#40k daemon

“Is this the right one?”

“I don’t know.”

These were the first words the bloodletter heard when he was taken from the Warp, taken away from the glorious battlegrounds of the Brass Keep. Stolen into realspace by, potentially, complete accident.

As the daemon felt his form adjust to the new reality, his sight still adjusting to a realm quieter than the realm of Chaos, he questioned why would anyone summon him on purpose.

“What do you mean you don’t know, witch?” A gruff voice roared. “What did I hire you for?”

“I never heard of this ‘Deadeye’ guy before.” A husky voice hissed back. “As long as you gave me the right true name, this should be it.”

“This is what I get for trusting a tribal witch”

“Remind me who wanted to summon a daemon.”

The bloodletter’s vision slowly adjusted to the point he could see. He was in a dark room, candles being the only source of light. Four figures stood in front of him. The summoner had skin made of turquoise scales and wore a brass horned helmet. Her tail wrapped around a blood stained staff radiating with pure psychic power. The so-called commissar wore a blood red cap and dirty black jacket, a bolt pistol on his hip and a power fist on his right arm. Behind him stood two soldiers, a male and female, garbed in blood red uniforms and black flak armor. They each carried a scoped rifle. Snipers.

“Thle’gzir’owaff. The Deadeye.” The witch hissed, speaking both the red daemon’s true name and use name. “I, Zuri no Kage, Shaman of the Oni, have summoned you to real space. You and I have been bound by Sirdar Vorghos to serve the Blood Pact’s needs.”

“Why do you demand my presence, daemon-kin?” Deadeye growled.

“I request your unique skill set in the coming battle against the Imperium of Man.” Vorghos order, struggling to save face in front of the daemon.

“Daemon-kin.” Deadeye continued, ignoring the human. His one pure black eye and one scarred, milky white eye focused on the mutant’s glowing purples. “I’ve heard of tales of your tribe venerating all neverborn as deities, kami as your kin call us.”

“That is correct, my lord.” Zuri bowed in a casual manner. Way too casual for the mortal soldiers’ comfort.

“I don’t disrespect the daemon, witch!”

“I’m not. And he’s not lying when he calls me kin.”

The three soldiers stared at her in confusion.

“I’m a master of possession.” The witch defended sheepishly.

“You smell of Slaaneth.”

“My past patron didn’t care for daemonic allegiance. The Word Bearer wanted an exalted daemon for a possession, a daemonette was the first thing that answered.”

Deadeye leaned into the mutant. “You also smell of blood. Gore mage?”

“I dabble.” She awkwardly giggled, breaking eye contact.

A claw was placed into the witch’s white hair, her tail happily waggin in response. “Our tools of war are rare, oft forgotten by our kin.” The daemon turned to the commander. “Why do you demand my presence, Sirdar Vorghos of the Blood Pact, formerly commissar of the Maccabian Janissaries?”

The former commissar instinctively reached for the bolt pistol on his hip.

The daemon’s scarred eye glanced towards the sniper team behind them. “Khuzri. Skor. How did one of the Anathema’s finest come to be the leader of a regiment of Kharneth’s mortal warriors?”

The split second the daemon glared at them, the sniper and the spotter dropped to their knees. “We only wish to serve!” The two yelled simultaneously.

“I don’t need slaves!” Deadeye roared back. “I need warriors! Are you two warriors?”

“W-We’re snipers m’lord.” The spotter, Skor, struggled to answer.

Deadeye steadied his arms. In each palm, burning smoke began to form. A metal bar appeared between his claws, slowly stretching into a longer form. After a few seconds, a brass musket sat comfortably in his arms. “Are you two warriors?”

Khuzri spoke up. “We have a combined twenty four kills under our belts.”

“Twenty four officers, generals, and warlords slain by our hands.” Skor added.

“Good... And how many more skulls will be added to our tallies today?”

“This moon, Kage as the locals call it, is one of eight moons that orbit the gas giant dubbed Amaterasu, which is one of eight planets in the Izanagi System, all of which sits under the thumb of the Blood Pact.” Vorghos sighed. “However, a rogue trader’s fleet has recently appeared in the system. While, thankfully, they haven’t realized who is truly in charge of this realm yet, we would like to eliminate this threat before they do. This requires us to strike in such a way so that both completely eliminates the fleet and quick enough that they can’t send a distress message back to the Imperium.”

