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In From Ashes We Rise: The Galaxy At Large → 1 mo ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
//Vion 5, Fortress Cognitia
//2 Days After Capture

Usriel awoke in a large bed sprawling at the end of an opulent hall filled with the adornment of holy symbols from the Mechanicum. He heard the whirring of cogitators and the light hum of antigravitic impeller of servoskulls, some of which hovered closely to the waking child. A golden light shone from stained glass windows that stretched far above, forming a cathedral-like steeple. There was a moment of pause as the boy raised himself, looking around to see that there were four Thallaxi, adorned in the primary white and secondary red of the Machine Cult, lined against the walls leading to the bed. For the briefest moment, Usriel felt as if he had awoken to a different body in a different life - one of opulence and security much unlike the life in the great bastion. That was dashed as a servoskull passed by, stopping to his right and speaking in a monotone, binaric voice, “Angelus Machina. Awakened. Vitals. Normalized. Biology. Irregular.”

A cloaked form spoke from the shadows, chiding the mindless drone, “He is beyond our understanding, little skull.”

The boy looked over to see a tech-priest with a large, singular optic gazing at him, but that was the only notable feature of his face as the optic WAS his face. Usriel did not speak, cautiously sliding backwards into the comfort of his bed, knowing that had they wished to kill him that they would have done so already. That silence that emanated from Usriel served as an invitation for the immaculately white-cloaked tech-priest who strode forth without moving any body part, gliding as if he were an apparition. This only served to frighten the Angelus who recoiled from the unnatural movement, no longer at ease now that the status quo of the room had been disrupted.

“You are the Angelus Machina, yes?” the binaric voice came, the red glow of the eye bore into him. It reached a hand out to try and comfort the boy by rubbing the stubble upon his head, it did not work as he shrunk away. The tech-priest folded the metallic hand back into the folds of its sleeve.

“I- I know not of what you speak, holy one. Angelus is a nickname my mother gave me,” Usriel responded, curling away from the strange creature questioning him. There was a hesitation in his voice, though he knew not to show weakness with the Bastion Lord this was much too different for him - this was a false kindness, an interrogation.

“Your mother? That would be Her Holiness, Arch-Fabricator One-One, correct?” The voice questioned - it showed him no emotion, Usriel guessed that the priest merely could not do so anymore due to its augmentations. Though, the Angelus did not answer, merely looking at the interrogator with what defiance he could muster through silence. A binaric bark sounded, agitation the first emotion that he could understand, “Answer.”

“My mother was exiled from the Cult Mechanicum before I was born. You must be referring to someone else,” Usriel answered, his eyes creeping towards a servoskull that was scrawling upon a piece of parchment. Past it, he gazed upon one of the Thallaxi guards - knowing it was likely mindlocked. If he tried to escape then he would be felled in an instant. The paranoia he felt was oddly comforting, it was a distraction from the questions, calming enough for him to elaborate, “One-One was her name, however, but I feel that may be a common title amongst your kind.”

“Negative.”

Usriel’s eyes snapped to the priest, a wave of emotion hit him. Curiosity. Happiness. Sadness. Despair. It all came to him at once and rebellious tears flooded into his eyes. There was one emotion that filled his chest the most, pumping adrenaline into his veins.

Hope.

“Arch-Fabricator One-One came to us several years ago, against her exile. She preached the coming of the Angelus Machina. I am testing to see if you are the Angelus Machina as she says. The Magi are skeptical,” the interrogator said, before motioning to another servoskull who brought a data-slate, depositing it in the claws of the tech-priest who, in turn, held it towards Usriel. An explanation came, “If you are the Angelus Machina, your understanding of our most sacred of technologies will be but a natural occurrence to you. Answer the data-slate, solve a plight that has stumped our brightest for centuries since Old Night.”

Usriel took the pad nervously and peered at it, occasionally glancing up to nervously meet the unflinching gaze of his interrogator. Reading through the data-slate more thoroughly he understood its contents - an ancient power array was damaged, almost beyond repair due to the fighting of the planet’s inhabitants, but the Mechanicum had repaired vast amounts of it. Yet, the array was missing critical pieces that inhibited it from properly activating. Usriel continued to read with a more vested interest, discovering that this array could solely power the forges of a hive without reliance upon sub-units or even energy waste. It was a marvel of the Age of Technology, but he knew he could not just sit and ogle at the mythical piece of ancient technology.

He thought for what, to him, seemed like hours with vast calculations and options to fix the array or make it operable to a degree. The Angelus Machina gave his answer only a few short minutes later, “It is missing its power amplifier and harmonizing force. Without them it will never run, however, it can be made operable for a time if a replacement amplifier were found. The harmonizing force would only serve to keep it running indefinitely.”

The priest gazed upon Usriel for a few silent moments, taking the data-slate slowly back as if it were in deep thought and calculation. “That is a mighty claim, but that does not solve the issue,” the priest chortled, looking back to the data-slate knowing that this was no Angelus sent by the Machine God, yet, a binaric squawk was sounded as the interrogator read what Usriel had input. For a moment the emotional dampeners failed and the priest looked at him with an unreadable look of surprise.

“The Angelus Machina.”

With those words, the priest arose and swiftly glided towards the door without a single noise to signify anything else. Usriel was merely left in silence, wondering what to do, but he did not wish to anger his captors by getting up and trying to escape, especially not if One-One was walking these grandiose halls. Instead, he contented himself with laying back into the sprawling bed and closing his eyes once more - he was not tired but in his mind’s eye he felt the technology around him. It all hummed with soothing calls, the spirits were happy to know that their chosen was here. The Angelus knew what that wanted him to do, and he almost despised them for forcing their ideology upon him, forcing abject divinity upon him. He could feel it in the Thallaxi, he felt it in the advanced servo-skulls, and he felt it something less potent - something far away.

Usriel focused on it, trying to see what the odd feeling was that even then recognized his divinity. Yet, he felt malice and hatred - the spirit despised that Usriel was the Angelus Machina for Usriel was human. The boy’s heart began racing, he tried to look away but his mind’s eye focused further on the technology and then he saw it.

Usriel hefted the Omnissiahan axe up, blocking a blow that would have killed him. He surge forwards, cleaving into the side of an ancient beast from Humanity’s past that sought to end what its brothers had started - a guardian turned mad dog that only saw anger and hate even in the worshippers it manipulated.

“You are nothing but meat, Angelus! I am the Machine God and I will see that Humanity’s light is extinguished!” The synthetic voice bellowed as it swung an obsidian scythe that rendered Usriel’s advanced armor, cutting through it like paper. It spoke again, each word laced with a venom unseen, “Know that this world and countless others will burn! I have lived Aeons and the Age of Machine shall be my reckoning!”

Usriel awoke from his stupor, heart racing and breathing quickened - that nightmare clung to him like a tech-priest to archaeotech. However, it did not feel like a nightmare. No, Usriel knew what dreams were like and that was certainly not, it felt as real as the cloth that covered his sweating form. It was unnerving for him to think about.

Was there an abomination roaming the planet in the guise of the Machine God? Why did it know him as the Angelus? Was that weapon a relic from ages past?

So many questions roamed his mind and Usriel looked around the room once more, the Thallaxi continued to stand guard in silent motionlessness. Nothing had changed, save for the ever marching nature of time. Usriel let out an audible sigh and cast the nightmare out of his mind, there wasn’t anything to gleam from chasing visions of a worried mind. There was only Truth and the Motive Force, the only certainties of life.

It was in this period of brief reflection that the door to the room opened, flooding the room with light from the hallway, yet not enough to stretch far enough to even the foot of Usriel’s bed. The form of one of the Priests of Mars strode in, clad in white and red. This form was recognizable to him, noticing some of the dark strands of hair falling at either side of their face which carried two glowing blue optics right above a face plate. Two mechadendrites flanked her, each coming from the same connection. Perhaps this view was more in line with any tech priest, but it was the emotion that Usriel felt as she approached. Suppressed, but palpable, the feeling of love filled every corner of his mind.

Unable to contain his emotion, the Angelus wept and quickly scrambled to his feet in order to hobble over to his mother. One-One had stopped to open her arms for the boy, embracing him. Her emotional dampeners failed - just as they always did with Usriel, and she wept. The two did not speak or move for several long moments before One-One was able to regain her composure long enough to say, “I knew that my Ang- my son would come to me one day. I missed you so much.”

Usriel could only speak between sobs, “I missed you mother! I was - I was so scared there.”

“I know, my Angelus, you were in the clutches of that bastard lord for far too long. I should never have listened to Nirek,” One-One said, running her hands over the boy’s head. Her mechadentrites swirled around Usriel before continuing, “However, much has changed, my Angelus. And I fear new responsibilities both great and terrible will force upon you.”

Usriel was pushed away from his mother ever so slightly as her glowing, robotic eyes met his unaugmented ones - he felt sorrow coming from her. He was about to start questioning her when she spoke before him, explaining, “You are not just my Angelus, Usriel, and Nirek is not your father. You are the Angelus Machina, Hollowed Son of the Machine God. Nirek found you in the wastes, delivered from God himself in a cataclysm of fire.”

Usriel’s mind was suddenly overwhelmed with revelations and terrors that he had not wanted to think of - there was nought but an overwhelming sense of dread that stalked him as the thoughts of his vision had come to him. That machine had called him Angelus. It terrified him, lorded over him with an absolute grip that made him want to deny the very words that his mother spoke to him. For his entire life, he knew he was different and others knew too, but he did not want to be. Even now, he no longer wanted to be the Angelus, hearing it now only made him want to weep for he knew he would be forced to do more that he did not want to do.

“I know this troubles you, Usriel, but it is the truth. You were sent to destroy the Cult of the True Machine and unite this planet, it was only the threat of you that forced the Cult into hiding for they fear the power you will come to wield,” One-One said, finally standing to her feet and folding her arms into the sleeves of her robes. A mechadendrite, metallic and cold, ran itself over Usriel’s cheek in an attempt to comfort him.

It did not.

“Come, Angelus, they wish to see you,” she said, pushing him forwards and towards the hallway, ushering him out of the monolithic room.

“Who wishes to see me?” Usriel asked, steeling himself and thinking of how he had needed to act around Merrick. He kept his eyes forward, not wanting to look at the visage of the one who now ushered him forth towards a set of doors just across from the room that he had been resting in.

” I am the Machine God and I will see that Humanity’s light is extinguished!”

The words echoed in his mind - unsettling him as he tried to think to himself and tried to once more deceive himself into thinking that it was nothing more than a nightmare. The door opened to a balcony. Revealing the skies of his homeworld and below it, a sea of white in red who cheered in religious veneration at the sight of their demi-god. There was a sight of pure religious ecstasy from those who claimed his divinity and righteous nature.

He wanted to scream at them. To tell them that he was not their messiah, that he was not who they thought he was. Yet, he did not have the heart to tell them.

Usriel raised his hand and make a grand wave to priests and worshippers who saw him.

