar, recreate the pict with oil on canvas. See attached.) I've since had the opportunity to interview Captain Yandin on a number of aspects of his chapter's history, and hope to catalogue some of the more notable testimonies, treatises and accounts here. Throne willing, Hester Vinchix Calimorre, Historiographer-Moderatus, Logos Historica Verita.

[yandins-beleagured-historian]

-Calimorre flings open the door to her sanctum, approaches the giant cork-and-string board titled "Siege of Taralus", uncaps a marker, located the pinned image titled "Lord Commander Eidolon" and appends the name with five question marks.-

-before letting out a very long sigh-

GW has pushed the new Eidolon-novel back to October, this can only mean one thing:

New Emperor's Children stuff incoming in Q4!

I may be mad I can't read something fresh with the best Lord Commander Primus (according to him) this month already, but I am now VERY looking forward to all the new lore, the new Noise Marines, the new 40k Lucius ...

[quillowisp]

From my Tomb of Annihilation pack on Etsy.

One of the 27 one-page lore extensions that combines Tomb of Annihilation with Pathfinder's fantasy African setting: Mwangi

Shilku felt like one of the most passed-over locations from Chult. A city ruined by volcanic activity in a D&D setting is just so damn interesting. So to add more to it I incorporated Mwangi's Zaphyrie location and a bunch of once local/naitve Taralu dwarf archeologists who have come to rediscover their lost ancestry

[burning-awake]

Grand Starseer Taralus

Overview

Taralus was an astronomer on Argus, skilled in arcane magics and a graduate from the Conservatory of the Arcane. In the timeline of the Burning Awake AU, he flees Argus with the draenei, becoming one of the highests ranking starseers and earning the title Grand Starseer. His fate in the timeline of World of Warcraft’s canon, outside of this AU, is rather grim. (More on this will be linked here if/when it is written and posted.)

(Burning Awake AU Premise and Summary)

Argus

Taralus’s upbringing was fairly typical for an eredar of his time. He later attended the Conservatory of the Arcane, gaining a mastery of magics as well as continuing his studies of astronomy. During his time at this school of magics, he met Kil’jaeden, who was also a student at that time, and also shared his fascination with the stars. The two became good friends.

After he had graduated, he continued to pursue his craft, publishing numerous works on the subject of space and astronomy, eventually going on to teach students of his own at the Conservatory. Kil’jaeden and Taralus remained close, sharing the pursuit of knowledge and training in the arts of the arcane. The two later pursued a romantic relationship. By the fall of Argus, they had been mates for a considerable amount of time.

Burning Awake

Genedar

Onboard the Genedar, Taralus gained the rank and title of Grand Starseer, as one of the most experienced astronomers who fled Argus. He and the rest of the starseers are largely in charge of navigation, monitoring of space, and surveying of safety. Between the many notable events of the Genedar’s flight, there were still many years out of the 13,000 year journey which were spent in relative peace. Taralus continued with his research and publishing of theories on astronomy, and later quantum physics, during these times.

During the first while on the Genedar, life for its occupants became very complicated. Taralus often became caught up in his work, spending long nights in the observatory pouring over observations and data for the safety of his people. Kil’jaeden did so as well, as a leader of the draenei, and the two of them eventually began to grow distant. However, once their distance in this time of hardship began to take its toll on them both, they were able to repair their relationship and after this, only grew closer as time went on. At some point during the earlier parts of the Genedar's flight, they adopt a pygmy marsuul, Starlight.

Later on, near midway through the Genedar’s journey, the draenei made one of their many attempts to settle and start over on a planet. During this settlement, Taralus and Kil’jaeden’s close friend, Taeris, and their mate Zaari had a daughter, whom they named Daressa. Barely six years after her birth, however, the Legion caught up to the draenei once again. Left without parents, Kil’jaeden and Taralus opted to take her in, raising her as their own.

Draenor and Azeroth

During the time the draenei spent on Draenor and Azeroth, Taralus did his part in keeping watch on the stars, as well as studying and reporting on the astronomical findings within range of the planets. He was instrumental in the journey back to Argus to put a final end to the conflict with the Legion, with both his skill in the arts of magic and his ability to find and read phenomena in the stars

[theblackbookofarkera]

New Galatians

New Galatians

The New Galatians are the closest descendants to the Galatine people of old. Their blood is mixed and their highest achievement has been managing to survive in the hateful land of Maglyasia. While they are not great philosophers, mathematicians or artists they are proud and stalwart. Few people in Arkera have the true grit the New Galatians possess which makes up for any other shortcomings.

