NationStates Jolt Archive

The Emperor had declared that his would be the grandest age of the Imperium, that conquest and war would be the coin and salvation of the Realm. Thusly had he sworn that the warriors of the True Gods would have their bloodlust slaked always and eternally in the name of Chaos. The ships had gone out to varying corners of the Imperium, but had eventually been diverted to more practical ends. The brutal conquest inherent in the ESUS and GFFA’s spat, the necessity of applying a measure of brute force to the Empire’s holding in capacity of Warmaster.

Such things were paltry when compared with unbridled war, but increasingly necessary to uphold the Imperium’s many agreements and pacts that ensured it was kept to a degree safe from those who would attempt to destroy her, as well as giving them a measure of free reign in their affairs.

The ships of the Expedition codified as Aesri’s Fist translated in system in a flash of searing warp energy. The immaterium spat out the force of 500 ships, which had been roaming the galaxy in search of fresh conquest, a prospect which they believed they had encountered here.

What appeared to be a highly advanced civilisation waited upon the world which they had found, a world which displayed all the hallmarks of sentient life. Watching the glare of artificial light on the nightside of the world, the Lord Primarch of the Steel Fists, Aesri had regarded it with scepticism. Yes, there was a culture here. A sentient race. But would it be human?

Broadcasting in every frequency they could muster, Aesri’s booming voice echoed out over the system, and the world that lay before them.

We are the vessels of the Chronosian Imperium. We come in the name of the Gods and the True Emperor, to reconquer the galaxy and ensure the place of glorious Mankind within it. I am Aesri, Primarch of the Steel Fists. We ask you now to respond. Who are you? Do you accept the divine and unchallengable sovereignty of the Emperor? Do you accept the holy Word of Chaos, or shall you instead reject our most generous proposal?

Will you submit to the will of those chosen by the True Gods? Or shall you resist us? Speak, and let us know you.

Premeir Lenov was standing in the throne room, pacing the marble floor, pondering what he was going to do about the nations many problems when the face of a pale human appeared in the center of the room. After hearing his so called offer, Lenov responds in an Commanding tone-

I reject your offer you pitiful human scum! Your True Gods have no power over Me or Tigerlan, If any power at all, Your Emperor be he Human is lower then the lowest Slave, More pitiful then the Smallest insect, Now I Command you and your Pitiful species to leave Tigerlanian Territory.

Aesri clicked his tongue, allowing a moments annoyance to spill over onto his face. He had been born amongst the fires and forges of Hydran, honing his temper swiftly into a weapon. He had served with honour and distinction and punished without remourse, a Hammer of the Imperium. When the Steel Fists marched to war they did so as a legion born to smash asunder even the mightiests of strongholds, by which heretics and alien filth might oppose the True Word of Chaos.

He let a snarl cross into his features, his hand clasped around the shaft of his mighty Warhammer, Foebreaker. He let his mind taste the weapon, let its power surge through him, before gesturing that communications once again be joined.

So be it, alien. You resist all that is good and glorious before the throne of Man, you stand opposed to the divinely supported rule of Mankind, and the glory of the True Gods. You blaspheme as you breathe, and to leave you alive would be to leave a mark upon my own honour, a travesty before the eyes of my Brother, the Emperor. You shall not remain alive, worm. I have spoken

A gesture, and the fleet began to form up into attack formation, slowly advancing upon the planet. He let his eyes roam the field of battle, indicating the slow advance that ought to be taken towards the world. He smirked lightly. They would educate these heretics, these xenofilth who opposed the true word. The banner of Chronosia would fly over the ruination of the enemy. And Aesri would be the instrument of that glorious victory.

"Prepare the armies! Code red! Get those droids powered up! Evacuate the cities to the capital! We will fight back this threat!" Ordered Lenov as he walked into his chambers.

Lenov sits on his bed and thinks with his head in his hands, knowing that they cannot possible hold of the chronosian armies for long,Knowing his fate, he puts a pistol to his head and Fires..

Despair.

The world beneath them was rank with it, sweated from every pore of a world faced with absolute destruction. Here were the forces of Chaos, arrayed against a feeble Xeno foe, already Aesri could taste their demise beneath his hammer, smell the burning flesh. He could almost feel victory upon him, comforting, enveloping him in its embrace.

As the fleet advanced, he readied his men. Terminator Veterans of the First Company stood ready to rain hell upon their foe, warriors bred from countless years of unholy warfare were to fall upon them and burn them from the face of creation, the mightiest warriors humanity could field, the champions of the Adeptus Astartes Chronosia. Aesri tightened his metal grip upon the hammer, bellowing orders as his men readied the drop pods...

And then it began to rain upon Tigerlan. A harsh, metal rain of incoming doom, the distant fall of flaming drop-pods and their deadly, chaos-touched cargo.

