#creativity crusader

[black-fist-order]

Black Fist Order: Chapter 1...

[melien]

On a crusade🪐🛸

[dragonpigeons]

My full piece for @/stardustovazine on twitter : Jotaro vs Avdol ⭐️ This took me a long time to do because I love to suffer. Leftover sales are open until Jan 4, 2024!

[ghostking-writing]

I just posted a new work on Ao3 check it out ^^

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64268479

Its the first smut work in the trench crusade fandom :3

[zmasters]

Promises Lost - A Trench Crusade Fan Fic

"Is it bad to say I'm numb to the screaming?"

"I hope not, Sister Marianne."

The combat medic continued to clean the bandages of the pilgrim, a young, blonde man named Sven. The damp, dirty trenches that the hospital was built into requiring any wounds to be cleaned many times a day to avoid infection. All a while pretending to be ignorant of the roars of pain coming from mere meters away, slightly muffled by the mud walls supported by wooden plants. It wasn't a medical issue, at least, not for this warband of the faithful. A group of ecclesiastic prisoners were being whipped, punishment for the failure of dying in battle.

"It's my divine duty to cull the suffering of the warriors of the faith." She sighed, slowly wrapping clean bandages around the mangled stump that was once the pilgrim's left leg. "I know that those prisoners sinned in some way, but-"

"You don't have to be shameful for caring, Sister." Sven interrupted, trying his best to keep his eye off of the wound. "God is a forgiving figure, something some of the other faithful forget."

"Then I pray God will forgive you for leaving the front."

His face dropped. "Are my injuries that bad?"

"I'm afraid that you may never be able to walk again." She placed the dirty bandages in a small container, to be disposed of later.

"I can still fight." He groaned as he tried to get out of bed.

Marianne placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into bed as softly as possible. "You can still give your life to the war effort without needless sacrifice. I'll talk to the war prophet about sending you back to New Antioch. God would want you to live another day, your family more so."

Sven was quiet. Marianne could tell he was struggling to hold back tears.

"I don't have a family to go back to."

She took his hand. "I'm sorry, I didn-"

"You don't need to apologize, you had no idea."

“Thank you friend, but my statement still stands. As much as you want to die and join your family in heaven, they'd want you to continue going. They wouldn't want you to die for them, they'd want you to live for them. I promise you that." She stood up and collected her tools.

As Sister Marianne was leaving the field hospital, Sven called out to her. "How would you know?"

"I was in your place before."

She stepped out into the open air of the trench, stale and rancid from the smell of death and spent ammunition. She was thankful that the iron mask she wore doubled as a gas mask, it filtered out the smell. Mostly.

It was a quiet day on the Front. Cold and dreary, but quiet. The sound of gunfire could still be heard in the distance, but it was quiet by trench standards.

There has been no signs of heretics in the past nine days, so the men were preparing to move further ahead. There are more demon worshippers closer to the Hellgate, and more chances for martyrdom. All they just needed to do was wait for that contact the prophet has. They’d donate some food and ammo, just small enough to keep it off the books, drop off a few new pilgrims, and take those returning back to New Antioch. Though not much leaves the front, at least, not alive. It would just be her, and Sven if she could convince the prophet.

Marianne heard a wet smack from behind her. She initially passed it off as something falling off the cargo the pilgrims were carrying and landing in the mud, but something told her to turn her head.

It was a small, roundish object, partially submerged in mud. The metallic orb was partially rusted, and it radiated a noxious stench. A stench Marianne was all too familiar with.

“Black Grail!” She yelled, pushing the closest pilgrim away from the gas grenade. As the green gas spurted out of the bomb, soldiers of faith scrambled to put on gas masks. Those not quick enough or didn’t have a mask on hand quickly began to suffocate, falling to the ground as they struggled to breath.

The first thrall stumbled into the trench shortly after. The sickly green, bloated corpse carried a blunderbuss in its hands, which it fired at Marianne. The shot mostly missed, with a few rusted nails harmlessly bouncing off of her metal cuirass. The pilgrim she had pushed out of the way pulled his pistol and fired. Two bullets struck its head, while a second pilgrim fired into its back with a rifle. It took Marianne stabbing its neck with a misericorde for the undead creature to collapse to the ground.

Before anyone could take a breath, more bodies began to fall into the trench, the sounds of heavy bodies striking mud and gunfire filling the gas cloud. The pilgrims refocused to fighting the heretics, and Marianne began her dark duty.