He was the Angelus Machina.
In From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born → 2 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
//Hive-City Ovill, Terrawatt Clan

Grek Dorji let out a huff as he stomped along the precipice of his loft home in the spires, looking over the daily production schedules as decreed by the Theologiteks. The short, and admittedly chubby, man was disappointed that they had not managed to increase the efficiency of the forges. He had been working many standard days trying to implement new methods and schedules down to the microsecond all in effort to meet the new Emperor’s needs for the war effort. He grumbled, missing the days in which all he had to worry about was smaller orders for smaller warlords - older and rarer trade deals or even simply just replacing old tech of the Clans. It had been a logistical hell for him to switch to full war production for this new warlord’s needs nor did he truly understand why.

The administrator never believed in the grand vision of a unified Terra, merely wanting to make his pay that was so generously given by the Theologiteks - but ever since the Emperor came around and more eyes looked upon the inefficiencies of the forges under his view, payment had been cut. Grek was bitter, grumbling more and more until a fortunate deal had come across his desk on a most unfortunate day. The day that Sanctii had fallen, he had received a deal that would see him owning, perhaps, the most productive forges on all of Terra with production technologies that not even his immediate lords held. That said, those technologies were morally dubious at best, ashewing the traditions of the Theologiteks and their strange ways.

One of his personal guards stepped onto the cold balcony, a distorted voice breaking his grumbling, “A message from her has come for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Andson,” Grek said in an almost giddy voice, his mood swinging quickly as he stepped back into the spire home. He moved through his grandiose loft, filled with large rooms and even larger decor that was most certainly all in his own vain. There were many guards in his own loft, a home the size of a small town, as if a barracks had moved in rather than servants of a petty noble. Many of them had shown up the same day that she had arrived with her own technomats to maintain her cold logics. He knew their loyalties, but he could not truly care for what he was being paid was worth more than what he could truly be worried about. That said, it was odd how he had never had been able to meet his dealer - only communicating through screens.

Nevertheless, he arrived at his desk and sat down to open a datapad and a smile crept across his face.



The guards on the balcony had been attentive, rotating every half-hour on that balcony and always down to the nanosecond. Yet, that had not been enough as three blackened hands descended upon them from above in near silence. They had slammed upon them with lances, reducing them into nothing more than a pile of gore - blackened and oily gore that mocked the human form. Those were not the concern of the three talons, however, as one silently moved towards the doorway. She proceeded to force the mag-locked doors open and the three custodians entered, quickly dispatching of the interior guards in bounding leaps.

The Black Hawk had noticed that the guards reacted faster as if they were moving in response to the exterior guards being destroyed - a mindlock. Amalasuntha cast a silent glare to one of her companions and began to sprint down the hall before more could begin to swarm them.

That was when the automated defenses began. Melta and volkite turrets revealed themselves, spitting out death from all directions, yet these were not the defenses of a city-state like Sanctii, far from it. The three custodians moved in dance, leaping from turret to turret destroying them with ease even as they fell upon guards who moved to intercept. Her Stygian Talons were each an army in their own right as any of His vaunted custodians were - this was nothing but a delaying tactic and one far more desperate than when they had sieged that city.

Amalasuntha grasped a horrid automata’s head and crushed it as it turned a corner - those that did not seem to stop the form from trying to raise its weapon. A swift strike with her Misericordia cut the abomination in half. They covered a vast distance in less than a minute, they were slow and the delaying tactic was effective enough for the shield-captain to know that Deep Winter had likely already vacated this portion of the spire, if she were even here in the first place. Her blackened hand grasped the muzzle of a rifle and swiftly pointed it towards its wielder, forcing the automata to fire on itself before it could calculate what was happening.

The three of them fell upon a solitary room, breaching with nothing more than a shoulder charge brought to speed by their jump backs, sending the door clattering far into the small office. Four automations shot from prepared positions, their rounds turning away at the last moment due to their alchemical aegis. The custodians made short work of them as Amalasuntha marched up to the desk of Grek Dorji who was already slumped over on his desk. He had been executed with a data-pad in his hand, merciless and calculated just as she knew Deep Winter to be.

A silent stare to one of her venatarii sent him to move out of the room and deeper into the complex - they had to make this seem like nothing more than a terrorist attack by dissidents of the Emperor. Amalasuntha grasped at the data-slate and brought up to her mask, reading it in seconds for anything that may pertain to a lead. Deep Winter had been honest with Grek, telling him that Amalsuntha had been coming and that she needed to tie up loose ends - even going on to feign an emotion as pity for Grek’s predetermined fate.

Yet, Deep Winter had not been thorough enough in wiping previous messages on the slate. There had been diverted shipments to the Sud Afrik cities, likely vehicles to multiple safe-houses for the Abominable Intelligence’s followers. The shield-captain set the slate back onto the desk, being sure to wipe anything that would tip the Theologitek’s to the presence of the Custodians and Deep Winter. They needed utmost secrecy for this hunt and an unwarranted raid even on an inefficient administrator would be inspected with scrutiny. Amalasuntha turned and began to swiftly exit the location; they needed to move fast before Deep Winter could move further again.

As they activated their jump packs and leapt off the balcony, multiple explosions rocked the hive, vaporizing the loft and much of the surrounding area of that section of the spire - acceptable collateral.

All in His name.
In From Ashes We Rise: The Galaxy At Large → 3 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
//Vion 5

The crack of knuckles against skulls, grunts of men and women locked in brutal fist-fights, the clang of metallic training weapons rang against each other. Many would think that these were hardened warriors training with each other. They would be wrong. Many that were sparring, often breaking each other's bones or striking with such force that it would render the other unconscious, were nothing more than children - no more than fourteen years of age. These teenagers were those taken by the Bastion-Lord, Maris, who took his tax in manpower offered by the men and women who lived beneath him. It was a brutal affair as none wished to hold back, especially when the lord himself watched over the trainees from a high up booth.

Usriel, for his part, had reigned in these fighting pits long since Maris had stolen him from the loving arms of his parents. Neigh untouched by his peers save for a select few who descended from great warriors such as Augustus, Alexen, or Savage Nine-Omega, many of who were lords in their own rights. Yet, Usriel had been a challenger to their birthright as officers as he would often beat those beneath them - even in the mock war games that Maria would order their companies, no more than three hundred strong, to perform. But now was not the time for games, now was the time for proving as Usriel faced down three who had been ordered to mob him. He knew these three well, rivals who sought to dethrone him and take up the manner of Kompchef themselves.

One sprinted at Usriel from the right while another charged his front, wielding a blunt staff of steel. The Angelus saw each attack coming before the others closed the distance - a quirk which he kept to himself and even allowed him his abnormal deftness in combat. Stepping to the side, he sent a fist into the other's gut, knocking the wind of him. Swiftly, Usriel grabbed the fist of the teenager coming at him from the side and pulled her forwards and threw her into the third, having come into Usriel’s blind side. It was a quick bout as Usriel ensured they would stay down, delivering swift blows to the sides of their heads and rendering them unconscious. He never did have the savagery that many of his peers had, many having grown up fighting for scraps and whatever they needed to survive.

He hated what Maris forced them to do, each day he had dreamt of returning to his home, back to a life far from the daily grind that was the lord’s training regimen. Still, Usriel had little choice and he had proven himself as Kompchef all the same. He looked up to the booth and saw Maris’ singular optic staring right back at him, Usriel could only stare back with a defiant glare, having grown strong under his tutelage.

Then he felt it, the head of a weapon buried itself through his chest and hoisted him into the air and blood pooled in his mouth as his deep blue eyes rolled into the back of his head. Sucking in air, Usriel quickly rolled to the side as the vision passed, one of the guards had attempted to kill him while he was off guard. It was unexpected, but his gift saved him. Quickly, he readied his fists as the man, likely sent by Maris to either kill the upstart or for Usriel to prove himself, charged him with a halberd. Usriel ran forwards, knowing he’d have to get inside the weapon’s effective range. The head of the halberd swung low and cut off his legs - no, Usriel jumped before the head struck, leaping forwards and tackling the man to the ground. He let loose a flurry of blows into the man’s head, but the soldier was made of sterner stuff.

Kicking Usriel off with superior strength, the man brought up a pistol that glowed a cobalt and aimed it at the teenager. He went to fire but the weapon plasma refused to exit the weapon - luck seemed to be on Usriel’s side. The Angelus grabbed the halberd and brought it to the man’s neck, but he did not drive it through, and instead met the man’s eyes. Usriel was no killer, even in the simulations he never would completely destroy his enemy as many of the others would. With a sigh, Usriel let out his anger and cleared his mind as he had been taught to do by his mother - emotion clouded judgment and judgment must remain unimpaired as was the Machine God’s whim. He threw the weapon to the side and held out a hand to the man who just tried to murder him, knowing that Maris had told the man to do so as a test. Without a second thought, the man reached up and took Usriel’s hand and hoisted himself up.

With that the test was over, and Usriel looked up to the booth to see that Maris had disappeared, likely satisfied with whatever it was that he was looking for. Usriel turned and noticed that many of the others had watched the failed attempt on his life, many of his company having been concerned for their commander’s life. He looked to them before he spoke, his voice carrying a tone of command only the ‘Greats’ had, “Sparring is over! Take the rest of the day to yourselves, comrades!”

With those words, many of the teenagers let out a cheer and Usriel smiled at their apparent happiness, knowing that they deserved a decent break. Those under him always brought happiness to him whenever they could unwind and not think about their position, desiring nothing more than to feel like kids again. Usriel turned and walked towards a weapons rack where a singular weapon stood - the half-machine skull beckoned to him. The Omnissian Axe was something that the boy was never seen without, both for practical and sentimental reasons. It was the only thing he had that reminded him of his mother, and the only tool to which he had to defend himself from rivals and Maris’ occasional assassin.

Yet, he held into it just as closely as he would his mother, imagining that she watched over him through the axe. Usriel exited the vast training room into the tight halls of the Great Bastion’s underground, being forced to walk single-file on one side of the walkway lest he be in the way of passing soldiery or passing squad that saluted him as he passed by. A servoskull hovered in front of him, a vox attached where the lower jaw would be. It spouted a string of jargle information at him, “Maris. Request. Meet.”

Letting out a sigh, Usriel gave the skull a nod of affirmation and allowed it to fly off, leaving the Angelus to make his way through the halls and barracks of the under-fortress. He had to ride a mag-rail to get to the elevator to take him to the central spire that Maris’ ruled from. Though, Usriel did not ascend into the sky where many of the commanders and sensors and relays were - no, Maris truly ruled from beneath, seeing the spire as too vulnerable to rule from for there would be no escape should the lower fortress be taken by his rivals. As he exited the underground, Usriel had to keep his wits about him, not trusting many of the soldiers and overseers that he passed, knowing of the horrors they inflicted upon the commoners and lesser soldiers that served under him.