“The shamans predict that the trader herself will be landing on my home in half a cycle.” Zuri interrupted.

“And this is where I step in.” Deadeye grunted.

“Yes, you and my snipers will take out the trader and her inner circle, and the fleet will strike during the confusion.”

“Where are they landing?”

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Local Time: 02:00 AM

Khuzri and Skor sat in silence on a small grassy hill, a pair of rifles pointed at an open field below them. Their ghillie suits mixed with the natural twilight of a gas giant partially obscuring the sun had made them practically invisible to the eye. And given that Kage is a feral world, the landing party wouldn’t go out of their way to search the landing sight for hostiles. To them, any expected threat is a feral tribal with a sharp stick.

A giant, metal bird roared through the sky. The thunderhawk transport was designed to carry tanks into battle. The rogue trader was using it to make landfall on a feral moon.

The snipers aimed their rifles. The shamans claimed that the kill shot will be three clicks away. Wind speed was eighteen knots. The two saw a red glint a few clicks away. The daemon was also adjusting its shot.

The thunderhawk kicked up a small cloud of dirt as it landed. Only more dust was kicked up as a Leman Russ battle tank rolled out of the transport. A squad of twenty guardsmen followed out, Vostroyan Firstborn by the look of their big hats and red jackets, creating a pseudo parade formation. A parade for, as far as they knew, only the trader sitting on top of the tank.

The titular rogue trader was donned in black power armor that emphasized her physical features to a ridiculous degree. Khuzri stifled a chuckle as she noticed how the suit of power armor enhanced some “features.” Her scope returned to her target, as the showboat wasn’t her prey. Instead Khuzri glared at the last man out of the bird, a robed man carrying a large staff. Somesort of preacher she thought, but the tubes connecting to his head were common amongst sanctioned psykers. Either way, a worthy target.

Skor focused his aim on a guardsmen equipped with a chainsword. The sergeant led the squad in this mock parade, belting orders that neither sniper could make out. While his black helmet and bulky uniform covered what this man actually looked like, Skor knew all the signs of a competent officer.

Once everyone was out, the thunderhawk took to the air. Three seconds passed, the transport disappeared to the sky as the convoy paraded to Khorne knows where. Three triggers were pulled. Three deafening cracks faded into one. The first to fall was the staff carrying man. A hole formed in his chest as a mix of blood, bone, and blue psychic energy filled the air. The second to fall was the sergeant. Being at the front of this convoy, he collapsed forward into the red mist that formed, blood pooling from his neck wound. The last to fall was the trader herself, screaming profanities as she tumbled off the tank.

Unlike her psyker and sergeant, the trader wasn’t shot, and the only wound she suffered was a small cut and a concussion that formed when her unarmored head struck the side of the Leman Russ. Instead, a molten metal bullet bored through the hull of the tank, and the trader was jolted off the cannon when the tank suddenly braked.

The three snipers adjusted their aim, and three more shots rang out. Two more guards fell and a second hole formed in the tank. Thirteen of the squad ducking behind cover of the tank as the four remaining guards helped the trader up.

“Ready?” Skor asked over the vox.

Deadeye’s channel was silent. While he physically had a vox, granted to him by Zuri, he hasn’t been using it to communicate.

“Now…”

Khuzri and Skor followed the silent order that echoed in their minds.

The side of the damaged tank was painted red in gore. Two Vostroyans collapsed to the ground, two bleeding wounds where their hearts used to be. The third bullet, the daemonic bullet, found its target not in a guardsman or the tank hull.

The rogue trader glanced down. Her black armor glowed a molten brass, the sludge slowly melting skin and metal alike. A final breath escaped her lips as her ribs, lungs, and heart liquified. The last thought going through her mind was less of a scream of pain and more a question. “This doesn’t hurt. Why doesn’t this hurt?”

The noble woman, destined to bring glory to her house and the God-Emperor, slumped over dead on a backwater moon, blindly walking into an ambush that doomed her entire fleet.

“Fifteen left…” Deadeye growled, quickly loading another round in the chamber. Skor has claimed three skulls. So has Khuzri. He had only taken two, having spent a round to take out the Leman Russ’s engine. He lined up the shot, slaying another guard and piercing a hole into the hull. “Fourteen. Four skulls.”

The two mortals, not wishing to appear to be failures in front of the daemon, both seemed to claim the last soldier not in cover. Skor was quicker on the draw, tying his kill count while Khuzri spent the first missed round.

