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.
He could no longer remember how long he had been down here. It could have been a day, a month a year…time and memory had devolved into fleeting, hazy things in the wake of all of the pain, the blood, and the screaming. At least, he knew there had been pain, because his entire body throbbed with raw, incessant agony, and every time it dulled, his captor found some way to make it return, hotter and sharper than before. He knew there had been blood because he smelled its familiar copper tang, and felt it awash across his naked form. And he knew there had been screaming, because his throat was hoarse and raw. Beyond that, the details of how, why, where, when and who escaped him.
It felt good to be back on his command throne, Khyrus thought to himself as he eased back into glossy obsinite seat at the centre of the Talon’s bridge, welcoming the feeling of the jagged spines of the armrests digging into his palms and forearm. n the familiar gloom of the ship’s interior, he saw the dull brown orb of Hod’s Anvil on the holo-ghost before him, turning with a ponderous slowness in the void.
(artwork by Games Workshop and Fantasy Flight Games)
“The lights are wrong,” said the voice on the vox recording, his voice laced with wisps of static. “I repeat, the lights are wrong.”
The vox message then looped back on itself, as it had been doing for the past fifty-two hours. Sergeant DeSane kept it playing on his armour’s internal vox system, so that his helm’s internal sensors could keep a lock on its source, even as he backed away from the airlock door. The floors and walls of the hallway were coated in a thick rime of frost, and the doors were frozen solid, glittering with a thick patina of ice. The environmental controls of this silo had failed, it seemed, at about the same time as contact had been lost.