Their society is divided into kinships, close-knit alliances of families that vie for control of the limited resources surrounding the only permanent settlement on the continent - New Galat City. For the most part these kinships are stable with the majority of them comprising the same families for centuries. Inter-kinship warfare is common though always conducted with honor where counting coup is held in higher honor than simply smashing an enemy’s skull in. Most kinship battles will involve hundreds of warriors on both sides by result in only a dozen or more fatalities. Their restraint in battle among the New Galatians is reserved for their kinship wars, not the numerous barbarous tribes that harry their lands with frequent raids. Duels of sword, bow and wrestling are also commonly used to resolve disputes not severe enough to involve the entire kinship.

The New Galatians acknowledge the existence of many gods but give their praise to one - Taralus the Rainbow Phoenix. Taralus the Rainbow Phoenix is a sleeping god that will arise anew when the end times draw near to battle Erabsarun the Shapeless Void, emperor of all unholy things. When New Galatians pass from this world they go into an endless dream until Taralus is reborn and them alongside him.

“Every New Galatian warrior worth his salt has at least a dozen weapons to fulfill the agreed upon rules of kinship battles. Most of those weapons are blunt or left intentionally dull to mitigate lethality. A warrior’s most prized weapons are those that kill and are reserved for the enemies beyond both in this life in the Great War after the resurrection.”

-Deswyn Uthic, envoy of the Heruanian-Vallenbella League

[yandins-beleagured-historian]

With proper application of leverage, and a blade wedged under the rim of the lid, the sarcophagus is opened. In battlefield conditions, such a breach would be inadvisable at best and sacrilegious at worst, but impact forces have ruptured the sarcophagus' gas-tight seals in a dozen different places and shaken the rest of the welds halfway to failure. Considering the crash damage, exposure to the air should be the least of the occupant's worries. There is precious little left of the Iron Fist interred within the sarcophagus. Those organs not replaced by bulky life-support components are a jumbled mass of flesh swimming in a translucent armaplas tank, and where a face might have been is half metal plating, half blackened skull. Finding more than a square inch of bare skin is a task in itself, but before long, the melange of sedatives and coagulants are getting to work. It's a temporary fix, insufficient to stave off death on its own merit, but it'll buy the dreadnought's occupant a couple more hours of life. Or rather, what passed for life as little more than a brain in a metal coffin. The Iron Fist twitches as the vox-modulator crackles out another sequence of words. At first, it sounds like a trick of the senses. The audio is jumbled, heavily laden with signal noise and interference, no doubt a consequence of damage to the mind impulse unit. But as the vox-modulator hisses and fritzes, there is the faintest indication of other words, contradicting answers floating like shadows beneath the original. "Command Support, Second Company, Iron Fists. Fourth Squad, Second Company, Iron Fists. First Squad, Eighth Company, Iron Fists. IIIrd Clave, Clan Raukaan, Iron Hands. VIIth Clave, 96th Company, Clan Atraxii, Tenth Legion." "000.M42. 798.M40. 629.M37. 405.M35. 006.M31." Cognitive degeneration is not uncommon in those entombed in dreadnoughts. Nor are dreadnought chassis that date back hundreds or even thousands of years. But as this dreadnought's words echo and recycle, there is something distinctly odd about the phantom answers. It's at this point that one of the nartheciums pings with an anomaly from the organic tissue scans. Like most of the day's harvest, there is some deficiency in the geneseed: malfunctions or omissions of minor organs such as the betcher's gland, mutations in the melanchromatic organ, and a litany of other minor errors. The anomaly exhibited by this warrior, or what remains of them, is significantly more developed. The nerve bundles of the Omophagea, normally an addition to the brainstem that reads the genetic material of consumed flesh, run much less smoothly through the body. These nerves entwine around not just the stomach, but the lower progenoid gland, which the narthecium highlights as showing signs of significant degradation, almost as if the former organ is consuming the latter...

