NationStates Jolt Archive

Looking out across the vast expanse of High Imperium Citadel, the city looked serene, yet vial. The lights of the city shown brightly on the dark ominous clouds that hovered perpetually over the city, not releasing rain, only droves of gloom. The Grand Inquisitor of Azaha looked directly up through the window. He could see a patch where the clouds did not cover the city. It was night, from the city floor you could never tell anymore because of the constant clouding and super-bright lights of the city. From his point, it looked like a pinhole to another dimension, a dimension not of the materium of immaterium, but a peaceful dimension where good or evil did not exist, where humans, demons, nor xenos did not dwell.

The Grand Inquisitor was snapped out of his trance and day-dreaming when he heard the gates of the great room squeak open with a moan. He turned around to witness some kind of thing walk into the room. It walked on two legs, yet was assisted by two others that worked in a more of a cane capacity. Mounted on its back were multiple metal arms. On the some ends were drills and other sorts of tools, the others with sorts of grappling hands. All the while the body and face were covered with a shroud of dark red. As it approached the Grand Inquisitor, it raised its head, revealing one large blue glaring mechanical eye, yet the other eye was untouched, a true human eye as far as the Grand Inquisitor could ever tell, and the only flesh left on this hallow shell that used to be a man.

The Inquisitor was brought to his knees; this was now almost an act of recurrence, because he did not put thought into it anymore, where it used to be an act of respect. “Lord Fabricator General..” he uttered as he knelt. With a motion of his right natural arm (if you could call it natural anymore, it being totally mechanical now), waved the Grand Inquisitor up.

He stood. He himself was wearing light body armor that was gray in color, adorned with various medals, sigils, and demon wards. Set upon his back underneath a dark red draping cloak was a grand demon hammer, decorated with gold and multiple engravings within the holy steel.

The Fabricator General walked across the room, his multiple servos whining and moaning as he traversed the iron floors of the cathedral-like room. The room itself had high large archways, gothic in design. Chains and machinery hung from the unfathomable high ceiling. Skull servitors whizzed in and out of the mazes of machines hanging from the ceiling, constantly taking inventory and keeping the ancient contraptions clean and in perfect condition.

Grand Inquisitor fell into step with the Fabricator General at his right heel, talking along the way.

“It is time we leave. We have squabbled enough in these heathen’s affairs. We have fought wars and died for them. They have made the accomplishments of Saint Ricaud and his Holy Knights in vain. I cannot walk one step without seeing some infernal ‘new age’ contraption of these heathens. They make a mockery of the Cult Mechanicus, and have even gone as far as replace the great Imperium war fleets with their blasphemous toy boats. More and more my Inquisition is having to step up and wipe out a chaos cult, or your Skitarri needing to destroy followers of the Void Dragon. They have lost their way of the Immortal Emperor. This is a sign that He Himself has given up on these people with so many of the populace rioting constantly, renouncing their faith.”

With a great metallic sigh, the Fabricator General stopped in his tracks, and stared at the floor. Even his mechanical arms that always seemed to be in motion stopped twitching and moving. “What you say is true, Inquisitor. The Ommnissiah has abandoned his hope on these rats.” He mumbled in a raspy mechanical voice.

The Grand Inquisitor stepped in front of the metal man, and spoke with a voice of desperation. “I am taking my Inquisitors and all of the Adeptus Astartes, along with our ships, and we are leaving. I suggest you do the same. Take all of your Mechanicus, all the Skitarri, the Legio Purgatus, and what ever Imperial Technology you can find… if there is any left in this heathenous world.”

The Fabricator General sighed again, and the Grand Inquisitor responded to that with, “We are leaving, with or without you.”

The blue eye looked up from the floor and stared at the Inquisitor.

Tzaanpriest Belial sat in his cozy home, buried in the sewers of the the Imperium Citadel. His eyes were closed as he floated cross-legged above the cold stone floor. In his Warp Eye, he could see the threads of the Grand Inquisitor and the Fabricator General, sense their communications, their plotting and planning. He twisted subtly, as he had been doing for months. Their minds were not tainted, indeed, such would have been impossible in such zealots. But gently leading them along their appointed paths... Now that, Belial could do.

