NationStates Jolt Archive

The dry sand tore at the pale flesh of Na'tulcian as the old man gently trailed a small line through the cracked earth. The markings were perfect, symmetrical and pointed, the engravings bound to please Thanatos, the mightiest of all underworld Lords.


In the heavens above dark clouds whisked past the pale light of silent binary moons, their two orbits high and unyielding, each one bearing the scars of death and conflict long past; dwindled into the footnotes of history. Yes.... they would most certainly do.


"Hekil rathas, makaul vuron, Likale yutila liomvaer Hithinda."


Na'tulcians dry face crunched against the light, the pale reflection from the planets sun still too much for his eyes; black and jaded, accustomed to darkness alone.


"Will thee serve." A hoarse voice whispered on the wind. "Do you give thine soul in exchange for eternal life?"


"We do."


A snide smile crept along two lips. "Eternal Servitude?"


"Eternal life......"


"Then you are now mine." A knife tore along a hand, the silver blade cutting through the leathery skin, arteries and veins beyond. "My gift, my sacrifice so you may live...."


The earth ruptured with death, the battlefield of ancient conflict springing forth once more. Hands of rotted decaying flesh thrust up through the baked surface, the white bone of quivering fingers just barely visible in the diminished moonlight. The wind too now roused from slumber, its invisible form carrying the lingering shroud of cloud from the heavens; Na'tulcian merely winced as his true form was revealed.


Standing tall and still, the misshapen presence of the dark one moved and transformed every second; black flames pouring through holes in his skin. At his side an Obsidian sword glimmered with discontent, it's serrated blade lusting after blood, a full price demanded; the gatekeeper thirsty for payment.


"It seems your time is up my dear." The flaming eyes glimmered with an odd sense of satisfaction. The dark sword rose above the two; the stricken maiden below kicking and screaming for mercy; her anguish echoing against the suffering of countless souls trapped within; prisoners to a sword of deceit and false intentions. The blade fell slowly, the impact left to linger, to draw out along the well crafted bosom, the point eventually drawn to the heart and with a thrust it cracked through ribs and muscle absorbing the soul of one who is now damned.


More clouds passed by above, the lowered light once again cloaking Na'tulcian in mystery, his sword now one of normal intent. Behind him a lone skeleton kneeled, the crushed forehead from battle pressed against the ground. "What is your bidding, my master?"


Na'tulcian, the necromancer rejoiced in his victory. "Bring your brethren, we are leaving this world, this is no longer your tomb."

Na'tulcian grasped the young calfs neck, it's small horn butting against the firm grip of the death wielders hands. Snapping the spinal cord with a sharp jutter the mage watched as the small body thrashed in spasms, its hind legs kicking against the shadow of death. "Cast it into the fire, this ones life force is not worth the ritual." A creaking servant grasped the form, its vacant eye sockets somehow pinpointing the location.

The walking skeleton gently placed the calf into the roaring fire, its calcium white limbs invulnerable to the intense heat of even a Necromancers inferno. The final drawing spasms of the calf died away as its nerve endings snapped and shrivelled under the afflicting heat. In the background stood Na'tulcian, the dark mage savouring the feint metallic taste upon the air. Gasping with infinite pleasure the shadowed form was manifest, the black flames licking the stone deck with concerted intent. They were nearing their destination; the sword flickered with anticipation. "You." The mage pointed at one of his slaves "I have need to check our course, insure these." Na'tulcian pointed to a host of live and squirming prisoners. "Remain intact. We will require all of their souls for the passing." His eyes glanced briefly to the five chained terrans; each one watching the sacrificial fire with obvious unease.


Turning with grace and swift form Na'tulcian left the hall, his blurred form keeping to the dancing shadows of the tombships passages and corridors......


Fifty Five years prior


Na'tulcian stood blade to blade with his nemesis, both men staring at each other down the long shrouded hall of the tombship. "You are here to answer for your sins Na'tulcian son of Na'vil. For too long have you stalked our space, causing chaos and destruction wherever you tread, your reign of terror is at an end old man."


The mage glimmered with distaste, his pale white skin surrendering to the grasping of his true nature. Pale green eyes collapsed into darkness, white flesh seared away revealing deep flames of black; the cold fire licking the damp heartless stonework. Clasped tightly in his left hand was a sword of pure Obsidian, now ablaze with trials and vindication of deceit. Na'tulcian laughed at the threat, his eyes concerned with naught. "You believe yourself capable of destroying death itself?"


"I know it."


Na'tulcian laughed and sheathed his sword. "Such notions will get you killed one day boy." The mage raised his left hand, dark power flowing to the unkempt finger tips; arcing his digits towards the dust covered earth, shoots of blood burst from the ground and circled the death wielder. Na'tulcian turned his head towards his enemy as his body transfigured into mist. "I will come for you." He whispered with a wry smile. "When you are old and beaten, I will have your soul."


The mist cleared leaving the champion alone, isolated in the depths of space.....


The Present Day


Nal'vor planet of the damned, home to the lost and prison to the evil. This world was once the centre of a brilliant Empire spanning the outer reaches of the Universe itself, the golden wealth and countless souls under her reign engineered the most advanced civilisation fate had ever known. But with all species the quest for power and glory taints and corrupts, its slender tendrils slowly corrupting the foundations of even the most sturdy of spires.


