Warhammer Warhammer General discussion thread: Now with 100% more Space Marines
- Thread starter Battlegrinder
- Start date
My understanding of a Whirlwind is that it fires multiple rockets in a single barrage, and it has several different warhead types. It is generally an anti-personnel system though it does have anti-SM rounds.
So...basically, the Whirlwind will not leave massive craters in the ground like a Basilisk (which is a massive single shell). It's more akin to a self-propelled mortar system with a longer range because it's using rockets.
So...basically, the Whirlwind will not leave massive craters in the ground like a Basilisk (which is a massive single shell). It's more akin to a self-propelled mortar system with a longer range because it's using rockets.
Bassoe
Well-known member
Recommending the fanfic Under New Management by davidnm2007 as an interestingly original take on chaos cults. Less lovecraft, more mafia. Works surprisingly well.
Callum Asharis was a venal man and he was proud of it.
As he walked into the inner sanctum, he fiddled with his robe with his free hand. The irritating thing kept tangling around his feet. He had to adopt a shuffle to avoid tripping up – it was undignified. He realised the hem needed taking in. It would not do to fall flat on his face in front of the new initiates at the next full moon.
The robe was an unavoidable badge of office, one of the things that seemed expected of the leader of the longest-surviving cult on Nyxis Minor. It was blood-red and embroidered with nonsense runes. It was good at fooling the easily-impressed, those initiates who craved the thrill of rebellion against the God-Emperor and His church. Asharis privately thought such initiates were idiots, but he was happy to use them for his own ends.
Under the robes, his boot-heels clicked on the stone floor of the inner sanctum. The heavy wooden door creaked shut behind him. Asharis shivered; it was cold in this room. His breath steamed in the air before him. The room wasn't heated; power-use might tip the authorities off to the fact of its existence. Plans were on file at the City Governor's Hall for the office-building above Asharis's head. Those plans did not include a basement full of blasphemous artefacts. The building above this chamber was the very paragon of corporate banality, all glass frontage, carpets and beige-painted walls. It was perfect camouflage; no-one would think to look for a Chaotic cult underneath the planetary capital's financial district. The building above was also a real office complex; hundreds of clerks and factotums and managers trooped in and out every day, with no idea what lay beneath their feet.
Asharis looked around the sanctum. In a very real sense, the sanctum was as much of a fraud as much of the business transacted in the offices above. It looked impressive enough, with the two flaming torches flickering away behind the altar. Between the torches stood that strange statue, the thing they'd found here in the cellar when it was dug. His eyes slid past it; he had seen it many times before and its strangeness was now lost on him. Before the torches, the altar stood on its dais, an intimidating slab of black granite. Its surface was stained with the residue of many foul sacrifices. When the congregation gathered once each month, the altar would cast a long shadow over the pit where they knelt. Blasphemous symbols were painted on each of the five walls of the pentagonal chamber – the symbols of each of the Dark Gods, with the eight-pointed star of Chaos itself on the wall behind the altar. New initiates would pray and prostrate themselves before each in turn, while Asharis tried not to laugh at them.
He walked toward the altar. He climbed the steps to it and set down on it the bottle he was carrying. It was sacramental wine, recently stolen from one of the city's cathedrals. A nice touch, he thought, for the new initiates – overawe them with the blasphemy of the stolen wine. It was another little confidence trick to manipulate a fresh crop of idiots.
He sighed, looking round the chamber with its rough-hewn stone floor and vaulted ceiling. He had been coming here for more than twenty years now. It was not out of any sense of religious devotion; no-one in Asharis's inner circle was any sort of believer. Asharis had got involved in the cults initially out of a sense of rebellion, rebellion against an absent father, an absent father who was also a high official in the Church. A father who had happily paid for his mother's services for years, then had abandoned her to a life of drugs, decay and an early death once he discovered her pregnancy.
Asharis had risen within the cult and re-made it in his own way. To him, the cult was really about organised crime. Gun-running, drug-running, counterfeiting, muggings, burglary, contract-killing – you could use the impressionable, pass a lot of it off as service to the Dark Gods. It wasn't really, of course - the only thing the cult actually served was itself. Early in his career, Asharis had wasted so many hours in pointless prayer and pointless devotion. Never once had Chaos answered, either with aid or with eldritch powers or any other of the fickle rewards so many spoke of. Asharis had started off sceptical and had grown entirely cynical about the religious side of it. He was no longer sure even whether the Dark Gods actually existed – he was sure, however, that it didn't matter. The nominal religion was a means to an ends and nothing else.
That ends was materially-comfortable living.
Asharis was self-interested and corrupt. He considered it his greatest strength. There had been, until recently, another cult on the north continent. Asharis had had some dealings with them – they had been more mystical and less materially-inclined. They had frequently engaged in crazy, self-destructive behaviour. A particularly-blatant recent orgy of sacrifice and idolatry had brought them to the attention of the Imperial authorities and they had swiftly been destroyed. There had been rumours of Inquisitional involvement. For months after, Asharis had lived in fear, afraid that his cult's mad compatriots might have revealed their existence. No similar purge had occurred on the south continent, though, so eventually Asharis had relaxed. It seemed their existence remained secret.