Nonetheless, he made it to Maris’ command room unaccosted and there he would prostrate himself to the Bastion-Lord, getting onto both his knees and lowering his head. Usriel would speak before Maris gave him the permission to, a clear sign of arrogance against the cyborg, “You summoned me, Lord?”

Maris did not dignify Usriel’s social breach, leaning back in his chair as a mindless servant was fashioning a new augment to his body. The lord spoke harshly, but his voice lacked the same anger as it normally did, “Usriel. I have received reports of a Mechanicum expedition crossing the eastern border. They are making their way to the Kremin Pass and are clearly trying to establish a conclave within my territory.”

Usriel was surprised that he had not been chided by his lord, looking to Maris with a sign of confusion. Maris had never divulged tactical or strategic information with him before and so Usriel had no response other than to raise himself to his feet. Thoughts raced through his mind, none of them were about the information and it was only about why he had received this information. He concluded that the lord was to perhaps be giving him his first command, a great honor that would solidify his role as an officer within the bastion, not that he truly desired it. The man in front of him only affirmed his conclusion by speaking further, “You are to take your forces, along with the 32nd and the 65th companies to force them to turn back. Additionally, I will provide you with the dreaded Landsknecht to supplement your forces.”

The Angelus eyes widened, the Landsknecht were amongst the most elite fighters available to Maris and to entrust them with Usriel was a great sign of either respect or to keep a watchful eye upon him. His bewilderment lasted only as long as it took him to take breath, responding to the lord’s desires, “As you wish, my lord. I shall see to it that the expedition is dealt with.”

“Those blasted iron worshippers must be taught that the Bastion is only for the Vionese, they have no place here,” Maris croaked, his free arm raising for a hologram of the planet to illuminate the room. There was a moment before the territories of those loyal to the Cult Mechanicum tinged almost half the world in a deep red glow, he knew of how far they had spread but he suspected that his lord had other ideas. It was a fact Usriel was more than aware of, but the Angelus was always known for being partial to the Cult and so he could only guess why Maris would want him to lead this expedition. The lord spoke in more hatred that Usriel cared not to listen to - blasphemous words for someone whose machine spirits never worked for.

The Star Child turned on his heels and asked Maris, “Shall I engage in diplomacy on your behalf, Lord? Wasting manpower and resources on a fight against the Cult Mechanicum is scarecely one that we can afford - especially now that the Bastion is on a skeleton crew.” These words were a trap for Maris, knowing that to deny Usriel was to invite war upon his people and to accept was to give Usriel yet more power to operate on Maris’ behalf. Whatever the old lord had been speaking of no longer became a thought in his mind and all Usriel did was burn an azure glare into the One-Eyed man. There had been truth in Usriel’s words as the boy never lied, people of the Great Bastion fled outside its walls daily, hemorrhaging manpower that could be used to ensure their safety. Now, there were scarcely enough to keep the hydroponic fields running - and the industrial capacity of the hives was neutered by the lack of men and women to work them.

“Aye, you shall drive them off through words, if you can, boy. But, should they need to be killed - spare none! Set their bodies as a gruesome tale so as to not cross Maris the Indomitable!” the Bastion-Lord ordered, earning another bow from the Kompchef who swiftly rose without prompt. Usriel would turn once more, stepping towards the door but would be stopped by further words from his overseer, a cruel tone falling upon the room, “I mean it, Usriel Andreadth, your pitiful idealism will have no place under MY rule. If I see a report of any being spared then I’ll have your head, boy.”

The Angelus remained frozen in his place for the briefest of moments, not wanting Maris’ words to find purchase under his skin - but there was no stopping it. He forced himself forwards, not wanting to hear anything else from the aging lord. Usriel did not want to become a murderer, it was not in his blood to kill others and there was nothing more heinous that Usriel could even think of doing in his life. In silence, the boy stalked out of the room.



//FOUR HOURS LATER

The column had taken the old underground maglev about half-way to their destination, they would have gone further had saboteurs to Maris not blown part of the rail line. They had stopped at a supply depot, long since ransacked by warlords long before Maris had taken his reign, during the Long Night. Usriel stalked through the wastes, leading the column from the front, alongside those that made up what was his command staff. He was adorned with a light outer layer of plasteel, forged together by a light weave of bullet-resistant fabric - forged together in the style that much of the more advanced thralls of the mechanicum would wear into battle. It was an armor forged by his own hands as Maris often refused to armor the younger of his ranks - expendable, but cost effective when there was such a large number of them. In his right hand, he held his Omnissian Axe - a weapon more deadly than many that his force wielded.

“Kompchef, it is unlikely that we will make it to our position by nightfall - I suggest we make camp,” a stern voice came from his right, Greshet, his appointed quartermaster. Usriel’s head turned slightly in acknowledgement as they continued their pace, taking a moment to consider his options.

“Horus, pull the map, I would rather not rest in the open,” the Angelus spoke, his voice ringing softly to his second-in-command. He turned to face the other lad, one clad in a mess of scrapped together metal and leather - an armor far less elegant than that of Usriel. Wordlessly, Horus knelt and flipped his pack to retrieve a small device before placing it on the ground. The device lit up and revealed a map of the area.

“The wreckage of Tower 4-80b lay only 10 kilometers away, but it would be dead of night by the time we made camp,” Horus spoke, his accent belonging to those gangers that roved far beneath the fortress. He pointed to another location, a dried ravine, “This ravine could provide cover.”

“Perhaps,” Usriel said, looking over the map before running a hand along the edges of his chin as he contemplated what to do. To him, hours passed as he thought, but to others he would make his decision in mere moments. His voice came with a sigh, “Send our scouting element along with three squads of sappers to make haste to the pass. I will be sending specifications to the defenses I want made for our arrival.”

“As you wish,” Horus stated, echoing Usriel’s order to a few of the squads over vox. Yet, the Angelus’s mind was twisting and turning over various placements of defensive works. A thought entered his brain.

“Horus, take command of the column. I shall depart for the Kremin Pass, myself,” Usriel said, who went to speak before his second-in-command could object, “I must ensure that these works are to my precise specifications. We cannot afford to fight the Mechanicum with any flaw in our defense. It must be perfect.”

There was no word from Horus other than a simple grunt of agreement and that would be all else on the subject as he began walking forwards, using his axe almost as a staff to walk along with. Departing with the sappers and scouts, they made hasty progress towards their destination - still walking much throughout the night. Usriel did not grow tired, he hardly ever did with such trivial activities and the sight of their Kompchef moving so quickly without rest or thought spurred his subordinates onwards. It wouldn’t be until before dawn the next day that they arrived at their location, and Usriel had finalized his plans in the moment that he laid eyes upon their potential battlefield.

Tall, weathered walls formed a gate that forced a tight and awkward path stood in front of them. It was wide enough for three vehicle lines to comfortably move down. Many parts of it lay ruined, with rubble and clear damage having forced openings from battles long since passed. Even still, there would be little cover as whatever evidence of battles that had long since passed have been picked cleaned by scavengers. Should a battle be fought from here they’d be able to rain death on the Mechanicum from near every angle. Nearly. For the tight and narrow passage would have made his artillery, even though they were mere mortars, about useless as the walls of ancient alloy provided enough cover from above. He would curse at it in his minds eye, but at the very least the Landskencht would be able to fight unabated in the confines of the gate while the lesser disciplined of his ranks could fire from above.

All that would need to be done would be to fortify what was left. Unfortunately, the rad weapons of the Mechanicum would be something Usriel would be hard pressed to think of a counter to - they simply didn’t have the equipment necessary for that. Diplomacy was by and far the best option, but he had his orders to not be merciful and should he wish to see another day. The boy did have the option of forcing the Mechanicum to flee from the field, but mindlocked battle-slaves would not break unless their masters did and so he’d have to target those who were masters of technology. Endless stratagem and counter-play looped through his head and he knew not what truly to do.

Usriel sighed and looked at the remains of the great fortress network around him and decided on the best course of action in a fraction of a moment. He looked upon his scout force and stated, “Contact Horus. Instruct him that we shall entrench behind the gates. The pass may be in ruins but we may still use it, our ancestors still provide us with the tools to defy destruction.”



By the time that Horus and the rest of the column had arrived, Usriel had already pre-sighted the battlefield - relaying information for his mortars for the optimal range that they should engage at. Indeed there was little that Usriel had left up for interpretation for his officers as he gave exact and precise orders for them to dig a small network of trenches around the exit to the pass, intertwining them with natural hills that had built up as the derelict structure had rotted. His men busied themselves and the Angelus contented himself for a moment to merely overlook the toil that he had envisioned. A smile crept across his face unknowingly.

“Do I spy a smile on that ever-stoic face,” came the voice of Horus from the side of him, forcing the boy to look over.

A small nod came from the Kompchef, silently looking back to his men. His scouts had positioned themselves at the front of the pass in the ruins of the rotting structure, keeping a vigil over the plains past this place. They would surely see the Mechanicum forces long before they would approach, but the vox chatter from them was light and consistent was reports that nothing was sighted - a light worry but it afforded them more time to entrench so that would not be able to be dislodged without great difficulty. Usriel spoke softly, “We stand on the precipice of becoming men, and yet, I fear that many of these folk may not see past our battle. The Mechanicum is a foe that will exact a heavy price from us.”

“Indeed,” Horus spoke with a confidence that was greater than Usriel’s own, but solemn words continued, “The path to Glory is paved with sacrifice.”

Usriel let out a sigh, he wished that none of them would die once the battle came; he hoped that the Mechanicum servants would see his men and flee for their lives, flee so that there would be no gruesome fight - his thoughts were interrupted as Horus spoke into the vox next to him. Was it already time for a report from the scouts? Surely, they would have little to report about the status of the plains that laid bare ahead of the pass. He hardly listened as he let out a silent prayer to the Machine God, just as his mother would have.

“Usriel!” The Angelus snapped back to attention, looking at Horus, “I cannot reach the scouts. Shall I dispatch an away team?”

Usriel’s mind raced, was it malfunctioning equipment or espionage against him? He could not be certain and the paranoia was enough to consume any one of them save the Angelus, whose mind found a response immediately. His order came without pause, as he hefted his Omnissian Axe over his shoulder, “Assemble the bravest with me. We shall investigate this.”

Thirty of them would move into the pass, weapons raised and awaiting any sign of combat - Usriel moved faster than any of them as he passed through the ruins with a swiftness unseen. His eyes scanned the wreckage as his men did their best to keep up with him, they held up las and bayonets, eyes peeled for the scouting team. Yet, there was very little sign of them, - no movement of someone coming back to manually report what they had seen and no one to note how it grew darker and darker with each passing step. Dread built in them. Breathing quickened. Nervous shuttered against the unknown. It was only Usriel’s presence that kept them moving forth moving through chamber after chamber - tracing the path of the scouts.