And so the white will of Nal'vor collapsed into shadow, its healers and magicians succumbing to the temptations of Thanatos and Odin, the grace of white magic dwindling into chaos and anarchy; until in the end civil war struck this Empire, hate spurred through the Universe until, in the end, civilisation regressed; species once more succumbing to their more primal urges.


Na'tulcian watched from command plinth as the world came into view, its brown and dark atmosphere poison to the living. Above in multiple orbits vast warships circled the planet the hulks of battle long past. Na'tulcians eyes focused upon the upper pole; In particular a mighty spire ruined and tall, its shattered helm grasping the gentle touches of space. "We must be swift if we are to succeed, this region is watched by Nurgle and relished by men. Our intrusion shall not be wanted, nor desired." The mage stepped down from his platform. "Take us down to the world, let us see our future."

Not too far away an escape pod drifted, lonely and silent. Its presence was a symbol of death and destruction itself, the fleet destroyed, this was the last survivor if he had survived at all. Enemy ships and brothers craft drifted in poetic harmony, together as they once were. Now they were far apart in honour and zeal, power and distance.

Their history was deep rooted within time itself, their paths woven like a delicate tapestry, frayed at the edges. They once were the superpower, the one ultimate force in all of space. Now? They are merely two forces, very different despite blood relations. The Vash and the Muja'ti, sprung from the same lifepool, born with hate for one another. Eventually, hate turned into violence. The remains were left for all to see. They were left for all to see what once was.

Not too far away, the Vash' homeworld lay. It was not a nice place, deeply reigious, each and every day filled with sacrifice and death. They had given up hope of finding survivors, salvage craft drifting from wreckage to wreckage in a desperate attempt to find out some information, any information. How had such a small and heavily depleted force fought back the enemy from their system after 578 years of war? How did the battle pan out? Were there any survivors? Such questions remained unanswered.

"Other lifeforms detected." The pod burst into life, the inhabitant awoken from a 240 year sleep. "Safe mode de-activated." The inhabitant didnt wipe his eyes, nor did he show any signs of being asleep. His eyes darted around searching for evidence of lifeforms. The pod was heavily damaged so no information about the race could be found. He set the ship to send out a distress beacon. Any longer and he would die anyway.

It was now he saw the destruction that lay before him in its full glory. "Our Gods have punished us so. Such a terrible crime was committed that day."

The pod made its way towards the vessel spotted.

The wayward soul glided past the Necromancer, the touch of spirit enthralling, leading and urging the cause. There was power there, strong and mighty, a timeless curse seething for release; Na'tulcian too has a master....

Passing through the inferno of the upper atmosphere the tombship graced the extinct world, the crafts clawed form slicing forth through immortal clouds of acid and ash. Before the death wielder and his servants lay a vast spire of gold, it's height extending to the stars, while its base fell deep into the centre of the planet itself. A construct of boastful people; arrogant and lustful over pride.

Na'tulcian however had no misconceptions, their pride was well deserved, their quest for domination well vaunted, for within this tower, below the throne of silver and black lay the Chronicles, a library of limitless potential. An archive of untapped power hidden before an Imperium and Empire, cast between a war that will last for another thousand years, and his master was growing impatient.

Clasping an iron staff with both hands the black one steadied himself against the rocky landing, the acrid atmosphere already eating away at the hull of granite and stone. Once again cloaked within the shadowed halls the master descended to the launch bay, the great doors opened to the expanse of desolation; but he was not alone.

Beside him half dead half living trolls stalked his every move, a host of green skins marched forth from the barriers and at the vanguard lay the skeletons, their piston like movement chattering down the gangway like a flood of white; scimitars gleaming against the pale sun above.

"Breech the tower and find me the throne room. Destroy every obstacle until the dual throne is found. The first to find it shall earn his release." A troll startled at the offer prepared to thrust through the tangled crowd, yet it was halted by the hash tip of Na'tulcians staff. "Not you." The words lingered like death.

The army crashed upon the black sand, their footsteps many and large were quickly consumed by the rolling dunes. The entrance was not hard to find, a great crater formed by ancient particle weapons had clearly penetrated through the outer catacombs; the once lavish halls dissolved and worn from years of exposure. The mass pushed forward.

Na'tulcian lingered in his footfalls, careful with every step and movement. This ancient ground was well warded; protected by sorcerers of both the light and dark crafts. The two sects prepared to agree on the sanctity of power. But a hole has been cleaved, a great chasm in the ancient defences, attempts each bearing the hallmarks of Nurgle. Na'tulcian frowned; was he too late, has the repository been breached? His question was quickly answered by a series of screams from within the spire, Orks chanting in their curses while men and bones withered in agony.

"The wards are intact. Bring forth the first." His guard grunted with a splurt of congealed blood, the black oooze bubbling on dark earth, its fumes toxic to all who are living. Na'tulcian sighed at the incompetence of trolls and took a few steps to the left and begun trailing the first marks of fire. The troll quickly reappeared bearing a young man in his prime, the toned body flailing in defiance. "You could at least die with dignity!" Na'tulcian suggested with an exasperated sigh. "Silence is often seen as the greatest protest." The attempt done no good, he still screamed and ruptured with fear. "Place him in the circle; in the centre." The troll acquiesced pushing the man down with a thud. "Break his arms and legs, I don't want him running away." The trolls peeling hands snapped the four limbs in quick succession; the chortled cry subsiding to a gentle whimper.