He dug a cup out from an inner pocket of his robe. He placed it on the altar – it clinked quietly on the granite surface. The faint noise echoed in the chamber. Asharis tugged the loose cork from the bottle. He felt like a quick sip of wine – today was set to be a long day, after all. The cult had acquired a new collection of rebels and fools and maybe one or two actually-useful people. Asharis and his inner circle would be meeting later, in their bland corporate office ten floors up, dressed in bland corporate clothing and carrying bland corporate cogitators and personnel files. They were due to sit in that meeting room for several bland hours, going through the files on the new initiates. They would be looking to separate the disposable cannon-fodder from the few useful ones. It was one place where Asharis knew the cult had a handicap; competent people had a bad habit of going out and getting decently-paid jobs. There was a selection pressure amongst the cult's intake, a selection toward the inept and the incompetent.
Still, the cult needed its unskilled labourers to keep things working. That was where the bogus religion came in useful; keeping the hired help in line. He sipped the wine – it had a fruity smell in the cold air. It was lovely. He took another sip. The cult he led might be a joke on its own followers but life was not entirely bad. He nodded to himself in satisfaction.
There was a noise, a faint scraping on stone.
Asharis froze, cup half-raised. He felt his hackles rise. That noise – where had it come from? Carefully, he lowered the cup. Could there be an intruder? He glanced toward the door. It remained shut. Imperial agents? But why would they wait – surely they would just burst in, all guns blazing?
There was the scraping again. He realised it was coming from behind the altar.
He put the cup down. 'Who's there?' Asharis demanded. Who's there – is there – there… The echoes mocked him.
Asharis noted a faint scent of ozone in the air. That was new – it mingled with the smell of the wine.
Puzzled, he looked behind the altar. The torches were burning quietly as always, casting an odd double-light on the statue. He saw nothing out of place – but his eyes were drawn back to the statue.
They had found it here, when the cavity beneath the building had been covertly turned into a cellar. It had stood over there, exactly as it was now, an effigy in a strange grey marble. There was some indication the small cavern had once been open to the surface, centuries before the founding of the city above it. Presumably somebody must have secreted the statue away back then. Asharis could certainly see why its sculptors would have hidden it. Such a convincing depiction of a Chaos Space Marine could easily get its artist in trouble, if the wrong people learned of it.
The real mystery was just why anyone had felt the need to carve out such a thing in the first place. The statue was immense; it stood eight feet tall from the tips of its boots to the top of the bizarre crest that rose from its helmet. Asharis had to acknowledge that it was well-made. The vents of its backpack had been carved into elaborate dragons'-heads, their fanged mouths silently screaming defiance at the world. The helmet itself had something of a skull about it, with the wide eye-lenses sat above sunken cheeks and the filter-grill like a gaping, lifeless mouth. On its breastplate the statue bore a carved eye, which seemed to stare out. The right shoulder of the statue bore a serpent eating its tail, while the left bore the mark of Tzeentch. In the statue's hands it held on one side a stone plasma pistol and in the other a sword carved with more nonsense-hieroglyphs.
Whoever had made this thing, Asharis had to acknowledge, had spent a lot of time on it. He had, of course, never met or seen a Chaos Marine. He even had doubts as to whether they still existed. That said, if one had to imagine what one might look like, this statue would be a good starting-point. It made an excellent centre-point for the sanctum.
He shook his head and looked back to the wine. Nothing was out of place. The sound must have been something leaking in from above. Perhaps there'd been a traffic accident on the road outside – it was busy during the day. He groaned. If there had been, that would make getting back to his apartment take even longer than normal. For a really bad crash, he would be better off making a late night of it in the office. There was plenty of work to be done, after all. Crime was a serious business, particularly profitable crime.
He was gazing, self-absorbed, at the mug when he noticed an odd light playing over it. It was marbled and wobbly, like sunlight seen through water. And the ozone smell – it was stronger. The light seemed to be coming from behind the altar.
The torched – alarmed, Asharis looked up.
No, they were burning normally. The light – his eyes tracked downwards. He felt his jaw open in confused amazement. It was coming from the statue. The carved plasma coils on the pistol, those elaborate stone representations – they were glowing with an unsteady bluish light, just like a real weapon!
Even as he watched, a new light appeared. Clearer and so much more chilling, the statue's eyes began to shine whitely.
That noise, that scraping sound – now Asharis perceived the source of it. That great stone head, the sculpted helmet – it was turning, slowly, gratingly, impossibly. Asharis swallowed in newfound fear. It was looking right at him!