There was laughter on the wind here, out on the fringes of the Opphon plain, as the veil began to break down. Warpfire, re-entry heat and the cataclysmic death of titans had burned back the snow as far as the northern foothills, where the Iron Fists had died. The path of their retreat was marked by a trail of broken bodies and smoldering tanks, a fresh road stretching out from the wreck of the Cestus Relictor, to the ugly looking barbican that guarded the mountain pass. The broken ship squatted darkly amidst a forest of smoke columns; the first wave landing craft downed by its colossal guns, but even now, lesser warbands were no doubt crawling through its halls in search of prizes, plunder and prisoners. The sons of Fulgrim had watched the battle from afar, like vultures waiting to see which duelling beast became carrion. There had been a pleasance to the ebb and flow of it, the way the line of grey bloomed and sparkled with muzzle flashes and detonations each time the infernal tide rolled in upon them. Each murder of a titan was a slow, graceful affair, punctuated by energy discharge that dazzled and slashed their way through the smoking air. The dreadnought was not hard to find. They'd watched as the gunship was gutted as it tried to hasten survivors back to the safety of the mountains. The bodies had scattered like dark pollen from the riven craft, but the single fruit, the larger shape, had fallen faster, throwing up dust and soil as it bounced and rolled and ploughed its way across the plain. There was not much left of it at the end of the furrow such fall had carved, but there was still a sparking, guttering sense of life within the crumpled wreck. The golden gauntlet sigil of the Iron Fists chapter had been torn off along with its arms, but the name, 'Syrak', was still legible on the sarcophagus lid, in spite of the dark, viscous fluid that marred the lettering it as it trickled from the vision-slit down into the dark earth. As the figures approached, there was a whine of broken servos and a series of unpleasant clunks from within the wreck. Slowly, falteringly, the mangled vox-modulator churned out a stuttering sequence of words, carrying neither emotion nor any sense of recognition of the figures that surveyed it. "Cousi-i-i-ns. Do not. Lea-ea-ea-ea-eave me hhhhhere."

"Of course it's far from me to pass a verdict here … I'm not someone who needs to pass judgement on others …" A brief silence, then a harsh laugh at his own joke, which continues for quite a while before it dies away with a chortle. Accompanied by quiet words in a language that is more of a hiss than actual syllables. "… but in general, I wonder whether earlier intervention would not make for a much better harvest. Not to mention the fact that we are damaging other people's image here."

The person at whom the words are obviously directed due to sheer physical proximity does not reply. Instead, he continues to work on finding a good approach vector to the dispersing battlefield that won't cause the aggressive gunship to rebel too much if he denies it prey, while remaining inconspicuous.

Instead, an answer comes from further back: "And by better harvest, you don't mean select cruelty and silly new skin garments, do you?" - "Pah! I'm always fighting prejudice here." Waving it off and then ramming the midnight blue helmet with the bat wings onto his head.

"There's a very good reason why the Chief Apothecary didn't send any of our purple friends here. All tactical discipline falls out of their heads as soon as they see the opportunity to interfere in a battle and make a spectacle of themselves. Waiting and striking surgically - that really doesn't suit them anymore." - "Yes, yes, yes. Precision and boredom. When did that happen?" - "You can discuss it with him when we get back. I'll make some popcorn and watch this conversation from a safe distance."

For a while, there is only a busy silence as the three Apothecaries finish equipping themselves and force the angrily protesting gunship to land in a crater left by a Titan's footstep in the churned-up mud of the battlefield.

Everyone not only arms themselves, but also adds several extra canisters for Gene Seed to their belts. Then they open the ramp, taking advantage of a moment of distraction when the ship wouldn't shoot at them out of sheer fury and spite, and run crouched to the nearest remnant of wall. One shadow in scuffed black, one in well-maintained metal with yellow and black accented stripes, and one in midnight blue.

They orientate themselves and then start systematically scanning the battlefield. Their prize is what is always needed in the Eye of Terror. Harvested compassionlessly but not cruelly. The last mercy given without engaging in the maelstrom of mysticism that has spread tumour-like through the galaxy in the time since their rebellion failed so resoundingly.

None of the three believe in anything that could be called fate or predestination. And yet, after about half an hour, the small canisters full of dripping tissue, they find themselves almost simultaneously at what is, in a strange way, a burial site. The second time.

„Cousi-i-i-ns. Do not. Lea-ea-ea-ea-eave me hhhhhere.“

"Huh," Skalagrim mouths in astonishment.

"Look at that, a playmate for Diomat! Can I keep him?" laughs Duco, his rasping laugh once again making him so uncomfortably similar to his Sire.

Tzimiskes sighs.

Finally Skalagrim steps right up to the fallen dreadnought. Tilts his head. Looks to Tzimiskes, "Can you do anything with him?"

The Iron Warrior shrugs his shoulders, but nods. All three look at their Narthetica at the same time, check their readings and begin to stabilise the fallen old man. They don't have to coordinate much. Every move is perfect. After a while, Tzimiskes rises and disappears in the direction of the hollow, where Butcher Bird is bored and probably in an even worse mood than usual.