"Now isn't that much better." Na'tulcians cracked lips said with a fatherly smile. The shroud dropped once more, the black flames churned to the forefront of the mages features, his face contorted with a million years of sacrifice. The sword burned with blue flame, the flicker oddly cold and dull; the point aimed at the stomach of its prey. Silence ensued, the only noise that of the scouring wind. Na'tulcian rose from the floor and pointed his Obsidian blade through the broken spire; dark energy flowed freely, massing and rising with ample desire. With a crack of red light, the timeless wards were broken, the centuries old barriers destroyed with little more than a curse.

Na'tulcian walked onwards, his form disappearing into the depths of the spire........

The throne of silver and black lay in the centre, above it limitless carvings stretched dauntlessly into the atmosphere. Na'tulcians dry footsteps approached, while his vanguard warriors stood within; each shaken and burned, scarred by the tortures of power. The Necromancer ignored those bonded in servitude, his eyes stood, fixated upon the throne. "This." The mage took a few steps forward. "This mighty vessel once ruled the Universe." A few more steps forward and he was now at the foot of the dias. "This mighty throne once protected countless worlds. Even now, so long after the cataclysm I can feel its power, its strands delve into the rock, it roots extend through the air and yes.... even death itself; we are before Gods...." The flaming tongue licking with anticipation. His master beckoned him towards the chair, the form demanding haste.

Na'tulcian took his seat, his posture and shape mimicking that of emperors long deceased, stroking the crafted arms the keeper of death released a switch, causing the throne to descend, Na'tulcian drifted into the chroniclers caverns.

OOC: TRO, I will respond to the pod when im back in orbit.

((OOC: Tag, Damn nice btw.))

OOC Aye damned nice tag for Giltheran my other nation which will fit better I think with this. (hence my posting I can find it by searching for myself)

Really nice.

Na'tulcian descended into the catacombs of knowledge, his eyes vainly attempting to seek out any discernible details. The silence was crushing and total, the blanket upon his senses a torment for even the most damned of souls. Writhing upon his new found throne the death wielder found his link to the shadow realm broken, severed by some unseen force; even for one who could not feel, his anguish was apparent for all to behold.

"Find the sceptre, and only then will you have live eternal life."

Na'tulcians thoughts regressed to that fateful order, a sentence uttered by a soul, a spirit far stronger then he, yet too depleted to manifest. The Necromancer was at a loss, he could choose servitude with the goal of ascertaining a reward worthy of his skills; or he could place his trust in Thanatos and stick to arrangement agreed. Of course Na'tulcian did not choose the latter, just like men of mortal stature he too feared the underworld, the great lakes of souls crying for reprieve, begging for a small taste of life.

It was his quest to avoid mortality, it was his endless journey to pursue the fountain of youth.....

Rocked and roused by the end of his descent Na'tulcian rose from the silver and black dias, his blurred form too masked by darkness to perceive his physical surroundings. The throne turned slightly to the left subtly adjusting the user. Lights kindled in the distance, dim and low; perfectly adjusted for one such as Na'tulcian. Revealed in opulent splendour was the legends of the chronicles. The chamber was vast, stretching for thousands of miles in either direction, but also it remained empty and vacant. Before the mage sat one object, a pillar, small and crafted from ice, its gentle lattice frame glowing with deep desire. The brightness gradually intensified, until Na'tulcians hard work paid off, the librarian had arrived.

"Greetings kind master, how can I assist thee this day?"

Na'tulcian savoured the moment all be it one of a stern anti climax. The mage had expected a vast hall filled with scripture and books, piled with parchment and scrolls, not some small and simple pillar...... Though still thankful for this much the sorcerer inhaled a deep breath and spilled his will. "I want to know it all, tell me everything, starting with sceptre and soul."

The holographic display flickered for a moment. "One entry. The sceptre of Nal'vor. Death Wielders staff to rouse those pulled into the nether world. An item of considerable magic potency, only one is known to exist."

"Where does this staff lie hidden?"

"The staffs location towards the end of the great cataclysm was rumoured to be hidden within the dual throne of the Empire."

"Why was the sceptre concealed?"

"The two Emperors had decided its potency too dangerous for the fabric of life. A council vote decreed its decomission."

"Was the sceptre ever removed from the dual throne?"

Unknown. Na'tulcian smiled with careful vindication. He had always suspected his quest would end on Nal'vor, but for some reason he had never dreamed of it being this easy.

"Librarian, where is the planet Daerwen?" A flurry of grid references graced the mages sight, and with it Na'tulcian resumed his journey back towards the surface once more masked by shadow.

OOC: I concur, this is a truly excellent RP so far.

There is a legend that few know, a tale from a dark time when war and conflict stained the stars, and madness flowed in the wake of zealous hatred. In hushed agreement with their allies, the Sith, the Chronosian Imperium had marched to war. Uncorrupted, bound only by their faith in the glory of Humanity, the Imperium had engaged in a bloody conflict with the Federal Union, eventually drawing the Hydran systems into its fold. Yet there was another system, a small system that embraced neither cause, and protected its veiled, ancient knowledge with an unnatural zeal. Rumours abounded of their taint, that they dabbled in blasphemous technologies and sorcery! Sorcery most foul, magicks in obeisance to the Warp. Or so the Imperium would have believed.

