Confrontation Part 3

In the mote-swirled shade of the STC command centre, Zarathustra and Auguste gazed at the flickering holo-clip bitcast by a servo-skull seconds before it, and the Seraphim scouts, were incinerated. As static-warped flame swirled over and over within the tall chamber that sat beneath the excavation site, there was a glimpse of a figure coalescing in the flame, reaching for the jagged thorns of the key – they stared hard at the winged crests upon its helm, the winged sword upon its pauldron. The figure’s ghost hand reached out over and again, flickered, returned, a second and a half stretched into eternity.

“Our Dark Angels…” Zarathustra muttered.

Auguste stared at him for a few moments, weighing the Librarian with his eyes.

“This world is a hell,” he said at last, “and all upon it insane. Let us pray we can end this nightmare with all haste.”

Zarathustra nodded slowly.

“I feel the key;” he said at length, “we are searching in the right place.”

“What we shall find remains to be seen…” Auguste said almost to himself, and took his leave.

Their shuttles and Stormravens, Thunderhawks and Stormtalons sped low and fast, wary of sensor and warp-sighted alike. To the west they went, towards their newly located quarry. There was no time for stealth, barely for caution.

In the hold of their transport, Zarathustra and Auguste braced themselves about the small vid-screen and watched the feed as it came in.

“What is it..?” Auguste breathed, disbelieving.

“Heresy,” Zarathustra spat.

The sputtering vid-feed seemed to show…what? It stretched across the landscape, a writhing, twisted sea of fur and claws, teeth, and armour; a swirling vortex of bristled muscle that twined about five nexus, armoured giants in deep green plate. Savage looking warriors in winter-sky armour prowled at the borders of the immense pack, eyes staring and devoid of humanity.

“Never, upon a thousand battlefields, have I seen the like,” Auguste said, “What monster has dreamt this madness..?”

“We will punish this affront to the Emperor’s great work brother,” Zarathustra replied coldly, eyeing the seething mass of Space Marine and giant, warped wolf-kind, “there will be no respite for these dogs.”

A siren rattled through the shuttle’s hold and the Stormraven banked hard as it began to approach on its attack vector. A moment’s doubt clouded Zarathustra’s certainty; the Seraphim were children of Sanguinius and carried his genetic curse within them. The Librarian was always watchful of his own mind, lest he find himself beginning a treacherous descent into the blood-crazed frenzy of his chapter. Here then he paused, aware that his actions were rash, and without care, for himself, his brothers or his cause. Was it madness? From within or without?

The key pulled, within his mind and his chest, and the doubts evaporated, gone from mind and memory.

“Brothers!” he announced upon the vox-cast, a grim smile on his lips, one scarlet fist curled about his axe-haft, “we are upon the enemy! Bring them down for the Emperor, for Sanguinius, and for Orlando! 

"To slaughter!”

He knew something was wrong the moment he set eyes on them. It was a gross insult to all that was natural, a living organism of disparate bodies, hundreds of feet in length. Strange blue warp-fire wreathed about it, always burning, never consuming. At its heart he felt the key.

Zarathustra had stood at the gates of the Palace of Woe, walked that nightmare path beside his Lord and Master; the key seemed to know this, seemed to recoil in some manner from him. Freed from its refuge beneath the stone it writhed and screamed to be away from him. The Librarian would not be denied.

Yet he knew something was wrong.

They charged from all sides, barrages of heavy weapons and bolter fire singing above and around them, air support swooping low to deliver deadly payloads before streaking away. The blue flames raged and the shots vanished, or seemed to be consumed, gone before they could find their targets. Where the flesh wall was struck, twisted fur and skin laid crimson and bare, the creatures seemed not to notice.

Zarathustra put a wordless cry on his lips and lashed out with all the force of his mind; it was like charging into a wall. Something held the immaterial strands of his psychic attack in check; a wing-helmed figure at the heart of the melee. A psychic force unlike anything the Librarian had known surged back at him, tore into him, shattered his mind into streaming tatters. He screamed and was down.

