#thevan

Halloween Art Gauntlet

They stopped following him.

Thevan didn’t lose them.  Their howling was still loud and eagerly baying for his blood.  But he could sense their frustration and rage at being denied their prey.  But beneath it, fueling it, he sensed…fear.

Fear?  That didn’t make any sense.  He was in the pack’s territory, the seat of their strength where none would dare stand against them.  The only possible explanation could be that he had blundered into the domain of someone or something that even the Wulfen couldn’t overcome.

Thevan ducked into a room to catch his breath and regain his bearings.  Half of the floor here was missing, allowing him a glimpse into a cavernous chamber roughly carved out from the manufactorium block.

The sight that greeted him gave him pause.  Laying supine on the ground many dozens of stories below was the wreckage of an Imperial Knight.  Numerous rents and tears in its armor revealed the cause of its demise, though Thevan couldn’t identify what weapons inflicted such damage.  More disturbing were glimpses of what looked like dead and rotting flesh within the torn metal, as though he was gazing upon the resting place of a slain, armored giant and not a machine of war.

As Thevan’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the rubble the Knight lay upon was not stone and metal, but bones and fur pelts.  Lots of pelts, all in varying stages of decay.  Was this a sacred site for the Wulfen?  Or the lair of something that hunted them for their skins?

Either way, Thevan did not want to linger here lest he be encircled by the Wulfen or cornered by whatever dwelled here.  He opened his awareness, and the Outcast strained her senses for any psychic signatures within this Emperor-forsaken place.

Just as she suspected, the Wulfen were attempting to lay ambushes at the most likely escape routes, but a faint presence brushed her mind, one that was unmistakable: a shard of the World Spirit.  Somewhere, below the crude metal giant, was an anchor of the moon’s soul, and, by extension, those of her kin.  How it survived this long, she could only guess, but she could not simply pass it by, not while she had an opportunity to tie it back to the shattered World Spirit’s other fragments.

But despite her conviction, the Outcast couldn’t help but notice that besides the World Spirit anchor and the Wulfen, she could sense nothing else.  It’s never this easy, the Lamenter thought grimly.

Thevan carefully and quietly climbed down the ruined floors of the manufactorium, wincing at every tiny bit of debris that fell loose into the chamber, the quiet crumbling clanging loudly to his ears.  No other sound or movement could be detected in the chamber, but he refused to hope that he was alone or undetected by whatever lurked within.

Bolt pistol and Eldar chainsword were already in hand the moment his feet touched the floor of the cavern.  Up close, the ruined armor of the Knight and its macabre barrow loomed over him, its imposing presence second only to the terrible stench of death and decay.  Thevan was nearly overcome by nausea before he summoned the will to filter out the overpowering reek from his senses.  He quietly picked his way around the cairn, not certain what he was looking for save that the faint signature of the anchor seemed to lay somewhere within and below the mound.

He soon found his solution, though he found himself loathe to continue.  There was a narrow tunnel just barely wide enough for him to walk through without stooping in the side of the pile of bones and flayed skins.  Despite the crude, gruesome materials, it seemed to be stable enough for him to safely enter, but it begged the question of who built it.  Thevan took some solace in the fact that whatever monstrosity lurked within, it couldn’t be all that much larger than he was.  With a whispered prayer to the God-Emperor for guidance and protection, he entered the tunnel.

It was only thanks to his finely-honed sense of direction that he was somehow able to keep his bearings within the labyrinth of bone and molding flesh, though it was sorely tested.  With the anchor acting as his only frame of reference, he was forced to press forward blindly, circling around on himself and doubling back multiple times.  The time he was spending wasn’t what worried him, for he could operate for weeks without rest if he had to.  But the utter silence of the winding ossuary save for the dripping of putrid fluids and the soft crunch of bones beneath his boots disturbed him the most.  If there was anything lurking here, it had to know of his presence by now.  The thought only made him advance all the more slowly in the near-total darkness, lest he blunder right into an ambush.  Every now and then he could have sworn he saw something scuttling just out of sight or heard the shuffling of bones off in the distance, but then it was gone.  Thevan hoped that he wasn’t losing his grip on his sanity.  He had been trained far too well to be cowed by fear and paranoia now, not after the horrors he had witnessed before.