This was absurd. He thought briefly of the wine. Could this be some drink-addled hallucination? But no – he felt coldly sober, and coldly afraid. He had barely sipped the wine – not enough even for warm fuzziness, let alone blind-drunk madness.
The statue continued changing. The grey of the stone was fading. Here and there bluish and golden blushes spread across the surface. Any semblance of stonework was fading away. The carved robes below the statue's waist were now fabric, the statue's greaves outlined beneath them. Chained to its belt was a fat book, marked with the eight-pointed star. Asharis had mocked up so many such menacing tomes, to excite the impressionable with the promise of forbidden lore. He had rarely bothered to write anything inside them – just the appearance was enough.
This book, however … this book he suspected might be the real thing.
Asharis swallowed. He felt terrified.
The last of the stone had faded. Quietly, with no sound but a rustle of its robes, the statue stepped off of its low plinth. Its boots clicked quietly on the stonework as it approached the altar.
It stopped, barely two feet away from Asharis. He could feel himself shaking. It was close enough that he could have reached out and touched it, if he could surpass the paralysis of fear.
'Callum Asharris.' The statue spoke! Its voice was surprisingly-cultured, but also mocking. 'I am Kemosiri of the Thousand Sons. I have been sent to aid you.'
Asharis twitched. His hand banged into the wine bottle, knocking it over. He did not even notice as it fell from the altar and shattered on the stone below. He stared the sorcerer in stupefied bafflement. 'Aid - aid us? With what? I mean, we could do with an extra hand for the bank job next week, but-' Asharis could hear himself babbling but he realised he was powerless to stop. The fear was welling up inside him and flooding out of his mouth.
'Enough. Your trivial babble bores me.' There was nothing friendly in the Chaos Marine's voice. Asharis gagged as his words were cut off in mid-flow. He moved his mouth but no sound came out. At that moment a sour smell reached his nose. He realised that he had wet himself. Asharis had honestly never been so frightened in all of his life. Even under gunfire, on a job gone wrong, he had not felt this poisonous sense of helpless fear. He knew beyond doubt that his life now hung simply on the whim of this – this monster before him. If Kemosiri decided to kill him, there would be nothing he could do to resist.
The Chaos Marine walked around the altar, right past Asharris. The Marine glanced at the spreading slick of wine and the broken glass, but said nothing. The crested helmet turned as Kemosiri looked around.
'A fine enough temple,' the Thousandth Son mused, 'if one lacking in any real devotion. No matter – it is the labour we require, for now. Doubtless the true faith will form in time.'
The Chaos Marine turned to face Asharis again. Asharis suddenly realised he could speak again – whatever enchantment had been placed on him had been released.
He swallowed. 'I – forgive me, my lord, but I do not understand. We are a small organisation and I – I cannot see what assistance we could render unto you, however much we may wish to.' Briefly he felt buoyed by his obsequious diplomacy – good to know that he still had the wits to choose his words carefully around this powerful being.
'You would do well not to lie to me,' Kemosiri remarked, with an amused tone. 'I know your heart better then you do, Callum Asharis. To you I am a fearful complication and one you would be rid of at a moment's notice, if you could. You know that I represent the call of Chaos. You suspect that call will stand between you and further wealth. Wealth, after all, is the real reason for your successful little cult.'
'My lord, I…' Asharis was about to deny the accusation when he saw the sword gripped in the sorcerer's hand. The runes had begun to glow. A fresh burst of fear stabbed into Asharis. A sense of hopeless defeat settled into him. His shoulders sagged. Asharis realised he was beaten – the game was up. 'I dare say you're right, Lord Kemosiri. I am a shallow and corrupt man. I'm in it for the money, not really anything else. Are – do you intend to k-kill me?' Try as he might, his voice squeaked near the end.
'No.'
Asharis blinked. 'No?' This was a surprise.
'Or at least, no unless you give me a reason. You are indeed a corrupt man. Shallow, venal and self-interested. Thus, you are someone I can use. Your cult is organised around wealth rather than devotion – but it is organised. That is what I need.'
Asharis frowned. 'I still don't understand.'
'I was summoned here by the Dark Gods, to complete a work for them,' the sorcerer explained. 'Your brethren in the north were recently enjoined to conduct a high ritual. Unfortunately, they failed. Shall we say, they were maybe a little too devoted. Or devoted to the wrong things. They thought the day of gratification was at hand.' The Chaos Marine's voice dripped with contempt. 'They ran riot. Their leaders could not and did not constrain their acolytes. Subtlety failed and concealment was lost. Their pathetic antics drew the notice of the Inquisition.'
Asharis's eyes widened. 'The Inquisition? I knew they'd been destroyed but not that. Not for a fact.'
The sorcerer nodded. 'Quite a debacle, I'm sure you'll agree. The cultists were meant to open a portal into the Warp, a gateway through which we could quietly bring our forces to this world. Three of the Legions of Chaos had formed an uneasy alignment, with the intention of conquering this sector. This foul little planet, Nyxis Minor, was to have been key to our scheme.'