They waged a brutal and protracted war upon this race, intent upon snuffing out the taint in their midst, before progressing on to other conflicts. Some blamed Marcus De Drakan’s reckless pursuit of this war for the compromise with the Union, others that he had wasted valuable resources to purge an enemy that may never have existed. For much that once we knew, is now mere myth. Yet legend speaks of the atrocity wrought here, by an Imperium that claimed to stand for the light of Man.

Such tales as these, endure for all time. So come, brother. Let us tell the tale of how the Imperium broke the inhabitants of Nal’vor. Come, hear how the men of Nal’vor endure still….And how their legacy shall snuff out even the stars.

It begins long ago. It begins, with Slaughter.

Enduring in Slaughter

Fire tore across the horizon as Turel, First Captain of the Angelus Invictus sprinted forth, tumbling into the cover of gleaming silver-gold rubble. He checked his bolter, finger playing over the trigger before spinning into sight, letting off a frantic flurry of rounds in the direction of the enemy. Along his flank, his men did the same, their armour had once gleamed red and white, now it was tarnished with ash, blood etched across the gleaming white like arterial spray across bone. The enemy was somewhere ahead, but they were at a disadvantage; City systems were dampening their sensors, many had let their helmets fall to the ground, allowing their enhanced Astartes senses to act for them. A blast of raw energy surged past Turel’s head and he replied with a volley of bolter fire, the howl of his weapon merging with his own roar of anger.

They had cut a foul harvest of his men, these denizens of Nal’vor, a blasphemous name in native tongue. In hushed whispers, his men had named this system Slaughter. They did not fear the Enemy, but they recognised their feral potency, and conspired to make the system live up to its nickname, on their own terms.

“To me! Brothers! To me!” Turel’s voice cut across the cacophony of boundless carnage, his men moving to his side, bolter fire surging forth in unison against their unseen foe. A flicker like heat haze danced across his vision, before a gout of energy weapon fire hurtled past his face, searing his skin. He bellowed, vaulting the wall, letting his chainsword whirr to life in his other hand; his brothers ran with him, to live and die with him, to fight until the bitter end under his command. “FOR THE EMPEROR, BROTHERS! FOR THE UNCONQUERABLE ANGEL!”

As one they charged across the burning fields of unmitigated destruction that had been waged upon this infernal enemy. The walls ahead of them had shattered, torn asunder by the might of an Imperial Titan. That mighty giant now lay broken and battered, a testament to the insidious might of the enemy, its smouldering ruin wrenched apart by the foul sorcery inherent in their enemies technology. Energy such as that tamed and forced forth, men who appeared as Invisible soldiers. These were but a few of the blasphemies of the Enemy. The Emperor and the Primarch had both cautioned them on the evil of the Xeno and the hatred of the Heretic.

Now Turel saw both, emblazoned upon this entire race.

Other squads were charging; there was the command squad of Second, almost the entire legion was moving across the tortured terrain, through the ruin of a world, into the pulsing heart of the enemy.

Of Twin Emperors

The initial push into the Palace complex was easy enough, glass and masonry tumbling into nothingness as the Marines forced their way into the Palace proper. Turel called his two most trusted, Andreas and Matthias, to his side and moved up the main staircase that dominated the room. He paused. Noise echoed around the room, a sudden blast of energy sent Andreas flailing into nothingness, his breastplate rent and aflame. Turel spun, his bolter firing into thin air, blood gouting from the veiled soldiery before him. He snarled as he slammed his chainsword into where he estimated the soldiers head to be, ripping it off as the whirring blade smashed into juncture of head and neck, the stealth failing as the body tumbled to the ground, gushing with scarlet gore. He snarled, as all around the room, bolter fire began to erupt; they were under attack.

Turel watched as bursts of flaming promethium enveloped invisible assassins, as bolter fire passed through hidden limb and torso. He pushed ahead, only Matthias at his side now. He let his boot smash into the golden doors, letting them swing open, there was madness behind him, but it had not prepared him for what lay ahead.

An immense throne dominated the room, not one but two. Upon the left, sat a figure almost like marble in his albinism. Content to watch, eyes flicking in moody crimson pools, regarding the armoured superhumans before him. The other, his hair dark as ravens, was clothed in simple black robes. Absently he grasped at a hovering tongue of purple flame, snuffing it out with a gesture.

“Blasphemy.” Turel intoned. “You and your kind are found heretical by the will of the Divine Emperor of the Imperium. You shall fall, all your works shall be undone.”

“Why?” The voice seemed to come as one, yet two voices melded into the speaking of it, “Who are you to pass judgement on we who have tamed the ancient technologies? Discovered the ancient arts? Why do you fear us? Why do you destroy what you could never understand?”

He could feel their combined power, prying at his mind like tendrils of living light and shadow. He grunted, hissing as they tried to lever open the secrets of his mind.

”Son of Chronosia….Son of Remiel….Son of Marcus….Son of Terra….Weakling fool. Did you truly think it would end this easily? We know you. You have seen you. Conquerors of worlds. Yet you are nothing. Nothing without understanding of the universe.”

His hand hovered over his bolter, yet he could not reach it. He could barely turn his head to see Matthias, gasping, choking on his own blood, blinded by the blood that oozed from his eyes. He watched his brother fall.

“You cannot stand against us.”