With a second, clean misericorde in hand, she knelt by the closest pilgrim struggling to breath. He didn’t have a gas mask on him, and he would likely be dead by the time she found one he could use. If he couldn’t be saved, he would be granted mercy. A quick insertion through the head, and he wouldn’t need to suffer anymore.

Before the poor pilgrim stopped flailing, his last words escaped his lips.

“Don’t leave me.”

Marianne paused. That wasn’t the pilgrim’s voice.

She shook her head, there was another pilgrim injured nearby. She raced over. Again, no gas mask. Mercy must be given.

“Help me Marianne.”

A pilgrim collapsed right next to her, the cursed, maggot filled rounds of the Grail’s weaponry slowly consuming his flesh. Her attempts at healing failed to close the wound, only causing his screams of pain to worsen. I panic, she drew her knife and put him out of his misery.

“I didn’t do it.”

Marianne’s eyes widen, her breaths becoming heavier and heavier. The gas faded away, revealing that she was no longer in the trench, but instead a village street.

She wandered down the familiar street, diseased corpses littered the street, teams of flamethrower wielding priests setting them and the buildings a light. As she slowly moved towards the village center, a crowd had formed.

The crowd faced the steps of the church, listening to the priest chant. Next to him was a soldier with an ax and holding a chain. The chain led to a pair of handcuffs, which kept a little girl bound. This girl was sickly pale and thin, with her clothes ragged and torn.

“This girl has brought a sickness into our community!” The priest roared. “Our friends and family lay dead and burning at our feet, yet she still lives! Her vitality despite the illness that grips our lands is proof enough of her pact with the Lord of Flies!”

“I didn’t!” She cried. “Marianne! Help me!”

Marianne covered her mouth, her eyes welling up.

“For her sins, she will burn with the people she has killed.”

“Marianne…” The girl’s eyes met hers. “Please…”

“I’m sorry Vera…” She turned away.

“Marianne!” She cried as the soldier dragged her into the church. “Don’t leave me!”

“I’ll see you soon, Vera.” Marianne whispered to herself. “I’ll make sure we’ll make it to heaven.”

The smell of burning flesh filled the air as smoke and tears blocked out the church. From there, Marianne would pack her things and leave. She would eventually find her way to the front. The herbalist of a small village now stood against the forces of Hell itself, all because she couldn’t, no, wouldn’t, save her sister.

Marianne dropped her knife, ignoring the heat of flames, sounds of gunfire, and the stench of burning flesh as she ran into the old church. She ignored the bodies that lay at her feet, all in a last-chance effort to save the one she failed to protect.

She burst through the heavy church doors, ash and mud covering her body as she tripped over the slick ground. “Vera!” She stumbled to her feet. “I promise that I’ll prove us worthy of God’s Grace!”

“Are we, sister?”

Marianne stared forward. The sickly pale form of her little sister stood in front of her. She held the hand of a tall, lanky woman, dressed in a dirty bridal dress and veil, a veil that failed to hide the waft of rotting flesh radiating off of her.

“If God loved us, why did the priest blame me?”

“The priest is the one in the wrong!” Marianne yelled. “He’s the one who will burn in Hell for his sins!”

“Don’t worry Marianne, he is.” The bride spoke, her voice soft and raspy. “And even though you can’t keep your promises, I’ll make sure your lovely sister is safe and sound.”

Marianne’s eyes met Vera’s. They were dull and expressionless. Tears stained her cheeks, but she was no longer crying.

“Who are you?”

The bride smiled. “I merely saw potential in your sister. So I saved her, and fed her, and gave her a purpose. We all need a purpose. Your’s was to die and reunite with her. That’s what you promised, and you failed to do that.”

“She showed me a lord worthy of my love and respect.” Vera added, the sound of buzzing flies almost drowning out her voice.

“What did you do to my sister!”

“Lady Veras is one of my greatest knights, I’m honored for her to carry my remains for time immemorial.” The bride crumbled into a pile of ash. “But don’t cry, you’ll be together forever.”

“I made a promise to the Great Hegemon.” Vera soft whisper sounding more like a growl. “Unlike you, I keep my promises.”

As the veil of green smoke faded, Marianne felt the cold mud of the trench again. The small, frail form of Vera stretched to inhuman size. Her arms elongated, ending in sharp claws that dripped in blood and a greenish ooze. A suit of rusted armor engulfed her body, a helmet with a long needle similar to that of a mosquito's proboscis covering her soft face. Partially clear tubes connected to her stomach, leading acidic liquids to a strange, archaic rifle that sat on her back. In one claw she gripped a large, bloodied ax. In the other, the severed head of the war prophet.