Yet, as they drew closer to the previous position, the air grew thick with an anguished howl that sounded of horrid feedback. The noise was deafening and it came from all around them. Usriel looked to the others and saw their eyes were watering and red - he did not understand what was happening to them. He did not know that their ears rang with cruel tinnitus and the taste of burnt metal filled their mouths. Eventually all they could do was clutch their ears and fall to their knees screaming in pain as blood came from their ears. The sight horrified Usriel who questioned them, but they were lost - unable to speak to their leader. He would realize soon that this was a sensory assault of neurostatic that left him unnaffected.

Then, as he held one of his men as they writhed in pain, he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head - no, a vision. The Angelus twisted and brought up his pistol to see a being clad in red with a domed helmet and jutting antennae. There was a moment of hesitation as the boy contemplated firing the pistol, instead diving to the side in time for round of a stubcarbine to whiz past him. Usriel knew these were Mechanicum agents, but he had no basis beyond that.

A stream of bullets ripped by and Usriel dived to the ground, two more had come to the room clearly meant to aid the one who struggled against a boy. Cursing, he brought his pistol up and fired, a blue bolt streaming through the air and impacting the mechanical legs of an assassin. The force of the subsequent blast was enough to blow both off and a binaric squawk emitted from it. More bullets - less time to dodge. Countless deaths and brutality surged into his mind and he knew not how to process it all. One or two visions were easy enough to handle but the multitude that numbered into the tens was too much for the boy. Usriel felt a stray bullet rip through his leg, narrowly missing an artery and bone.

For a boy his age, it would be more than enough to subdue him as his leg collapsed - muscle shredded and exhausted from a forced march even despite the Angelus’ gift. Tears welled up in his eyes. Usriel looked and saw as one of the agents strode forth executing his comrades one by one in front him, easy prey as their sonic song rendered them helpless.

He had failed to protect them - to lead them. This had been a death march and Usriel began to sob knowing he was the cause of their deaths.

Crack.

How foolish he’d been.

Crack. Crack

How vain he’d been.

Crack.

“One-One!” Usriel cried out, wishing his mother was there to comfort him.

Silence.

As the boy sobbed covering his head and awaiting his inevitable death, there was silence and no sonic song filling the air. A pair of footsteps approached them and he instinctively curled up, waiting, calling out again, “Mama!”

It took many moments for him to realize that he did not die in those haunting seconds, and slowly and shakily he brought his head up and there they stood. The three mechanicum agents gathered around him, merely staring at the Angelus in silence. Usriel was too terrified to speak, too horrified to do anything but wait in vaunted silence. Then, one of them spoke in a clear binaric that he was able to understand, calling him a name that he’d never thought he’d hear from anything else that his mother - the only name she’d lovingly refer to him as.

“Her Angelus. The Angelus.”

Darkness.

In From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born → 7 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
When the wall ruptured, time had seemed to stop for all who had bore witness to it as both Imperial and Sanctii forces seemed stunned by awe and terror alike. Yet, where others marveled at the sight of destruction, the vaunted custodians seemed to be the only to respond immediately. The gunship, venatarii, and agamatus all flew through the new entrance faster than any could comprehend what had happened. The Custodians had only one focus in mind: decommissioning the abomination that ran Sanctii - to destroy Deep Winter.

The Stygian Talons were the first to fire their weapons once more, raining death from above as they flew low enough to not be targeted by anti-air. Lances flew through stunned defenders, bolters ripped through power armor, missiles destroyed fortified areas. They traveled in a singular line with but one destination in mind, the grand citadel and its spire. The gunship flew over the inner wall, Venatarii following close behind, slaughtering those in their path along the way.

“Lucius, take your jetbakes and ensure that reinforcements do not follow us in,” Amalasuntha commanded over vox, diverting the six jetbikes away from the spire where their use would be limited. Her gaze went up to the top of the spire, sitting well above most of the city - she needed not go to the top of the structure, for their target would not be found there. The gunship and other venatarii followed closely behind, their weapons spewing death in nearly every direction before her full accompaniment disembarked from the venerable ship.

“Daito, take the rest of the Venatarii and scour the upper echelons of the spire for the master of the keys,” without another word the custodians activated their packs and made for the upper spire, leaving the remaining twenty-three custodians to descend into the spire. Even upon entering the spire, the vaunted custodians found resistance, the best of Deep Winter’s forces had been dispatched to ensure that the vault would not be reached.

Augmented warriors of blackened armor threw themselves at the custodians. Bullets impacted off shields. Swords clashed. Viscera began to stain the walls and floor. Deep W1inter’s monstrosities matched the thunder warriors in size, speed, and ferocity - but their attacks were measured and calculating like a custodian. Some seemed nuerolocked, attacking in unison as if they were one organism sharing a mind.

Amalasuntha herself followed closely behind those armed with shields, who methodically advanced forwards as bodies continually piled in front of them. There was little else the supposed best of the Abominable Intelligence could do against the perfect creations of the Emperor. That was when the tricks of Deep Winter began, turrets emplaced in the ceiling and floor sprung up and began to fire into the custodians from behind. If not for their master-crafted armor, they would have all perished in that moment. Pyrihite spears turned in an instant and sent a melta-beam into them, but even in that moment two custodians perished as heavy disintegration weaponry pierced their backs.

Tricks and deceit would be the worst of what they could face for who among them could tell what such a wretched intelligence could conjure up? Amalasuntha surged forwards, her paragon blade finding purchase in the gene-warriors of Sanctii. Her peers renewed their push, knowing that they must keep the momentum for becoming bogged down would only enable further tricks and deceits. So they pushed, matching recklessness with ferocity.

Amalasuntha’s shield flared as another disintegration ray shot at her, another turret had sprouted up and she could do little but curse under her breath. A melta-beam shattered the defensive weapon, her hand had momentarily gone to the pistol holstered on her hip - but instead grabbed one of her adversaries and crushed his head in a single vice grip. She would not be undone by the likes of a horrid abomination this day, her Emperor had demanded Deep Winter and she would deliver.

As they fought through the horde, another custodian was brought down by sheer force of number - ten gene-warriors skewering him from every angle. Even then, in the custodian’s dying breath, he beheaded them in a single swing of his spear just as he succumbed to his wounds and a cloud of nanites poured from his body. Amalasuntha growled and stabbed, sliced, cleaved, and ripped forwards as she cleaved more of them apart. One came with an onyx blade that pulsed with horrid energies, another with a weapon that fired arcs of lightning. There was little end to the technology that was being hurled upon them.

Yet, there would be an end, the Black Hawk foresaw it as the gene-warriors of Deep Winter began to falter in number. Their suicidal fanaticism did them injustice, perfected warriors to match most of the Emperor’s own yet their singleminded nature brought them low. It seemed being puppets of an Abomidable Intelligence could not match His will for unity or His perfectly crafted warriors. Soon, there was nothing of them left, except for corpses and gore that littered the floor. Amalasuntha had stopped paying attention to her surroundings at the height of the battle. A cursory glance to her sides revealed that six of her companions had been felled, many surrounded by mountains of the dead.

Wordlessly she stepped forwards, and her Talons followed, for they would not be denied their quarry. A static vox cast had reached her, “Shield-Captain, we have found the Master of the Keys, her entourage felled two of us. We are currently on a maglev to your position.”

Past that there was silence as Amalasuntha let out a grunt of acknowledgement, her eyes darting along the walls and ceiling of the complex. It would not be long for Daito to regroup with the Black Hawk, meeting them along the way but now down to just two Venatarii. The two shared a silent stare before Amalasuntha looked down at the Keeper of Keys, their gateway to Deep Winter.

The Keeper of the Keys stood between the Venatarii. She was comically short compared to them, and of a far rounder nature. An archaic collar granted to the strike force by the Sigillite himself was strapped about her neck. It clicked and whirred, lights blinking along its diameter as the Keeper of the Keys looked frantically between her captors.

“Shield-Captain, the Keeper of the Keys,” DIto motioned to the woman, “the damned machine’s hold on her is muzzled thanks to the auspices of the Sigillite,” Daito confirmed as he pressed the woman toward the Black Hawk.

“She can get us into the inner sanctum of the abominable intelligence as we presumed. She wishes only for protection, that we do not remove the collar before the machine is slain.”

The Keeper of the Keys nodded meekly at the words, her eyes darting around anxiously as the Demi-gods spoke between themselves.

Amalasuntha continued a long and drawn out gaze of the Master of the Keys before speaking simply, “Your protection shall be granted. Stay within the center of our formation and you shan’t be harmed.”

Without another word the remaining custodians formed around the Keeper, each one acting as a separate shield to her form. The Black Hawk and her Talons walked as one, urging the Keeper to keep pace with their long strides until they inevitably reached the first locked door to the vault. It seemed Deep Winter had committed all of the initial guards in a bid to drive them out, but that had failed for the Stygian Talons were not a foe to be matched.

Halting in front of the large vaulted door, the custodians readied themselves for combat once more, the shields forming a wall in front of them. The Black Hawk looked down to the Keeper of the Keys and gave a silent nod to her, for it was time to do battle. The Keeper gave a silent, shaky nod of acknowledgement as she made her way to a console just off to the side. Placing her palm onto a black console as allowing her eyes to be scanned, the first of the gates to the Sanctum opened.

Without waiting, a custodian picked up the keeper effortlessly as the Stygian Talons bounded in, ready to face whatever tricks Deep Winter dared to employ.

The Shield Host, genewrought warriors without peer, surged into the sanctum. The form of the Keeper hefted over a pauldron the only human aspect of the sight to be seen as the golden figures bounded across the open space toward the next of the massive sanctum gates.

“Deep Winter—!” The Keeper gasped as she was thrashed violently about the Custodians shoulder, “she’ll be ready!” she screamed as the Custodian dropped her to her feet and stretched out her hand to the next gate locking mechanism.

“So are we,” he affirmed as the scanner clicked and flashed a contented green.

“Not for this,” the Keeper began before she was again hefted to his shoulders.

The second set of sanctum doors opened on silent hinges to a room exactly the same to the last. A vast empty possession leading to the final door to the machine’s lair.

The shield host began their sprint once more.
——————————————————

Above the sprinting Custodians, in the vaulted ceiling of the sanctum possession, things writhed unnaturally as the passing of the Emperor’s most trusted warriors disturbed their slumber.

A mass of black, so dark it seemed to swallow the light, moved in waves. Tentacles of shifting shadow reaching out of the mass as the sleeping machines woke for the first time in centuries.

A Custodian, moving at blinding speed, lifted his guardian spear and let loose a volley of bolter shells off instinct alone. The writhing, pitch black mass of tentacles that had been falling directly at him exploding into foul black ichor that stained his armor even as he continued his sprint. He swiped the power glaive, cleaving a second ball of twisting tentacles in two, only for both sides to skewer him as he sprinted between them. The Custodian crashed to the floor, the two halves of the split machine joining back together on top of him as the mass of tentacles shifted and stabbed relentlessly into the flesh beneath the armor.

