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".
