NationStates Jolt Archive

Death is a constant of the Materium. Indeed, few things hold more horror for a being of the Material Plane than the cloying stench of their own mortality. Their own frailty. Yet even then, death need not serve as the end, for will and desire, dark faith and terrible purity can be enough to stay the hand of fate. And offer a new life, a terrible writhing soul-bought thing. A ressurection more terrifying that death itself.

Thrangir II

A backwater Bethlehem of a world in a distant spiral arm, shimmering like a pale jewel, an opal upon the tapestry of the galaxy. An unthinking, unknowing world that, even now, nurtures the Daemon seed, and sets the stars alight to burning with the tormented screams of a single sentient being. A woman. Chosen not for any true reason, save convenience, and a benign and mocking set of circumstances.

She is with child...

Screaming, weeping, struggling against the straps that hold her down, she twists and undulates, eyes red with tears; voice hoarse with agonised anguish, And still it does not come. Alive with pain, ripe and pregnant with it, fattened on it, she struggled to give birth. Comfortless assurances and urgings do not avail her fear. She feels it's fingers against her flesh, drumming, moving; carving runes within her womb. Drawing gasps. Surprise? Alarm?

And then she screams again.

Ecstacy and agony wrack her tormented, tortured form, stomach swelling, bulging and seething as flesh writhes in carnal, charnal, tremors of life and death and everything. Rebirth. She haowls in pain, her terror like siren's song, a deathknell and a birthcry for the mewling thing within. Eyes and ears and nose and mouth all run with lifesblood, her face awash with her own lifes ichors, as her stomach seems to heave upwards, crackling, hissing flesh, , contorting, defying every natural law. Brimstone and warpfire scent the air. She gurgles, half-mad, half-drowned in her own blood as her stomach distends, splitting; a roared cry echoing from the gaping wound in tortured skin, Something slithers and flickers from the mound, something very much like fingertips...

...Fingers. A Hand. A Fist. Now clawing at the vessel that hath borne it.

And now a sound as of the tearing of parchment, a terrible, horrible ripping sound as the thing tears free of it;s ruined host. Yet it is not a twisted aborted foetoid mass...It is a man. A man, slick with gore, rising from the body, stepping, no, striding forth; all mad eyes and tousled black hair, naked, steeped in gleaming lifes ichor, birth-pallor fading into unnatural health. It rises to greet the blood red sky...

He moved forth, walking between the frightened, shocked, doctors and nurses; a sidewyas glance bringing surgical implements to life with shifting warp-energies. Blood stains the floor, running in rivulets, as cries echoed in pain, fear, raw emotion pouring forth in a flood of near-palpable feeling.

It pleased him.

The psyche-ward becomes alive with ranting and lunatic howls. The end is come; oh yes; the End! Locks burst apart, maddened occupants released and spilling yet more blood, bringing pain and death and their own unnatural pleases. It swelled his power, fed him like a glutton, and still he supped. Savoring agony and terror like sweet meat; fine wine...

Here it was, Darkness; a world burning to cinders, self-destructing beneath the cruel eye of a singular will. Madness, Chaos, Hell and Insanity held indomitable sway over an entire baleful benighted World...

And somewhere, the accumulated agonies and ecstacies of long-deprived sensation; would flood a certain Jedi in a wave of black feeling...Something terrible had occured.

Jurai

I was alone, out in the middle of a plain of rolling hills with a herd of hadrosaurs honking in the distance. I was lying on the grass and looking up at the clouds when it hit.

Wave after wave of pain and agony erupted from my scar, the scar that Remiel left me as a going-away present on my right shoulder. I clutched it hard, as if trying to ward it away with my hand. I was driven to my knees in agony as feeling returned to me. Pain, pleasure, heat, cold, all returned to me in seconds what has been lost for a month or two.

It lasted for minutes that seemed like centuries. And then it slowed to a dull throb as the scar completed its task, it's task of warning me of evil tidings to come...

Remiel was back. How, I did not know. But this I knew...he will be out for revenge.