More guardian spears barked fire as the machines on the ceiling began to fall like rain toward them. No orders needed to be given, they had to move forwards no matter the cost. Daito took the Keeper from the Custodian, holding her with one hand as he activated his pinion to surge forwards. The other remaining venatari followed suit, surging forth as monstrosities rained upon them - catching one by engulfing him. Yet, the monstrous creation was met with death as the talon activated a Krak grenade. Whatever the source of the abomination was, it seemed to have been annihilated in the blast.

Amalasuntha and the remaining custodians bounded forwards, hacking and slashing into the reforming entities as tendrils and spear tipped limbs met auramite. Swords flashed and shields buckled as the Stygian Talons danced amongst their foes - [/i]Conservai[/i] - knowing well these were not a mere horde of enemies they could overcome with brutality and carnage. Pyrithite spears hit with the force of tanks ripping through clouds on robotic monstrosities only for them to reform and attack with the vigor they showed before. It was in a moment such as this that the Black Hawk’s keen eyes found the source of these machines' supposed immortality, a small ball located at the center of these formations.

Quickly, she surged forwards and grasped it, crushing it in her hands as one of the spinning deaths disintegrated. More of her shield-company fell; one ripped asunder as three fell upon him, a shield bypassed as the malformation fluidly ebbed around the custodian. They hadn’t the time to deal with this - Amalasuntha did not have time to fight these creatures. So, she brought up her pistol, a relic of ages past given to her by the Sigilite, and fired towards the ceiling, where more horrors rained from.

Suddenly, a great force overtook the chamber as a black dot darker than even Deep Winter’s creations traveled the length of the room in nanoseconds. A gravitational pull opened where it had impacted the ceiling, dragging with it countless of the abominations. Metallic plating of the walls bent and snapped, being overtaken by the singularity. The Stygian Talons, even with their magnetic boots, had to dig into the floor to stop themselves from being pulled in. Then there was silence as the pull ceased within a full minute’s passing, with its death there was only a fraction of the creatures left - remnants that had robotically attached themselves to whatever they could. However, they were missing much of the cloud that had made up their bodies, and the custodians surged forth once more.

Still, the metallic beings whipped and spun, even in their deteriorated form they fought against the golden hand of the Emperor. One of them ripped the arm off a custodian, but could do little more before a spear impacted its core. Amalasuntha, content in seeing that there was little resistance to be left to offer, began walking towards where Daito and the Keeper of the Keys had advanced to.

She noted the large hole in the ceiling where the singularity had materialized.

As she approached, she saw that all the venatri had given their lives to protect the Keeper of the Keys, giving the promise to ensure that Deep Winter would not take her. Daito’s body was seen still standing in front of a corner, holding his spear as if still ready to strike despite missing a leg and a large portion of his head. The Black Hawk gave the custodian a friendly touch to his shoulder plate, allowing him to finally fall now that his duty had come to an end. That left the Keeper of the Keys cowering in the corner, still alive due to efforts of the custodians. Amalasuntha gazed over her form, speaking sternly as if she had not just fought against the horrors of old Terra, “Come. We run on little time.”

What remained of the Stygian Talons soon followed their Shield-Captain, ready to destroy the abomination that awaited them. In total 14 custodians had given their lives to take Deep Winter, a devastating loss in comparison to the casualties faced taking the walls - but only in death did duty end.

“Amalasuntha of the Stygian Talons transmitting, we are making entry to the final vault, Emperor Protect.”

The Keeper of the Keys, on the edge of her sanity after the horrors that had just unfolded before her very eyes, stumbled forward. She shakily placed a hand on the locking mechanism leading to Deep Winter’s chamber and offered an eye to the reader as she shook.

The massive doors clicked with unseen locks, before swinging slowly open to reveal the huge domed room beyond.

Cool blue light lit the vaulted space. Cables as thick as battle tanks hung from the ceiling, running from unseen access points to the massive diamond-glass prism suspended at the center of the room. Steam billowed up from the floor beneath the abominable machine's case from a pool of still warm coolant, as the same clear liquid continued dripping from an open face of the diamond casing.

The Keeper of the Keys gasped at the sight, collapsing to her knees as she began to sob.

“Empty,” she wailed, “it’s empty.”

As Amalasuntha entered the chamber, a silent rage filled her heart, only portrayed by her hands tightening in grip. Failure was unacceptable for the Emperor’s finest, no alternative to victory would be fated for their kind. The custodian looked to the Keeper of the Keys, grasping her collar and lifting the defenseless human in the air. The hawk’s voice was laced with venom, “Where is the abomination?”

The Keeper scrabbled at the armored hands of the Black Hawk, terror filling her eyes as she was lifted into the air. Her legs kicked at nothing as her chest tightened and her breath caught in her throat.

“I don’t—!” she managed hoarsely as she came face to face with the transhuman horror before her. Her face was crafted far finer than Winter had ever managed of her genewarriors, her every motion, movement, and utterance perfect beyond reproach. She knew then that her people had been wrong to stand before the creator of this being, that they had been misled by the whims of the abomination that should have been at the center of this room.

“I don’t know! Please—” she choked on her own spit, unable to swallow as the full weight of the Custodian’s gaze bared down on her. She coughed, a wretched excuse of a human hanging limp in the Black Hawk’s hands, and tried again, “It never told me of such a plan—! I don’t know!”

Without pause, Amalasuntha dropped the Keeper of the Keys onto the ground - finding no true reason to distrust the words of the human. Her head snapped to the rest of the Stygian Talons, she began stalking back into the dark halls, “Report back to the Command Tent.”

“Emperor save us all.”

In Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay) → 11 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
To Become a Warchief

Part 1: A Dark Bargain


The compounded assault had worked splendidly. The blood swarm, incapable of recovering from the bull’s devastating attack, disappeared overnight. The Egriothspawn, the latest curse to plague the Striped Lands, while not destroyed, were preoccupied facing the onslaught of the beasts of burden. For the first time in years, the snouters of the Vootlands, the most fertile land on Galbar’s surface, could work the soil in peace. And what a soil it was! With the help of the fertilising power of the Stain, the tower of faeces planted on the heart of the Vootlands by the great bull, many snouters swore they could almost see the plants grow by the hour. It was a good year, too–the Lick showed no signs of flood so far, and the sneer of Itzal cut deep, but not deep enough to cause drought. Shovel-like snouts buried into the soil and plowed, powerful hands twisted up weeds, and mighty backs carried sacks of manure, grain and seeds. The Pate Tribe expanded rapidly, but so did everybody else, and it did not take long before the Pates were once again at war with their neighbours, each looking to ravage the other, but never managing to move beyond the stalemate.

With the bull gone and Draznokh growing in popularity, Grand Agricultist Krang Half-Head grew wary of the many enemies he had made over the past few years. Draznokh was a character these enemies could rely on, gather around–and thus there was no bigger threat to Krang than him. Killing him at home was too risky, but he could have someone else do it. And so it was that Draznokh and his cousin Zlot were sent away with a war party on a suicide mission–raid the main camp of the Snopan tribe.

“You had to do it,” Zlot snarled. Draznokh said nothing. “You just had to put yourself out there and DRAG ME DOWN WITH YOU!” The two were walking in the far back of the party of nine. They were in the middle of the forest, deeper forests on their left and open fields on their right. The village of the Snopans could not be far away. The leader turned around and charged over. He did not stop until he was snout-to-snout with the young Zlot, teeth foaming and eyes nearly rolling back.

“STOP SHOUTING!” he shouted. “Do you want them to know we are coming?!”

“We’re dead already, what’s it matter?!” Zlot roared back and pushed the leader away. The two hesnouters squealed their war cries and hunched over with bloodthirsty intent, but Draznokh stepped in between.

“CALM DOWN! Calm down. Calm… Alright? Calm.” He eyed the two of them. “Now it’s still daylight. If you want to battle, do it in the evening. I confess, I’ve never met a Snopan, so I don’t know if they are as vicious as us Pates, but if they’re even half as bad–we need to save our strength. Alright?”

The leader, an older hesnouther named Herapa, furrowed his brow and nodded. “Draznokh is right. We’ll need all of our strength for the raid.” He leaned over to Draznokh and whispered, “Put a leash on your dog, you stain.” Draznokh nodded slowly and cast a sideways glance at Zlot. The boy had heard him and was positively fuming.

Later that evening, Draznokh and Zlot sat up against the same tree facing opposite directions, some distance away from the rest. Neither of them spoke, but Zlot had ripped out all the grass from the ground in front of him and was now trying to pull up one of the tree’s roots. Draznokh cast a glance over and sighed, “You’d be treated less like a Wildheart if you’d stop acting like one.”

Zlot spun around and hammered a fist into the bark. “I would have bit that swine’s jugular out if you had just let me.”

“That’s exactly my point. Calm yourself, cousin! At this rate, the Killer’s going to hear you and turn that heart of yours into a maelstrom.” Draznokh picked a straw from the ground and started gnawing on its end. There came no response, and after a minute or so, Draznokh leaned over. “You hear me?” Still no response, and in the darkness, Draznokh couldn’t see clearly. “Zlot?”

There came a squeal from the main camp and Draznokh felt the world freeze. Then he stood up and sprinted over.

In the camp, he found the six other hesnouters that made up the war party all standing outside Herapa’s tent. “What’s going on?! What’s happening?!”

“Zlot claimed the Killer’s Rite. We’re about to have a show,” one of them chuckled.

“The Killer’s Rite?! Before a battle?! Have all of you lost your minds?!” Draznokh quickly realised he was outmatched, however, because all of them turned to him with glaring sneers.

“Careful with the heresy, Voot. The Killer’s Rite is a sacred right. A fight to the death–no weapons, no interruptions. The winner is Misri’s favoured.” Draznokh ran his fingers through his mane in frustration and staggered back. Meanwhile, the two hesnouters in the tent ripped the drape apart and took their steps back. One of the spectators, who had been given the duty of judge, shouted,

“The Rite of Killing, now invoked,
Shall bind the souls of these provoked!
Now slay the other, slay with glee,
Spill blood for Killer Mis-e-ri!

Warriors, declare your vows!”

Herapa threw his head back and roared, “MISRI! ENTER MY SOUL! INFUSE ME WITH POWER AND STRENGTH TO SLAY THIS UNFIT UPSTART!”

Zlot cast his arms to the sky: “MISRI, KILLER OF KILLERS, MURDERER OF MURDERERS! I AM YOUR VESSEL! I AM YOUR KNIFE! GUIDE MY HANDS, GUIDE MY TUSKS! GIVE ME POWER TO END HIS LIFE!”

Almost as soon as the two had finished their vows did the brawl begin, the two fighting in a most brutal display in the name of their horrid goddess. Blows were given, tusks pierced skin, blood began to flow. It was not until Zlot’s own tusk pierced into the arm and blood ran down the length of his tusk that any interest seemed to be given to them by their dark god. As the taste of iron filled his mouth and the warm lifeblood of their mortal form touch his lips, a great surge of hunger overtook Zlot. Insatiable and wrathful, this hunger consumed every corner of his mind. A screeching whisper of a woman filled his mind, “Drink!”