Two other knights in similar armor stood behind her. With a simple nod, they walked past Marianne, joining their thralls in slaughtering the rest of the pilgrims.

She didn’t try to stop them. Nor did she try to stop what was once her sister from grabbing her by her arm and dragging her out of the trench.

As she was dragged further into heretic territory, she glanced back towards the trench. One of the knights had ripped a pilgrim missing his leg out of the trench, throwing the desecrated corpse into a cart of flesh that was pulled by a tumor-coated equine. From the looks of it, she was the only one of the warband left alive.

“I’m sorry…” She mumbled to no one in particular. What was one more broken promise?

[woahspacewizards]

THE GREAT CRUSADE! THE HORUS HERESY! THE SCOURING! What do these all have in common? Probably having your blorbos be in control by people who write them well but don't show up.

What if however, you were in control? You made a Legion, the blorbos within, and their Primarch? Well today I'm giving that chance in a group collaborative writing effort! Join other goobers in creating new Legions, making decisions that will affect the galaxy, and causing deep irreversible trauma. If you're interested do keep reading!

Now, while this is a group writing project first and foremost there is always a need to have some restrictions and rules. However, most of these rules will boil down to keeping a certain number of "archetypes" down; after all the universe doesn't need 5 emperor's executioners.

There will also be visuals, while I'm no master artist I can definitely draw some way of seeing the progress of the crusade and what attacks happen throughout. Giving that extra bit of spice needed.

Overall, it'll be a great time and if you're interested message me on Tumblr or hit me up on discord at Mage8500, can't wait to see your messages!

[nicknacknightmare]

Played COTL for the first time today and oh my lamb somebody get me my own game controller I don't wanna wait a week to borrow my friends I need to play the furry cult game NEOW

[alexdti]

Cameo OC belongs to @screwpinecaprice and JavaThePone

Quest for friendship RETOLD - Page 33 New page each Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday

[np-art-work]

Kakyoin being a meme P.S you can follow me on Instagram for more art @np.art.work

[black-fist-order]

Black Fist Order: Chapter 1...

[drtomt18]

I've been outlining a warhammer 40k story about the Salamanders

It starts all the way back on Terra, before the Great Crusade even really began, when the Emperor was still mustering His forces. The proto-Salamanders, then called the Dragon Warriors, are assigned the task of breaking the final Fortress of the last remaining warlords on Terra whom the Emperor have not conquered.

https://warhammer40k.fandom.com/wiki/Assault_of_the_Tempest_Galleries see details here

After that, only one thousand Marines are left standing from the 20,000 started.

The story follows Captain Vor'shar of the Dragon Warriors, shortly after the utter devastation of that Tempest Galleries. As the Emperor of Mankind offered each surviving Dragon Warrior a small boon as reward for their victory, Vor'Shar asked the Master of Mankind to join one of the Solar Auxilia regiments as part of the Rear Guard for the Great Crusade. The Emperor accepted, and Vor’shar and about 50 Dragon Warriors who opted to go with him set out.

The defensive fleet was dubbed the Dragonlance, and very quickly the Solar Auxilia found that they worked very, very well with the Dragon Warriors. To the degree that Vor'shar dubbed them as his brothers and sisters. They fought together, bled together, held their ground against impossible odds time and time again.

Eventually, the Dragonlance faced a fight so big that even they couldn't hold their ground. Even the menials of the Forge World took up arms beside the Skitarii, battle servitors, and Titans against an enormous space Hulk that controlled by an Abominable Intelligence. The Intelligence was once responsible for managing the space habitat that was the home to billions. It had been swallowed by the Warp when the Eye of Terror opened at the beginning of the age of Strife. A Greater Demon made its home inside the habitat, fusing with the AI to such a degree that they could never be separated. Their personalities melded into a single malicious entity that used the inhabitants of the habitats as play things. Turning them into mutant abominations.

Just when all was lost, Vulkan arrived with the rest of the Dragon Warriors, now dubbed the Salamanders, and unleashed the fury of Nocturne on the space Hulk. Vulkan himself and a squad of Terminators teleported aboard and fought their way through to the AIs core. Vulkan didn't know what the hell it was, assuming that it was just a crazed AI. Once it was destroyed, the Legion fleet fell upon the Hulk with everything it had, until it exploded in a ball of fire that utterly consumed it. The Legion turned its attention to the Forge World, quickly deploying via drop pod to reinforce the besieged defenders. The tide was already turning, with the loss of the demonic AI, the coordination of the host of cybernetic abominations quickly lost cohesion.