Wait.  The Outcast paused, extending her senses out as far as she could.  There.  She turned towards a wall, the arrhythmic hum of the anchor radiating faintly from behind it.  It was close, so close.  Did this tunnel even go towards it?  Did she have to backtrack several kilometers just to get to it?  Was the anchor just simply buried?  She couldn’t stand it, the tension, the uncertainty.  Stowing his pistol and sword, Thevan began digging, quietly at first, but then with increasing urgency, no longer caring if anything heard him or not.  If any abominations lurked here, let them come!  At least he will then finally face his tormentor and put his fears to death.

Thevan ripped out half a skeleton before he was blinded by a bright flash of psychic energy.  When his mind finally adjusted to its glare, he nearly cried out in joy.  Visible through a gap in the wall of bones was the roughly hewn surface of a menhir, the anchor of the World Spirit.  Without another moment of hesitation, he pulled off his glove and placed his bare hand against the cool crystalline surface.

Waves of pain, confusion, and anguish nearly overwhelmed the Outcast, forcing her to summon all of her psychic prowess just to keep her feet.  The fragment of the World Spirit within lunged at her, clinging to her for some measure of hope and stability.  Her knees gave out, yet she somehow managed to keep her hand against the menhir, unwilling to break contact.  Fear not, she told the wounded shard, I shall show you the way.  Ignoring the sharp bones poking at her flesh - no, only borrowed, you will do well to remember that - and the foul fluids dripping down around her, the Outcast reached out with her will, dancing around the numerous slavering predators marauding just on the other side of the veil of reality, leaving them no trace of her passage.  Finally, she found the other shards of the World Spirit, loosely bound together like children holding together in the dark.

Come, join your kin.  She felt energized just by the mental touch of the others, almost too much for her mortal vessel to bear, but she let it suffer only enough to join the lost fragment to the rest, letting her consciousness take the brunt of the overwhelming emotions and power contained within.  Though once sundered, let this joining now hold together, if only just enough to finish our great work upon this blighted world.

Thevan regained consciousness in an instant.  The nauseating smell of burning flesh was still hot and fresh in his nostrils, the searing pain on his palm intruding upon his awareness.  This was good, as it meant he was only unconscious for but a moment.  He silently recited a litany of strength, willing the pain to the back of his mind.  This anchor is once again joined to the whole, he told himself.  Now to get out of this particular piece of hell.

After checking himself and his wargear one last time, he began retracing his steps as best as his memory would allow.  He had barely traveled a kilometer before he stopped, straining his senses against the darkness.  A scraping of bone, growing practically deafening after the long, maddening silence, coming seemingly from all directions at once.  An earthquake?

No, the denizens finally hunger, he grimly realized.  Tightening his grip on his weapons, he started running, the time for stealth now long past.

He saw it after he turned a corner into a long straightaway.  In the light of his stab-lumen, a Space Wolf in power armor crawled on his belly towards him with unnatural speed.  Thevan immediately knew it was no longer among the Emperor’s worthy when he saw the twin chainblades protruding from the helmet’s vox grill and a second pair of armored arms pulling it over the bone-covered floor.  Taking aim at the monstrosity, Thevan fired his bolt pistol repeatedly, most of the rounds deflected into the walls, but a lucky shot pierced one of the cracked visor lenses.  The side of the helmet blew out in an explosion of gore, but still the abomination kept advancing.  It lunged at him with its chainblade mandibles, very nearly succeeding in impaling him as he managed to parry them to the side.

Thevan shoved the muzzle of the bolt pistol into the remaining lens and fired the last couple of rounds into its skull.  As it reeled from the exploding bolts, Thevan thrust the quietly-whirring Eldar chainsword right into the bloody mess, twisting it and ripping it free.