Asharis nodded slowly. The sorcerer was right. Many of the sector's trade routes converged on this planet; the planet's wealth was founded on it. Without Nyxis Minor, the rest of the sector would be thrown into economic disarray. Food riots on the hive worlds to the galactic west, shortages of manufactured goods on the eastern agri-worlds, disruption of transport … taking out Nyxis Minor would make a conquest so much easier.
The Imperium, of course, recognised the planet's importance. Its orbital defences were significant. It would take a huge fleet to have much chance of breaking through. But an attack from the ground, with an open Warp gate and forces quietly assembling perhaps for months before… He nodded. It made sense. It could work.
Of course, it needed an open gate.
'You understand. Good.' Kemosiri actually sounded pleased. 'Your other faults aside, you are not a stupid man, Callum Asharis.
'We sent what aid we could, to your northern colleagues. However, the sheer volume of starship traffic around this planet makes the Warp turbulent here. Without the stability of a gateway there were limits to how much aid we could send, and how quickly. Hence, in fact, my own singular arrival here. The Inquisition must have suspected our limitations. They attacked along with a force of Storm Ravens.'
Loyalist Space Marines. Asharis swallowed again. 'How – how many?'
Kemosiri shrugged. 'Only a five-man squad. But, 'only' is a relative concept with Space Marines. I'm sure I would have no trouble against that many - the modern Astartes are little but a feeble reflection of their old glory. However, even a feeble reflection is much more powerful then a debauched and disorganised rabble. That, unfortunately, described your former brethren of the north. They were destroyed quickly and efficiently. Their efforts with the gateway were desultory at best, and even that small contribution was easily annihilated. The gate fell before it even opened. There were only two saving graces from the disaster.'
'Two?' Asharis blinked stupidly.
'Yes, two. I agree that seems surprising. Fortunately for you, all of the cultists were killed in the fighting. None survived to be interrogated; you were not revealed. They also left no records, either of themselves or of your presence. Essentially, their cell was so badly-run that incompetence became its sole virtue. If they had been even slightly less inept, there would have been nothing to salvage from this disaster.'
Asharis glanced from side to side, around the sanctum. 'So we survived.' What a narrow escape.
'Yes. Although your supposed cult lacks devotion, it doesn't lack money. It also doesn't lack manpower or contacts in various places. It is well-led. It can do the groundwork - even if the actual opening of the gate will this time need a sorcerer of my stature.
'And also, there is the other surviving grace from the northern cult.' The sorcerer tapped the side of his plasma weapon against the book chained to his belt. 'The cult recovered this tome, which will be vital in our work. One of their psykers managed to transport it to us, moments before his death. Using your group, we can start again. And we will start again, with or without you.'
Something stuck in Asharis's memory. 'You mentioned something about an alliance?'
The Chaos Marine nodded. Regretfully, he said, 'Yes, I did let that slip, didn't I? The Thousand Sons, the Iron Warriors and the World Eaters, or at least a faction amongst them. We have formed – well, maybe 'alliance' is too stronger word. An understanding, shall we say. We all stand to benefit from this sector's conquest, in our own ways and have precious little to lose. Thus we have a small basis for some degree of co-operation. Sadly, that understanding was strained by the northern failure. If it is to survive, we need tangible results - and soon. That is also why I came - remote management clearly wasn't working. One way or another, I intend to get those results.'
Asharis nodded. Just as he had feared. 'And what of us?'
'Our management shouldn't make you downcast. Unlike the empty promises of the False Emperor, the rewards of Chaos are very real. Assist us as best you can and you will reap benefits beyond your imagination. You like luxury; imagine the wealth that an entire world can offer you. Why stay cowering here in this basement, when you could rule openly? This world could be yours – your only responsibility would be to meeting our requirements from it. Think about it.'
Asharis's jaw had fallen again. The ultimate theft – an entire planet! Kemosiri was right – it was an intoxicating thought. 'I – yes. Yes, we will. We'll do whatever is necessary.'
'Excellent.' Kemosiri sounded amused and triumphant. 'Then let us begin.' He gestured with his sword to the door.
Asharis turned and they walked from the sanctum. The door closed behind them, onto flaring torches and an empty plinth behind the altar.
As he walked into the inner sanctum, he fiddled with his robe with his free hand. The irritating thing kept tangling around his feet. He had to adopt a shuffle to avoid tripping up – it was undignified. He realised the hem needed taking in. It would not do to fall flat on his face in front of the new initiates at the next full moon.
The robe was an unavoidable badge of office, one of the things that seemed expected of the leader of the longest-surviving cult on Nyxis Minor. It was blood-red and embroidered with nonsense runes. It was good at fooling the easily-impressed, those initiates who craved the thrill of rebellion against the God-Emperor and His church. Asharis privately thought such initiates were idiots, but he was happy to use them for his own ends.