The massive horde-beast met their attack, countered and struck back like one vast duelling creature. Tooth and claw dragged Astartes down, one after another. Captain Auguste dropped at the head of a shrouded strike squad, piercing into the heart of the throng. Shining Sanguinary Guard charged its perimeter, Blades Encarmine whirling through azure flame.

Outside the press, scouts and tactical marines clashed with the grey clad warriors, feral Space Wolves, bereft of their honour and their sanity.

Auguste pushed to reach the librarians at the heart of the lupine mass; every well placed slash of his lightning claws was met with stinking fur before it could land on green ceramite. His men were being dragged down around him. His body was shaken and wracked.

The Hawk Lords and the Seraphim filled the vox casts with disquiet, and rage, and disbelief. The beast was impregnable, their attack in tatters.

With regret and frustration heavy in his heart, Auguste signalled the withdrawal. He triggered the boosters of his jump pack and sailed from the heart of the beast, leaving charred flesh and fur in his wake.

Interlude II

Interrogator-Chaplain Eufrayn stood rigid upon the bridge of The LionHeart, listening to the monotone chatter of systems reports and augur readings as his servitors relayed them. The planet, nameless and forgotten, hung in the viewports; looming, accusing.

“Where are they?” he asked, tone like the grind of metal.

Deathwing Librarian Epistolary Tormont, imposing in bone-white Terminator armour, face shrouded by a faded green hood, was silent a moment.

“Their vessel is concealed,” he said, staring out into the void with his third eye, “How and where, I do not know.”

They had located the wrecked vessel of the renegade librarians, along with Adeptus Mechanicus, and Space Wolf debris. They were tracking life signs on the planet surface, ascertaining whether or not they belonged to their quarry, or to that of the Inquisitor, Karstax. But the Seraphim vessel was missing. Eufrayn did not relish suffering an unforeseen ambush out here, at the heart of this dread mire of insanity.

A report then, in that same deadened monotone, of an incoming ship. Claxons sounded, gun hatches were unbattened, torpedoes readied. The ship slipped seamlessly onto a war footing.

“Calm y’selves, brothers,” came a crackled vox-hail that echoed through the chamber, “we’re no’ here for ye.”

“This time…” it added, almost as an after-thought.

“Identify yourselves, or we will destroy you!” Eufrayn bellowed.

There came a brief laugh, fading out and then back, distorted by the distance between them.

“Now, now,” the voice chided, as a sleek prow slipped into view, a vast grey wolf’s head fashioned at its fore, “I like yer fire son, but don’t make me spank ye.”

Eufrayn bristled, Tormont raised an eyebrow.

“Just steer clear o’ me an’ mine, y’ken?” the Space Wolf finished, almost jovially.

“Actually, no,” Tormont said then, “I have a better idea…”

Confrontation Part 2

For long weeks the two vessels, both Seraphim and Hawk Lord, traversed the gulf of real-space, carefully monitoring and avoiding the worst of the cyclonic violence that surrounded them. Despite the bold lilac and gold of their livery, the Hawk Lords were sons of Corvus Corax and waged their wars from the shade and shadows; their battle barge utilised arcane cloaking devices that Zarathustra jealously longed for his Techmarines to study. This shade field concealed the vessels from eye and augur, and Zarathustra’s sizeable Librarius Gnosis Conclave laboured night and day to hold at bay the strange psychic madness that infected the sector.

They heard it in every intercepted broadcast - ranting Tau, shrieking Eldar; they felt its malignant presence enclosing on all sides. It had the Hawk Lords in its grip when the Seraphim had intervened to assist against their Ork assailants; the calming bubble of sanity that accompanied Zarathustra’s vessel had gone a long way toward winning the Hawk Lord’s trust. The Librarian was convinced that the Key was at the heart of it all and hinted as such to Captain Auguste, commander of the Hawk Lords. He refrained from revealing the whole truth of his mission however – as far as their allies were concerned, restoring stability to the region was their primary objective.

The Key pulsed at the centre of everything; it drew in the madness as a collapsed star did light. Zarathustra followed its spoor.

The world was Terran grade and twin-mooned. It showed signs of prior habitation – ancient, frost-rimed satellites and orbital posts span silently along geo-stationary pathways – but it did not appear on any known star charts. Augur readings suggested the planet was largely lifeless.