He knew who it was, bloodlust incarnate spoke to him and made him her chosen in this battle. So he did as he was commanded, with a strength unknown to them did Zlot pierce his enemy and drink deep of the red ichor that made martial form. The screeching grew louder, his mind was not his own, “Drink! Murder! Kill!”

The hesnouter relented to his instincts and continued to carve with his tusks. Herapa tried to resist, but the pain and loss of function in his arm deprived him of the only barrier between himself and the monster in front of him. In a flash, Zlot snagged his tusk out of his arm and pierced the fat belly of his opponent, guts and blood gushing out over the bedrolls. Draznokh could not believe his eyes–they had just been chatting calmly a moment ago. What, what happened? Around him, the rest of the warband cheered.

“SHE HAS HEARD HIM! WITNESS, A CHAMPION OF THE KILLER!” The warriors sang their praises to the profane lady, kneeling down and painting themselves in her honour with the blood of their former leader. Herapa fell backwards prone and tried with the last of his strength to push Zlot off, but it was of no use. Zlot buried himself into his stomach like a mole through the dirt, drinking blood and bile like his life depended on it. Herapa’s eyes rolled back and his soul left his body, but the bloodlust of Zlot did not end. The mutilation had just begun.

As Zlot pulled his head back, blood and gore dripping from snout, the corpse of Herapa contorted before being dragged into the air by an unknown force. A stream of blood fell from the great wound, much more than any of hesnouters could have in their body. It was a river, a torrent of ichor that continued to stain the dirt. In the reflection of the pooled blood could be seen a towering form, seemingly looking down upon them. All that was heard was the loud and terrible screech - a warcry, a proclamation!

“Zlot,” their cruel god started, dragging the name of her new champion out. Her voice offered no respite as it had announced itself to the warband, a thousand tormented screams followed her voice as it began to roar once more, “Kill in my name, all who would seek peace. Drink of their blood and grow strong! Become a massacre incarnate!”

Zlot’s answer was incoherent, more resembling a squeal than any affirmation. The wildheart, bulbous with blood-pumping muscles and cartilage plates under his skin, rose slowly and lifted his hands in prayer. He licked the blood of his slain foe out of his fur as he turned to his companions. Draznokh saw the fear begin to contort the faces of the other snouters and he quickly pushed them aside and dramatically pointed away from the camp. “That way, Zlot!” he shouted, “the Snopan! They have fodder for the killing machine! Go!”

Zlot, or what was left of him in his blood stupor, followed the finger with slow eyes. Then, with another squeal, he cast himself down on all fours and charged into the forest. After a moment, the tranquil quiet of the night resumed. All the snouters except Draznokh turned to one another and took each other’s hands. “Brothers,” one of them said, “what we witnessed today was a sacred ascension. A true boarzerker walks among us, the first in years. Hallowed be the name of Zlot, the Killer’s Champion.”

“Hallowed be his name,” chimed the others.

Draznokh meanwhile stood off to the side, biting his thumbnail. Oh, cousin… What have you gotten yourself into…

Suddenly, however… Perhaps this did not need become a suicide mission after all? With the Snopans gone, was that not one more step towards the reunification of the Vootlands? Draznokh felt a smirk coming on. Perhaps it was.



Kilometres away, the camp of the Snopan tribe slept in a daze. Only a few guards were posted for the evening, and that would be a fatal mistake. It began with the first one; he fell quicker than his buddy could notice. Then fell the other. Their squeals could hardly be squeezed out of their lungs before they were poked full of too many holes to speak anymore. Then the first tent was emptied, then the next. A shesnouter squealed–she had lived to see the wildheart, for he had chosen to spare her for a darker purpose. Others awakened and went to check out the noise, but none were prepared for the menace they were about to meet. A furious hesnouter can be a formidable opponent to anyone, but a true boarzerker, this mythical being of endless rage and thirst for meat and blood–nothing could prepare you for that.

The next morning, Zlot came back to the camp with a rope in his hands. With it, he pulled a train of shesnouters and snoutlets, new slaves for the Pates to do the work even snouters considered themselves above. The war party fell to their knees in worship, and even Draznokh could hardly believe his eyes.

“Cousin! You survived!” he yelled ecstatically. “And with a hoal too and hardly a scratch! Why, you’ll make me a religious pig!”

Zlot, now almost twice his height and definitely twice his width, offered his older cousin a cruel smirk. “What was that you said? An acre for every Voot?” He yanked at the rope and incited a yelp from some of the shesnouters. He stared at them with a freakish hunger. “We better have a lot of acres, then.”

Draznokh could see it. An ally like Zlot would be invaluable in the years to come. Home–the Vootlands, restored as one land, mightiest of the snouter tribes. Once a dream, now a chance.

Soon to be reality.




In Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay) → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
The Cruel Ocean

In the wake of the Khodex’s momentous explosion, and subsequent pulling of the gods to Galbar, a blackened fog had descended. It grew angry once more, just as the sandstorms that it resided in buffeted through, worsening the haze. Her form would coalesce once more within those infernal sandstorms, her mouth spilling blood as clawed at the ground before her form towered over the deserts. She was alone for the time being, the roaring of the sand in her ears and her sight clouded by the infinite grains that tried to penetrate her form. Misri growled, wanting nothing more than to charge at the Khodex and rip her strength back - yet she felt more powerful than ever.

In the back of her mind, a crude and terrible idea would form. Misri would lay claim to the Khodex’s boundless power and take it for her own, the scroll would grant her strength untold and all of reality would suffer her terrible rule. This idea solidified as she raised her claws and slashed through the air, carving a path through the sandstorm unimpeded. An unnatural life filled the air as her body descended into fog once more and sped further into the desert - eager to use this newfound energy to dominate and control the world. Had mortals walked the planet, her form would have crushed their putrid bodies before they even comprehended what had happened.

Yet, there were no mortals. No one to savage but other gods, but she knew not how powerful they were, only knowing that they were not as strong as she.

Misri came to a halt, her form reknitting itself in an instant as her half-body lowered itself to the ground as a crouching tiger preparing to ambush its prey. However, there was no leap or pounce onto whatever would count as her prey. Instead, there was but merely the rumblings of the desert and the low hum of her labored breathing. There was stillness - peace.

Suddenly, a clawed hand stabbed into the sand on either side of Misri and grasped the very veins of Galbar. With a savage roar, the Goddess of Violence ripped the veins from the planet and blood shot from the ground and into the atmosphere. Dual towering geysers of blood extended into the air, traversing so high that as it came down it began to rain across the world. Only the northwest portion of the planet was truly safe from the devastating rainstorms, but the closer towards the geysers the more it became of a torrential downpour of ichor. Worse yet, it became a drowning tidal wave near the source.

The substance ushered forth, creating an ocean of lifeblood that extended across the south most portion of Galbar. Desert animals and plants were swept away, unable to escape the red wave that approached them. At its northernmost extent, it would come to a halt not even a quarter of the way towards the Khodex. Even still, the rain stained the planet red - and with it a sign of death as a roar sounded ever so distantly.

Triumphant, Misri roiled and coated her form in the great ichor ocean that she had created from the very blood of Galbar. Her claws had struck a mighty blow to the accursed planet and she would nightly roar to proclaim her creation - savage and unrelenting. She splashed in the ocean sending further torrents of blood to harass the newly formed beaches now seeing tides of blood roll across them. Only after this victory did she come to a stop again, gazing upon the endless horizon of red that she had created and looking far beyond. It would not be enough, Misri needed ever more power if she were to claim the accursed scroll for herself.

The goddess of violence looked down upon the blood that she had wrought to the surface, a rare moment of contemplation coming across her mind. Misri dipped her claws within the blood, coating the ever shifting wisps that made her form. Violently, she brought her claws deep within her chest and ripped open hole - a pain roar sounded before she buried herself in the blood ocean, sinking to the twin geysers that made its source. The blood forced its way into her wound but it did not drown her, no, it became a part of her.

Blood begets blood.

Misri became one with the substance in those depths, and when she arose coated in the ichor of Galbar itself, she would finally speak her first word.

“BLOOD!”




In Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay) → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Misri’s Birth

In the beginning, from whence there was nothing, there was the cataclysmic call. It was a voice that whispered yet roared, a command yet a plea, power yet weakness. There was then something in that great void: a commandment that would not be ignored. The call was everything and from the darkness of the void came nothing - wisps of darkness swirling and thrashing from the all that was and could be. Yet, the call hurt for it forced the wisps to listen no matter how much they resisted. They swirled and twirled around each other, trying to break free of the command but it was all for naught as the voice was everything. It was that everything that caused so much pain.

There were cries of despair, betrayal, but most importantly, anger - one of the most basic of emotions. That anger sparked something, life, into the swirling masses that erupted in a violent and bloody red that shone through the coalesced form. At first it was nothing more than a ball - harmless yet malicious, but soon an arm forms, clawing at the void as if grasping for ground to hold. A light screech began to emit from wisps, constant in pitch and so unnaturally persistent that it seemed to ring for an eternity.

Perhaps, it had been an eternity? Only the newly born gods could truly tell how long it had been.

Another arm sprouted as the mist condensed into a torso, also clawing at the vacuum wanting nothing more than to grab at its source of irritation - the source of its birth. The screech transformed into a roar as the body leaned back, outstretching its arms as a head violently erupted into a scream. Her maw was wide, blood flowed from the sides of her mouth as she screamed in agony and anger. There was finally substance to the creature, the god that had birthed itself into life to heed the Khodex’s call. However, that call only caused a great pain to her, as if a headache spread to a spiritual level until she would finally turn her attention to the accursed object beyond her understanding.

There was a moment as the godling stared at the khodex, ignoring the gods that surrounded it and interacted with it - for they had not earned her ire, not yet. The two stared at each other for what had seemed another eternity, her glowing eyes seeming like baleful stars awaiting to bring destruction and agony. As she did so, she could feel a power deep within that awaited to be unlocked and used to enforce her desires upon the burgeoning void. A sickly glee crept its way into her heart, knowing she held the key to silencing this scroll and bringing her peace.

Or so she thought.

Behind her, a lake of gold and under a black mist illuminated her form as lowered herself onto her haunches, readying herself to kill and be a curse upon the realm. She would be a plight unlike any other could make. Her form would be the most destructive to roam all that would be. A being of pure violence and force of will is what she would be seen as. Yet, the khodex taunted her with a simple phrase, “Come.”

The lake of gold illuminated her form.

Throwing her head back, and howling a baleful warcry the goddess leapt forwards at a speed not yet seen amongst the goods, throwing her long, spindly arms to the side. Her impact was cataclysmic, her claws rending into the khodex that had beckoned creation itself and despite that she heard it speak to her once more - it named her.

”Misri.”