Under the robes, his boot-heels clicked on the stone floor of the inner sanctum. The heavy wooden door creaked shut behind him. Asharis shivered; it was cold in this room. His breath steamed in the air before him. The room wasn't heated; power-use might tip the authorities off to the fact of its existence. Plans were on file at the City Governor's Hall for the office-building above Asharis's head. Those plans did not include a basement full of blasphemous artefacts. The building above this chamber was the very paragon of corporate banality, all glass frontage, carpets and beige-painted walls. It was perfect camouflage; no-one would think to look for a Chaotic cult underneath the planetary capital's financial district. The building above was also a real office complex; hundreds of clerks and factotums and managers trooped in and out every day, with no idea what lay beneath their feet.
Asharis looked around the sanctum. In a very real sense, the sanctum was as much of a fraud as much of the business transacted in the offices above. It looked impressive enough, with the two flaming torches flickering away behind the altar. Between the torches stood that strange statue, the thing they'd found here in the cellar when it was dug. His eyes slid past it; he had seen it many times before and its strangeness was now lost on him. Before the torches, the altar stood on its dais, an intimidating slab of black granite. Its surface was stained with the residue of many foul sacrifices. When the congregation gathered once each month, the altar would cast a long shadow over the pit where they knelt. Blasphemous symbols were painted on each of the five walls of the pentagonal chamber – the symbols of each of the Dark Gods, with the eight-pointed star of Chaos itself on the wall behind the altar. New initiates would pray and prostrate themselves before each in turn, while Asharis tried not to laugh at them.
He walked toward the altar. He climbed the steps to it and set down on it the bottle he was carrying. It was sacramental wine, recently stolen from one of the city's cathedrals. A nice touch, he thought, for the new initiates – overawe them with the blasphemy of the stolen wine. It was another little confidence trick to manipulate a fresh crop of idiots.
He sighed, looking round the chamber with its rough-hewn stone floor and vaulted ceiling. He had been coming here for more than twenty years now. It was not out of any sense of religious devotion; no-one in Asharis's inner circle was any sort of believer. Asharis had got involved in the cults initially out of a sense of rebellion, rebellion against an absent father, an absent father who was also a high official in the Church. A father who had happily paid for his mother's services for years, then had abandoned her to a life of drugs, decay and an early death once he discovered her pregnancy.
Asharis had risen within the cult and re-made it in his own way. To him, the cult was really about organised crime. Gun-running, drug-running, counterfeiting, muggings, burglary, contract-killing – you could use the impressionable, pass a lot of it off as service to the Dark Gods. It wasn't really, of course - the only thing the cult actually served was itself. Early in his career, Asharis had wasted so many hours in pointless prayer and pointless devotion. Never once had Chaos answered, either with aid or with eldritch powers or any other of the fickle rewards so many spoke of. Asharis had started off sceptical and had grown entirely cynical about the religious side of it. He was no longer sure even whether the Dark Gods actually existed – he was sure, however, that it didn't matter. The nominal religion was a means to an ends and nothing else.
That ends was materially-comfortable living.
Asharis was self-interested and corrupt. He considered it his greatest strength. There had been, until recently, another cult on the north continent. Asharis had had some dealings with them – they had been more mystical and less materially-inclined. They had frequently engaged in crazy, self-destructive behaviour. A particularly-blatant recent orgy of sacrifice and idolatry had brought them to the attention of the Imperial authorities and they had swiftly been destroyed. There had been rumours of Inquisitional involvement. For months after, Asharis had lived in fear, afraid that his cult's mad compatriots might have revealed their existence. No similar purge had occurred on the south continent, though, so eventually Asharis had relaxed. It seemed their existence remained secret.
He dug a cup out from an inner pocket of his robe. He placed it on the altar – it clinked quietly on the granite surface. The faint noise echoed in the chamber. Asharis tugged the loose cork from the bottle. He felt like a quick sip of wine – today was set to be a long day, after all. The cult had acquired a new collection of rebels and fools and maybe one or two actually-useful people. Asharis and his inner circle would be meeting later, in their bland corporate office ten floors up, dressed in bland corporate clothing and carrying bland corporate cogitators and personnel files. They were due to sit in that meeting room for several bland hours, going through the files on the new initiates. They would be looking to separate the disposable cannon-fodder from the few useful ones. It was one place where Asharis knew the cult had a handicap; competent people had a bad habit of going out and getting decently-paid jobs. There was a selection pressure amongst the cult's intake, a selection toward the inept and the incompetent.
Still, the cult needed its unskilled labourers to keep things working. That was where the bogus religion came in useful; keeping the hired help in line. He sipped the wine – it had a fruity smell in the cold air. It was lovely. He took another sip. The cult he led might be a joke on its own followers but life was not entirely bad. He nodded to himself in satisfaction.
There was a noise, a faint scraping on stone.