Duco injects several different sedatives and coagulants and says in a paternalistic manner: "Well, my old friend, now tell Uncle Doctor - where are we from and what year are we living in?"

[soohin]

Hello again!!!!

Sorry for the absence I have been busy with important matters but, I have been drawing!

This time... I have been working on some projects, one of them is this! I want to introduce to these children's !!!!!

An AU with my friend @lunaclavelgp !!!

Dashi, Jorge and Hashi / Parents Hiro and Miguel

Diego and Manami / Parents Kubo and Leo

Tao and Quetzali / Parents Marco and Kyle

Chris Allen "Muffin"/ Parents Tadashi and Honey Lemon

Stan, Suni and Celestine / Parents Gogo and Fred

Richter / Parents Simon and Shank (WiFi Ralph)

Important: Jorge is a character created by @ureshisan-universe and Hashi is created by @taralu-white

[aajkapost]

kaise ke ayee tohra dhamawa e maiya badi kathin dagariya devi geet lyrics

kaise ke ayee tohra dham ho

kaise ke ayee tohra dhamawa ae maiya badi kathin dagariya

puja na jani bhakti na jani, puja na jani mayee bhakti na jani

are bitale sagari umaraiye ae maiya badi kathin dagariya

lagan lagi mayee tohare darash ki -3

are sharadha bharali gagariya ae maiya badi kathin dagariya

sanatan ke taralu asanatan ke taralu -4

hamaro pe feratu najaraiya ae…

[yandins-beleagured-historian]

I fell hard and early and never looked back. Now I've 20000 words of lore, nine spreadsheets, a slowly expanding crop of pixel art, and no regrets.

Taralus Stands.

I’m not a space marine fan, heck I’m not even an imperium fan but I swear the allure of space marines is so ever present. Model diversity and varied list building. Weapon options on weapon options. Simple paint schemes that are easy to look good. Plot relevance and lore to the teeth. So may things that try and draw the humble xeno and chaos player in. So much customization and potential, why not pick up a kit or two for fun? Look at your old starter set custom marine chapter, all this lore in your head for them but only 6 models? You can do better, have good shooting and melee, two wounds a pop, great leadership and rules that affect everyone, doesn’t this sound enticing? I can’t be the only one this happens too right? Passing by the local game stores space marine section and just taking in the wall of marines of every sort. I swear it’s like the temptation of chaos but in real life for me.

[yandins-beleagured-historian]

Behind the Curtain #1

Despite the standard tone of the Warhammer 40k universe and the tendency to play even the most ridiculous factor's straight (Which I'm happy to hold my own hand up for, given half the posts on this blog), there's a hugely refreshing catharsis that silliness and absurd humor bring when applied to 40k. It's one of the things that I love about this side of the community, where every angle, be it happy, horny, silly or wholesome, can be explored with full-throated enthusiasm. And after almost a decade in the more morose, right-leaning, edgelording side of the community, giving a daemon engine the name Wesley and the disposition of a small puppy feels like a sign that nature is healing. That being said, I asked a loved one today about which parts to use on a Biker champion I'm currently kitbashing. The models I have of the Iron Fists' Fourth Company are somewhat neglected, having been quickly and badly painted in preparation for a schools league tournament I never got to play in, but something's compelled me to revisit them and have another go this last week.

Here's the piece I was asking about.

They took one look at this part and said "Oh, it's a name-brand sword. Like Gucci."

The connotations of these weapons as prestige symbols in theory but showy garbage in practice is already spectacular enough, but this isn't even the only such weapon in the squad.

So not only has this conversation accidentally manifested Balenciaga Imperialis / Gucci Honour into existance, but it's also painted the entire command squad of the Iron Fists Fourth Company as some band of vapid armoury fashionistas. This effect is magnified by the fact that the captain of the Fourth, one Katon Cantabricus, is primarily known for being away on a hunt while over 80% of his command exploded in the opening moves of the Siege of Taralus. So congratulations all, we have inadvertently acquired the high-velocity mean girls. I love it here.

