c. Jaime Martinez and Games Workshop
Transmitted To: Canoness Superior Ursula Sevrei, Cathedrum Opus Dei, Apotheca
Transmitted By: Sister Ziriel Shylo, Order of the Inkwell, Astro-Terminus Kappa
Thought For The Day: With flame we shall churn the earth, with prayer we shall make it holy anew
The following chronicle presents a true and accurate log of the campaign to liberate the lost shrine world of Hieros, prosecuted by a full preceptory of the Order of the Blessed Damsel, as well as various other Imperial forces, in early M42. As the God-Emperor is my witness, this chronicle shall illustrate not only the glorious victories won by the Battle Sisters of that illustrious order, but also of their grievous defeats and heroic martyrdoms, their trials and hardships, the notable heroines who led these most holy women in their crusade.
The Raven’s Head had, once upon a time, been a popular tavern situated near the center of Inverius’ metalworks. A popular hub for off-duty manufactorum workers, guildsmen, scrap-haulers, scavvers and even the odd Arbites patrol, it had once formed the living, breathing heart of this district. Inquisitor Ariadna Zao imagined that, before the war, this place must have rung loud to the sound of clanking tankards, sloshing ale, slurred drinking songs and raucous laughter. That would have been before the Tyranid bombardment, however, had flattened it like it had almost every other building in the district, gutting it like a carcass and leaving but a few skeletal, spore-bleached walls and floors standing.
c. Games Workshop and Fantasy Flight Games
The air down in section 55-Tertius of the smelled different than the dank, filthy squalor of the rest of the underhive. There was an aggressively cleanliness to it, a chemical taste at the back of Cervantes’ mouth that spoke to the presence of antibacterial agents, counterseptic regimens and antiviral compounds. The rows of tanks, filled with glimmering green fluid, filled the entire place with an unearthy viridian glow that shone brightly against the polished white stone of the place. On Inquisitor Zao’s orders, this section of the underhive had been sequestered as storage facility with which to stockpile medical supplies. In a time of war, such as this, it would be imperative to keep vital medical supplies out of reach of a displaced, scavenging populace, so that proper triage and treatement protocols could be enacted when it was safe to do so.
Unfortunately, this place was anything but secure…especially now that there were wolves lurking in the shadows.
The catacombs stank. Thousands of years ago, they had been used to channel the waste effluent of the Invernus’ manufactoria out into the rad-wastes beyond the hive city, though they had long since been abandoned and closed off. Even after those millennia, however, the chemical reek of the place and the stench of decay persisted, even through the filters of Watch-Sergeant Cervantes’ helmet. No one had been down here since that time, not even scavvers of the underhive or the reclamation servitors of the manufactoria.
Which meant, of course, that it was the perfect place for xenos to infiltrate the city.
So, a few days ago I took a break from testing out the Sisters and took my Drukhari to one of my LGS, Hairy Tarantula North, for a 1000 point 40k tournament using ITC rules. As this was the first tournament I had been attending in ages, I was rather apprehensive. As it turned out, however, all of my apprehension was for nothing: with only three or four tables, the store was completely unprepared for the massive turnout they ended up recieving, and as a result spots went to the first people to arrive. Sadly, I was not one of them.
c. Mark Tarisse https://www.artstation.com/mark_tarrisse
This war would have been tragic, Ursula Sevrei reflected as she looked at the ruins around her, if its cause weren’t so damned ridiculous…
c. Inkary at https://www.artstation.com/inkary
The alarm came from out of nowhere, piercing the sweltering, monotonous gloom of the forge like hot nails through lead. Magos Kelethrex had been overseeing the creation of yet another great war machine to be birthed within the magma-filled vaults of the complex when the alarm sounded, half warbling klaxon, half wailing shriek of thousands of trapped neverborn. The sound caused the lumbering, vat-grown serfs attending Kelethrex to cover their malformed heads and moan in pain, and more than a few slipped and fell into the hot magma of the forge, screaming before the molten metal consumed them. Even worse, the half-made construct in front of Kelethrex was driven into a frenzy by the sounds, the tank-sized conglomeration of steel and flesh thrashing and flailing in the great chains that held it above the pit.