... Well, actually, I'll be in Newcastle, checking out the new Forbidden Planet, cos my flight isn't til Tuesday. But my girlfriend comes over Sunday, so finding the time to post this is probably gonna be a struggle, never mind writing a whole post.
With that in mind, I'm not going to be able to show you any new stuff I've done, since I've been too busy getting everything prepared to actually game. So, instead, here is some fluff I wrote for the occasion. Hope you all enjoy it, cos it took me far too long to write...
Volodanti out.
Epsilus waved for his congregation
to follow him; a half dozen champions marching in what could best be described
as a loose cluster towards the ruin’s central chamber.
Once, perhaps, it has been the
ballroom of a fallen governor’s manor, or perhaps the altar of some
long-forgotten cathedral. Octagonal in shape, and near a hundred yards across,
the dome soared above their heads, supported only by slender buttresses against
the room’s corners; each separated by a faded mural, barely frescos images of
great heroes, holy men, and glory-soaked battlefields flaking off the grey
stone. At the top of the dome there remained the edges of window, stained glass
bled of its colours by the passage of time, but the different strokes still
distinct where the lead had rotten away.
Epsilus lead them to the centre
of the room, feet crushing the broken mosaics beneath their feat. Whatever
image was once displayed was long since gone, the shards each stained a grubby
white from centuries of neglect. He stopped just past the locus, arms spread as
he turned to address the throng.
“This moment is the goal I have been pursuing for centuries,” he
began, ethereal voice echoing in the silent chamber, “For near five millennia I have been cursed by the mark of a beast that
thinks itself a god. Today, my children, I shall rid myself of this foul
infection.”
“This… this is why you have
summoned us?” Korak growled, eyes blazing with barely suppressed rage, fingers
twitching as he held his chainaxe. “You truly think that you can reclaim your
soul?” He let out a bark of laughter, scorn and hate rebounding within the
sanctum. “I knew you were a weakling and a fool, but clearly I overestimated
you. Whatever pact you signed will endure until the stars themselves burn out,
and the last skull is added to Khorne’s Throne. Make your peace with that or
live in denial – just don’t include me in your idiocy.”
“Though it pains me to agree with
a blood-crazed butcher,” Thaw began, casting a look of disdain and arousal in
the direction of the hulking berserker, “he is correct. Tzeentch has laid claim
to you, and little can change the mind of The Changer of Ways.”
“Do not speak the name of that purveyor of falsehoods,” Epsilus
growled, levelling a single finger in the direction of the garish Slaaneshi, “for he is no more a god that I. He is
powerful, that much is certain, but none of the denizens of the warp are true
gods, merely spirits possessed of an overabundance of pride.”
Dresdae bristled at that, turning
his three-eyed helm upon Epsilus in obvious distaste, while the sorcerer Kappius
spluttered inarticulately, feet near touching the floor as he lost
concentration. Thaw and Lucas were more muted in their disapproval, simply
shaking their heads in amusement and disinterest, whilst Korak appeared at
least partially interested in the idea, even if it was clear he didn’t agree.
Seeing that further words were, ultimately, pointless, Epsilus motioned to
Kappius to step forward.
“My… aide has studied the ritual in depth, and we believe that with his
power, at this moment, with these people, it might be possible to move the
mark; for another to take on my curse and leave me freed.”
This received a much less muted
reaction; heads snapping to stare, eyes darting between the mailed champion and
the robed sorcerer, cries of shock and denial all silenced by the sorcerer
gliding forward.
“My… lord Epsilus is not wrong. I
have studied the ritual, and it seems possible. The warp cares little for the
individual, for souls burn bright but bodies are fleeting. By bringing together
so many marked by greatness, we might
confuse the immaterium – five champions enter, four marked, and five leave,
four marked. I doubt it will work on a god,”
he gave Epsilus a hard look through his horned helm, “but whatever milord wishes is my desire.”
“So, if there are no more pointless comments, we are on a timetable…”
“If you would fan out – Korak, eight
paces to the north-east. Thaw; six to the south-east, Dresdae seven to the
south-west, and lord Epsilus nine to the north-west. Lucas, you are the focus…”
As each moved to their position,
Kappius moved about, using a stick of chalk to trace lines upon the floor
connecting the five champions together, rings about their positions, and
various runes to a pattern only he could see. It took near twenty minutes to
finish preparation, and only then was he able to begin.