When the fighting finally ended, the Solar Auxilia and Dragon Warriors met with Vulkan. He welcomed both into the Salamanders as his sons (and daughters too!)

Vor'shar was invited by Vulkan to join the Pyre Guard. But Vor'shar politely declined the honor. He wanted to stay with his little brothers and sisters. What remained of the Auxilia were as much as family, and to be separated from them was unthinkable. Vulkan accepted this answer and told his Terran born son that he Dragonlance would be the shining example of what it meant to be a Salamander. To live and fight beside mortals as equals. Vor'shar, in turn, adopted the teachings of his father with great enthusiasm. Becoming even more fervent in his zeal, welcoming his Nocturne born brothers into the Dragonlance and showing them what the fury of the Salamanders was. To be utterly unrelenting towards the enemy, to stand against the tide when all others falter, and to protect those who can not protect themselves.

Vulkan gave Vor'shar a spear, one he has used during his time in Nocturne to fight off the mighty beasts of the desert (and Dark Eldar.) The Spear of Vulkan was presented to the Dragonlance as a symbol of their name sake, and a sign that Vulkan respected them greatly.

Vor'shar and the Dragonlance would fight beside Vulkan across the galaxy, bringing many worlds to compliance both with kindness and with fire. The Dragonlance being the first into the fray, and the last to leave.

I have more written bout what happened during the Horus Heresy n such but I tire. Maybe I'll post the whole doc later lmao. Hope someone reads this and likes it.

[melien]

*to the tune of What Is This Feeling from Wicked*

There's been once again a change of drummer in GC But of course I'll keep Alyssa She will be the band's director And new drummer really feels like coming home

[zmasters]

Promises Lost Part 2: Pride of the Fall - A Trench Crusade Fan Fic

Part 1

Marianne struggled to stay awake. It’s been a few days since she was taken by the lanky, long-limbed, rusty armor wearing knight. She had been thrown into a cage, made of scavenged plywood and loose rope, pulled by a dog-like creature that looked like it was mere-seconds from collapsing at the very back of a convoy of shambling corpses attempting to look like a military force. She could very easily break a hole in the cage and run off into no-man’s land, if she had the strength to.

Marianne stared dead-eye, her combat medic uniform dirtied by mud and whatever leaked from the hound that pulled her. The only food she has been given in this journey was a single MRE stolen from her slaughter warband, two raw potatoes, a box of crackers that was already in her pocket when she was taken, and a wooden bowl filled with an unknown meat that had fallen out of the cage three kilometers ago. She was cold and tired, the only things that could keep her a semblance of comfort being the clothes on her back and the wood floor of the cage. But the thing that kept her from trying to escape was her broken spirit. Whatever will she held was stripped away when she learned that the sister she had let die because of a lie was now a champion of one of the Princes of Hell, and it was the very last trickle of faith that sat in her that kept her from unsheathing the misericorde that sat on her thigh and slitting her own throat. Suicide is the greatest sin against God, but something in her was telling her “What was one more sin?” She was certain that she was going to Hell when she died anyway. Would dragging out her suffering be worth it?

“I haven’t seen Lady Veras bring in a live one before.”

The voice broke Marianne out of her melancholy. In her stupor, she failed to notice that the convoy had stopped, her cage resting in the middle of a small village. Sickly pale men, women, children, and other beings spoke in strained voices in a language that she didn’t understand, all cautiously side-eyeing her. All except the one who broke her trance.

This woman managed to speak English in a heavily-accented voice, muffled by the tanned scarf that covered her mouth. Strains of blonde hair stuck to her sweaty forehead as a pair of pale gray eyes.

“Where am I, heretic?”

“Mmm, one of the God-Tyrant’s followers are ye?” She laughed. “Welcome to Lady Veras’s little fiefdom of Sporeheart.”

“Vera owns this place.” Marianne glanced away from this woman, her eyes catching her sister’s monstrous form walking towards the largest building in the village, a one story shack with a slightly higher roof. She was stopped by a small child, or what looked like one. The child handed the three meter tall knight a crown made of sticks and dead leaves, a crown she happily placed on her helmeted head.

“Yes, she does. I’m surprised that one of the God-Tyrant’s zealots knows of her name.” The woman continued. “When the Bride of Beelzebub was slain, her knights were shunned from their dark paradise of Ekron, forever wandering the Earth in shame for failing their sire. But Veras, brave, caring Veras the Executioner commanded her few loyal knights and brought order to this land. All in an effort to prove her worth to her sire.”

