The Auctorian Conquest V

Good morning folks.

Over the next 5 days leading up to The Auctorian Conquest campaign weekend, hosted by Leicester Sabres, I will be posting the background text I co-wrote with the GM.

If you want to get involved, head over to the Facebook Event Page here!

But not before you read this, the background for the Chaos Invaders;

The octagonal chamber rippled with the heat emanating from the bodies collected there. Despite thick crimson candles, each entombed in their sconces by stalagmites of wax from thousands of candles before them, the room was dank and dark. The dank oozed out of nothingness, its merest presence an affront to the natural order of the galaxy, yet it held no mystery for those enveloped within it. It flowed with currents unfelt by any except for the most rarely gifted individuals; the stuff of the Warp leaked through the veil in this place. 

Within those cursed walls, a meeting was taking place. The attendees were mortals beyond reckoning; each a champion of one of the gods of Chaos, a post-human Astartes raised above their brethren by their devotion, their ambition, their tactical, strategic and martial brilliance. They were the leaders of the warrior hordes that would tip the spear of the coming invasion. Brought together by J'Nathor the Black, an ancient champion of the Black Legion whose personal legend stretched back to the Great Betrayal, they were now at each others' throats. Rumours, half-whispered, suggested this campaign would have sealed J'Nathor's ascension to Daemonhood. Those plans had been crushed, however, by the blade of a Callidus assassin. Though she was slaughtered scant moments after the deed was done, it was too late to undo the damage wrought on the unholy crusade. Now, with the fate of the invasion again on a knife edge, the remaining Lords of Chaos argued over the command of the assembled legions.

 

Lord Kaurundor stood aside from his cohorts. In the darkest corner of the chamber, his stone armour seemed to blend in to the very fabric of the rock around him. There was no hiding his prestigious frame however, especially enhanced as it was by the suit of Terminator armour. Easily the largest figure in the room, he looked every inch the immovable object his reputation claimed him to be. A master of siege craft, his warband shared blood ties with Iron Warriors Legion; everyone in the room knew how vital his skills would be, particularly when cracking open the fortress world, Arrogance.

"I would not take command of this invasion," his voice rumbled, like the toppling of a cliff. His taciturn nature leant weight to those words he did give voice to, catching the attention of the assembled lords. "I doubt any of you could stem your own ambitions long enough to not betray the man who does." With tectonic grace, he surveyed the assembled warriors, allowing his armour's auto-targeters rest on each, "I only wish to split the skulls of the Imperial scum. To spill the blood of the followers of the False Emperor."

As he finished the slur, he let his eyes rest on the warrior furthest from him; each limb bound to the wall by chains strong enough to hold back a Rhino transport. Bloodshot eyes stared back whilst every muscle visible beneath the Astartes battered Power armour twitched and ticked, straining to be free and commit murder. "However, I'd slit his throat rather than follow the maniac."

Lord Grungore smiled at the insult, revealing a row of sharpened metal fangs coated in a thick sheen of blood. A child of Angron, a World Eater who fought during the Great Crusade and ever since, Grungore's head shimmered with ridges of metal. Under each resided spikes hammered through his skull and in to the meat of his brain; the Butchers Nails. Millennia of constant pain had worn his sanity almost completely away, leaving him with little but a passion for bloodshed said to rival that of the great Khârn. When his focus returned, however fleeting those times could be, there was no denying his strategic brilliance. It was the only reason he still held a command, though only by the finest of threads. This was not one of those moments.

"You are lucky, Kaurundor," pink foam and spittle flying from his mouth with every syllable, "that these chains have me imprisoned. Otherwise I might be personally offering your skull to Khorne for his throne for that!" The barked insult did not cause the Stonewrought to flinch. Grungore had had his own men restrain him before this meeting and Kaurundor knew they would not free him until this meeting had run its course. Despite that, he could see they dearly wished to unleash their Lord's fury.

"Your gaolers seem more intelligent than you, Lord Grungore. Not releasing you, at this time. Perhaps they deserve to take your command?" A new speaker had joined the conversation, his voice everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Lord Ahriman of the Prodigal Sons entered the room, a singular champion of the Ruinous Powers, even amongst the esteemed company of the room. His armour was iridescent, despite the lack of light, casting off hues of blue and gold. Sparks of his sorcerous magic flitted and danced about the ancient battle suit, grounding themselves in the hide-bound tomes and blood-etched scrolls attached, changing the impossible texts with the course beat of the Warp. Without effort or resistance, he presided over the damned court. With a gesture, he conjured a hololith in the air, listing the strengths and depositions of the forces loyal to the lords around him.

"Let us not waste time on otiose insults. I have secured a cadre of Eldar to our cause, loyal to the Throne of Commorragh no less. I believe Grungore persuaded an Ork Waaagh! to our caused as well." Even without his paranormal senses, Ahriman could feel the disgust emanating from his compatriots. The leering glance from the Captain wearing the colours of the Children of Torment betrayed his thoughts as clearly as any psychic reading would. "These... allies... They shall be useful cannon fodder..."

"Why do we need these scum in our ranks?" interrupted another champion, though Ahriman did not recognise the Chaos Space Marine. His armour suggested allegiance to the Night Lords. "They will betray us at the first opportunity!" Ahriman smiled under his helmet at the simplistic nature of the Marines in his presence. So easy to manipulate.

"Of course they shall, but we out-match them in every aspect. They would be unwise to do so; and until that point, I would prefer we not squander the lives of our Brothers. Every drop blood spilt empowers the Pantheon, regardless of the source. I would rather it be theirs than our own. Besides, they will not make it to the core system of Auctoria, that is where our true goal lies."

"J’Nathor never told us of this invasion's true purpose, Ahriman," hissed an Alpha Legionnaire opposite the Thousand Son sorcerer. "Unless you have personal goals you have yet to share with us, there is nothing of value on Auctoria."

"BLOOOOOOODDDD!" The roar came from the chained Khorne lord, reverberating through the chamber long after the echoes should have dissipated. The sudden outburst cut through the thin skin of cordiality. As Grungore passed into unconsciousness, his form falling slack against the chains, fury spread like a wildfire. Almost all of the assembled warriors began braying their positions, calling out their right to lead or their opinions on Ahriman's plan. Aspersions of honour crossed the inky darkness, many emphasised with the drawing of weapons. Within the time it took for the twin-hearts in each of their chests to beat, the tension in the room had elevated to near lethal levels. Aside from Grungore, only two figures were not drawn in to the furore. The Sorcerer watched over the proceedings as a spectre. The Stonewrought stubbornly refused to let his humors be roused.

"Whatever your true goal," Kaurundor's voice cut through the tumult despite being little more than a whisper, "I am sure the wheels are already in motion, Ahriman. We could no more stop this invasion than a man could hold back the tide." The room fell silent, save for the sheathing of arms. Moments passed in uneasy silence, each post-human weighing his options given this revelation, neither confirmed or denied by the former Librarian.

"The prizes on Auctoria are greater than even you can imagine." All eyes, even Ahriman's, were drawn to the orator. "Only though sacrifice on the altar of war, only through the sacking of this region of space and propitiation shall we discover them. " Pale skin, dripping with icy sweat, seemed to cling to his very bones. Steel grey eyes regarded the room as if seeing it for the first time, the whites wide and clear with pleasure.

"The Pantheon grant us this one chance," continued Lord Grungore, all trace of the psychotic monster drained from him. "Let us not disappoint them."