[buzzingonlinenow]

Bigg Boss 3 Telugu Trolls | Bigg Boss Telugu 3 Funny Memes | Bigg Boss 3 Day 1 Trolls | Mana Taralu

Bigg Boss 3 Telugu Trolls | Bigg Boss Telugu 3 Funny Memes | Bigg Boss 3 Day 1 Trolls | Mana Taralu

Bigg Boss 3 Telugu Trolls | Bigg Boss Telugu 3 Funny Memes | Bigg Boss 3 Day 1 Trolls | Mana Taralu #BiggBoss3 #BiggBoss #nagarjuna #trolls For More …

[burning-awake]

High Exarch Kil'jaeden

This article may be subject to change.

Overview

Kil’jaeden was a brilliant, intelligent and strong leader of Argus. He was beloved by his people, and many eredar would follow his judgment without question. In the timeline of events set in the Burning Awake AU, Kil'jaeden, along with Archimonde, reject the offer of Sargeras, instead following Velen and the draenei.

(Burning Awake AU Premise and Summary)

Youth

(This section is headcanon.)

In his youth, Kil'jaeden attended the Conservatory of the Arcane, where he gained his mastery in the arts of magic. During his time here, he met an astronomer named Taralus, who shared his love for the stars. The two became friends, studying and later training in the arts of the arcane together. After their graduation from the school of magics, the two remained close, continuing to study the stars and train together. They later pursued a romantic relationship, and by the time of the fall of Argus, had been mates for a considerable amount of time.

Leadership 

Kil'jaeden was always an excellent leader of the eredar, leading alongside Velen and later Archimonde. He and Velen were very close; he thought of him as a brother,[1] and even almost as an extension of his own soul.[2] In the events of World of Warcraft's canon, Kil'jaeden joins Sargeras's Burning Legion. However, in the timeline of the Burning Awake AU, he sides with Velen, fleeing Argus and becoming draenei.

Burning Awake

Fall of Argus

(This section may be subject to change.)

Years before Sargeras contacted Argus, Velen’s son was born, and at the moment of his birth, Velen had a vision of himself holding a dying fel-corrupted eredar. He did not understand this vision,[3] and so in the timeline of events in World of Warcraft’s canon, did not tell anyone of it. In the events of Burning Awake, however, he felt an inclination to bring this vision up with Kil’jaeden, still unsure what it could mean, but showing it to him nonetheless.

Upon the Legion’s offer to the eredar, Kil’jaeden was uncertain of the validity of the vision Velen was given by the Ata’mal crystal, until he recalled the vision shared with him previously, by Velen after the birth of his son. These visions matched each other, displaying the forms of fel-corrupted eredar, despite one being from years prior. Kil’jaeden remained unsure, but was swayed enough to be hesitant in regards to Sargeras’s offer.

Archimonde, however, was not swayed by this, and remained intent on taking the power offered by the Legion. Under the guise of meeting for celebration of their future, the three leaders met at Archimonde's domicile, and at this opportunity chose to admire his personal collection of artifacts as a look back into their past before they stepped into their future.

Once allowed to examine the skull, it was evident that it was not magically inert; something had been taking place within it which Archimonde seemed to have been completely blind to. In silent agreement with Velen, Kil’jaeden destroyed the skull with a small burst of arcane which should have only caused it to disintegrate. Instead, it fractured and released its own burst of magic, its fel energy burning Kil’jaeden’s hand which he had been holding it with.

Archimonde was understandably enraged by the destruction of his possession, but only momentarily. After the skull’s destruction, he found himself feeling odd, almost somewhat dazed. Upon Kil’jaeden and Velen re-explaining recent events, with emphasis on their speculation that any who followed Sargeras would no longer be themselves, Archimonde tentatively agreed to go along with their plans.

Genedar

During his time on the Genedar, Kil'jaeden continued to lead with the rest of the triumvirate, working to support the draenei in this time of need. He remained an excellent leader, inspiring confidence and dispelling despair among his people. He was instrumental in keeping morale high among the draenei.

In the first while during the flight from Argus, life for all became much more complex, especially for the leaders of the draenei. In this time, Kil'jaeden became prone to overworking himself, beginning to grow distant from those he cared for, including Velen and other close friends. Notably, his relationship with Taralus grew strained. The two were able to repair their relationship, however, and only grew closer after that as time went on. At some point during the Genedar’s journey, they adopted a pygmy marsuul named Starlight.

During the first instance in which the draenei had to fight directly with agents of the Legion, Kil'jaeden risked his own life to aid Archimonde in combat, sustaining moderate injuries in the process. Later on, the recollection of these actions would have an impact on Archimonde's character development.