As the two parted ways, the Priest closed his Warp Eye, and stood, his feet brushing the floor. He walked through the door, past the pair of Tzaangard assigned to him. The two warriors followed him, detachedly noting the faint smile on his face. They turned, the trio entering the comms bunker that had been set up here, deep below the surface. The psychic amplifier dominated the room with its ornate bulk, its throne sitting alone in the center of the chamber, resembling nothing more than a archaic electric chair. The priest sat down, and opened his Warp Eye, casting his mind out across the stars, sending word to his masters.

My lords. Your will has been done.

The whole empire watched their television screens, Internet broadcasts, and the poorer listened to their radios. The day they never saw coming. The day when the most zealous of factions would abandon hope on the pitiful nation.

In the orbit above Azaha IV, the last of the great Imperium type ships lumbered their way from the desert planet. Adeptus Astartes battle barges and Adeptus Mechanicus transport ships and great Imperium type warships made their way out of the gravity well of Azaha IV, to jump into the warp, and disappear from the “heathens” forever.

In the central square of Imperial Citadel, a great party was ensuing. Hoots and screams of joy were yelled. Alcohol and wines were opened and drank immediately. To the people, the exodus signaled a new age of freedom and prosperity. They saw the Imperial occupation as a reign of terror. Forever the normal populous pressed under the foot of the over oppressive tyrants that governed and ruled them. Free of the constant raids from Inquisitorial storm troopers and the mechanical Skitarri, under false pretences. Finally able to live their lives.

Even though they were extremely grateful that the Grey Knights had rescued them long ago, they witnessed atrocities against those who even slightly opposed the rule. If the Imperials had not left sooner, rebellions would have sprung up, there had been whispers of it for years. But now, they were free.

Despite the great parties and celebration, some saw this as an omen. They knew what had happened so long ago, the invasion and subsequent enslavement of Azaha. They knew that without these warriors, Azaha would fall to Chaos, later, if not sooner.

Deep in the windswept desert, a glint could be seen. It was a small bunker, kilometers from any civilization. Inside the small door that was lightly covered in sands, a deep dark and dank hallway lead down, seemingly for miles.

Down in this labyrinth, the air was thick and smelled a putrid odor. The walls were covered, almost dripping with unknown organic substances. Deeper in, men in moldy robes traversed the halls. In rooms, men chanted and prayed to an unknown deity. In others, bizarre chemical and biological concoctions were being produced and tested… on living subjects.

In the deepest darkest room, the biggest, a council of men sat, and witnessed the exodus of their greatest enemy. A man looked up, the right side of his face bubbly with puss and open sores, his eye socket oozing with a puss, in a color so vile. The left side spoke, the right side of his mouth unable to move from the swelling.

“It is time, my kin. Grandfather will be proud.”

OOC: Annoying bit of trouble with logging out, so posting as Otagia at the moment.

IC:

I understand, my Lord. The planet will be Changed.

Standing from the throne, the mechadendrites fell from his scalp, leaving dripping wounds where they had attached and drilled into his skull. The Tzaangard turned, and the Centurion dropped to his knee.

"My lord Priest. What are our orders from the Hand?"

"We are to bring change to this world, by any means neccessary. The Hand of Change has no further orders. Although it is odd, I cannot see far into the Weave. Perhaps the Great Manipulator is testing us."

The Tzaangard nodded, not really listening to the ramblings of the Priest. Every battle was a test from Tzeentch, this one would be little different.

"Your orders for your servants, Priest?"

"Release the Hellhounds. Their... skills will be useful."

The Centurion grimaced.

"The Hellhounds? Does the situation truly neccessitate the use of the Astartes dogs? Surely the Tzaangard can perform the task to your satisfaction!"

"You have your orders. Remove the Hellhounds from their cells and take them to the upper sewers. They can do their work from there."

The Tzaangard nodded, displeased. The Astartes dogs had their uses, but even so... Still, the word of a Priest was the word of Tzeentch. The Hellhounds would serve their purpose, but the Tzaangard had not been given any orders on whether the dogs were to survive or not...

Deep in the dank sewers if imperial citadels, few beings dwelled. But of course, there is always a chance for life, from the lowliest mutant to the scuttling rat. Except this time, other beings trudged their way through the ancient and decaying sewage filled tunnels. It was a group of cultists, two carrying a great sphere with handles, one leading, and one more in the rear, looking behind them every so often.