Not entirely though. The wreckage of voidships hung in orbit, servitor-broadcast distress transmissions still emanating from them. The messages were broken and nearly unintelligible. Binaric cant bleated in loops from the surface, static ravaged warnings to stear clear of the planet. Zarathustra felt the Key’s pull and gave the signal to proceed.

Scout dropships, bearing proven killers from the conclaves of Shadow and Spite, peeled away towards the surface, inbound on co-ordinates provided by the Librarian. Captain Auguste dispatched auxiliary fighters to investigate the voidship wreckage, much to Zarathustra’s disapproval who saw any activity that did not directly aid them in recovering the key to be a waste of resources.

He did however take note of the reconnoitring Hawk Lord’s reports of emblems from the Space Wolves and a Dark Angel’s successor chapter of Astartes - alongside those of the Mechanicum of Mars - on the recently destroyed vessels with some interest.

Strike forces were organised and loaded into Thunderhawk dropships, Stormravens and Drop Pods; Zarathustra’s sizeable Librarius conclave remained on the Strike Cruisers, tasked with aiding their concealment and in keeping the madness at bay. When word came from the scouts, the Stigmata Seraphim and Hawk Lord’s command forces plunged like hail down into the planet’s atmosphere, while their voidships sank back into the blackness of the night, concealed amidst the detritus orbiting that forgotten world.

They put down in a hastily cleared dropsite, STC redoubts and firewalls erected by servitor ground-crews. Comms channels were cluttered by the mad and maddening binaric chatterings they had detected earlier. Translation was impossible – the broadcasts were little short of ranted gibberish.

The Seraphim scouts reported a force of Adeptus Mechanicus Archeologues, supported by a sizeable military force and a lance of Imperial Knights, patiently excavating a chamber some way to the north of the dropsite. The Mechanicus Maniple appeared to be the source of the transmissions. Clearly the madness had taken them. The key’s pull on Zarathustra’s mind left no doubt that they were excavating his prize. Time was short - they had to be stopped.

Captain Auguste asked if there was any sign of Adeptus Astartes forces present on-world, clearly mindful of the orbiting wreckage. The report came back – no.

It was clear that they needed to draw the Mechanicus and Knight forces from their excavation, and give a flanking force the chance to access the site unmolested. Seraphim Devastators of the Conclave of Fury, and Hawk Lord tactical marines, armed with lascannons and meltaguns and supported by a Librarian of Zarathustra’s staff, entrenched themselves on the high ground to the south of the Archeotech site; assault squads, assisted by sniper scouts of the Conclave of Spite, made their presence felt.

The response came with crushing speed and aggression; a gibbering Arch-Magos, flanked by cyborg Skitarii and bulky Kastelan Automatons marched forth, salvoes of fire streaking through the dawn air towards the marines. The Hawk Lords, clad in the last remnants of night, waited impassively. A trio of towering Imperial Knights, Reaper chainswords screaming to combat speed, and titanic Thunderstrike gauntlets crackling with pent-up fury, stomped before the Martians. They ploughed clods of earth the size of men from the plains and shattered stands of twisted trees into bright white splinters with their passing. The whole world seemed to shake at their tread.

They came as an inverse triangle, left and right, and their third bearing down hard upon the Librarian’s position in the centre. To the left a Hawk Lords tactical squad drove forward, seeking favourable position for their lascannon in an ancient stand of trees. Zarathustra’s Devastators lit up the dawn above their heads, blazing lasbeam and meltashot searing into the oncoming Knight’s flickering ion shield and ancient ceramite plate. Blinding flashes and molten sparks marked the points where their shots hit home.

On the right flank, the enormous armoured warrior laid eyes on a scout squad that sheltered amidst the shadows of an ancient bunker; with one swipe of its chainsword the Knight shattered age worn stone and forced the Seraphim into the open. The Knight brought its gauntlet around in a dismissive backswipe, crushing the marines explosively into the ruin. The squad sergeant, alone and alive, stood his ground and readied an armour-mocking melta bomb in his hands; with deceptive speed the Knight plucked him into the air and cast his burst remains away into the distance.