Near half way through the Genedar’s flight, the draenei made one of their many attempts to settle and start over on a suitable planet they’d located. During this time, one of Kil’jaeden and Taralus’s close friends, Taeris, and their mate Zaari, had a daughter named Daressa. Barely six years after her birth, however, the Legion caught up with the draenei once again. After their narrow escape, Daressa was left without parents, and so Kil’jaeden and Taralus opted to take her in and raise her as their own.

Draenor

(Events taking place on Draenor and Alternate Draenor have yet to be decided.)

Azeroth

(This section is a work in progress.)

On Azeroth, Kil'jaeden handles many of the political matters concerning the Alliance and their relations with the draenei.

Kil’jaeden and Archimonde accompanied Velen in the return to Argus on the Vindicaar, and each of them retrieved their own pieces of the Crown of the Triumvirate respectively. Along with Alleria Windrunner, Kil’jaeden and Archimonde were present for the fight against the darkened naaru L’ura within the seat of the triumvirate. During L’ura’s charging of their final burst of void energy which transformed Alleria, Kil’jaeden was locked in place under the weight of holding off the darkened naaru’s other attacks. He would have met a grim fate if not for Archimonde’s actions, which took him out of the path of the void energy. This event mirrors Kil’jaeden’s risk he took to save Archimonde’s life millenia ago and serves to display changes in Archimonde’s character over that time. Alleria was hit by the burst of void energy, and her story proceeds as it does in canon.

[24x7politics]

5. CRPF Modi govt decided to shift the CRPF headquarters to Chandauli in UP, which is the home town of Union Minister, Rajnath Singh, from Taralu in Karnataka. This move was severely criticised as UP already has 5 CRPF centres in the state.#KarnatakaV… pic.twitter.com/biYgr1zRzV

— 24x7 Politics (@24x7Politics) March 12, 2018

[chaitunaidu-blog]

Bengaluru May 08: Two Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) personnel have died after the wild elephants have attacked them on Sunday. While coming to matter that, according to the police information, The incident occurred in the early hours when the elephant strayed into the CRPF camp at Taralu village from the adjacent Savandurga forest and attacked the victims," police said. The victims were identified as CRPF Assistant Sub-Inspector Dakshina Murthy, 52, and Constable Puttappa Lamani, 35.Dakshina Murthy hailed from Tamil Nadu other CRPF menmer Puttappa Lamani was from Haveri district in the state's central region. The camp on the Kanakapura road is 35km from the city. According to the Deputy Conservator of Forests Javen Mumtaz, he said that, "The rogue elephant escaped into the forest after the gruesome incident,"

[the-consortium]

The battlefield around the crater has completely emptied. The vibrating echoes of mortar strikes can only be heard occasionally, extremely muffled, from very far away. Half a continent in the distance, the Mechanicum's huge Titan Carriers eclipse the sun to collect their precious passengers. Even here, the backwash can still be felt in gusts of wind that tug at the capes.

Tzimiskes attaches the carrier harness to the sarcophagus and begins to heave it onto the servitor he has brought with him, while his colleagues are still busy comparing readings.

The answer to Duco's question makes them pause in their activities. "Iron Fists? What by Curze's rotting balls is that?" The Night Lord tilts his head.

Skalagrim shrugs his shoulders. "Probably another one of those new thin-blooded varieties. When in doubt, Dorn's illegitimate sons. His gene-seed is something like the 'tastes like chicken' of the Imperials."

His colleague in dark blue shakes his head vigorously: "No. He says Tenth! Remnants of the off-with-his-head brigade. That's new! And listen to him counting down dates. There's something wrong in a very interesting way. The old man is even more confused than Diomat."

With cheerful curiosity, he begins to compare the values and also takes off his helmet to put a sample of the remains of the sarcophagus fluid in his mouth. He smacks his lips, drawing his thin black brows into a line. Tzimiskes pushes him aside and fastens the last straps, while the Servitor is already moving in the direction of Butcher Bird.

Which doesn't stop Duco from pointing out the peculiarities of the dreadnought's residual anatomy as they walk alongside the transport servitor. Skalagrim bends over the fallen fighter and points to the web of tissue that has formed like a strange nest of snakes. "Single mutation? What do you mean?" For the first time, Tzimiskes also speaks: "No. I found this here twice more. The rest were destroyed. Too small a control group."

Skalagrim nods. "He'll be interested in any case. If only for collection reasons."

They reach the gunship, the ramp opens and swallows the small funeral procession into darkness. The engines roar to life and amidst the chaos of the Titan Legios' bulk carriers also breaking free from low orbit, the pieced-together Thunderhawk spirals into the sky and escapes in the direction of the system's Mandeville Point.