“Frak.” She cursed, firing another round at a head poking around the side of the tank. It grazed their armor. “Frak!”

“Impatient.”

Skor, in contrast to his partner, was silent, calculating, focused. So focused on the left side of the tank that he failed to notice the sniper peak out on the right side. A dirt cloud kicked up by the bullet filled the air, alongside a string of curses from the blinded mortals.

“Unaware.”

The guard sniper lined up a shot again. Deadeye counter sniped, sacrificing a skull for a guaranteed kill.

“Mortals, hold your fire till you have the killing shot, but do not zone in on your target. Keep an eye open for threats. Be patient, and be aware.”

Khuzri and Skor realigned their sights as the dirt cloud faded away.

“Thirteen left. Don’t worry about who can kill the most, just focus on the mission.”

The two mortals took a deep breath. “Ready.”

Most of the firstborn charged out, a volley of red lasrounds covering the three guards trying to get into the tank.

Without speaking, the three focused their aim on the three climbing on the tank. Three kills.

“Relocate.”

Khuzi and Skor split off, running to new positions. The remainder of the squad split to follow them.

As the mortals were distracted, Deadeye took position at where the two snipers were set up. Two more guards were killed before they realized what happened.

This distraction allowed the mortal snipers to go prone and readied their rifles.

Khuzi fired first, followed by Skor, and Deadeye. Another volley followed, and three more were slain.

“Two left.”

The last two guards ducked back behind the tank.

“What’s the call?” Khuzi asked over the vox chat.

The daemon’s growl echoed through the mortals' minds. “Each of you pick one and decide what to do with them.” Once he was done, his rifle vanished, he stood up, and walked away.

“Where are you going?” Skor asked.

“My pact is almost complete. I no longer need to be here any more.”

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“Tea should be done in a few.”

Deadeye didn’t reply, the daemon was too busy looking around the room. He was kneeling on a soft cushion, a small table with a plate of onigiri placed right in front of him. Zuri placed a kettle on a wood-burning stove. The hut was well furnished, clean, a place that doesn’t look like a place a blood witch would own.

“I’m surprised you aren’t joining the Blood Pact in attacking the fleet.” The teal mutant said.

“I can ask you the same.”

“Didn’t seem like a good fight.” Zuri’s voice was partially drowned out by the screeching kettle.

“Are you sure it’s not because of the spawn of the twentieth already on board?”

Zuri’s face dropped. “What?”

Deadeye gave the closest thing to a smile he could give. “Forty years ago your mother summoned me into real-space so I can get shoved head first into a teal hound-shaped box.”

“S-sorry…”

“Don’t apologize, I’m hunting her down, not you, Theta von Hellebor.”

“Zuri. It’s Zuri. My mom is the granddaughter of a Kage tribal smitten by a knight freeblade. My mom is the noble woman prosecuted for her mutations. My mom is the one to become the pet project of an Alpha Legionnaire with too much time on his hands and became his master of executions and his soul link. My mom is the one to sabetouge records so that this system no longer existed to the Imperium. My mom is the one who conquered the shoguns and claimed the green gas giant overhead and its satellites as hers. My mom is the von Hellebor. I’m just Zuri, the local witch who lives in a hut in the woods.”

“Zuri.” Deadeye growled softly. “You and I are the same.”

“Liking guns more than your other daemons isn’t the same as trying to live up to a proper lord.” She sighed. “You have no idea how I feel.”

“I… I…” Deadeye struggled to speak. “I… don’t know. I don’t know how you feel. I am a tool made for war and murder, I do not have parental figures to match up to. I guess Khorne would be a parent of sorts and… I don’t know if he’s proud of me.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“Why would he be?” Deadeye sighed. “I’m not honorable and I don’t kill nearly as many as my kin.”

“Because Khorne isn’t just the god of honor and murder.” Zuri gave the daemon a fang filled smile. “He's also the god of war.”

“So?”

“While the legions of berserkers and beast riders fight the wars, they don’t win them. It’s the strategists that win them. So one willing to put aside personal glory to win. And you, my bloody brother, are the one to win wars.”

“T-Thank you.” Deadeye grinned. “But I have to ask, are you really working with the Blood Pact? Was this a plan to kill your mother, or are you handing her and her astarte handlers new playthings?”

Zuri giggled, pouring the kettle of tea into two cups. “My answer will depend on who wins the coming fight.”

“You are a snake.”