His eyes did not leave the now-still body as he reloaded his pistol, waiting for it to show any sign that it still lived.  He could now see that it had not just two pairs of arms, but many, with several breastplates of Astartes armor stacked one on top of the other in a gruesome chain all the way down the tunnel.  Just how many Space Wolves and Traitorous Astartes comprised this horror, Thevan did not want to even contemplate.  After firing a couple more bolt shells into the remnants of its neck for good measure, he ran down the tunnel on the back of the monster.

He did not make it very far when the macabre chain of corpses began to violently shake, nearly throwing him off his feet.  He turned and saw the bloody end of the monster rise up, its arms ripping off the first two segments and revealing another chainblade-fanged head.  Thevan leveled his pistol again, but the cracking of ceramite and bone filled the tunnel and several arms reached around at sickening angles, grabbing him and holding him fast.  He lashed out with his chainsword and pistol, but for each one hacked off or blasted apart, several more were there to take their place.

Thevan chanced a glance up, and the new head of the monster was nearly upon him after crawling along the ceiling of the tunnel.  He raised his sword to block the coming lunge, but the arms grappling him threw him off balance.  The monster struck, burying its bladed fangs deep into his chest, their serrated edges tearing through bone and organs with ease.

As his body lost sensation and the pain rapidly disappeared into a cold numbness, Thevan’s silent cry of pain settled into an annoyed grimace.

Will this finally be the end at last? the Outcast wondered wryly.

Halloween Art Gauntlet 

Thevan brought the landspeeder down to rest in front of the ancient pagoda and cut the engines.  The only noise that could be heard was the crackling energy fence that surrounded the temple.  Beyond it, the gently rolling landscape was covered with a smooth, silvery glasslike substance.  He tried not to look too closely at it, as he was always just barely able to perceive what looked like tangles of brambles, bushes, and thorny moss, if only he could just focus his vision just a bit better…

He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples in an attempt to banish the intense pressure from the middle of his brain.  Opening his eyes just a fraction to see where he was going, he strode over to the pagoda’s doors and pushed them open.

The interior still appeared to be a place of spiritual significance, though Thevan doubted it was devoted to the same creed the original architects had in mind.  He walked over to a large tent made from all manner of skins and sheet metal in the corner of the central room and peeked through the open flap.  An Astartes in black and gold armor stood with his back to him, his attention focused on the humanoid creature on the table in front of him.  Thevan could see that a couple of the being’s limbs and a huge swath of its head were covered in the same glassy material that surrounded the building.

“So you’ve finally come,” the Astartes said in a deep but subdued voice.  He turned to face Thevan, his features obscured by the large wolf skull he wore in place of a helmet.

I know why you’re here, the Alchemist said, walking away from the table and placing his massive gauntlets into a small energy field for a few moments.

Then you have it? the Outcast asked.

He did not reply as he let the Wolf Priest check over their hands.  Satisfied that there was no contamination, the Alchemist walked out of the tent.

Can I somehow convince you to abandon this venture? he asked.

If there was any alternative at all, I would never have considered this course of action, she replied.

And yet I fear that it may not be worth the cost, even if it means restoring the World Spirit.

They stopped before a sealed door.  The Alchemist reached towards the control panel, then hesitated.  His hand dropped to his side.  The cost is already too great.

But what choice do we have?

True oblivion in Her gullet is more preferable to this.

…You cannot be serious.

The Alchemist was silent for a long moment.  Perhaps once you see where this path leads, you will change your mind as well.

The door hissed open, and a light flickered on inside.  If only she had listened to him.

It had been human once.  Perhaps it still was, somehow.  But now, not even the most depraved creativity of her dark kin could ever hope to conceive of such a monstrosity.  So much had been fused, melded, and stitched together with parts of daemons, machine, wraithbone, and that pervasive, alien glass that it was almost impossible to tell that it had ever been a living creature and not a gruesome, fleshwarped…whatever it was.

But the true horror was not seen with mere eyes.  Her psychic senses saw something far, far worse.

What did you do to them?!

The Alchemist sighed wearily, the Wolf Priest’s massive armored shoulders sinking.  There was simply no other way to keep it alive.  It needed something to hold it all together.