((*longs to be admitted to such an RP*))

A feral madness haunted the stars; its harbinger was a wave of hysterical half-mad refugees; in it's wake, dead worlds, thriving Chaos cults and unspeakable horror. Blood ran like water' it fell in stinging rains, staining everything it touched in black hissing corruption. Mindless wretches stared eternally skyward, minds blasted clean; seared empty.

Thrangir II is a wasteland; a degenerate sinkhole, littered with the bodies of the dead and dieing. Those who can speak, gibber and hiss about the Second Coming; of the 'being of defiled flesh'. the 'black angel of unholy perfection', who set the world to burning.

Thrangir III was rocked by cult violence within the week; and the PDF was unprepared for the tides of Daemons that poured forth. The organisation of the cults seemed truly vast; their power near limitless. The Governmental Centre was assaulted by the largest of these groups. This one was the Scions of Horus; a meager group that now, by some quirk of fate, ruled the Heirarchy and had changed their title to the 'Scions of the Black Angel'.

Several curious events had rocked the galaxy that past week; the Warmaster's armor had vanished from it's locked vault in the Imperial Palace, the Daemonblade Worldrender and the Libra Hereticus had been stolen from the depths of a Coredian vault; the scent of warp-taint upon the air...Something was coming; something terrible and blasphemous, some that was glutting itself on souls in Thrangir; and slowly moving...

Guards rushed to their posts; weapons roaring as the cultists advanced, the hiss of lasgun and bolter; feral howl of hijacked Leman Russ and Basilisk, an ingrained insanity haunting the air as hell exploded all about them. An archway exploded in a cloud of dust and debris. Thigns leapt from the midst of the crowd; shifting Tzeentchian horrors, axe-wielding Khornate bloodletters; a man was straddled, torn down, screaming (not in pain but in a curious pleasure) by a mewling, writhing succubus of a Daemonette, while Nurglings cavorted in putrid delight over the weak beings of flesh and bone. A Man fell, only to be smothered by the giggling children of papa Nurgle, grunting as another burrowed into his stomach. He vomitted, putrid fluid ripe was blood.

Another explosion; a dagger, hissing with warp-rending power, hissed through a Commisar, who fell to his knees offering up his last prayers to his Emperor...

And then it loomed over them; not over a single man, or company, but a great and ponderous shadow, it seemed to envelop all the world in it's shadow. Umbral tendrils tearing at men's very souls. His armor was black and he seemed perfect; a flawless angelic horror. He seemed to bestride the torturous fray, great blade cleaving his foes asunder; blood seeming to flow, surging like waterfalls from gaping wounds as men were robbed of their souls by ravenous blade and bloodthirsty Master. With blood flowed souls,, and so destruction came upon mere mortals; psychic waves shattered bones, rent flesh and devoured minds, rent spirit from the pale shrines of bodies, tore life from supplicants, leaving nothing but dried husks.

Was this foul being the Black Angel that they spoke of in hushed awe? Their lord and Master? the architect of the countless stygian horrors that haunted the gulfs between worlds; the bringer of tyrant woe to the cities and the strongholds of mere men, now puppets of Chaos and war?

The teeming horde seethed forward, a hideous wretched heterogeneous pantheon of depravity. A Column collapsed to dust under a wave of warp-fire; remains bestrode by a great Lord of Change; it's shrieking cry echoing over the battlefield as it dispatched countless with mere waves of talon-encrusted hand.

OOC: Just so you know; you can TG me for permission to join the RP; I will however, tolerate no stupidity, wanking, godmodding, or any forms of poor RP :P If you do wish to join, send a Tg with a link to an example of decent RP as this is slightly important for the continued history of Chronosia

IC:

Chronosia Prime

The great hall of the Imperial Palace was silent as the Emperor sat, brooding; alone save for the royal guard of the House De Drakan. His mind was troubled; the death of the Emperor; the rebalancing of the scales of power, the GE in the hands of Nightshade; the GFFA and other matters looming from all sides, cast a baleful curtain over the Imperium. A morbid shroud that had fallen with the death of Remiel. A good death, true enough, an honorable death devoid of shame, facing the hated blood-enemy on distant battlefield; yet it was still Death. A foul end to his most favoured son.

