Man, it's been a while! The end of the summer was a whirlwind for me, but things are finally starting to settle down. Here is a #flufffriday piece I wrote for
Inspiration Friday over at
Bolter & Chainsword. Make sure to check it out when you get a chance. Anyway, this is a story about my new army project (duh...duh...DUH) the Night Lords! I have been trying to only use old Rogue Trader models, and I look forward to sharing more pictures soon. In the meantime, enter Headsman Halan of the VIIIth Legion:
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Terra's Might was a vessel of fantastic size and incredible
might. The flagship of the Imperial Fists XXIVth company had seen many
battles during the Great Crusade, who could forget it's heroic actions
against the greenskins at Gillean IV, and her honors were bestowed upon
her bows. Great murals of battles, heroes, and the glorious Emperor of
Mankind stood as giants amongst the endless void of space. It was
impressive. Halan, so inspired by the work of the remembrancers, had
decided to make his own mark on the masterpiece.
The Night Lord's dreadclaws landed in a circle around the halo above
the Emperor's head. Activating their melta-cutters, the midnight clad
ships danced, cutting a large hole in the side of the beautiful ship.
Bodies struggled, then went slowly limp as they were overtaken by the
void. The Terror Squads poured into the ship. After three hours of
bloody battle, things were looking bleak. The combat shields of the few
remaining breacher squads were blocking off the bridge. Harlan was
perturbed. His men had taken the engine room, so he would destroy the
ship. But, the Captain would not be happy with his work. He reached out
with a blood-red gauntlet to activate a portal to the landing bay. No
luck. "Meltabombs," he barked over the vox as he walked behind his men.
He stared at his gauntlets again. He was marked for death, and a failure
in this mission would see it sooner rather than later. The bomb turned
the door to slag as his squad ran into the room.
They were surrounded by astartes. Silver armored, beak-nosed
astartes. The Night Lords opened fire, then quickly stopped and began to
laugh. These suits of armor were empty. Of unknown mark, but surely
empty. There had to be hundreds of the suits. Halan smiled a crooked
smile. His company had been fighting in patched-up suits of mark IV and
make-shift mark V armor for years now.
"Get these to the ships now! Katarc, how long 'til the reactor blows?", Harlan growled.
"Fifteen minutes Headsman".
Halan stood and admired the view. Amongst the stars a metal disk spun
slowly in space. Once his men transferred the last of the power armor
to the waiting Storm Eagles, he walked onto his ship. As soon as the
ships and dreadclaws were a safe distance away, he commanded all of his
men to activate the pict-screens in their worn helmets. The Emperor's
head floated above
Terra's Might. Burnt metal and singed paint had morphed his stern face into a sad, black skull. Halan activated the vox network.
"Five... four... three... two..."
A blinding white light illuminated the darkness. The Night Lords
cheered, then began to chant in unison, "Death to the False Emperor!
Death to the False Emperor!". Halan would avoid death again, but it
would still come one day.
"Katarc!", the Headsman growled, "Have a servitor prepare one of the new suits for me. I grow tired of these rags".