Thevan turned and staggered away.  Despite his superhuman constitution, he sank to his knees and retched.

I tried everything I could to keep it from being so.

Y-you…you’re right.  Nothing can be worse than this.

They can never rejoin the World Spirit.  Not like this.

Silence hung heavily in the temple as the Outcast considered her options.

If we are already guilty for damning so many, then we must not let their sacrifice be in vain.

The Alchemist started.  You intend to continue with this madness?

As I’ve said before, we have no other choice.  Whatever lays on the other side of the Moil may very well save what is left of this world.

Examine! meme

Widowmaker, recovered by Scout Marine Thevan of the Lamenters Chapter on Samsara.

A boltgun with a 200-round box magazine, but that’s all that’s standard about this weapon.  The blasphemous markings and nightmarish ornaments indicate that it was once wielded by the VIII Legion, the Night Lords, masters of stealth and psychological warfare, but has since been decorated by a wolf skull and teeth.

Each one of the bolter shells has been modified to create a piercing, howling scream while in flight, enough to terrify even the most battle-hardened warrior or Ork.  A few of the newer but crudely-made shells produce the long, haunting howl of a prodigious wolf.

Halloween Art Gauntlet

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

Something bumped the boat’s hull, sending it pitching alarmingly to the side.  Even with a tight grip on the slab of rusty metal that passed for a railing on this vessel, Thevan was nearly thrown off his feet.  Sunan, however, maintained his upright posture as effortlessly as he would on stable land even as the ship rolled back the other way, his thin, birdlike legs and clawed feet gripping one of the ship’s metal ribs.  “On the contrary, my lord, I cannot believe I had to persuade you to undertake this journey with me,” he said, canting his head slightly to the side.  “And after all of the trouble I went through to arrange such swift transport, as well.”

Thevan glanced over at the three Orks that composed the crew of the floating scrapheap.  Dealing with the rough ride, the constant crying of the gretchin cargo stuffed to near bursting in the hold belowdecks, and the occasional dramatic mechanical failure was bad enough, but if he had to spent a moment longer than absolutely necessary listening to their terrible jokes and hideous laughter, he might decide he’d rather swim the rest of the way and take his chances with whatever creatures dwelled within the dark red water.

He was about to make a retort to his traveling companion’s wounded pride when he became aware of a faint scratching sound.  At first he thought it was one or nine of the throngs of gretchin trying to claw their way out of their confinement, but then he realized that the sound wasn’t coming from the hold.  It was coming from beneath the hull.

The entire ship went quiet as the scratching continued, seemingly coming from everywhere at once.  Thevan chanced a glance into the water, but could see nothing within the depths.

The Ork standing at the helm barked a throaty laugh.  “Alright ladz!  We’re ‘ere!”  He pointed to one of his fellow shipmates.  “Tarz!  Open da ‘old!  Ya know, da ‘speshal’ unz.”

Tarz laughed with maniac glee and punched a button on the console next to him.  There was the muffled sound of metal grinding on metal from deep within the ship.

And then the screaming.

Limbs of gretchin stretched and clawed through the grates and gaps in the deck, grabbing a hold of anything that could bring them salvation, but there was to be none.  The Ork crew guffawed at their erstwhile cargo’s fate as the hold filled with a bloody froth.

“Haw!  Won’t ol’ Muzglob be mad for luzin’ annuda lot of grots!”

“Oi!  Krug!  ‘Ow many teef did ‘e pay us to lug dis lot to Gorfel?”

“A toof fer every grot!  ‘Nd a sack as big as me fist just fer da trouble!”

“Well, datz wot ya call tak’n a biznez risk, wot?”

The dark foam started to recede as the hold finally went silent.  Their fun over, one of the Orks turned to Thevan and Sunan.

“All roit, ‘umiez, if ya gonna make ya dive, bes’ do it now while da nibblaz are all full.”  He gave them a toothy grin.  “Affa all, shame if ya paid ta come all da way out ‘ere just ta watch some grots get eat’n.”