As each impacted upon the soil, the Marines poured forth, Dreadnoughts howled in fury and rage, their tortured flesh pulsing within the immense battle sarcophagus' that contained them. Terminators readied heavy Weapons, while Havoc and Devestator squads readied their own punishing weapons. Marines readied and re-checked their bolters, even as their vehicles came amongst them, the Primarch himself riding down into the hell of war in his own Drop-Pod.

The bloody battle for Tigerlan had begun....

Bump

Lenov Lowers the pistol and mutters "Damn.....Misfire" as Field Marshal Drieden Listenhofen enters the room


"Grand Moff Lenov sir, they have landed"
"I see that Marshal, look at this screen here"

as the screen powers on, the forces of chaos appear on the screen, filling the room with a bright red glow

"Lavar help us"


at the Outskirts of Tigerlan Capital

500,000 Voices surround the outskirts, waiting, camophloged and waiting to ambush the nearest Space marine, as 2 million wait within the actual city, split into groups of 7, setting up Gun eplacments and ambush points all around the city.

Bump

"Ready the main guns!" Aesri bellowed in fury as the siege guns disgorged themselves from the transports. Some were Basilisks, others were far superior, immensely barrelled weapons raising them skyward like so many leering serpents. A howl went out as the guns sounded off, echoed by the troops opening fire into the air, howling in chaotic fury and bloodlust.

Aesri watched the guns thunder and pound, watched gunner crews scramble to reload, hefting the immense shells into the long barrels. He signalled with one outstretched gauntlet, signalling the main bulk of the armor forward beneath the howl of shells, tanks unloading their guns in soverign fury. He snarled, a grin splitting his features as he bestrode the Battlefield, flanked by his finest warriors and two immense Baneblade super-heavies.

"Come you dogs! Die as cattle before the might of the Imperium! Bow to Chaos and be saved, or perish beneath our iron boots!"

bump

Tigerlin Capital city: "Death...Destruction...mayhem..typical Chronosian Invasion?, seems like a synonym"

Chronosian Shells rattled the area, buildings collapsing, fires spreading, wreaking havoc on the civilian population and hindering the VOICE in building their defenses.

The Home Guard were given the responsibility of getting the civilian populous underground into the shelters and anywhere deemed safer then on the streets or in their homes, and given the task to defend them once they are there.

"Get those people inside!" yelled Sgt. Lattle to his men, pointing at a large building which, according to the map, had a rather large basement. Then, a Shell hit, tearing the buildings support from under it, collapsing in on itself, sending chunks of reinforced concrete flying into the Civilians and their Guard Escorts.

Panic Erupted as Fire spread, catching most of the city in a fiery blaze, killing all in its path, devouring whole like the depths of Hell as the blaze grew completely out of control. One situation of particular note was that of Tigerlin City Hospital, catching ablaze from the fire and burning alive the patients and those taking refuge inside, a few survived the blaze, wandering out onto the courtyard of the TCH, only to be blown apart by a Chronosian Artillery Shell.

City Outskirts

Shells tore into the ground on the outskirts of the city, hitting the occasional grouping of VOICE and their emplacements, but these hits were rare, ever rarer where the hits on the entrenched Asmodeus tanks, nearly completely underground, prepared for the coming advance on their position.

OOC:sorry about the long wait Chrono, my life has finally slowed down enough to give this RP its justice

The air was heavy with smoke and the sound of war. Fyceline and promethium stink carried on the fickle breeze as the Steel Fists and their slaves went about their bloody business. Men hefted shells, bare-chested and sweating, keeping the continual barrage fed. More guns had descended from the fleet in orbit, dwarfing those that had gone before.

The rumble of earthmovers echoed as the ground about the landing zone was flattened and compacted, forced upwards into bulwarks against any enemy counter-assaults. Men had begun digging, while others had taken to yet more macabre instruments of construction, dredging great wounds in the flesh of the world.

The beginnings of trenches could be seen, razor-wire seemed ever present, entire wall-like slabs of metal had been moved from orbit, all to reinforce the steadily expanding gun-pits. Great weapons pointed skyward, wreathed in chains and etched with maddening runes, daemonic weapons from the very depths of nightmare.

Warsmiths spat orders at their cowering mortal servants, driving cruel boots into ribs, scouring backs with the whips of command. They snarled their commands, instructing that each act be done as suited the Primarchs will. Madness rained, the ground buckling and shaking beneath the almost ceaseless bombardment, pounding at the city and key locations which had been marked by their Lord.

Their Lord Aesri, who towered above the proceedings. Surrounded by his Honour Guard, still guarded by two immense Baneblade tanks, he watched and he waited, ensuring that everything progressed as to his will, from the preperation of firing nests and other defences, to the maintenance of the barrage and the steady stream of his Astartes from orbit.

War called. He would not be found unworthy in its eyes.