The Kessandras system was torn asunder last year by an apocalyptic three-way conflict,as the Grand Narrative brought players from across the world together for a weekend of awesome interactive storytelling. Now we can finally unveil the fates of the Lords of War, who survived a string of ambushes by elite kill teams to set their myriad plans in motion.
The Shepherd of Souls
Zar Tahyed ran a finger along the edge of the Nightblade. Drops of his blood hissed as the daemon sword devoured them, the runes on its surface glowing with barely contained power. He could feel the impotent rage of the daemon bound within and shunned its whispers. Bloodshed had restored its power. His underlings had fought well, offering the Dark Gods many souls and gathering the cursed athame shards the Ritual of Unsealing required. With the blood of sacrificial victims pooling at his feet, he had drawn the Nightblade of Kren’na’garh from its reliquary stone and raised it to a chorus of prayers. Tahyed had traded much for this relic.
The surviving warlords that knelt before him had won many victories, putting the Corpse-Emperor’s faithful to the sword on Celebris and staining the sanctified soil of Imperator’s Grace with xenos blood. Yet they had suffered, too. On Kumenos, the corpses of Traitor Legionaries and Traitor Guardsmen had been left strewn through the mines of Anomaly Lamdax-Sigma-7 to be buried by sandstorms or devoured by scavenging vermin. Still, he held that which he had sought, and his power was without question. Battle-scarred champions of Chaos knelt before him in their dozens, prostrating themselves before his altar and swearing their loyalty to his cause. Bitterness festered within his soul, however. The crushing victory the gods demanded had eluded him. He had not ascended as the visions had foretold. The Dark Gods had not blessed him with the fullness of their favour. He was mortal still.
He stood then, hand upon the hilt of his daemon blade, the weapon’s point resting against the cold stone floor.
‘Rise, children of ruin,’ Zar Tahyed spoke unto his flock. ‘For your work is far from done.’
The crowd of devotees rose from their knees to hear his words.
‘Kren’na’garh demands blood, my faithful. It hungers for the souls of the faithless,’ he continued, thoughts turning to the surviving Gallow brother. Tahyed was sure the traitor lived still. Not for long.
In Barekh Akkaron, Tahyed had sacrificed a valuable pawn to gain Nurgle’s favour and seal the pact with Nereth Gallow, only for his brother Threnn’s fratricidal perfidy to bring it all to ruin.
‘Now go, my followers. Find Threnn Gallow so that I may feed my sword with his putrid blood. Then you will be rewarded. Then you shall know true power!’ Tahyed screamed aloud, raising the Nightblade above his head.
The assembled champions and warlords roared their ascent as they stormed out of the chamber and made for their vessels. The Shepherd of Souls returned to his throne and rested the Nightblade across his lap, grinning as he imagined the agonies he would inflict upon his foe.
Let Threnn Gallow revel in Nurgle’s blessings. Let the Rotpriest immerse himself in foetid corruption and decay and forget those he has crossed. I will find him. I shall plunge my sword into his craven heart and drink his essence. I will reduce the Sect Septic to but a festering memory. Then we shall see who warrants Nurgle’s blessings.
Last Voyage of the Commercalia
Standing over the broad table at the centre of the Commercalia’s command sanctum, Kristoval Dynost III gritted her teeth as the vessel drove hard to starboard, weaving through hails of fire from the gigantic Ork Kill-sphere. Void shields buckled, and screams echoed across the vox-channels as munitions impacted the lower decks. Vid-displays flickered, showing the passage of the Great Gun’s plasma shell as it roared through the void to meet the Ork monstrosity. Reams of data scrolled across the sanctum’s display screens.
‘Xenos vessel’s shields remain at ninety-eight per cent integrity,’ came a servitor’s dry, cyborg voice.
The majority of the Commercalia’s crew had already abandoned the ship, fleeing aboard landers, shuttles, and saviour pods in their desperation to escape the stricken vessel.
Kristoval grasped her right wrist with her left hand, struggling to still the tremors that wracked her tortured body.
I have damned myself to secure victory. I will not see a xenos invalidate my sacrifice, she thought, fingers dancing across her command lectern.