There were melta weapons in the hands of the tactical squad attached to the Librarian and he ordered them forward now to shore up the right flank. The Librarian strode ahead, hand outstretched, immaterial tendrils of raw warp energy beginning to coalesce as he sought to tear the armour from the Knight’s metal skeleton. The Knight stepped forward, wound up then lashed out with its other titanic foot. The Librarian’s Terminator armour flashed bright as his personal force field absorbed the blow – still the Knight's kick pitched the golden armoured figure through the air, a streaking comet in the morning sun, and he shattered a small twisted copse where he fell.

The barrage of Devastator fire engulfed the Knight on the left flank in a burning semi-sphere of light as it dispersed against the Knight's ion shield. The Hawk Lords stood their ground at his behemoth approach, las fire sparking from the Knight's framework. The towering Knight drew up before them, raised one enormous metal foot - as wide as the genetically modified marines stood tall - and brought it down savagely, again and again in their midst. Vox bursts rang with their death cries.

The Knight stamped the small copse of trees into a splinter-mist of wood and earth; loamy earth that sank beneath his piston driven onslaught. A figure in purple armour disappeared beneath the Knight's foot - then reappeared, clinging to a bundle of wires behind the Knight's armour plate, soft loam smeared across the bold colours of his power armour. The marine half dropped, half fell to the ground and retreated towards the devastators where, in testament to his psych-conditioning, he stopped, turned to face the Knight and stood his ground.

With a roar of insane litanies the Knight advanced on the Devastators; melta-fire burned into the Knight's chest plate as it loomed above the squad - reducing it to golden slag - seared through supporting skeletal struts, and ignited in the Knight's fusion drive. A small sun blazed for a fraction of a second deep inside the war-walker before it toppled, bisected, to left and right, screaming all the while. There was no cheer from the marines, no relief. The third Knight thundered towards them.

On the right flank the Hawk Lords tactical squad used the Librarian's sacrifice to advance, seeking to breach the second Knight's ion shield with their melta weapons. They drew up, insanely close, and began to unleash fire into its underside; flames lit and blazed behind it's armour. Still the Knight stood.

Shrieking in on golden wings, a Seraphim Stormraven dipped low on a scout plotted attack vector; las and melta fire battered the second Knight, a Stormstrike missile tearing away its chestplate. The Hawk Lords were brought a few precious seconds reprieve from the strike though, still, the Knight stood.

The Stormraven gunship tore across the battlefield. Targeting augurs zoned in on the approaching Arch-Magos and his attendants. The Stormraven's second barrage tore apart the ground around the cybernetic group, or sparked out on personal force-shields. A lumbering Kastelan Automaton spat a binaric incantation, faster than a man could think or see, and an incoming lasblast from the Stormraven's cannon turret rebounded back at the speeding gunship, tearing a hole through its tail. The juddering craft pulled up and away, limping over distant trees on a pall of smoke.

As the Devastators fell back in the face of the third Knight's onslaught; as the tactical squad fired over and again even as the second Knight began to stamp frenziedly down upon them; then Captain Auguste and his attack squad dropped from the skies and blazed bolt pistol fire into the Techpriests, Archeologues and servitors left to watch the excavation. Those that didn't fall to the close quarters gunfire died beneath lightning claw and chainsword.

And even as the gibbering Arch-Magos realised his error and sought to turn his retinue back, a squad of golden Sanguinary Guard, veterans of the Conclaves of Gnosis and Air, dropped down upon their flank and piled savagely into their midst.

The Arch-Magos screamed in fury; but too late. Captain Auguste had secured the excavation. Seraphim scouts charged in, melta bombs in hand, and recklessly blew the cold stone seal at the bottom of the archeotech pit into molten wreckage.

The scouts dropped in, followed by servitor skulls, vid lenses whirring in the darkness. A fraction of a second later it came, tearing down from the heavens in wreathes of blue flame. It shattered the site further where it struck, rippled the earth, and set Zarathustra's vox-channel abuzz with the screams of his scouts. They were extinguished almost as soon as they were issued.