“Your…Empire is falling. You are broken….You are nothing.” He could feel the blood boiling in his veins, screaming in his mind. He could taste their history, their past, their future. Dear God….By the Emperor. What was this? “I…am the Hammer” He let his voice pour forth, saturated with faith. “I am the instrument of his Will. I am the Blade. I am the Vengeance of his Wrath. I….Am Turel, son of Remiel, son of Marcus, son of Terra. I am his Child, and by his blessing. I.Will.Not..FAIL” He felt his hand close around the bolter, pulling it forth, as a scream erupted in the throne room, in his mind, all throughout the palace. The Throne burned with coruscating arcs of multi-coloured flame. Flames burned in shades he never even knew existed as he intoned the rites of purity and began to fire.

His squad surged into the room, numberless dead, the survivors bloodied as they began to fire.

And a dynasty ended, in fire and sorcerer’s wrath, under the guns of the Imperium and the wrath of the Divine Emperor.

Turel let his well-versed fingers play across the keys of the vast organ, letting the music infuse the air around him, touching it, teasing it into new shapes, bringing forth a sinister light amongst the still, crisp air of his immense audience chamber. He let the glow suffuse him, the tainted offering of the Warp, the pleasure of Slaanesh, for he had offered much in the days since last he had been here. Here where he had ended the life of the filth who once ruled this damned world.

He sighed lightly, teasing yet more notes from the instrument, forcing his anguish into the air. He had been forced once more to this backwater, this tiny little system, insignificant as far as the grand scheme was concered. The Emperor's plans were vast and multi-faceted, even now they played out across a hundred worlds, each pawn ignorant of the parts of his opposing part.

Rising now, his golden cloak draped over his form, fingers adorned with rings curling about the neck of a bottle, raising it to his lips, sighing at the sensation and the burning, mewling lightly. The absinthe slid gently into his throat, teasing his nerves with varied and languid sensation. But the time for toying was over, there was much to be done. A gesture brought a holographic representation of the world into view, power indicators flickering lightly from place to place.

"Ready the men" His barked order echoed throughout the Vengeance of Slaanesh. "Ready everything we have, the whole company. More...Somethings down there....Something lives. Let no man know the taste of joy until we have roused forth our wrath. Let no soul look skywards in hope of salvation. Till our job is done, it shall be as though the Gods have forsaken us and we are again clad in all the garments of bitter mourning."

Servitude; that is what he had chosen with this quest. Eternal servitude in pursuit of his masters goals. Na'tulcian a man of pride somehow found solace in knowing that the first phase was fast approaching its end.

The dark coulomb of travel quickly wound to a halt as the throne resurfaced into the great chamber of kings. The golden walls glittering from the gentle light of gas globes, while before him, his horde awaited; creatures of torment and suffering, each one savouring the possibility of butchery. Rising from the splintered axis Na'tulcian scoffed at the last emblem of a fallen civilisation. "Break open the throne, bring me the sceptre." The death wielders voice sent ice through the air, his mood reflecting darkness that had befallen this place through millennia past.

Grunts and groans erupted from several ulog-hai as their barbed clubs sundered the ancient stone. With malevolent force blackened marble crumbled, obsidian shattered and sorcery gave way to time; the last vestiges of an ancient Empire cracked asunder in its final execution.

Revealed was the sceptre, a mighty staff of power and strength and the key for freedom. Clasped tightly in his white hand of bone, one of the leading warriors followed Na'tulcian from the tower, ready to reap his reward. Lightly creaking through the rolling dunes the menial caught his master and bowed with profound submission; staff raised high above his rotted skull.

"You seek your reward?"

"I seek my masters promise." The words were there, honour bound.

"You are sure that death is what you desire, I remember your pleas to rise again."

"Eternal peace master, is greater than any torment. I seek my release." Na'tulcians sword glimmered a brilliant blue; the cold fire extending in a hunched arc towards its slave.

"I give you your reward, I give you life." The soul seeped back into its mortal host, the calcium figure lost in a cloud of black mist.

"I feel; I am....human."

"No", a sly smile crept over Na'tulcian. "You are dead." Snatching the sceptre from the pink hands of his servant Na'tulcian left him and his flesh to the exposed atmosphere of Nal'vor. The acrid air and acidic moisture leaving him to an agonising death. Na'tulcian savoured the thought of recollecting his soul, but that course was without honour. He had promised a release, and of course his word delivered.

The horde of slaves exited the mighty tower like a merchants caravan, each one holding objects of significance. Some carried gleaming white armour, while others clasped cocoons of brilliant white. Furniture and plunder followed, apparently wealth was still not something only the living could obtain.

Na'tulcian however remained disinterested, his eyes remained fixated upon his prize, the long black rod which would grant his master the power to return.

The first drop-pods cut across the sky like bitter knives of baleful flame. The Dreadclaws tore at the atmosphere, fingers of terrible fire in the face of damnation. Once again they returned to this damned world, this orb benighted and forsaken by all but the most foolish or mighty of dark beings. The Dreadclaws scythed through the mist and fog, impacting in the midst of an ancient, long-deserted square. Weapons were swiftly readied, helmets and armor air-tight before the rolling shroud of dead air.

"Status" Turel's bark cut through the chill atmsophere, the very aura of death. "What's our status?"

"Some of First Company have been blown off course sir; others have been lost altogether. We've got sporadic reports of injuries and fatalities. Somethings interfering with the Vox though-"

"Lord Commander?"