“She’s like her own little queen.” Marianne muttered to herself.

“It’s disgusting.”

Marianne turned to the woman, her metal mask hiding her glare.

“Beelzebub is not a forgiving lord. Short of killing YHWH by her own hands, he will never let her back into his Unholy City.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because we have the same goal, pilgrim.” Marianne felt the woman’s predatory grin from under her scarf. “To send her soul screaming back to Hell.”

Before Marianne could say anything, the door to the makeshift collapsed to the ground. “Ready to kill an enemy of your God?”

“What?”

The woman placed a dagger into the nurse’s hand. “You failed your God for being captured by these-” She coughed. “Heathens.”

“Yes.”

“But if you kill one of the Princes of Hell’s mortal champions, you’d be granted a seat right next to him in Heaven or whatever you guys believe in.”

“But helping a different champion of Hell would only damn me more.” Marianne growled.

“The way I’m seeing it, you’re going to Hell right now. Why don’t you take a poor sinner’s knife and test your luck. Best case scenario, you prove yourself wrong. Worst case, you go to Hell with some pride and a favor owed by my boss. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

Marianne looked down at the knife now in her hand. It was a jagged blade made of a pure black metal, but she felt a slight heat radiating from the blade. Something not too dissimilar than the feeling she felt while in the presence of a Communicant, divine yet twisted. As she closed her hand around the handle, she felt a wave of pride washing over her. A voice in her head telling her that this is what she was supposed to do.

“What will you have me do?”

Lady Veras finally reached the wooden door of her makeshift castle. The tall knight squeezed under a frame of rotting wood held together by the moss and spores wrapping around each strip of wood, into the damp hold she has been calling home for Beelzebub knows how long.

It was a single room, with a single bed, a single stove, and a single table. The bed was massive, laying haphazardly on a frame that had been broken long ago. The iron stove was rusted, having not been used in months. She was used to the cold anyway. The table, a small wooden table, was too small for her. Even sitting on her knees the top of the table was just below her waist. Where the kitchen of this house would’ve been was instead replaced with weapon and armor racks. She had no need for a kitchen, as she never cooked for herself. The people of this village were more than happy to prepare meals for her and her knights whenever they wanted. Despite that, and despite being a knight of the Prince of Gluttony, she was very rarely hungry enough to demand a subject to give her food. She was a glutton for something else.

The staved Marianne skulked through the town, reaching a window to the house. Peering in, she saw the leader of this community grab her rusty helm with her rusty gauntlet. The helmet leaked a black liquid as she aggressively ripped the helmet from her head, slamming it into the table with enough force to break through it.

“Why did it have to be her?” Veras growled. Marianne had a glance of her sister’s face as she smashed her table. Her skin was almost translucent, pulled taunt against her skull. Her messy hair was blonde, stringy, and looked wet. Her eyes were yellow, with the black liquid that was in her helmet leaking from her tear ducts. “Damn it damn it DAMN IT!” She growled, gnashing her sharp fangs as she spat out a black bile.

“Lady Veras.” The husky voice of one of the knights said as they entered the house. “Please calm down.”

“I will not calm down! That is my bloody sister.”

“I understand, my Lady. What I don’t understand why you’re so angry that we found her? Her loyalties to the God-Tyrant was never a secret, and I don’t know why you want vengeance. Her abandonment is the reason why you were brought into the fold. It’s the reason you, Zyn, and I met.”

The second knight entered the room as she finished speaking.

Vera took a deep breath. “Iska, Zyn, meeting you two was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. If Marianne didn’t leave me to die, Lady Febris wouldn’t have found me and introduced me to you two. I have to thank her for that, and I am tempted to show her mercy.”

“So what is your plan, my Lady?” The other knight, Zyn, asked.

“While I still owe her responsibility to meeting my Lord and Lady, she is still my sister, and my sister left me to die at the hands of zealots. For that, I cannot forgive her. But to be honest, I don’t know what to actually do to her yet.”

The first knight, Iska, spoke up again. “I believe just knowing that her sister is apart of Hell’s nobility torture enough.”

“But we’re not nobles anymore.” Zyn interrupted. “We failed, our master is dead, and we’re shunned from Ekron.”

“I doubt that she knows that, let alone even cares about the politics of our situation. I propose we just kill her and throw her body to the thralls.”

“I don’t think that’s enough.” Zyn gurgled. “I think we should turn her into a thrall, and have her serve us until her crimes have been repaid.”