Kappius circled the group,
chanting in a language long forgotten by mortals, each syllable seeming to pain
him as it slipped from his lips. Sometime around his thirtieth rotation a wind
seemed to pick up, catching any loose fabric and sending it fluttering
irregularly, each gust coming from a different direction, and often multiple
sides at once. Near the fiftieth they felt a charge in the air, like a storm
about to break, and by the eightieth there were sparks in the air, static flicking
between the figures with an audible crack. Soon enough, there was a literal
tempest in the room, and Kappius had to scream to be heard, lips bleeding as he
continued his incantation. Multi-coloured lightning ran across their armour,
arcing between their limbs, as cold fire burned any loose cloth, and the winds
lashed dust through the air to scour the paint from the edges of their suits.
Near an hour had passed since
they entered the room, and it seemed that millennia of wear had befallen the
interior; the few shards of glass has turned to dust as formed a whirling
tornado, whilst the walls, already smooth, now shone like marble, and the floor
was like glass but for the markings that glowed like hellfire. Finishing his
stanza, Kappius motioned to Epsilus, calling out over the howling of the storm.
“Do you forsake the mark of a
god, that which binds your soul to His halls for eternity?” The words were but
a whisper against the gale.
“Rid me of this curse, sorcerer.” Epsilus replied, voice clear in
spite of the tempest.
“And do you accept the mark of
your god, that He may be your patron and you His champion?”
“For the ends I seek, my soul is a
small price.” Lucas called, metallic fingers clenching.
“Then take each other’s place –
and do not place a toe outside the markings.”
The pair moved quickly, each step
heavy but purposeful. In a matter of seconds, they once more stood within
individual rings, facing one another as a strand of nothingness connected them.
With each second, it grew brighter, seeming to draw the storm into itself, howling
with lights, sounds, and temperatures beyond human reckoning. It slowly formed
into a twisted strand of light, the coil slowly moving to encircle the two
figures.
Perhaps the momentary lull was a
fluke, or maybe it was preordained, but regardless a second of relative quiet
was enough to hear the slap of an armoured foot against the stone floor.
Kappius turned, confused, in time to be barrelled over by a figure clad in
midnight. His face was a leering skull, lit from within by green fire, one arm
ended in a writhing chain of flesh and steel while the other was a blood-red
claw.
He came at Epsilus from behind,
leaping into a kick as he crossed the threshold of the circle. His foot
connected solidly with the champion’s power pack, launching him through the air
whilst arresting his own momentum, allowing him to land catlike in the
Tzeentchian’s spot as the string of fate closed about the ring.
“Kappius!” Epsilus called over the roar of unsound. “Stop this!”
“I… I can’t. Once the ritual has crossed
this point, there is no way to end it…”
“Vaako you bastard…”
The figure only grinned in
response, a tongue of flame licking out to mock the Alpha Legionnaire, before grimacing
as a stream of black-and-white blood began to leak from his chest plate,
rivulets running to pool in the centre, forming into an ever-larger sphere of swirling
potential.
Slowly, achingly so, it began to
flow down the strand of energy toward Lucas, sinking through the robes he wore
and into the armour beneath. What was once grey cloth stained jet black, while
bone armour bleached to porcelain white. Vaako, meanwhile, gasped as his heart-fire
spluttered and died, extinguished as flesh and brain matter slowly filled his
cranium, dark skin inching up his neck as the last touch of Malice fled his
body.
He grinned, triumphantly, as he
raised his arms in mock praise. But after a moment his smile slipped, a hand
fell to cradle his chest as those around him realised that the blood still
seeped from his armour, though it was now the deep crimson of arterial blood. Thin
lines opened within his plate, four cuts slowly widening as though to match his
eyes; shock and fear and despair chasing each other as his breaths grew
laboured and turned to bloody coughs. The claw marks were finished growing now,
each about an inch wide, six tall, and from the blood dripping down his back,
clearly passing wholly through his form. As the winds died, he collapsed to his
knees, arms limp by his side as he gurgled his last, a sardonic smile on his
crimson lips, eyes frozen between horror and humour, Kor’Tu of the White Scars
died.