Turel turned as the Sorceror bowed his head,

"What is it, Felix?"

"My Lord....Something dwells here. The signs are all in upheaval...Death lurks here, death for one and all. And it is our hand that has roused it."

"Death? Roused again? You sound like the Eldar when they whimper of the Necrons! What are you saying?"

"That death is here, my Lord...And we may not outlast it."

"Put out a signal on the Vox, a beacon. We unify here, I want patrols in alternating patterns. We'll regroup and move as a unit. Our goal is the Palace. Remember men, we walk with the grace of the Emperor. It is his dark light that shall guide us to victory."

Nal'vors wind rose from the wastelands, her immortal gasps tearing at the ash sand below. "A storm is setting in master." A seething servant muttered. "Our ascent shall be impossible until it passes." The Necromancers dark eyes narrowed at the approaching wall of chaos.

"Set a guard; and maintain a perimeter. " His words were lost with thought. Turning, Na'tulcian walked briskly back into the tombship. His eyes glimmered a fiery blue, while his face contorted into a darkened pale. It was obvious now, the problem, the pain. His senses detected the stench of the warp, the reek of demons and the abomination of man. He could feel their souls pulsing, throbbing like a second heart. His sword thirsted for them, it pleaded for blood, while the sceptre remained still and quiet. "Urrarch! Na'tulcian shouted through the bustle of the cargo bay. "To me at once."

Through the crowd of rotting death, a skeleton crept silent and still; it's grey bones juttering with every twist and turn. "Master?"

"My loyal servant." Na'tulcian said with an almost fatherly smile. "I have need of your and your.... mens services."

"You need only ask master."

"I know." Na'tulcian gave a respectful nod. "We are not alone upon this world, the barrenness of the wasteland hides life my son, it masks the presence of man. Urrarchs skull jerked slightly. "They have only recently arrived."

"How close are they master?"

"Five, perhaps six leagues away from the spire, what they seek here I do not know."

"You wish me to?"

"Bring them to shadow." Urracrch nodded obediently. "Take whoever you wish."

"Ainur?"

"Leave it be, we only wish to rouse the monster if fate so dictates."

"Your will master." Urrarch clawed away grasping soldiers of the undead. Orks, Skeletons and Ulog's each fell into line as they left the skull encrusted ramp of the tomb ship......

******

Urrarch scoured the horizon around the tower, his hardened bones resisting the eroding wind just as well as the armour of the invaders. They had come over the dune in single file at first, their movements typical of a combat squad merely running through the motions of defence. Yet, there will was still focused upon the goal, they were here for some reason other than reconnaissance.

Allowing the drifting sand to cover his sinking body, Urrarch heard the faint sound of death on the wind, its voice whispering in chants.

Ainur is here, run in fear....
Ainur is here, run in fear....
Ainur is here, he is the fire of the sun,
He is the light of the sky,
He is the vision of death.
Ainur is here, run in fear....

The voices ushered through the intensifying storm, and though dead and decayed, Urrarch felt the deep gnaw of dread.

They began their trek across the sands, moving through the arid heat of a dead world. Beneath their feet lay the ruination of an entire culture, wrought by the Imperium long ago. Turel almost felt a glimmer of satisfaction flood through him as he moved up one of the higher dunes, gazing out over desert, broken land that had once been arable farmlands. Lush orchards and villas, the hidden establishments of the rich and the powerful. Those most esteemed of that race which they had crushed into the dust of history.

Something glimmered nearby, as though half-buried in the dusts. Some relic of an age long lost? Or something new to this world and the heretical fools who they had been told now inhabited it? Violating the Imperium's age old decree against the use of this, dead and forbidden world. Turel voxed the command to move to his Squad, forcing onwards towards the shimmering object, its reflection gleaming in the harsh sunlight. Other squads pushed up the dunes, following the decree of their Lord Commander.

He paused.

The white sheen of bone shone through the sand that covered it. It appeared human, though other, suitably more inhuman bodies and bones lay about it. A grotesque tableau of death. A charnel offering before them, like an opened and robbed graveyard. Turel bent forward, brushing aside the sand with the edge of his Chainsword, gazing down into the empty sockets of the skull. Contemplating it, how had it come here? What had been the manner of its death? Was this some warning? Some cruel, capricious joke?

He never got an answer, as with a feral roar, the thing rose, screaming and laughing, hands surging towards his throat. Only then did they hear it; the laughed and giggled rhyme, the whisper upon the wind, echoing all around them, building to a crescendo as the dead began to rise all about them. Turel lashed out with his chainsword even as he brought his bolter up and fired, peppering the enemy with a burst of fire, knocking the skeletal assailant back.

"TO ARMS!"

Urrarch rose from the sand, his fleshless body glistening against the sinking sun of Nal'vor. The enemy was fast and ordered, their bolters casting the first shots before he had even risen from the dust. Clasping his scimitar tightly Urrarch charged into chaos, blade meeting blade, bone meeting bolter.....

**

The tombship was oddly silent, the masses, slaves and servants of Na'tulcain were each preparing for battle and the possible damnation beyond. Death, for the living dead was a shadow ever present, focused and grasping, yet its tendrils of mercy would not be kind to those who fell in combat. The prison of the sword awaited the fallen.