Thevan didn’t need any further prompting.  He immediately began strapping on the bits of scrap metal he set aside earlier on his belt and boots and did a final check of his weapons.  Satisfied that he was as ready as he was going to be, he grabbed the makeshift diving helmet cobbled together from sheet metal, squig leather, and half of an Astartes helmet.  His stomach turned a little when he got another whiff of the terrible reek within it and tried not to think about what uses the Orks found for it before its present incarnation.

“Fortune follow and favor you, my brave lord,” Sunan said with a falsely obsequious bow.

Halloween Art Gauntlet

“He’s in there?” Thevan asked.

“Oh, he most certainly is, my lord!” Sunan replied cheerfully.  “My contact back in Felheart is a being of most reliable character, I’ll have you know.  I saw to that.”

Thevan continued to study the distant temple through the scope of his rifle.  Even in its dilapidated state, it was clear that it was not of any architectural style common to the Imperium.  He thought he could see some elements of Eldar influence, but time and neglect had made it difficult to be certain.

But even if he was looking upon evidence of xenos worship by the moon’s original inhabitants - original human inhabitants, you mean - that was not what Thevan found the most unsettling.  The environs surrounding the building were quiet, far too quiet for even the most desolate regions of this cursed world.  Even at this distance, he could feel a sense of emptiness enveloping the place.

The fact that he was looking for an Ork just made the whole situation all the more bizarre.

“Just find him and tell him to give you what he owes me,” Sunan continued.  “Though old Lugnak might require a bit of, ah, encouragement.  But I doubt a tetarto-god such as your lordship will have any trouble.  In the meantime, I’ll be making preparations for the next stage of our journey so that we may travel in the style and comfort that we both deserve!”

Wouldn’t that be a sight to see.

Best not waste any more time then, give our companion more opportunity to conjure his gilded chariot.  Thevan picked his way down the hill towards the ruined temple, his rifle kept at the ready.

The sense of nothingness kept gnawing at him as he drew closer.  Thevan felt a prickling around his hearts along with a heavy pressure from within, like he was trapped underneath a Rhino.  A hollowness encompassed his eyes, his vision becoming unfocused.

Thevan shook his head clear.  This place is cursed.  Let us conclude our business here and be done with it.

As he entered the shadowed streets surrounding the temple he discovered that the area was indeed inhabited, though “occupied” was likely a more appropriate term.  Several humans sat at tables by the remains of old cafes, still and motionless.  Others lay in barely dignified reposes atop piles of rubble, and more than a few simply laid on the ground, forcing Thevan to walk around them.  A couple slowly turned to glance at him as he passed by, but they made no sound or any gesture of greeting, returning to stare at nothing the moment he was more than a few meters away.  There was nothing but the barest flicker of curiosity in their eyes, no hint of warmth or hostility.  Just a soulless gaze.

No, not soulless.  Precisely the opposite.  The Outcast could sense something beneath the emptiness, signs of life amid the corpse-like stares.  But gentle psychic prodding at it only revealed a hot welling of pain and profound despair threatening to burst like an angry boil.  But it was the familiar, silent cry within that pain that shook her to the core.

Thevan continued to walk past them.  Leave well enough alone.

My kin are trapped here…

As are you.

But not like this.

What else can you do for them that we are not already doing?

…

Then let us move on.

Asking the denizens, Thevan felt, would’ve been pointless.  Thankfully, there were only so many places an Ork could hide, though he was still surprised when he finally found him just inside the temple.  Thevan estimated that Lugnak was slightly taller than the average Ork Boy, but somehow he managed to make himself look slight and fragile as he lay on his side on the temple floor, curled halfway into a fetal position.  The moment the Ork saw Thevan approach he actually flinched, slowly curling up as though he expected to be beaten.

Thevan shoved aside his astonishment and gazed down at the Ork.  “Lugnak,” he said in a whisper just loud enough for him to hear.  It seemed inappropriate to disturb the silence anymore than necessary.  “I am here to collect what you owe Sunan.”

Lugnak only responded by covering his face with his hands and giving a long, shuddering sigh.  He seemed to double over, as though there was a great pain in his stomach.