With a thunderclap the blue flame burst forth from the wreckage of the archeotech site and sailed away to the west. In the shocked lull that followed only Auguste had the presence of mind to order the withdrawal. In the bright light of a new morning, cool air tinged by the pall of war, the marines melted away to their pre-arranged extraction sites.

Mournful binary bleats filled the airways, and then were silent.

Interlude I

Brother Gabriad, if you'd asked him, could not remember being ordered to probe the terrifying anomaly that had grasped this region of space; he could not remember his chapter for that matter, or his name. All that he held in his head was the Call that drew him forth. Those that answered it walked beside him. Those that did not were dispatched, brutally.

Those memories did linger, in their way. Cries of anger, and fear and pain. Blood on his hands, blood on his sword. Bodies wrenched apart with but a thought. The glow of satisfaction.

He was doing good work. Holy work. The Call was not to be heeded lightly. The hour was late, and enemies thronged on all sides. He must spirit his Master to sanctuary, lest he fall into the hands of the enemy. The stakes were not slight; the galaxy turned on the next few hours.

He remembered Angels, he thought, and Wolves. Blood and thunder. Death in the heavens. Twisted giants of muscle and fur wove about him and he felt at peace, for they heeded the Call also.

Then the Call came more urgently, for a time. The enemy had located his Master and clashed with another of the Master's servants. Gabriad tensed and listened and awaited his time.

It came as a scream of discovery amidst the fury of a careless explosion. The coiled spring of Gabriad's mind unravelled and he sailed an arcane sea of guttering blue flame, spurred by the Call.

A dust swirled chamber, then. Golden daemons, gawping at him with startled, bug-eyed faces. He burned them all.

Gabriad saw his Master, upon the stone dais where he had passed these aeons uncounted. He gathered his Master to his breast and uncoiled his mind once again, returning upon the blazing sea. It was not easy, and unnerving and beguiling tongues chittered in his ears. His Master kept him from them.

His Master would keep him from all.

Confrontation Part 1

The tournament is done, the games are over. A great time was had by all. Now comes the challenge of translating five random games, against random factions, into a workable narrative that fits within my overall story-arc. As it happens, the luck of the draw may have aided me there...

A short time previously...

Lions Castellant Interrogator-Chaplain Eufrayn stormed into the Battle-barge's docking bay, ancient gantries ringing with each step. He descended the steps to the bay floor at speed, and strode imperiously towards the interlopers, where they waited under armed guard.

"What," he barked, "do you want?"

"You will address me with civility and respect, or else find somebody who will," the Inquisitor remarked levelly. He was large, and filled his golden power armour like an Astartes born, but his face was lined with weariness and age; and something else, perhaps. Still, his gaze did not waver.

The dozen assorted miscreants that flanked the Inquisitor, a freakish rabble that raised Eufrayn's hackles with their very presence, also gazed at the Chaplain impetuously. Hiding behind their golden idol.

A tall figure in gleaming armour coloured like deep wine stood rigidly at the rear of the group, unreadable. Eufrayn wanted them off his ship.

"State your business Inquisitor -"

"Lord Inquisitor. Lord Inquisitor Karstax," he said with that maddening calmness.
"Civility, Interrogator-Chaplain. Respect."

Eufrayn clenched a fist.

"Lord Karstax, we have urgent business in this sector - matters of grave import, and I do not have time for -"

Karstax raised a hand to silence him and Eufrayn nearly spat. With the same laconic gesture Karstax beckoned forth a grubby looking military type in a red jerkin and straggly beard, who knelt at the Inquisitor's side and presented a beaten metal casket like some holy-of-holies. He opened the lid to present a small black wax seal, embossed with the thrice-crossed 'I' and skull of the Inquisitorial Ordos.

"Look," Karstax said softly, "this tells me that you have time. That your business can wait. I am requisitioning your ship and your forces in the name of the Ordo Hereticus. Right now a force hostile to the Imperium and bent on it's destruction is inbound, searching for an item of unspeakable power in that maelstrom of violence out there. I have allies approaching to intercept them but they are delayed. You are now my agents. You will strike at our foes in my name."