Standing alone and isolated Na'tulcian leered above a bubbling pool of oil, its acrid fumes leeching into the stained atmosphere of his vessel. His eyes were jaded with power, his will concentrated upon the battle beyond. Swirling, twisting in ripples of will, the toxic veneer gave way; revealing the conflict. Before the necromancer were brief glimmers of Urrarch as he moved swiftly between ally and foe, his valiant efforts a futile gesture in the pursuit of victory; it was clear to Na'tulcian that his efforts were failing, his warriors required a gifted relief. "Ulog-Hai...." Na'tulcian chortled. "Rise....."

**

The marines of chaos fought well, their swords clashing and bolters erupting splintering the dispatched raiders with almost effortless ease. Urrarch bravely rose his blade to parry a falling chainsword only to find his blade shattered against the chewing barbs of the enemy. Oddly, Urrarch found himself laughing, his broken jaw chattering with sadistic glee as the astartes pressed forward. Scuttling backwards, narrowly avoiding a pointed thrust, the risen skeleton screamed once more as his attacker was grasped by the ankles, his thick legs crushed like twigs.

Rising from the murky sands Ulog-Hai sent a spray of dust and murk in every direction clouding the vision for all. As surprise settled, and confusion ebbed, the mighty servants of death, rose their clubs against the darkening sky......

Tag

Even as the Marines legs snapped like twigs, crushed by buckled plates of ceramite, he hissed, driving the blade of his chainsword down towards the rising monstrosity, even as he let go of it. He felt his hands close around the Grenades at his belt, flicking them into brutal life, screaming debased cries of fealty as he felt the explosion tear through his body.

Turel watched the explosion in the midst of the dead as he spun, firing his bolter at full-auto. "BOLTERS!" He bellowed, as the Marines began to fall back, pummelling the enemy with a relentless wave of bolter fire. "By the Gods, we shall resist them!" Grenades flew through the air into the fray, explosions rocked the enemy again and again as the Marines strategically retreated, holding the line, keeping the enemy at their distance. When they came closer, they would switched, and the twisted, toothed blades of their chainweapons would cleanse the taint from this world.

"We need to attain the strategic advantage!" He roared, his eyes searching about them before focussing upon a harsh pinnacle of black, glassy rock, rising up from the desert like some depraved obelisk. "There!" He snapped "There, we can fortify that outcrop."

Slowly they moved, a steady retreat, bolters still pounding at the enemy, before they broke into a swift run through the desert heat. Turel felt sweat pouring down his back, even as he forced himself to greater feats of endurance. The rocky outcrop seemed immense, but it would serve their purposes.

"This is unlike chaos; very rarely do the bastard sons of Horus flee from battle, their minds are too incapable of understanding the benefits of glorious trechery." The Necromancer continued to watch the retreat, his eyes looking down from above. No, they were not retreating, the Imperium never flees, it can only advance be it through war, blood or death. They were most likely preparing to counter attack, but with what? They were few, and his army many. The souls within the sword each proclaimed servants of the fire. They enemy could attempt to communicate with whatever abomination lay in orbit, its belly full of readying marines, it was a possibility...

Na'tulcian rippled the stale pool of black. "Urrach my child, hear me." The sword upon his chained belt burst into dark flame. "The enemy seek to reinforce; our numbers are not capable of fending off an army, not yet, not now. We must see to their elimination before dawn, before this mighty storm subsides." The skeleton warrior paused on the battlefield, he and his undead host had now paused before the outcrop, the occasional bolter shot raining down from above.

"We cannot assail this fortification master, their weapons are too strong." Na'tulcian paused for a moment.

"Your blades?"

"Incapable of penetrating their armour my lord. The Ulog-Hai are the only ones that have had any success."

"Yes... Patience my child. I am sending you reinforcements to deal with our enemy." The Necromancer glanced backwards to the shadow in the corner. "Pick up their fallen weapons and use them against them. They will run out of ammunition before you drain the infantry."

"Understood." Urrach snarled; he detested vague reassurances of victory; but his lord had many tools at his disposal.

****

Above the rolling dunes the warriors of chaos remained diligent, focused and determined. Occasionally the soldiers of Na'tulcian would glance the horned helmets surveying the black below; followed by bolter discharges at whatever dared to move. From everywhere and all around the odd noise of cluttering scree sounded somewhere in the void, testament to an enemy presence. But much was lost to the wail of the wind. Urrach paused for a moment as a marine looked directly at him, the white bone and curved scimitar masked by the absence of moonlight. Lifting his hand and gently and curling the digits his party advanced up the Northward face.

The terrain was steep, the footholds few and far between. But the element of surprise was always worth a noble attempt. The enemy were doubtless as insane as the dead but they were subject to mortal whims such as sleep, food and water; of those they would receive none. A buzz passed overhead, followed by another, and another. The source lost to the bleak sky.

The leader of the Xizsor flight glared from his hovering perch, his compound eyes gracing him with a field of view second to none. There, directly below, on the newly forming arette was a marine relieving himself in solitude. Releasing several vats of anger charged endorphins and compounds, he fell upon the solider in silent rage. Claws sliced through the ceramic armour and entered the soft flesh beneath. Rising from the dive Rakoth dropped the screaming marine amongst his comrades. The sky was raining blood....

The Marines did not need to sleep, able to endure a hundred hours without submitting to rest. They required not food nor water so long as the Emperor's light burned within them, and were confident that they would not be stranded upon this world for long enough to warrant them running out of basic supplies. One uncapped a canteen, drawing a deep draught of water just before the buzzing filled the air...