Time passes. Presumably unnoticed by the old warrior in his sarcophagus, who dreams of battles long past as if they were now. Without his sensors, he has no way of perceiving his surroundings, existing in a timeless vacuum of nothing. When he finally senses that someone has given him access to an audio and video sensor cluster and wired him to a new vox, it is as if the sun has risen after an eternal night.

Glistening light all around him. Metal. Shadows that move and slowly take on contours. Shapes above him that are difficult to bring into focus. Finally, a voice. Cultivated and cool. Temperate and distant in every form. "Welcome back. I won't say 'among the living' because that would be a bit of a stretch. I can see that you have difficulties with personal and temporal localisation - more than you should. Give me your name, Astartes. Time of the coffination. Details. And then we'll find out what triggers this autophagy and what it does - other than the obvious."

There was laughter on the wind here, out on the fringes of the Opphon plain, as the veil began to break down. Warpfire, re-entry heat and the cataclysmic death of titans had burned back the snow as far as the northern foothills, where the Iron Fists had died. The path of their retreat was marked by a trail of broken bodies and smoldering tanks, a fresh road stretching out from the wreck of the Cestus Relictor, to the ugly looking barbican that guarded the mountain pass. The broken ship squatted darkly amidst a forest of smoke columns; the first wave landing craft downed by its colossal guns, but even now, lesser warbands were no doubt crawling through its halls in search of prizes, plunder and prisoners. The sons of Fulgrim had watched the battle from afar, like vultures waiting to see which duelling beast became carrion. There had been a pleasance to the ebb and flow of it, the way the line of grey bloomed and sparkled with muzzle flashes and detonations each time the infernal tide rolled in upon them. Each murder of a titan was a slow, graceful affair, punctuated by energy discharge that dazzled and slashed their way through the smoking air. The dreadnought was not hard to find. They'd watched as the gunship was gutted as it tried to hasten survivors back to the safety of the mountains. The bodies had scattered like dark pollen from the riven craft, but the single fruit, the larger shape, had fallen faster, throwing up dust and soil as it bounced and rolled and ploughed its way across the plain. There was not much left of it at the end of the furrow such fall had carved, but there was still a sparking, guttering sense of life within the crumpled wreck. The golden gauntlet sigil of the Iron Fists chapter had been torn off along with its arms, but the name, 'Syrak', was still legible on the sarcophagus lid, in spite of the dark, viscous fluid that marred the lettering it as it trickled from the vision-slit down into the dark earth. As the figures approached, there was a whine of broken servos and a series of unpleasant clunks from within the wreck. Slowly, falteringly, the mangled vox-modulator churned out a stuttering sequence of words, carrying neither emotion nor any sense of recognition of the figures that surveyed it. "Cousi-i-i-ns. Do not. Lea-ea-ea-ea-eave me hhhhhere."

"Of course it's far from me to pass a verdict here … I'm not someone who needs to pass judgement on others …" A brief silence, then a harsh laugh at his own joke, which continues for quite a while before it dies away with a chortle. Accompanied by quiet words in a language that is more of a hiss than actual syllables. "… but in general, I wonder whether earlier intervention would not make for a much better harvest. Not to mention the fact that we are damaging other people's image here."

The person at whom the words are obviously directed due to sheer physical proximity does not reply. Instead, he continues to work on finding a good approach vector to the dispersing battlefield that won't cause the aggressive gunship to rebel too much if he denies it prey, while remaining inconspicuous.

Instead, an answer comes from further back: "And by better harvest, you don't mean select cruelty and silly new skin garments, do you?" - "Pah! I'm always fighting prejudice here." Waving it off and then ramming the midnight blue helmet with the bat wings onto his head.

"There's a very good reason why the Chief Apothecary didn't send any of our purple friends here. All tactical discipline falls out of their heads as soon as they see the opportunity to interfere in a battle and make a spectacle of themselves. Waiting and striking surgically - that really doesn't suit them anymore." - "Yes, yes, yes. Precision and boredom. When did that happen?" - "You can discuss it with him when we get back. I'll make some popcorn and watch this conversation from a safe distance."

For a while, there is only a busy silence as the three Apothecaries finish equipping themselves and force the angrily protesting gunship to land in a crater left by a Titan's footstep in the churned-up mud of the battlefield.