“Enough.” Veras roared. “I need time to think about this.”

“Of course, my Lady.” The two bowed. “Do you need anything from us?”

She sighed. “Comfort. Praise. Maybe a little bit of flesh.”

“You never need to ask.” Iska giggled, touching her helmeted forehead to Veras’s.

Marianne ducked away from the window. “She’s happy.” She muttered to herself. “She’s surrounded by people who love her, the power to do whatever she wants, and purpose. What do I have?”

She stood up, her grip tightening on the dagger as she turned east.

“You’re just going to leave her?” The woman who gave her the dagger asked.

“There’s only two things causing my sister pain.” She answered. “And I think both your lord and mine would appreciate what I’m going to do.”

“Hold on a moment, you damned zealot.” The woman placed a hand on Marianne’s shoulder. “Some of your church’s top guys can barely survive in Hell. There is no fucking way you’re going down there to kill Beelzebub yourself.”

“The Lord of Flies have shunned my sister. I will make her happy. I will make her love me again.”

“Look around you, ya lunatic.” She screamed. “You’re sister is a fuck up in charge of a shanty town in the middle of Hell on Earth. Why are you, of all people, going to get yourself killed for a sinner who willingly left the grace of your God?”

Marianne marched forward, pushing the woman aside. “Because I am proud of my sister.”

The woman watched in stunned silence as the starved nun she found inside a box marched in the direction of the Hellgate. “What about food?”

Marianne paused at a cart of body parts, something the locals were looting for meat and valuables, and grabbed a leg from the pile.

“Holy shit she’s going to fit right in.” She started running after her. “This is going to be entertaining.”

[woahspacewizards]

Hiii, I have been doing some creative writing for a Great Crusade AU and wanted to share! Feel free to give comments, critiques, and anything else :D

Chapter 1 - The Royal Court

Palets - The Warp - Suveren Sector - Segmentum Solar - 801.M30

The thunderous bang of army firepower, the miniature explosions of the Astartes bolter fire, and the clanking of God-Engine gears rang out in Mantorov's mind. Each of the wars he found as he searched within the tides of the Warp was about as interesting as the servitors; perhaps at one time, he'd have been fascinated, but they were now as benign as breathing or eating. He continued flowing, his body taken by the stream, for only a fool would fate the hand of fate. That is when he found it, a silver strand that called to him. His mind pushed toward the trail, hoping to find that which the Legion had sought for so long. Then, his mind hit the wall. His senses suddenly left the swirling painting that was the Warp and returned to his body; the darkness of his room did not help the sudden sensory deprivation.

Mantorov looked upon his brother; Domnin stood there, his face contorted in the oh-so-familiar grimace that he held. While Mantorov would never say it to his brother's face, he knew if the grimace stopped, then the man would be handsome even despite his years of battle scars. "You said your dive into the Tides would take a few minutes," Domnin nearly roared, his voice only dampened by his armor and the telekinetic field placed around Mantorov. Once he gained his breath, Mantorov word's scratched their way out of his throat, "It was a few minutes; I never specified that it was Terran standard time that I was going by," his venomous laughter rang through the room. Even to one of the Illuminated Lords, there was always something unnerving when an Astartes laughed. Even Mantorov was made uneasy by his own vocalization. Luckily, Mantorov was forcibly cut off by the ringing of an alarm; after nearly three months of sitting around and doing nothing, they had stumbled upon a world. 

Palets, the mighty vessel that held the Sun Brother chapter of the Illuminated Lords, left the confines of the Warp and breached real space. The terrible sound of the Warp breaking was voxxed across the ship. For the psychically inclined of the vessel would hear the stories of their upcoming victory within. To those who lacked such gifts, they simply heard what sounded like the chittering laughter of those who were to watch them perish. Mantorov stood alongside the Chapter Master Kulik, and his mind wandered as he stood upon the dias as it always did when he was forced to perform the benign rituals before war. Of course, once the psychic rituals and divination began, he truly felt most at home. However, his mind was taken away from the Warp, and now he had to listen to a speech for which he cared not and find a way to apologize to Domnin.

He understood the need for a Watcher. They all knew the risks of any prolonged dive into the Tides. While not every member of the Legion was a Psyker, a good portion of them were or at least had enough to feel the clawing of Neverborn, who wanted into their souls. Yet, the unfortunate sods who would be called into service as the Watchers always grew furious that a dive into a realm of chaos takes longer than originally expected. It was, however, one facet in a multiprong problem the Legion faced with the new role they had claimed; the old Rats desired brutal efficiency to conquer a world in a matter of hours instead of days. They still strove for speed, but with the Illuminated Lords' new way of war, patience was becoming more and more of a virtue.