Asharis froze, cup half-raised. He felt his hackles rise. That noise – where had it come from? Carefully, he lowered the cup. Could there be an intruder? He glanced toward the door. It remained shut. Imperial agents? But why would they wait – surely they would just burst in, all guns blazing?
There was the scraping again. He realised it was coming from behind the altar.
He put the cup down. 'Who's there?' Asharis demanded. Who's there – is there – there… The echoes mocked him.
Asharis noted a faint scent of ozone in the air. That was new – it mingled with the smell of the wine.
Puzzled, he looked behind the altar. The torches were burning quietly as always, casting an odd double-light on the statue. He saw nothing out of place – but his eyes were drawn back to the statue.
They had found it here, when the cavity beneath the building had been covertly turned into a cellar. It had stood over there, exactly as it was now, an effigy in a strange grey marble. There was some indication the small cavern had once been open to the surface, centuries before the founding of the city above it. Presumably somebody must have secreted the statue away back then. Asharis could certainly see why its sculptors would have hidden it. Such a convincing depiction of a Chaos Space Marine could easily get its artist in trouble, if the wrong people learned of it.
The real mystery was just why anyone had felt the need to carve out such a thing in the first place. The statue was immense; it stood eight feet tall from the tips of its boots to the top of the bizarre crest that rose from its helmet. Asharis had to acknowledge that it was well-made. The vents of its backpack had been carved into elaborate dragons'-heads, their fanged mouths silently screaming defiance at the world. The helmet itself had something of a skull about it, with the wide eye-lenses sat above sunken cheeks and the filter-grill like a gaping, lifeless mouth. On its breastplate the statue bore a carved eye, which seemed to stare out. The right shoulder of the statue bore a serpent eating its tail, while the left bore the mark of Tzeentch. In the statue's hands it held on one side a stone plasma pistol and in the other a sword carved with more nonsense-hieroglyphs.
Whoever had made this thing, Asharis had to acknowledge, had spent a lot of time on it. He had, of course, never met or seen a Chaos Marine. He even had doubts as to whether they still existed. That said, if one had to imagine what one might look like, this statue would be a good starting-point. It made an excellent centre-point for the sanctum.
He shook his head and looked back to the wine. Nothing was out of place. The sound must have been something leaking in from above. Perhaps there'd been a traffic accident on the road outside – it was busy during the day. He groaned. If there had been, that would make getting back to his apartment take even longer than normal. For a really bad crash, he would be better off making a late night of it in the office. There was plenty of work to be done, after all. Crime was a serious business, particularly profitable crime.
He was gazing, self-absorbed, at the mug when he noticed an odd light playing over it. It was marbled and wobbly, like sunlight seen through water. And the ozone smell – it was stronger. The light seemed to be coming from behind the altar.
The torched – alarmed, Asharis looked up.
No, they were burning normally. The light – his eyes tracked downwards. He felt his jaw open in confused amazement. It was coming from the statue. The carved plasma coils on the pistol, those elaborate stone representations – they were glowing with an unsteady bluish light, just like a real weapon!
Even as he watched, a new light appeared. Clearer and so much more chilling, the statue's eyes began to shine whitely.
That noise, that scraping sound – now Asharis perceived the source of it. That great stone head, the sculpted helmet – it was turning, slowly, gratingly, impossibly. Asharis swallowed in newfound fear. It was looking right at him!
This was absurd. He thought briefly of the wine. Could this be some drink-addled hallucination? But no – he felt coldly sober, and coldly afraid. He had barely sipped the wine – not enough even for warm fuzziness, let alone blind-drunk madness.
The statue continued changing. The grey of the stone was fading. Here and there bluish and golden blushes spread across the surface. Any semblance of stonework was fading away. The carved robes below the statue's waist were now fabric, the statue's greaves outlined beneath them. Chained to its belt was a fat book, marked with the eight-pointed star. Asharis had mocked up so many such menacing tomes, to excite the impressionable with the promise of forbidden lore. He had rarely bothered to write anything inside them – just the appearance was enough.
This book, however … this book he suspected might be the real thing.
Asharis swallowed. He felt terrified.
The last of the stone had faded. Quietly, with no sound but a rustle of its robes, the statue stepped off of its low plinth. Its boots clicked quietly on the stonework as it approached the altar.
It stopped, barely two feet away from Asharis. He could feel himself shaking. It was close enough that he could have reached out and touched it, if he could surpass the paralysis of fear.
'Callum Asharris.' The statue spoke! Its voice was surprisingly-cultured, but also mocking. 'I am Kemosiri of the Thousand Sons. I have been sent to aid you.'
Asharis twitched. His hand banged into the wine bottle, knocking it over. He did not even notice as it fell from the altar and shattered on the stone below. He stared the sorcerer in stupefied bafflement. 'Aid - aid us? With what? I mean, we could do with an extra hand for the bank job next week, but-' Asharis could hear himself babbling but he realised he was powerless to stop. The fear was welling up inside him and flooding out of his mouth.