“Lugnak,” Thevan repeated, “your payment.”

The Ork’s hands balled into tight fists over his face, his entire body tensing.  Thevan stepped back into a ready stance, his hand on his chainsword, but when the Ork lashed out, it was not at the Lamenter, but at his own face.  Lugnak’s rage and frenzy only seemed to grow more intense with each strike, his green face becoming streaked with blood.  There was a sickening crack of bone as one of his tusks clattered away from him, yet he still continued to viciously bash away at his head.

Thevan stepped back, glancing around at the other people milling around them.  A few took note of the Ork’s self-violence, but no one moved to intervene or walk away.  After a moment’s hesitation, Thevan rushed forward, grabbed a handful the broken, bloody teeth on the floor, and ran further into the temple, not caring where he went so long as he couldn’t hear the Ork’s choking sobs.

Somewhere deep within the ruins, Thevan slowed to a stop.  He glanced at the teeth in his hand, still warm and slick with blood.  He drew in a ragged breath, trying to steady himself.  He had killed many Orks up to now, so why was this so disturbing?

Death is one thing.  Despair is another.

The Outcast shuddered.  And when death is denied, despair is all we have.

Thevan shook his head and took a step forward.  Not that I can do much except bring both to others.

I do not even have the excuse of being forged solely for that purpose.  Wherever I go, devastation follows.  They never should have let me come here.

But I only wield death for the sake of preserving life!  I fight so others may live!  So why do I keep failing to protect them?!

I couldn’t leave well enough alone.  At least out in the Void She would’ve only found me, not thousands of my kin!

There is nothing left here but damnation.  Even now I carry incontrovertible proof of my sins.  Why do I persist?

Now we are all trapped in an endless hell of death and corruption.  Nothing I do will change it.

I will only make things worse.

I might as well have never been here…

Thevan blinked his vision clear.  He stared his rifle lying on the ground at his knees.  The wet, chipped aquila on the receiver immediately drew his eye, practically out of reflex.  He reached a shaking hand towards it, desperately wanting to feel its familiar contours beneath his fingers, but he stopped.

My Emperor, Your gifts were wasted.

The Outcast let her hand drop to the ground, her fingers curling around a cobblestone.  Images of Lugnak flashed through her mind.  She couldn’t do what he did - you fled from the Path, and yet you entertain thoughts of being as brave as that Ork? - but maybe…it would be easy after the first blow…

This is stupid!

He roared in frustration, his fingers so tight around the stone that it might break from his rage alone.  He lifted it up, and…

He didn’t know.  He just flung it half-heartedly against the floor, a bestial, wolf-like growl emanating from his throat.

…wolf…?

Thevan whirled around, his rifle in his hands and braced against his shoulder.

With a start he found himself staring into the eyes of a monstrous daemon.

A Flesh Hound, he realized.  But this one was different.  Not only did it loom well over a meter over him, its scales were pitch black, giving it the appearance of a living, ethereal shadow.  Hollow, featureless white eyes stared down at him, betraying no hint of hunger or hostility, just a stark, predatory gaze.

Thevan felt…nothing…as he stared back at the monstrous creature.  The torn, ragged edges of his psyche fluttered slightly, but in his exhaustion he felt oddly serene.

Then a slight trickle of emotion dripped from the tatters.  Anger, sadness, mirth, rage.  He let them flow through and past him, but one in particular pooled within him.

Spite.

The Outcast stood up, the crude weapon in her grip never leaving its target.  Crude, but nevertheless suitable for her purpose.

To the Abyss with the Bearer of Lies.

The weapon roared and spat a single bolt of fire, the light and fury casting away the grey silence.  The explosion when it met its target was even more brilliant, washing out all sight and sound.

Thevan’s sight cleared in an instant, but there was nothing in front of him save for some tumbling dust.

I doubt the abomination is banished for good.

He nodded.  It was not nearly satisfying enough, anyway.

The Outcast’s grip on her weapon tightened.  At least I can still accomplish one thing, even if it’s only for myself.