More impacts rocked the Commercalia as Kristoval input layer after layer of intricate passcodes. With a final flourish, she traced a pattern across a set of flashing crimson runes, shunting all power into the already-straining plasma drives. Servitors slumped at their stations. Blazing warning lumens flashed in their alcoves, and the thrum of the vessel’s engines increased.
Kristoval cast a bitter glance towards the Archive of Szo-adt, and the glowing device within. A wave of revulsion coursed through her.
Her allies had striven hard and suffered greatly to defend the Emperor’s realm. Costly defeats on Ochari and across the sands of Kumenos had set them back, whilst she had fought tirelessly against the doubts and insinuations that hard initially soured her fragile alliance. Eventually, with the aid of Canoness Ophelia’s inspiring faith and Estren Valdermann’s intuition, her commanders had turned the tide cleansing the Tsorin and Vedik Systems, dealing a mortal blow to the ambition of her foes. Still, despite these glorious victories, doom had almost come for Kessandras. Only by embracing the xenos technology contained within the Archive had she been able to avert disaster. But she had paid a dread price in return.
The Kill-sphere’s surface was close now, its ramshackle scaffolds and scorched hull filling the viewport. The Commercalia’s plasma drives screamed, and the bass rumble of explosions roared through the ship’s superstructure. Its angular prow slammed into the shell of the Kill-sphere and plunged into the Ork battle station’s bowels.
Kristoval was hurled against a cogitator bank and fell face-first to the deck. As the Commercalia crumpled and exploded around her, she desperately grasped the xenos device, cursing her weakness as her fingers closed around its smooth, stone form. As the deck gave way beneath her, and flames rose to engulf what remained of the bridge, tendrils of crackling emerald lightning crawled across her flesh. Then, there was only darkness and silence.
Glitcha’s Fury
Glitcha Da Psykamekk glared around at his Kill-sphere’s command deck. Control panels sparked, multicoloured lights flashed, alarms blared, and the acrid smell of burning circuitry filled the station’s foul and foetid atmosphere. The Kill-sphere was mobile, but just barely. The remnants of the humie ship were now lodged in the guts of his void fortress. A debris cloud of twisted plasteel and pulverised Ork corpses drifted in space. Behind him, the Wurrzot Machine sparked, hissed and caught fire. The Kill-sphere’s power fields collapsed.
A split second later, the Great Gun’s plasma shell slammed into the superstructure of the battle station. The impact pitched Orks and Gretchin tumbling. They collided with one another and smashed into bulkheads, stanchions and guardrails. The magnetic boots of Glitcha’s mega armour kept him fastened to the deck. Bellowing in frustration, he mashed the buttons on his command station. A series of glyphs flashed across its screen, but none boded well. The Wurrzot Machine had completely overloaded, and three banks of engines were out. Display screens and control panels exploded across the bridge. Another shot like that and the battle station would be doomed
He spun around, looking for someone to blame.
‘Zoggit!’ he growled.
His gaze settled on the scorched pile of bones next to the dormant Wurrzot Machine, and he felt a brief pang of something, an unfamiliar emotion that he wasn’t overly keen on.
Gonna need a new fixa.
By now, most of his ladz had begun to drag themselves to their feet.
‘What now, Boss? We still gonna smash up dat gun?’ one of them asked.
Glitcha thumped the top of his command station again and stared menacingly at a glitching image of Volkus' glowing orb. A lesser Ork might have been satisfied with a big enough punch-up. It had been a good fight, of that there was no doubt. His ladz had krumped and blasted their way through half the system, killing more than their fair share of humies and aliens. But he was an Ork of greater ambition and had been so close to his goal. So close to reaching Kessandras and plundering the Great Gun’s supply of shells. He seethed as he thought of the dakka he’d missed out on. Even a glancing impact from the planetary cannon had all but destroyed his Kill-sphere.
‘Nah, get us out of ‘ere,’ Glitcha replied, his thoughts already turning to vengeance. This was the treacherous Cryptek’s fault.
‘We’re gonna find dat metal ’ed and skrag him good an propa. Den we’re grabbin some more ladz an comin’ back for annuvva go. Glitcha Da Psykamekk ain’t nevva beaten!’
A chorus of cheers erupted across the bridge as the Kill-sphere’s remaining engines flared to life, propelling Glitcha’s battle station away from the great gun’s firing arc and out into the blackness of the void.
Join us again this November for another Grand Narrative…