One of the two robed figures that was carrying the sphere spoke in a nasally voice, his tone tired and weared. "Lord, when will we reach the spot? This is getting very heavy."

The robed figure leading the team boomed his still squeeky voice. "We will get there when we get there." The leader walked a few more steps then stopped. "We are here."

The two men dropped the sphere and it almost fell over, but no one seemed to care. They pushed in three buttons on each third of the sphere, then began to run as fast as they could.

Within a minute, the sphere exploded, spewing forth an unimaginable foul smelling redish green mist that surged its way through the sewers, and eventually finding its way to the surface.

Gas bombs all over the city were detonating, nothing could stop it, nothing.

Ooc: Azaha!!!

The Hellhounds moved through the slums of the city, flames spreading in their wake. They made no effort to conceal their presence, instead relying on their might and the burning death behind them to pacify the masses. Moon and firelight reflecting off their armor, they spread through the city, their bolters barking death at any who opposed them. Among them stalked the crimson form of Aduro, his winged helm setting the Primarch apart from normal men.

Pausing, Aduro glanced at the slowly writhing body of his latest victim. Crouching to get a better look, he could make out lesions covering the slowly dying Arbite, dripping pus onto the ground below him. Glancing about, he spotted more of the putrid corpses, and a few poor souls who had not yet succumbed to the disease. Scowling, the Dracomancer willed flames into being to purify the disease-ridden husks. He concentrated, communing mentally with his Tzaanlord.

Belial. The city is beset by plague.

What? Our scouts saw none of this. Are you sure of this?

There are hundreds of corpses, or those soon to be corpses. Worse, the diseases look familiar. I fear it is the work of a Plague Lord.

By the Flame! Be quick about your work, and if you see any of the pathetic Rotfiends, kill them on sight. This is our world, they shall not corrupt it.

A robed man rushed into the in-city headquaters of the Nurgle cult. He approached his master and gave a short bow.

"My lord, Astartes upset the city. They set flame to the buildings, the police forces here cannot stop them unless they bring in gunships. But we both know they cannot afford that."

The pus-ridden man turned around and glared at his servant. "Astartes? What emblem did they bare? What scheme makes up their armor?"

With his nervous tone, he tried to avoid eye contact. "T-the emblem I do not know my lord, but they bore red and yellow armor. And my lord.. they were.. chaotic in appearance. It appears we are not the only servants vying for this world."

"Indeed. I know none of our men can take an Astartes... and it will be a while before we may summon one Blight Walker." He turned around and looked into a boiling pot of grotesque liquid. "So we must go to the source. Send out all servants, get our. computer specialists to hack the security force reports and find out the origin and center of these attacks. I want to know who is behind this, and I want their lord destroyed."

"Right away, my lord!" And with that he scurried off.

"Oy, Belial, look what we found!"

The Tzaanpriest turned, annoyed, to see the Primarch hoisting a bound and gagged cultist, charred and bleeding.

"My men found this Plaguefiend creeping through the sewers, looking for us apparently."

"And his friends?"

"Firewyrms got them. Erebus neglected his duties in feeding them this week, but they'll be well fed for another month at least."

Belial grinned. At least Aduro was entertaining for an Astartes. Standing, Belial walked forward, caressing the cultist's chin, his talons leaving trails of blood on the Plaguefiend's face. Bending down, he looked deeply into the man's eyes. Sweat slowly beaded on his disease-ridden face, pooling on his brow, dripping to the floor with a steady, nearly hypnotic beat. Suddenly, his face froze, and a scream boiled from his throat, echoing through the deserted sewers.

With a barely visible grin on his face, the Tzaanpriest rose.

"That was... refreshing. A whole new perspective on the universe... Aduro, his mind is ruined now, he is useless to me. You may do with him what you wish."

The primarch grinned, and snapped his fingers, ghostly flames dancing above his mailed fist.

"And what of the Cult as a whole?"

"I have learned of their headquarters. Send a pair of Astartes, crush them, purify them with the flame of Tzeentch.

The giant's grin widened.

"It shall be as you wish it, Priest. For the Changer."