Footfalls echoed; rousing him from his meditations, even as resounding explosions shattered the dawn calm; several bombs detonating through the vast Hive city and even within the Imperial Palace itself. He felt then ground shake, felt even his great throne rumbled; and then heard again the sound of booming footsteps, the beating of a distant drum; as perilous an omen as a banshees wail; drawing ever closer, alive with power, fuelled by eager rage.

The doors were thrown open before the guards could move; one bellowing in pain as the immense door smashed his arm; a red spurt, a sickening crunch, and he had stumbled backwards, falling; deprived of a limb. The other had whirled about, only to be enveloped in a hissing wave of psychic energy, his weapon fell to the ground as every bone in his body was systemmatically shattered; howling in pain as every nerve and blood vessel detonated simultaneously; his heart exploding within his chest; sanguine horror pouring from every pore before the body was tossed aside. A toy a child no longer favors; broken, shattered.

"You Dare!?" Marcus bellowed, rising in indignant anger to confront the black garbed hooded figure who had turned in almost idle curiosity and amusement towards the great figure rising from the Black Throne. He could not see its face, not in the great shadow that loomed there.

It began to speak.

"Marcus De Drakan; you have betrayed your gods, you have failed in your appointed role as Emperor." It stalked forward. Behind it, Lucian and his Plagueguard advanced upon the Throne Room, to inform the Emperor of the terrible events that had already transpired. The pools of blood immediate told him that something was truly wrong; even as he caught the barest glimpse of the gesturing dark figure, advancing upon the throne, before the great doors slammed shut. "Your life is forfeit to the Gods of Chaos"

Marcus reached for Lifesbane, afraid now, for the first time in so long, fear filled him; but the thing was upon him; moving in a hissed blur to bury the great blade, Worldrender, in the Emperor's stomach, piercing through his side. Gasping, flailing, Marcus lashed out; only to feel his hand stopped; a cry as wrist is cruelly snapped; Lifesbane falling, he, sinking to his knees; looking up in mute surrender, to finally see the face of his assassin; revealed at last...

By the Gods, no...Oh gods, no.

He watches as the figure moves, pulling Worldrender from his prone form, and examines it; tongue licking the Daemonic ichors from its blade.

"Shall we?"

The door was forced; Lucian's might Daemonscythe finally shattering the great locks; by this time others are enroute; Severino is at his side; neither prepared for what they see. Lucian growls in raw anger; while Severino can only manage a Gasp of surprise.

A black armored figure sits upon the Imperial Throne; as before him, squirming, impaled to the ground by Worldrender, lies Marcus. Runes crackle about his body; some engraved into his very flesh as he hisses and gibbers; the figure has torn the great claw from the Emperor and now wields it as his own as he rises; moving towards the prone Daemon. Marcus broken hand seeks numbly for Lifesbane; only to see the blade scooped up; it and it's devilish twin thrust into him; his roar of agoyn shaking the very fabric of the world

"You die here, but from your ashes; the Imperium shall arise as a Phoenix. Do not fear death; there is nothing left for you to fear; not here; not in the warp."

Lucian bellows in rage; lunging forward as Marcus' screaming form evaporates; torn into the Immaterium. He lashes out, only for the mysterious figure to stop the momentum of his charge with his hand, grasping the blade; forcing him back in one movement; leaving the Lord of plague sprawled before the conquering tyrant. He looks up; at the warriors face revealed; his hood set to disarray. And beholds Remiel De Drakan; Warmaster of the Imperium.

"Impossible."

"Possible Brother; Possible by Their Power!"

Severino lashes out in sorcerous attack and Remiel counters; their magicks screaming against each other in black danse macabre; till Remiel strikes his sibling; sending him hurtling back; leaving a vast cracked impact in the wall.

"Bow to your Emperor; or I will kill you both; extinguish your bloodlines and leave you bereft of power and heirs. Treahcery and secession are the ways of Chaos. He had grown weak." Both have fallen to their knees; surrendering. They cannot stand against this being that was once their sibling."

"Come...there is much to do; much to be decided...Much for you to know"