Everyone not only arms themselves, but also adds several extra canisters for Gene Seed to their belts. Then they open the ramp, taking advantage of a moment of distraction when the ship wouldn't shoot at them out of sheer fury and spite, and run crouched to the nearest remnant of wall. One shadow in scuffed black, one in well-maintained metal with yellow and black accented stripes, and one in midnight blue.

They orientate themselves and then start systematically scanning the battlefield. Their prize is what is always needed in the Eye of Terror. Harvested compassionlessly but not cruelly. The last mercy given without engaging in the maelstrom of mysticism that has spread tumour-like through the galaxy in the time since their rebellion failed so resoundingly.

None of the three believe in anything that could be called fate or predestination. And yet, after about half an hour, the small canisters full of dripping tissue, they find themselves almost simultaneously at what is, in a strange way, a burial site. The second time.

„Cousi-i-i-ns. Do not. Lea-ea-ea-ea-eave me hhhhhere.“

"Huh," Skalagrim mouths in astonishment.

"Look at that, a playmate for Diomat! Can I keep him?" laughs Duco, his rasping laugh once again making him so uncomfortably similar to his Sire.

Tzimiskes sighs.

Finally Skalagrim steps right up to the fallen dreadnought. Tilts his head. Looks to Tzimiskes, "Can you do anything with him?"

The Iron Warrior shrugs his shoulders, but nods. All three look at their Narthetica at the same time, check their readings and begin to stabilise the fallen old man. They don't have to coordinate much. Every move is perfect. After a while, Tzimiskes rises and disappears in the direction of the hollow, where Butcher Bird is bored and probably in an even worse mood than usual.

Duco injects several different sedatives and coagulants and says in a paternalistic manner: "Well, my old friend, now tell Uncle Doctor - where are we from and what year are we living in?"

[yandins-beleagured-historian]

Entry #012.3v2.(fennion).uncompressed.

--The Second Company, Part 4 of 9 5 9-- +Header Item: Pict-Capture, Sergeant Harmik Fennion, retrieved from archived sensor-capts, Avaricum Tercius, Demeter Campaign, approx. 963.M41. The Departmento Photartem formally apologises for hue losses and degradation encountered during processing.+

Continuing this entry on, and I quote "names that should be known" (??) within the Iron Fists' Second Company, we come to Harmik Fennion. Chapter readiness records, as delightfully reliable as they are, suggest that Fennion was the sergeant of the seventh squad, second company, from 932.M41 at the latest. This is according to a few cross-referenced accounts of the Emerigo campaign, in which Fennion is described as:

"a proud graduate of the Gygar Octavian School of Unsubtle Grox-Headedness" by one Ensign Ebosan, and

"...adequate..." by the aforementioned Sergeant Gygar Octavian himself.

Despite this...ringing endorsement by his peers, Fennion seems to have enjoyed a fairly successful career as far as space marine sergeants go. His squad attained consistently high kill rates, relatively few casualties, and battle commendations across Demeter, Poros and a number of other campaigns. However, a few noted statements in his log stand out as unusual, and detail explicit rejection of bionics, in apparent confliction with the chapter's general adherence to the teachings of Ferrus Manus. This appears to have even gone so far as to merit him an official warning from Company Command for "deliberately slowing tactical replenishment rates". Odd. What is also odd is that the best-quality pict-capt I could find of Fennion depicts him wielding a power sword of a pattern that is generally not seen outside the armouries of the Ordo Malleus. I;ve asked Yandin about the sword, and he has refused to comment.

+Supplementary Log, Cosrau Yandin, Captain, 7th Company Iron Fists+

"Fennion was...well, you couldn't have asked for a better sergeant, in my books. The line between mechanical obedience and radical initiative is a hard one to walk, especially as a sergeant, but he managed it, and managed it well. He never cut corners, never took shortcuts, but always managed to find little ways of improving things. For example, I remember him wrapping ammunition belts around his wrist rather than using magazines, because 'the burst rate never quire lines up right with the clip capacity.'" "By the time he took me into the seventh squad, his reputation for clean efficiency was known well outside the Second Company. It was a reputation that got him places, no doubt about that. Fennion's reputation put him alongside First Captain Aurastra, when we charged at a Shadowsword on Avaricum Tercius. Fennion's reputation also put him on the plainwards flank of Verchen's rearguard during the siege of Taralus. It put him against two score Kakophoni noise marines of the third legion. It put him in his grave, that day...."

+End log.+ +Addendum. I refuse to comment on Fennion's sword. -Y.+

Throne knows I try, Hester Vinchix Calimorre, Historiographer-Moderatus, Logos Historica Verita.