He had hissed as the xeno blade had passed through him, as much a part of the alien as its flesh or its blood, he had coughed, blood surging up from his ruptured hearts. He snarled, before the thing dragged him roaring into the air, the sanguine rain spattering off the armour of the gathered warriors.

"BOLTERS!"

Turel's cry split the whirring buzzing cacophany of the Alien onslaught, "Bring weapons to bear! I want Bolt Shells and Flamer fire in the damn air! NOW!"
A gout of burning promethium cut one of the foul things from the air, leaving it a flame-soaked writhing thing, black and twisting. With practiced ease Turel slammed his blade through the hard chitin of its neck, his weapon drenched in foul alien blood. Bolter fire rippled into the sky, each man hurling himself down, keeping the distance between them and the deadly skies to a maximum.

"Maintain covering fire!"

He moved to rejoin his men, sliding low under chittering, wailing alien death, letting his weapon buck and shake as he fired into the tumultous sky and the nemesis that lay waiting there. "We need to find more effective cover!"

The sound of bolter fire cleaved through the night, Megarachnids chirped and screeched as they circled above like vultures too afraid to offer honourable battle. Descending upon the sons of Remiel the insectoids aimlessly picked off those who strayed too far from their brethren.

Surrounded by the host of the undead, held captive by the wings in the air, and under assault on all angles, the once full company was slowly dwindling away; one, by one.

Urrach had reached the summit of the mound, his band of captives obeying his will, which is instrumental in the demands of victory. Grasping in hand a captured chain sword he pulled the trigger sending churning scrapes of metal on rock through the air. He and his host then charged in silence, only the sounds of whirling swords, and bursting bolters filtered from their hands. Their path occasionally broken by falling rachnids from above crushed even the mightiest of the dead. Once again sword met sword and from the sand filled backdrop above, the host fell, they too engaged in the deadly ballet of melee.

Beneath all the darkness, through the thirst of blood and victory, the terror on the wind returned once more. The whisper of a thousand children softly singing….

Ainur is here, run in fear....
Ainur is here, run in fear....
Ainur is here, he is the fire of the sun,
He is the light of the sky,
He is the vision of death.
Ainur is here, run in fear....

A savage kick drove one of the rotting monsters over the edge, even as another Arachnid form plunged from the sky, chittering and squealing as its organs liquidified under exploding bolter shells. Turel ducked a blow, driving his fist into the hard bone of a skull, parrying with his his power sword as the monstrosities advanced. A roaring gout of flamer fire sent another arachnid screaming in flames across the edge of the ledge, even as they were fought further into a corner.

"Inhuman abominations! Blight in the eyes of Chaos! You will suffer for your transgression!" Turel hurled a grenade into the thronging multitude, even as he moved back with his men, increasingly boxed in by their advance...There had to be a way, some hope of salvation...He watched another marine fall, his brothers death only fuelling the near-Khornate rage within him

"Come, filth!" He snarled, gesturing with his power sword, haloed by bolter fire. "Come! And taste the wrath of the true Gods!"

"Come! And taste the wrath of the true Gods!" Their officer bellowed at Na'tulcians army; his very voice acted as a sword of fear and blood, tearing away at the resolve of even the damned. But it did not cause death to falter. Mighty war trolls crested the horizon, their vast figure dominating the battlefield, and behind them, the reshaped form of the fallen. Some were skeletons cast into a thousand pieces, decimated by grenades or driven into molten form by a flamer. Others had recently experienced the pleasures of Truels own chainsword. And finally, the blighted warriors of chaos followed.

"For the Gods! For Death!" They announced sending a ripple of victory through the ranks of Na'tulcian. Even chaos could be blighted by terror, by the fear of darkness eternal. The sword of blue flame glistened at Na'tulcians side with new, stronger souls.

Running without hesitation, the marines burst through the forward ranks of the undead legion, the former brethren of chaos clashing against the will of the emperor. Chain swords grated against each other, bolters ripped into chests alive and dead, and hearts were broken to see brothers fight for a cause that can only bring destruction.

A red glow covered the sky overhead a fiery orange descending, piercing the very hearts of those in combat, yet they ignored it. The light grew stronger now unmistakable in its origin and the soldiers of Na'tulcian paused, slowly falling back until the battle fell into a rout. Trolls cast themselves over the precipice, orks hurled their weapons to the ground and fled, and even the megarachnids evacuated to the skies. Silence ensued, only a glow of foreboding covered the outcrop. Silence......

Amidst the peace came several fleeing arachnids dropping from the sky, their corpses charred and blackened, killed by flame unnatural. One at the feet of Truel continued to twitch, its form desperately clucking for aide. Chaos granted it with a swift stroke from his sword, and then the company looked up. A shadow lingered in the skies, a form too dark to see, but yet, dark enough to be present. Heavy wings beat against the air sending a great burst of air upon the men, but it remained, circling.

Then it came. Thundering to the ground a terror of power and darkness screeched against the living, flames of burning corpses igniting a thousand fold in a righteous fury. Smoke, thick and velvet swirled in the air licking at the feet of the beast. In one hand a mighty blade was held, it was like the source of a thousand suns the tip glowing a deep, searing white. And in the left, a whip barbed with flame.