Noctis
MrSkimobile
Sep
Simple Unicycle
FetzenSons of the Harvest 4th Grand Caravan
Strike Cruiser The Coming Rain
Karia System Mandeville Point
Litanies of gratitude for He On Terra's protection through the warp sang through the vox network as The Coming Rain screamed into realspace, with all the shuddering and groaning of ancient machine spirits that such a feat entailed, as a lone figure sighed in relief within the Navigators chambers. Draugen Grosse, Librarian of the 4th Caravan, let his body crash into the navigator's throne as sweat steamed from his body before it could bead. Even for one of the Emperor’s Astartes navigating through the Immaterium was a perilous thing fraught with madness, death, and worse for those that called The Coming Rain home. Truly it was The God-Emperor's holy providence that allowed the Grand Caravan to make these treks unharmed.
Time, however, was ever an enemy and there was still much to do. Whispering a prayer of forgiveness for his moment of weakness, Draugen rose from his throne and garbed himself in the rough, brown robes he'd worn since his days as a Neophyte before making his way to the Armoury for the Rite of Armament.
Yet before he could leave the threshold Draugen paused to gaze at an unfinished illumination he'd been working on before the jump. Weeks it had sat there half finished as Draugen steered The Coming Rain through the warp, an account of the campaign of extermination against an errant Ork Waaagh!! that threatened the agri-world of Grekiod 4. Of the blood spilled on those days, the brothers who were lost, the people they had saved, and the weight of responsibility the Sons of the Harvest carried on their backs… of the warmth brought by faith in He On Terra on days when rain cut as cold and sharp as razored knives.
Draugen wondered if he would be blessed enough to finish it once this was over.
Deep within the Reliquary of The Coming Rain stood a massive figure cloaked in black and bone, the deaths head glare of his skull helm giving away nothing to the many attendants as they waited on the Garde Manger Fossagrim’s commands. The large Firstborn marine ruminated over a broiling concoction that took center stage in the Reliquary as various smokes, fumes, and vapors belched from metal pipes and winding glass.
“It is missing something,” he thought to himself, a thin straw siphoning the biosludge the Caravan lovingly called “trail soup” into a nutrient canister before consuming the sample through an intaoe port hidden in the cheek. Deep notes of umami complimented by an acidic ba, with a distinct oily finish that let the toxins within it sting at his tongue, [i]”The toxins are too thin to bind, I'll need collagen… and something to enflame our brothers spirit. Perhaps it's time to use the rest of that Ork?”
Fossagrime continued to muse to himself as his attendants began to act on his words, there was scarcely a beast in all creation that the Sons of the Harvest hadn't consumed at least once. Upon a great slab Fossagrim's attendants struggled to roll out what remained of a great Ork Nob, a beast that the Garde Manger took great pleasure in peeling open, showing his young protégés the few ways to bleed such creatures dead. Now all that was left of the thing was half a torso, the meat separated from the bones neatly and packed in salt. Truly a shame that their organs were too redundant to have any real flavors, Brother Cadmeus once even complaining that their guts were unfit to become sausages, yet the glands produced chemicals that infused Fossagrim’s concoctions with violent efficiency.
As the Garde Manger's attendants began to put the prepared chunks of ork flesh within the cauldron they quickly broke down quickly into a film of scum that floated to the surface. Once skimmed, the Garde Manger once again samples his volatile broth and let a rumble of satisfaction as the chemical rush lit his nerves aflame.
With a flick of several switches and a prayer of thanks for the Holy Emperor's bounties, Leuan's Cauldron began to bottle the trail soups into easy to consume nutrient packs that could be integrated into the power armour of his Brothers.
”It sure is an ugly thing,” thought Captain Huldran Grosse to himself as he scoured a pictogram of the unknown xenos abomination that threatened the system.
As foul in form as the great beast was, there was a small degree of comfort in the knowledge that it wasn't some strain of the Tyranid disease infesting the galaxy, but little else. It was an unknown, a mystery, a phantom nightmare that crawled out of the depths of the void. And it would die, that much the good Captain understood.
“Captain Grosse, we're receiving vox… Scions of Dorn, The Black Templars!” Spoke the Vox Master, her amplified voice cutting through the silence of the Command Bridge.
“Repeat and patch it through Vox Mistress,” replied Captain Grosse, a toothy, near feral grin splitting the half mechanized face of the Lord of the 4th Grand Caravan. The prospect of fighting with Sons of Dorn, and his fabled second sons no less, was setting his warriors blood alight, “Vox Mistress, record this message and release it on open comms.”
”Children of the Imperium hold tight your weapons, keep lit your holy places, guard your faith. He Who Sits upon the Golden Throne has called upon his angels of death to fall upon the Abomination that threatens your world. The Sons of the Harvest are here, we are coming. The thunder of war has called upon you but be not afraid for the rain has answered. Deliverance is here."