Hours passed as the set-up for war began. The world was a simple one, just a small feral world in need of Imperial forces who could show them the Imperial Truth, not to mention that from divination and scanning, the world held resources that would be highly sought after. Mantorov and his Koldun squad of fellow psykers landed upon the world; their ship, designed for stealth, would appear as little more than a shooting star to the world's inhabitants. Mantorov silent contemplation about who would be the unfortunate Lord of the world was broken when Galkin, a recent recruit to the ever-growing Librarium, managed to squeak, "Dear master, do you think the death toll will be high?" Mantorov knew the answer, for the Tides sang in the song of tens, so there would be ten mortals who would pass before the night was done. Mantorov broke his silence, his face forcing itself into a nightmarish visage of a grin, "Oh my dear boy, the deaths will be low, but they will be glorious."

Chapter 2 - The Prince and the Pauper

Sovlum V - Feral World - Suveren Sector - Segmentum Solar - 801.M30

The tactics of the Illuminated Lords were not built for worlds like these. Weak and pathetic planets could easily be swayed by the beauty of the other Legions or the calamitous brutish strength that the barbarian Legions could muster. To the uninitiated, the actions of the Illuminated, the desire to go out and conquer every world they encountered instead of just sending mortal warriors or informing nearby, smaller detachments was strange. The Illuminated never trusted their fellow Astartes to get the job done, of course, but there was a more profound element to the issue: control. Each Legion was given a few worlds over which they held ownership; for many, to expand their power base, they would simply make deals or contracts with nearby factions to acquire resources. Pathetic dealing with factors that would invariably ask for more than they gave, so the 15th had decided there was but one way to expand in the galaxy. The Under-Empire is the connected network of secret governance under everyone's nose.

Mantorov truly appreciated his gifts and the gifts of his squad once they approached their destination. Deep swamps were hellish for Astartes, while the muscular forms gifted to the Emperor allowed for movement where the mortals would typically be stuck and left to die, but it still never helped, being over 1000kg. Luckily, Kulik had at least enough tactical prowess to assign fronts that his soldiers could handle. As Poma, the dear master of flames, hardened the slop of mud into a decent enough pathway for the squad, Mantorov cautioned, "I would advise caution in these muds, my brothers, for our enemies are simple in nature but well adapted to the slop."

Galkin, the youngest of the Astartes, stuttered out, "We have nothing to fear, right?" His question was initially met by the curious and terrifying gaze of the senior sorcerers of the squad; in a hurry, he elaborated, "At most, they will send spears or arrows at us, and last time, I was instructed our armor is meant to protect against even las-weaponry." 

Ved, a hulking bear of a man and master of the ways of biomancy was the first to speak. His gruff voice growled over the vox, "Armor is only as good as the flesh underneath, and your flesh is hardened but still weak against the Tide Master's will." 

All of the 15th understood the will of the Tide Master. It was common knowledge that the tides of the Warp were what decided the fates of all men. However, some people were destined for more extraordinary things. The Exorcist Cult first coined the concept of Forged Destiny before their eventual dismantling, and it was the belief that if certain people are chosen by fate, then that means someone chooses them. Many terms for the Tide Master were prevalent: Primordial Creator, Lucky Mistress, and Star God were all somewhat popular, but Tide Master was the one predestined to win.

Mantorov froze at the mention of the Tide Master; the invisible hand of destiny was his domain, and yet it always made him uneasy. The whispering and rending teeth of the Warp sang in his mind at the mention, as it had for everyone in the squad. Daemons assailed his mind, but he still managed to whimper out, "This world is far too close to the Eye for discussions of the Tide Master; please do not bring it up again until we are off of this wretched-" his voice was interrupted by the sudden swish of an arrow piercing the air.

The barbaric yells of the world's populace filled the air as their arrows littered the hard mud and thunked off the Astartes' power armor. The ineffective fire did little to damage the Astartes, yet the Daemon's laughter still incapacitated Mantorov; he knew the Emperor would have their heads if he knew about talk of the Daemonic, but what else fits what assailed them? Ved was first to act; he roared in pain as the scratching continued; tumorous pustules rose from the ground, soon sprouting limbs to grab hold of the savages and consume them. Mantorov grits his teeth as the psychic leftovers from Ved's spell are incorporated into the barrage of death. This was no psychic backlash or call from the devils; it was a psyker.