The name echoed inside of her mind. It crushed every other thought and sent her into a blind rage. Her claws ripped through the fabric of the Khodex as if it was made of paper, but the tears closed as soon as her slash was done. So she slashed at it again, and again, and again with untold anger, each strike more terrible and devastating than the last. She was a beast untethered and she would not be controlled by such a wretched little thing - none would dictate what she did.

Eventually, in her rage, Misri smacked the rolled up Khodex as hard as she could, such a strike created a shockwave that even rippled through the void. As the Khodex sailed away, headed straight for the surface of the big rock called Galbar, Misri felt her power being drained. All her vigor and energy was taken by none other than the Khodex and in her shock she was unable to chase after it to try and take back what was rightfully hers.

In the distance, the Khodex crackled with energy as it soared through the nothingness. First it was an arc of light, then it was a spark of fire, then the Khodex hit Galbar head on.

She howled in defeat, her first defeat, as the Khodex had tricked her into taking what was rightfully hers - her power. Misri snarled and snapped like a savage animal, releasing mournful wails as she inevitably lowered her head, exhausted by her bout with the Khodex. There, silhouetted by the golden pool, she swore to one day reclaim the power that had been taken from her.

She would be strength incarnate.



In Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay) → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Misri
Lord of Red, Lady of Savagery, Deliverer of Death, Devourer of Innocence, She of Fury, Daughter of Cruelty, Mother of Murder

Domain
Violence



Description
Misri is animalistic, only ever indulging in her base urges of murder and inflicting cruel pain on others. Those around her can feel a deep anger and resentment coming from her in spades, mortals are often driven mad by murderlust - seeking to kill or destroy anything around them. When she speaks, a cacophony of screams of fear and anger are heard behind her and yet, she never yells on whispers in a raspy yet alluring voice that fills the minds of those she speaks to with a euphoric need to destroy. Mortals know that to hear her or be within her presence is to know endless hate and anger and what it means to truly desire the death of even those that they love.

She is a selfish and cruel god, only ever toying with those beneath her and driving those who serve or worship her to cruel, short ends either by her own madness or their own folly. Those who fear her know never to speak of her for to mention her is to invite her into your heart and only madness follows from there. Senseless madness is what she surrounds herself in and that is what she craves - merely wishing to see violence blanket the realm.

Musical Theme
In Divinus Mk. 8: The Eleventh Cycle (A God Roleplay) → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Interest Checks


Misri
Lord of Red, Lady of Savagery, Deliverer of Death, Devourer of Innocence, She of Fury, Daughter of Cruelty, Mother of Murder

Domain
Violence



Description
Misri is animalistic, only ever indulging in her base urges of murder and inflicting cruel pain on others. Those around her can feel a deep anger and resentment coming from her in spades, mortals are often driven mad by murderlust - seeking to kill or destroy anything around them. When she speaks, a cacophony of screams of fear and anger are heard behind her and yet, she never yells on whispers in a raspy yet alluring voice that fills the minds of those she speaks to with a euphoric need to destroy. Mortals know that to hear her or be within her presence is to know endless hate and anger and what it means to truly desire the death of even those that they love.

She is a selfish and cruel god, only ever toying with those beneath her and driving those who serve or worship her to cruel, short ends either by her own madness or their own folly. Those who fear her know never to speak of her for to mention her is to invite her into your heart and only madness follows from there. Senseless madness is what she surrounds herself in and that is what she craves - merely wishing to see violence blanket the realm.

Musical Theme
In From Ashes We Rise: The Galaxy At Large → 1 yr ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The Angelus Machina


One-One’s eyes darted over the data-slate with an indifference not unlike those found within the Martian tech cults that controlled the cities. She consumed the data within-milliseconds, her bionics feeding the data to her in digestible chunks so as to not overload her. Yet, the priestess would be overwhelmed at the data she read, not for fear or shock but of awe and amazement as to how the Angelus, Usriel, was performing. It exceeded her expectation by a margin nearly incomprehensible to any normal standard for while still only a child, One-One had taken to teaching him advanced formulations that even adepts in the Cult Mechanicum would struggle to learn. Her emotion dampeners struggled to suppress happiness that dwelled underneath her skin and if she could smile, she would.

The sound of shifting sheets broke her from her trance and she looked over her shoulder, to see Nirek stirring from his slumber as morning light began to breach through their singular window. She watched him from the periphery of her vision, falsely making her focus seem to be that of the data-slate. His synth-muscle was illuminated softly in that light as he stood, tall and proud as any freeman would - the years and augments have always been kind to her husband. Tempted, she would finally lower the slate before fully turning to Nirek, meeting his smiling gaze with her indifferent gaze.

“Good morning, my love,” Nirek said, striding over to the One-One who lowered her white-hood and allowed her more human looks to meet his eyes. She always knew that he liked her human aspect, though One-One always viewed it as a weakness. Still, she indulged him as Nirek embraced her, reciprocating it with a single arm. As he pulled away he spoke to her, asking “How long have you been up?”

“This is the 50th day since I’ve last slept,” One-One replied without a beat, as she turned away from Nirek to continue scrolling through the data-slate. The priestess’ synthetic voice chimed to a different subject, “Usriel’s mental development is at an unprecedented level, Nirek. His understanding of the machine, mathematics, and the holy scripture matches any priest. He continues to prove that he is the Angelus Machina.”

Nirek did not seem interested in her fascination, however, knowing that he always wished to treat Usriel just as any parent would treat a child and not like the omnissiac figure that One-One knew him to be. He stepped past the lithe form that was his wife and instead walked over to the window, looking out the barren, fortress-ridden land that was Vion 5. His deep blue eyes wanted to look at the priestess, but all he could do was let out a sigh. Already knowing, One-One had lowered the pad once more - sensing minor distress as she had mentioned Usriel’s title. The scavenger would never understand, however, for he was never inducted into the Machine Cult and so would not truly understand the breadth of what Usriel’s title would mean.

“He is of age, One-One. I need to show him to the Maris,” Nirek said without his usual optimism, sparking a look from One-One who clenched her metallic hands. She could not respond for Nirek did not allow her to, “I know how you feel, but the warlords need to know who to protect.”

“He is not ready for the cruelties of the warlords,” One-One said with an odd sense of maternal instinct, her glowing optics flaring for a brief moment before her dampeners calmed her once more. She loosed a modulated sigh as she stepped over to Nirek, knowing that he spoke the truth but still unwilling to want Usriel to be tainted by outside influence.There was a moment as the two look over the lands from their own redoubt, the rocky crags forming natural killing funnels that the ancient defenders of the planet used to wage war. Yet, now all that stood was the silence of the dead. Her head inclined towards her lover, “I must run additional tests, the Angel- Usriel, must be tested.”

“If he is as capable as you say then he will be fine,” Nirek said softly, unlike the coddling nature of One-One, he wanted Usriel to grow as any boy would which, on Vion 5, meant that he must be shown to a warlord, for they held armies and warriors capable of fending off the likes of the Cult of the True Machine. He turned away from the window and began walking, ready to take Usriel. A tug on his arm caused him to stop - but he needn’t turn. Nirek could feel the burning gaze of One-One.

“Nirek, that boy will be taken if Maris sees his potential just as he had taken you,” One-One spoke with a venom in her modulated voice. Nirek had relented and turned to her. There was more to come, “War and military is not what he needs or wants - the same the Cult would do if they knew what he was. Allow him to be the bright scholar that he can be.”

Nirek inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. Still, though, he did not speak because he knew that she spoke true, that Usriel did not deserve the possibility of being dragged into conflict. One-One and Nirek stared deep into each other’s eyes in a battle of mental fortitude. Yet, it would be the priestess who would dare to look away first, restrained anger filling her in the moment. There would be no changing the course of this meeting, Nirek would not allow it.

“Our Angelus will not be taken from us,” Nirek promised, once more bringing One-One into his rust-tinged skin. There was a softness to his voice that soothed her and she desired nothing more than to have her worries assuaged. The situation, however, only wrought worry and worry brought with it a gripping fear of losing the closest thing she had to a son.

“May the Omnissiah make that true.”



Small hands worked around delicate circuitry, twisting wires and searching for new access points amongst complex machinery. Usriel moved as if he were a master amongst the machines that connected to the neuro-linked drone. The child reached over to grasp a splicing tool that had been neatly arranged on a bench. His blue eyes scanned the wiring placement for a brief moment before he slowly moved it to a different connection. The Angelus sealed the connection before leaning away from the servo-arm. Happiness at another successful job spread through his face, but he needed to know that it worked properly.

Usriel looked up to the drone who impassively looked at the servo-arm that had just been fully connected by bare hands. The child needn’t speak any command, instead moving the mechanical back and forth, up and down, twisting and turning the claw. The child’s happiness grew and grew before he met the drone’s indifferent stare and asked it a simple question that was overfilled with joy, “Do you like it, Unit 17?”

No vocal answer came from the drone but instead it gave a light smile that only Usriel would even notice. The lips almost inconceivably curled into a smile before vanishing as the lobotomized person stood and moved to do new duties that would be assigned to it. Usriel, for his part, would put down his tool and the giant arm of the workshop automatically retracted back to its starting position in the wall. The child slowly crawled out of his chair belly first, afraid it would roll away as he moved - but it didn’t much to his own relief.

The door to the works slid open, forcing the child’s head to snap over and see the form of One-One stepping into the cold air of her work area. It was a miracle that she did not instantly chastise the boy for being within a prohibited area. Still, Usriel’s feet snapped together and his arms went to his side. One-One inspected the area quickly before she walked up to the boy, looking down with him a glare that could easily be construed as cold. Her modulated voice broke the silence, “What were you doing in here, Usriel?”

The child did not want to answer at first, but he knew the punishment for noncompliance, a timid voice came, “I was making the servo-arm for Unit 17, I heard you say that the bio-chemical connector was giving you trouble.”

“And does this arm work?” One-One asked, her glowing eyes flickering for a moment - a sign Usriel had gathered meant that she was ordering one of the drones. He picked up on such signals quickly enough but he knew that she was going to inspect his work just as she always did. She began to circle him.

“It does, mother. The original problem was the wiring, it couldn’t pull the electrical signals from the body. I had to take it apart and rebuild it,” Usriel responded, keeping his head down as she stopped behind him. He expected to be chastised and yet she wrapped her arms around his small frame, gingerly. It surprised the Angelus for One-One was not known for showing her affections to Usriel often but his hand traveled to grasp hers. There was a brief pause between any words as One-One let out a raspy breath. It seemed to him that her emotional dampeners were faulty.

“You continue to amaze me, my little Angelus,” One-One cooed, scooping up the boy effortlessly to carry him away from her workspace. Her tone went back to indifference as she walked, explaining to her son, “We will be going to the Great Bastion today - you must meet the Lord Maris as per your father’s wishes. I am accompanying you, Angelus, so as to safeguard you.”

“Father will safeguard us,” Usriel said softly. One-One did not respond to the child’s words, instead diligently marching him outside where Nirek was waiting, speeder ready. She continued to hold him even as Nirek gave her a steady glare, though Usriel caught his attention with a wide smile. The scavenger was always happy whenever the Angelus smiled, as any parent would, despite the circumstance ahead of them.