Strike Cruiser The Coming Rain
Karia System Mandeville Point
Litanies of gratitude for He On Terra's protection through the warp sang through the vox network as The Coming Rain screamed into realspace, with all the shuddering and groaning of ancient machine spirits that such a feat entailed, as a lone figure sighed in relief within the Navigators chambers. Draugen Grosse, Librarian of the 4th Caravan, let his body crash into the navigator's throne as sweat steamed from his body before it could bead. Even for one of the Emperor’s Astartes navigating through the Immaterium was a perilous thing fraught with madness, death, and worse for those that called The Coming Rain home. Truly it was The God-Emperor's holy providence that allowed the Grand Caravan to make these treks unharmed.
Time, however, was ever an enemy and there was still much to do. Whispering a prayer of forgiveness for his moment of weakness, Draugen rose from his throne and garbed himself in the rough, brown robes he'd worn since his days as a Neophyte before making his way to the Armoury for the Rite of Armament.
Yet before he could leave the threshold Draugen paused to gaze at an unfinished illumination he'd been working on before the jump. Weeks it had sat there half finished as Draugen steered The Coming Rain through the warp, an account of the campaign of extermination against an errant Ork Waaagh!! that threatened the agri-world of Grekiod 4. Of the blood spilled on those days, the brothers who were lost, the people they had saved, and the weight of responsibility the Sons of the Harvest carried on their backs… of the warmth brought by faith in He On Terra on days when rain cut as cold and sharp as razored knives.
Draugen wondered if he would be blessed enough to finish it once this was over.
Deep within the Reliquary of The Coming Rain stood a massive figure cloaked in black and bone, the deaths head glare of his skull helm giving away nothing to the many attendants as they waited on the Garde Manger Fossagrim’s commands. The large Firstborn marine ruminated over a broiling concoction that took center stage in the Reliquary as various smokes, fumes, and vapors belched from metal pipes and winding glass.
“It is missing something,” he thought to himself, a thin straw siphoning the biosludge the Caravan lovingly called “trail soup” into a nutrient canister before consuming the sample through an intaoe port hidden in the cheek. Deep notes of umami complimented by an acidic ba, with a distinct oily finish that let the toxins within it sting at his tongue, [i]”The toxins are too thin to bind, I'll need collagen… and something to enflame our brothers spirit. Perhaps it's time to use the rest of that Ork?”
Fossagrime continued to muse to himself as his attendants began to act on his words, there was scarcely a beast in all creation that the Sons of the Harvest hadn't consumed at least once. Upon a great slab Fossagrim's attendants struggled to roll out what remained of a great Ork Nob, a beast that the Garde Manger took great pleasure in peeling open, showing his young protégés the few ways to bleed such creatures dead. Now all that was left of the thing was half a torso, the meat separated from the bones neatly and packed in salt. Truly a shame that their organs were too redundant to have any real flavors, Brother Cadmeus once even complaining that their guts were unfit to become sausages, yet the glands produced chemicals that infused Fossagrim’s concoctions with violent efficiency.
As the Garde Manger's attendants began to put the prepared chunks of ork flesh within the cauldron they quickly broke down quickly into a film of scum that floated to the surface. Once skimmed, the Garde Manger once again samples his volatile broth and let a rumble of satisfaction as the chemical rush lit his nerves aflame.
With a flick of several switches and a prayer of thanks for the Holy Emperor's bounties, Leuan's Cauldron began to bottle the trail soups into easy to consume nutrient packs that could be integrated into the power armour of his Brothers.
”It sure is an ugly thing,” thought Captain Huldran Grosse to himself as he scoured a pictogram of the unknown xenos abomination that threatened the system.
As foul in form as the great beast was, there was a small degree of comfort in the knowledge that it wasn't some strain of the Tyranid disease infesting the galaxy, but little else. It was an unknown, a mystery, a phantom nightmare that crawled out of the depths of the void. And it would die, that much the good Captain understood.
“Captain Grosse, we're receiving vox… Scions of Dorn, The Black Templars!” Spoke the Vox Master, her amplified voice cutting through the silence of the Command Bridge.
“Repeat and patch it through Vox Mistress,” replied Captain Grosse, a toothy, near feral grin splitting the half mechanized face of the Lord of the 4th Grand Caravan. The prospect of fighting with Sons of Dorn, and his fabled second sons no less, was setting his warriors blood alight, “Vox Mistress, record this message and release it on open comms.”
”Children of the Imperium hold tight your weapons, keep lit your holy places, guard your faith. He Who Sits upon the Golden Throne has called upon his angels of death to fall upon the Abomination that threatens your world. The Sons of the Harvest are here, we are coming. The thunder of war has called upon you but be not afraid for the rain has answered. Deliverance is here."