Mantorov delved deep into his mind, looked past the memories of loss and love, and drifted away from the biological imperative to survive that filled his very being. He found himself adrift in the infinite well of power that was his soul if only he let go of his limitations; he had not come to commit soul suicide; however, instead, he had come to get away from his pain. To focus on what truly mattered and what the Legion was known for: Let their blood run cold as the nightmare is made real. A mass of tendrils poured out Mantorov's mouth; the aether ran through him like adrenaline, allowing for magic to form despite the impossibility of concentrating. 

The gnashing mouths of his living thought form launched themselves at the pathetic tribals; their limbs would be shattered, and their minds would be broken. Some were lucky, dying swiftly as the tentacle maws consumed their hearts. Others were forced to feel the pain of the Astartes creation process, a great memory to tap into when torturing others; of course, those who experienced them usually chose suicide as a preferable alternative. The slithering deaths granted by Mantorov and the mutating pustules that Ved had let loose soon turned warriors into cowards, fleeing from their eldritch murderers. Mantorov knew their demonstration would give way to tall tales and legends of death, and he was proud. He observed his surroundings, taking in the newly vacant swamp before he laid eyes on a peculiar sight.

The child had been roughly five or so; his hair was dark as night, long and unkempt, and his face was much like the 15th Legion's. In truth, Mantorov would have simply killed the child had he not reminded him of himself at a younger age, so he walked towards the thing that piqued his interest. Heavy stomping feet shook the ground as he walked, yet the boy did not run.

The Angels of Death approached the young boy; his father had told him that fear was the ultimate weakness and that one must face death head-on with bravery. He had hoped the illusion of bravery would be enough to make up for his cowardice at the moment, while his face was flat because he was spending every ounce of his power fighting his muscle's desire to flee. He forces himself to look up at the abominable metal thing, its voice assaulting his ears like the scratching of wood to make a spear. "Are you lost, little one?"

The boy did not speak, simply shaking his head "no" in response. Mantorov was still shocked that someone so young had a strong enough soul to handle such a raw spell; he knew that his new mission was to make sure this child was taken off the world. With his grim face splitting into a devilish grin, he demanded, "You will follow us and be my apprentice; in exchange, I will spare your pitiful village." The child gulped before agreeing to the deal.

The crowning ceremony was to be held on the ship, away from the swamps and the danger that came with unknown territory. Mantorov watched as Galkin marched before the congregation of Astartes and was granted ownership of the world; he had little care for such affairs, and his focus was on how his new apprentice was utterly intrigued by every minute detail occurring; curiosity was good for a Librarian. He closed his eyes, letting the details wash over him, letting the wails from the world enter his ears as within the morning, the planet would find their leaders severed into nine parts, carved with eight runes, tended with seven flowers, and flayed into six layers; the emotions washed over him, and he was proud to be an Illuminated Lord.

[tsnbrainrot]

Your tags on the Ryan interview post?? 100% agree. Fandom killed the ship. Not Tommy. Not Ryan. Not ABC. Fandom killed the ship. I went from checking the tag every day, to not checking it at all.

oh anon, that makes me sooooo sad. like.... i'm really new to this space and i was never a big bff to lovers/kids fic girlie, so i knew there was a chance i wouldn't vibe with it ? but my irl bff is SUPER into it so when bi buck happened i was like ok as a bi person i 100% want to check that out yk? and if i get into the ship cool!

turns out it's not really my vibe (the most popular tropes in b*ddie fics are like.... all my least favourites lmao, so i was fighting a pointless fight i think?) but what made me go from meh not my fav but if it happens in the show cool to actually i'm gonna blacklist the tag again and i actively don't want this is 100% some of the horrid behaviour i've seen on here and twt. in one month, i went from 'oh what's this about?' to 'actually, no thank you the vibe here is rancid.' and obvs fandom is all about curating your own space so if i was suuuuuuuper into it, i could probably just a follow a few blogs and vibe with it, but as it is... i don't even want to do that. it's sooo dead to me. i did my time in toxic fandom spaces and i'm done with that. i'm so done.

but yeah, it makes sad for people like you who are chill and who enjoy it and who want to vibe and have fun.... it's literally a silly cheesy tv show, it's so far from being that serious? imagine being so negative you turn off other fans? that's the opposite of what fandom is to me yk? it's meant to be a space to share what we love??? idk. it sucks. as i said, it makes me sad.

[alexdti]

Family dinner time!

How we met - Pinkie Pie - Page 7 New page each Monday