'Enough. Your trivial babble bores me.' There was nothing friendly in the Chaos Marine's voice. Asharis gagged as his words were cut off in mid-flow. He moved his mouth but no sound came out. At that moment a sour smell reached his nose. He realised that he had wet himself. Asharis had honestly never been so frightened in all of his life. Even under gunfire, on a job gone wrong, he had not felt this poisonous sense of helpless fear. He knew beyond doubt that his life now hung simply on the whim of this – this monster before him. If Kemosiri decided to kill him, there would be nothing he could do to resist.
The Chaos Marine walked around the altar, right past Asharris. The Marine glanced at the spreading slick of wine and the broken glass, but said nothing. The crested helmet turned as Kemosiri looked around.
'A fine enough temple,' the Thousandth Son mused, 'if one lacking in any real devotion. No matter – it is the labour we require, for now. Doubtless the true faith will form in time.'
The Chaos Marine turned to face Asharis again. Asharis suddenly realised he could speak again – whatever enchantment had been placed on him had been released.
He swallowed. 'I – forgive me, my lord, but I do not understand. We are a small organisation and I – I cannot see what assistance we could render unto you, however much we may wish to.' Briefly he felt buoyed by his obsequious diplomacy – good to know that he still had the wits to choose his words carefully around this powerful being.
'You would do well not to lie to me,' Kemosiri remarked, with an amused tone. 'I know your heart better then you do, Callum Asharis. To you I am a fearful complication and one you would be rid of at a moment's notice, if you could. You know that I represent the call of Chaos. You suspect that call will stand between you and further wealth. Wealth, after all, is the real reason for your successful little cult.'
'My lord, I…' Asharis was about to deny the accusation when he saw the sword gripped in the sorcerer's hand. The runes had begun to glow. A fresh burst of fear stabbed into Asharis. A sense of hopeless defeat settled into him. His shoulders sagged. Asharis realised he was beaten – the game was up. 'I dare say you're right, Lord Kemosiri. I am a shallow and corrupt man. I'm in it for the money, not really anything else. Are – do you intend to k-kill me?' Try as he might, his voice squeaked near the end.
'No.'
Asharis blinked. 'No?' This was a surprise.
'Or at least, no unless you give me a reason. You are indeed a corrupt man. Shallow, venal and self-interested. Thus, you are someone I can use. Your cult is organised around wealth rather than devotion – but it is organised. That is what I need.'
Asharis frowned. 'I still don't understand.'
'I was summoned here by the Dark Gods, to complete a work for them,' the sorcerer explained. 'Your brethren in the north were recently enjoined to conduct a high ritual. Unfortunately, they failed. Shall we say, they were maybe a little too devoted. Or devoted to the wrong things. They thought the day of gratification was at hand.' The Chaos Marine's voice dripped with contempt. 'They ran riot. Their leaders could not and did not constrain their acolytes. Subtlety failed and concealment was lost. Their pathetic antics drew the notice of the Inquisition.'
Asharis's eyes widened. 'The Inquisition? I knew they'd been destroyed but not that. Not for a fact.'
The sorcerer nodded. 'Quite a debacle, I'm sure you'll agree. The cultists were meant to open a portal into the Warp, a gateway through which we could quietly bring our forces to this world. Three of the Legions of Chaos had formed an uneasy alignment, with the intention of conquering this sector. This foul little planet, Nyxis Minor, was to have been key to our scheme.'
Asharis nodded slowly. The sorcerer was right. Many of the sector's trade routes converged on this planet; the planet's wealth was founded on it. Without Nyxis Minor, the rest of the sector would be thrown into economic disarray. Food riots on the hive worlds to the galactic west, shortages of manufactured goods on the eastern agri-worlds, disruption of transport … taking out Nyxis Minor would make a conquest so much easier.
The Imperium, of course, recognised the planet's importance. Its orbital defences were significant. It would take a huge fleet to have much chance of breaking through. But an attack from the ground, with an open Warp gate and forces quietly assembling perhaps for months before… He nodded. It made sense. It could work.
Of course, it needed an open gate.
'You understand. Good.' Kemosiri actually sounded pleased. 'Your other faults aside, you are not a stupid man, Callum Asharis.
'We sent what aid we could, to your northern colleagues. However, the sheer volume of starship traffic around this planet makes the Warp turbulent here. Without the stability of a gateway there were limits to how much aid we could send, and how quickly. Hence, in fact, my own singular arrival here. The Inquisition must have suspected our limitations. They attacked along with a force of Storm Ravens.'
Loyalist Space Marines. Asharis swallowed again. 'How – how many?'