Eufrayn was silent. The timing of this was monstrous. A bizarre and nightmarish war had engulfed the surrounding sector - a Lions Castellant strike force had been lost in there, and alarming reports of the activities of four librarians that had accompanied them had reached him. It was imperative that they be extracted for interrogation with all speed, if possible without alerting any of the wider imperium to their transgressions. The Lions were as aware of the pressing need for secrecy as their founding chapter, the Dark Angels, and Eufrayn answered directly to the masters of the Rock.

An Ordo Hereticus Inquisitor on his ship was the last thing he needed. Best to remove him then.

"Yes my Lord Inquisitor, I understand," he growled, contingencies spiralling through his mind with some urgency, "Who is the target? What do they seek?"

"Knowledge is a weighty burden Chaplain, and I require that you move swiftly. Such burdens then are not yours to bear. Know this; a Strike vessel of the Stigmata Seraphim chapter of the Adeptus Astartes is inbound. I name them Heretica Execratis. Destroy them."

Momentarily, Eufrayn was taken aback.

"I know of them. They are said to be noble. What is their crime?"

Karstax snapped the casket shut and tapped the lid pointedly with his armoured finger in reply. Silently, the Inquisitor and his retinue turned and made to leave, threading back across the busy docking bay to their shuttle. For a moment Eufrayn was silent as he processed what he'd just learned. He watched the Inquisitor go.

"Inquisitor! My Lord," he called suddenly, "will you not join us on the hunt?"

"I am needed elsewhere," Karstax called back without slowing, "though I have every faith in your ability to follow my commands." Then they were gone, lost in steam and shadows.

The Interrogator-Chaplain cursed beneath his breath, span on his heel and stalked away to the bridge, armed guard at his back. An Inquisitorial command could not be ignored; but it could perhaps provide useful cover...
 

Confrontation: Prologue

I'm travelling south today to take part in my first Warhammer 40k tournament this weekend - a doubles event by the name of '1st Confrontation Alliances'. I'll be travelling with my friend and regular gaming cohort Jody, who'll be fielding Hawk Lord Space Marines, while I'll be taking my Blood Angel successor chapter the Stigmata Seraphim, who will be detailed quite extensively here in time. I thought this would be a great chance to weave a narrative about some games and fit it somewhere into my overarching 40k timeline. So without further ado...

Timeline M41.999

In the year 998 of the 41st millenium, Librarius Dominus Perfecti Galadrian, Chapter Master of the Stigmata Seraphim and self-styled Lord of Angels, decreed the Protean Crusade and sent his chapter forth. He was met with consternation from the Conclave Perfectus - the Blood Angels, sire chapter to the Stigmata Seraphim in the dark and distant days that followed the Horus Heresy, had issued forth a call to arms, for the sacred homeworld of Baal itself was under threat. Yet Galadrian would brook no dissent and his authority was well entrenched by then - the holy mission of the Seraphim was of more import than even this, he declared - and so the crusaders went.

So did the Carnivore class cruiser of Librarius Epistollerus Zarathustra and his Confrontation Conclave leave the immaterial nightmare of the Warp and shudder back into the void of realspace. Long had his passage been to reach this point, long and violent and blood soaked, and now, as blast shields rumbled from port viewers, and sensor arrays flickered online to reveal the strobe-beat augur icons of a grinding warzone spread about them, he closed his eyes a moment, and sighed.
Zarathustra called for a report, an identification of combatants. The list that came back was long, and bewildering.

The Key of Assai, that would unlock the gates of the Palace of Woe, was within his grasp; it called to his psychically attuned mind, from somewhere out there, out amidst the carnage. Had it drawn this spiral of violence about itself? Did it wish to remain out of his reach? At the inception of the crusade he had hand selected a small strike force, veterans and specialists every one, representatives of the Conclaves of Shadow and Spite, of Fury and Air, and they had served him well. Yet they alone would not be enough to traverse the conflict about them.

"We will need allies, if we are to fulfill our purpose here," he mused.

A servitor drone hooked into the sensor galley announced the identification of an engaged Astartes Battlecruiser, a short distance out to port. Hawk Lords.

Zarathustra rubbed his chin. A fine and noble chapter; they would serve his needs well.

"Hail the Hawk Lord's vessel," he commanded, "offer our assistance."