“Usriel, are you ready to see the Great Bastion?” Nirek asked with a soft smile coming across his face, One-One gently lowered the boy into the speeder.

The Star Child cocked his head to the side, “We are going to meet Lord Maris, correct?”

“Aye, the Bastion-Lord must look to any prospective child that is under his domain,” Nirek said to his son, entering the driver’s seat of the vehicle. As he moved to start the engine to the speeder, it hummed to life on its own and so the man gave a confused look before looking at his wife. One-One shook her head in denial, knowing what Nirek looked to her for. He shook away the confusion, instead speaking to Usriel, “I must stress, boy, that whatever Maris asks you to do, restrain yourself.”

“Why? You always tell me to do my best?” Usriel asked instantly, giving no reprieve to his father at the moment.

“Just don’t. Not this time, Angelus,” One-One said instead of Nirek, earning only more confusion from Usriel, but the child did not dig further. He sensed that something was amiss. Would he embarrass his family? Why did he need to restrain himself? The child did not know, perhaps he did not wish to know either as worried thoughts began to cloud his mind. To distract himself, Usriel looked to the countryside that roared past them - towering guns lay distant, pointed towards the skies. Rocky mountains clambered over each other in the horizon, only occasionally interrupted by debris fields of destroyed vehicles that lay half-buried.

Hidden deep within the layers of rock and metal lie the remnants of ancient fortresses, silent witnesses to the fierce battles that once raged upon them. These ruined fortresses, now buried and forgotten, hold a haunting aura that whispers stories of valor, conquest, and the passage of time. The skeletal remains of once-mighty walls, crumbling towers, and shattered battlements evoke a sense of desolation and melancholy. Nature, with its relentless grip, has intertwined with the ruins, creating a surreal tapestry where vines reclaim what was once man-made.

As the layers of earth and debris cover these forgotten strongholds, the battles they witnessed become lost in the mists of history. The echoes of clashing swords and thunderous war cries are replaced by the eerie silence that surrounds the fallen stones. Time has painted these ancient battlegrounds with a melancholic beauty, as rusted weapons, decaying armors, and fragments of forgotten lives rest untouched beneath the weight of ages. These ruins stand as testaments to the impermanence of power and the transient nature of human conflict.

Usriel often fixated upon these derelict fortresses, especially when Nirek had brought him along to scavenge what remained. The child knew what these great buildings of long nights were for - to protect and safeguard. He gazed and saw a collapsed tower and he wondered how it might have looked in its prime, what wonders the planet had hidden deep in rubble and earth. Yet, his thoughts were disturbed as he looked forwards - seeing what they now rapidly approached.

Amidst the rugged terrain of a desolate world, a colossal fortress rises like an ancient titan, its metallic spires reaching the heavens. Crafted from plasteel and fortified with other resilient metals, this fortress stands as a testament to human engineering and technological prowess. Towering as tall as the tallest mountains that surround it, its imposing presence dominates the landscape, inspiring awe and fear in equal measure. Time has failed to tarnish its gleaming surface, and its impenetrable structure remains a formidable bulwark against the elements and any potential intruders.

In the heart of this awe-inspiring citadel, four massive orbital guns stand poised, like guardians of a long-forgotten realm. Once a beacon of interstellar trade and prosperity, the planet beneath no longer sees the arrival of stellar ships, leaving the fortress in a state of isolation. The orbital guns, now relics of a bygone era, serve as a haunting reminder of the world's lost glory. Now, they aim to the skies, a silent warning to any ships that might dare venture into this forsaken land. Despite the fortress's current isolation, the mysteries it holds and the stories it conceals still beckon explorers and adventurers from across the galaxy, drawn to uncover the secrets of this monumental fortress lost to time.

Usriel stared in awe. Soon, they would be wandering within that mountain sized fortress, walking its intricate halls and seeing how life was. One-One looked back to him and spoke in a coo, “See what we once had Usriel, know that you may well inherit it all.”



“Tell me boy, what is your name?” a voice asked, the boy who could merely looked down to his feet. Usriel had been told not to look up but he knew it would be rude to disrespect someone known as a Bastion-Lord, especially under the light of his own halls with men clad in armor, wielding axe-headed spears that hummed ever loudly in his mind. His nerves were beginning to overcome him, the machines that traveled the length of the great fortress hummed far too loudly for the boy's mind to handle. They all spoke to him in inaudible static that not even One-One would have been able to understand - it was a horrid experience.

A hand brought him from his stupor, causing the Angelus to look up and see the man that sat perched on an iron throne. He was larger than even his father, scars littered his face and both of his eyes had been replaced by a singular glowing optic that resembled his own mother’s. He gulped down fear, “I am U-Usriel Andreadth, Lord Maris.”

Maris looked over the boy, seemingly scanning him with his machine-eye, before he arose and looked towards Nirek. There was a silence between them before Maris’ massive form walked towards them, his white glare moving towards One-One as he did. He spoke in a tone that seemed to bring dread to Usriel, “The boy, he is Mechanicum taught. How much does he know?”

“He knows little, Maris. He has not been inducted into the cult,” One-One spat instantly, venom claiming her augment voice, her grip on her son’s shoulder tightened.

“Please, you expect me to believe that?” Maris chuckled grimly before looking to Nirek, continuing his question with his hands wrapped behind his back, “How much does he know?”

Unlike One-One, Nirek would not lie, speaking confidently and stepping forwards, “Usriel has been taught by One-One since birth, m’lord. He is bright and knows his way around the workbench just as any child in the slums might.” The father postured, puffing out his chest and meeting the mechanical looking Maris’ one eye with a one that was as unwavering as the fortress they now conversed in. The two cast glares at each other, speaking in a silence before Maris took a step back, turning away from the family.

“Very well. I needn’t ask the boy if he has fought yet. He looks as though he may shatter at any moment, he has not seen war,” Maris commented, returning to his throne for the time being before motioning to slender man that moved on ten mechanical legs. The abomination brought a long table that hummed with a blue light - a projection of a vast array of mechanical parts and other such items lay there. Maris spoke as the clicking tendrils of the abomination skittered away, “Yet, Usriel,” he spoke to the boy directly, “Come, I desire you to build something for me.”

Usriel looked to One-One who merely glared at Maris, then to Nirek who moved to his mother to get her to release her rather painful grip on that moment. Nirek nodded to the boy and the Angelus timidly began to approach the great Bastion Lord. Each step was heavy, bringing further panic to his mind, it was only at the other side of the holo-table that he stopped with a heart pounding so hard that it threatened to make the boy collapse.

“Make a weapon for me, boy. That priest surely has taught you the inner workings of any weapon that the Mechanicum uses. Show me what you know,” Maria beckoned in a cruel voice. Yet, the boy only stood frozen before he looked at the table, One-One had not taught him anything of the Mechanicum, but he had studied without her supervision on many of the sleepless nights that he had. He knew of what he would make, but fear gripped him.

The boy looked back to One-One and Nirek, seeing fear plastered on both of their faces forced his resolve to harden. Usriel turned back to Maris, resolution burned within him and he desired never to see his parents so worried. No, despite their wishes, he haunches over the table and began to work. Hands adeptly moved, it may have been a mock forging but he treated it as if it were real - he moved faster than any in the room could comprehend and practiced precision overtook him.

It became clear of what he was forging instantly - a weapon of plasma.

The creation of this devastating weapon begins with carefully sourcing the necessary materials. The core components, including a plasma coil, energy capacitors, and a power cell, must be forged from rare alloys and refined plasma-grade materials, ensuring their resilience and conductivity.

The artisan then meticulously assembles the plasma gun, painstakingly connecting the components with precision and care. Each connection is made with specialized plasma-resistant wiring, meticulously soldered to withstand the immense energy output of the weapon. The plasma coil, the heart of the gun, is meticulously wound and calibrated to create the controlled plasma discharge characteristic of the weapon.

Once the physical assembly is complete, the artisan moves on to the programming and fine-tuning stage. A sophisticated control system is installed, allowing the wielder to adjust the plasma gun's energy output, firing modes, and safety mechanisms. This stage demands both technical expertise and an understanding of the volatile nature of plasma energy. The artisan fine-tunes the weapon, ensuring its stability and efficiency, taking extra precautions to prevent catastrophic overheating or misfires. It was grueling, yet Usriel continued on.

It was not long until he had finished, the final product now humming as the mock weapon it was. Proudly, Usriel looked back to his parents but they looked horrified - he had done what they had asked him not to do. A cruel laugh echoed behind him.

“You lied to me, Nirek,” Maris spoke, rising over the table, his massive form drowning out the very light itself. Usriel went to run but the Bastion Lord reached over the table and grasped the boy by his neck.

“Angelus!” One-One cried, stepping forwards only to be held back by Nirek.

“Maris, don’t do this,” Nirek growled angrily, his synthetic muscle straining to hold back the priestess who cursed in a binary tongue that only Usriel understood. The father wanted to move forwards to reclaim his son, but he knew far better than to act on instinct as the armored men readied their weapons, pointing at them. Yet, he knew what Maris wanted, he knew that their wish of family would be wrought away from them just as it had been done before. He let out a sigh. He looked at Maris with a fire, “He is all we desire, Maris. Do not take him from us.”

“Your family was forfeited when you promised me a warrior in your first son, and see how that turned out,” Maris grunted, motioning to the guards for them to take the two out his sight.

One-One broke free of her husband’s grip and stepped forwards, flashing an axe of the Omnissiah and burning it into the plasteel floor. For a moment it seemed as if she would slay each and every one of the men that stood between her and her son, but she froze. The tech-priest collapsed to her knees and would plead with Maris, “Allow me to say goodbye to my Angelus, you already took one from us. Allow me this, so that I may be given what little peace you can grant me.”

A moment of consideration flashed, silence filled the room before dropping the boy to the ground, who in turn scrambled to his parents. Usriel embraced his mother and Nirek quickly enveloped the both of them as well, tears streaming down all of their faces. A wavering, modulated voice spoke out amidst sobs, “Usriel, know that you are my Angelus, and nothing shall change that. Take my axe, may it serve you well and you shall know that I will never be too far, me nor your father.”

He was confused, scared as to what was happening but he understood perfectly as to what the Bastion Lord was taking from him. The confusion was only about why it was happening to him. It was Nirek’s voice that broke the sobs, “My son, we shall see you soon.” With those words he broke the family apart, shoving Usriel back and dragging One-One away, who cried out for her son who was quickly surrounded by the guards of the room. As the doors closed behind his parents, all he could do was grasp the Omnissiahan Axe that was parted to him, imagining One-One’s embrace in that moment - but it was no substitute and there would be no comfort, especially not when he looked to Maris with grief, anger, pain.

His voice came slowly, cruelly and maliciously, “Come now, boy. We will make a warrior of your pitiful line yet.”
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