Kemosiri shrugged. 'Only a five-man squad. But, 'only' is a relative concept with Space Marines. I'm sure I would have no trouble against that many - the modern Astartes are little but a feeble reflection of their old glory. However, even a feeble reflection is much more powerful then a debauched and disorganised rabble. That, unfortunately, described your former brethren of the north. They were destroyed quickly and efficiently. Their efforts with the gateway were desultory at best, and even that small contribution was easily annihilated. The gate fell before it even opened. There were only two saving graces from the disaster.'
'Two?' Asharis blinked stupidly.
'Yes, two. I agree that seems surprising. Fortunately for you, all of the cultists were killed in the fighting. None survived to be interrogated; you were not revealed. They also left no records, either of themselves or of your presence. Essentially, their cell was so badly-run that incompetence became its sole virtue. If they had been even slightly less inept, there would have been nothing to salvage from this disaster.'
Asharis glanced from side to side, around the sanctum. 'So we survived.' What a narrow escape.
'Yes. Although your supposed cult lacks devotion, it doesn't lack money. It also doesn't lack manpower or contacts in various places. It is well-led. It can do the groundwork - even if the actual opening of the gate will this time need a sorcerer of my stature.
'And also, there is the other surviving grace from the northern cult.' The sorcerer tapped the side of his plasma weapon against the book chained to his belt. 'The cult recovered this tome, which will be vital in our work. One of their psykers managed to transport it to us, moments before his death. Using your group, we can start again. And we will start again, with or without you.'
Something stuck in Asharis's memory. 'You mentioned something about an alliance?'
The Chaos Marine nodded. Regretfully, he said, 'Yes, I did let that slip, didn't I? The Thousand Sons, the Iron Warriors and the World Eaters, or at least a faction amongst them. We have formed – well, maybe 'alliance' is too stronger word. An understanding, shall we say. We all stand to benefit from this sector's conquest, in our own ways and have precious little to lose. Thus we have a small basis for some degree of co-operation. Sadly, that understanding was strained by the northern failure. If it is to survive, we need tangible results - and soon. That is also why I came - remote management clearly wasn't working. One way or another, I intend to get those results.'
Asharis nodded. Just as he had feared. 'And what of us?'
'Our management shouldn't make you downcast. Unlike the empty promises of the False Emperor, the rewards of Chaos are very real. Assist us as best you can and you will reap benefits beyond your imagination. You like luxury; imagine the wealth that an entire world can offer you. Why stay cowering here in this basement, when you could rule openly? This world could be yours – your only responsibility would be to meeting our requirements from it. Think about it.'
Asharis's jaw had fallen again. The ultimate theft – an entire planet! Kemosiri was right – it was an intoxicating thought. 'I – yes. Yes, we will. We'll do whatever is necessary.'
'Excellent.' Kemosiri sounded amused and triumphant. 'Then let us begin.' He gestured with his sword to the door.
Asharis turned and they walked from the sanctum. The door closed behind them, onto flaring torches and an empty plinth behind the altar.
I dare say they do, they just don't care for them.
Tyzuris
Primarch to your glory& the glory of him on Earth!
What's the reason Space Marine companies are divided into such weird demi-companies when almost all fl ground force companies are divided to between three and four platoons, why are Space Marines dividing their companies in half when doing so denies them of having a reserve platoon to use while their first platoon pins the enemy down, second platoon maneuvers towards the enemy and then said reserve platoon would be in place for using an advantageous opening in enemy front, etc....?
Most SM Companies divide as needed for the mission.
They actually do, sort of. There's actually a term for a marine formation that's capable of doing the same thing as a conventional infantry platoon. It's called a "sqaud".
As a rule of thumb, a given marine formation is about as capable as whatever is one or two rungs up the ladder of an equivalent conventional force.
At least.
It's accurate as a high end, I think most of the more plausible estimates are in the 4000-6000 range.
@Tyzuris @Battlegrinder
Size? 8000? I have no idea what metric is being used here or even what we're measuring.
Size? 8000? I have no idea what metric is being used here or even what we're measuring.
How many marines are in the chapter. The Templar don't heed the codex's limits on chapter size (or rather, they evade it with a loophole that crusading chapters can go over that limit, and as the Templar are always one crusade they take that to mean they have as many marines as they want).
Yeah, Chapters are restricted to 1,000 per the Codex Astartes.
The Black Templars are definitely one that goes a bit overboard per what @Battlegrinder said, as are the Space Wolves simply because they like to use the Codex Astartes as fire building material for their Mjod brewing.
The Black Templars are definitely one that goes a bit overboard per what @Battlegrinder said, as are the Space Wolves simply because they like to use the Codex Astartes as fire building material for their Mjod brewing.
Tyzuris
Primarch to your glory& the glory of him on Earth!
Would that estimate also include the vehicle crews, Techmarines and Apothecaries?
novussa
Active member
And as toilet paper for their wolves and serfs.
As long as the vehicle crews were actually Astartes. Definitely included Techmarines and Apothecaries.
Navarro
Well-known member
It's basically just the line troopers. You can also have as many scouts as you want.