"What should I tell them?" he was asked.

"Whatever they need to hear," the Librarian replied, "except for the truth..."

An Explanation and An Introduction

I'll keep this brief because you've likely heard it before - I first encountered tabletop wargames at the age of 14 when a schoolfriend stuck a copy of White Dwarf under my nose in the middle of some lesson or other. This was a while ago, when all Citadel miniatures were cast in metal and had a certain quirky aesthetic to them. They were odd and marvellous, and seemed to defy their diminutive size with an overabundance of character.
The Orks got me first. That's Orks with a K, the space-faring, far future beasts, as opposed to their fantasy, C bearing cousins. Orks lived to fight, and rampage, and have their weapons explode in their hands, and laugh the whole time. Some of them were called Goffs. Orks looked great fun.
I never started an Ork army, and still haven't (yet - some things never leave you); reading further into the background of the galaxy that the Orks cheerfully swarmed across, I discovered the Imperial Space Marines, mankind's last hope for salvation in the dying moments of an epoch of dark horror. I discovered in fact one particular faction of Space Marines - the Blood Angels Chapter - and a lifelong obsession was born.
In this most overwhelmingly, ironically gothic of settings, the Blood Angels - to me - encapsulated the gothic theme almost entirely. A noble brotherhood of warriors (Space Marines are more like crusading knight orders on a galactic scale than the infantry grunts from Starship Troopers or Aliens, if you're not familiar), clad in fine baroque armour like towering Catholic idols, they're plagued by the tragic events that followed the founding of their order, and forever struggle against the darkness in their hearts, fully aware that their destiny will mean either sacrifice and death or a slow descent into blood thirsty madness. Honestly, what's not to love?
The Warhammer 40,000 game of which I write has always been more of an investment hobby, and amassing a playable army would have been a drain on time and money that I couldn't spare at that point. I regretfully moved away from that game, yet the richness and depth of the background stayed with me. The early, broad strokes of 10,000 years of tragedy and horror, and heroic last stands amongst the stars, that the hobby laid out back then had a resonance that has never faded.
My love for gaming never faded either, and neither did my love for rich backdrops and astonishing worlds to play in. A pre-Warhammer infatuation with the Fighting Fantasy books of Steve Jackson and Ian Livingstone became a love of tabletop roleplaying games - all the excitement of wargaming at a fraction of the outlay - and my collection of roleplaying books and manuals expanded. I played boardgames like Heroquest and Bloodbowl, RPGs like Cyberpunk and Vampire the Masquerade and always, always I was crafting additional stories to link the games together. The games became about the stories, and the stories spilled over so that I'd chronicle forgotten adventures or off-screen encounters on paper, riffing on my friend's characters and adventurers, keeping the tales flowing and alive.
This obsession with narrative still drives me, and emerges in various ways. One of those ways informed my return to tabletop wargaming about five years ago and how I was going to finally approach my army collections and the games that I played. Themes and narratives run throughout, and with my regular gaming group I'm constantly looking for the perfect fusion between strategy game and storytelling. The genius approach to worldbuilding taken by companies like Games Workshop, creators of Warhammer, was to leave enough gaps and story hooks in their universes that players could carve out their own little corner, tell their own tales there, create something new. It's an approach that I've fully exploited. Why play the Blood Angels when I can create a shadowy splinter-group from their distant past? Why attempt to play games featuring established characters with established timelines when I can weave tales all my own? The Warhammer 40,000 universe features a galaxy of one million inhabited worlds; the Space Marines alone stand at a thousand different chapters, most unnamed anywhere, and that's just a single playable faction out of a dozen or so. The potential in this one game alone is huge. I love potential.
Over the last five years I've accumulated quite a bit of extra material from playing  games in other people's worlds and I thought it about time that I kept it all somewhere.
I've named that place the Discordia Cascade. I hope that you enjoy reading of the tales, and campaigns, and characters that populate the various aspects of the Cascade, and that perhaps you gain some inspiration of your own from it. All content is created by players for players and there is no intention of stepping on anyone's toes in terms of intellectual properties and copyright. There are no riches to be had here - just ideas, shared freely.
Enjoy.