Editorial Note: The story appears to diverge at several points, due to Anonymous fagging things up. Rather than remove them entirely, they have been listed as Divergences. The main thread is considered to be Evil Queen Miko.
Summary for ADHD fags (ADHD is a srs mental disablitty gaiz pls dont make fun of it)
Writefags writing about drawfags taking over /tg/. Seriously.
The acrid words echoed off the concrete walls, muted ever so slightly by the paint and ink writ upon them. The central figure gazed behind her paper mask, before cocking her head.
"You have failed, once again."
There were other figures, behind the table, stirring in the dark, settling themselves down to watch the spectacle, of the chosen writefag's ignominious end. He huddled before them, stripped of words and will, sullenly staring down. The first, with the paper mask leaned forward, betraying no hint of emotion, "Why?"
"It was too much," he finally whispered, and at this tittering swept the Consortium, pregnant with mockery, inciting the writer to stumble to his knees to hiss back, "You've all gone mad! I may have followed along, but this, this is too fa-"
A stroke of a pen lashed across his back, causing the weak writefag to cry out, the crackle of broken metaphors ringing out like so much cereal underfoot.
"Be silent. Your cooperation is unnecessary," the paper mask leaned back, "Our plans shall still proceed apace."
"You-" The writefag crawled forward, in a puddle of ink, "It's...none of them will go with it, none, a human and Eldar breeding, it's, I'll, I'll-"
"They already have," the writefag's pupils dilated, as with a final word whatever hopes he had were quashed, "They've named her Lofn. Take him away!" she imperiously commanded, "Throw him in the Mi-go vats, along with the other garbage."
"After all I've done!" Wheezed the pathetic figure, as the vast bulk of a Necron Lord and the Commissar dragged him off.
"All you've done?" The mask turned, to gaze one last time on the doomed one, "You misunderstand. You were an experiment, a test, to see what effect writing would truly have - and it only confirmed what we knew all along."
"All anyone pays attention to are the pretty pictures."
One last cry echoed through the room, then all was silent. Another irritation removed from the Consortium's agenda.
"Did he give you much trouble," remarked the paper masked figure, idly scribbling a dark haired figure across part of the table.
"None at all; soon as he dropped in the water, there was a quite a, heh, red BLOOMing in the water!" The Commissar grinned around at the room, but his joke found no hold. He gave a glance to the Necron beside him, but found nothing there either, "It, uh, it, eh, forget it."
The both took their seats, awaiting for the central figure to call the meeting to a close.
With a final slash, a thin line of a pursed lip, and the woman cocked her head in consideration - no. She shook her head, rubbing out the scratchings with her thumb. Not nearly good enough.
"Gentlemen, my thanks for helping me tend to this matter - I would have done it myself, but I felt it would be best if all knew of this decision - after forming our bloc, it would be imprudent to complete such acts without everyone being aware of it. I am as beholden to the rules as any of you, and I am just as willing as any of you to see that any obstructions to our goal are eliminated. I fear though there is little else that needs doing, I ask only that Jeanstealer, in the care of lolcron, be taken to sup/tg/, to see our wishes fulfilled there - I have no orders for the rest of you, you are all doing admirably. There is no revision necessary, save-" And at this the woman's paper eye fell upon a small, nervous, well-endowed girl who shriveled in fear under their leader's gaze, "...Strange." The head conspirator stood, her voice honeying the words with subtle meaning, "Must have slipped my mind. No matter."
"The Consortium is adjourned."
"I didn't think she'd go through with it," murmured the man, his ocular implant buzzing and ticking, glancing down to the figure underneath piles of scarves and rags walking next to him, "I mean, I KNEW there were tensions, but-"
"You presumed she valued another? Much less, a writer," the thing shuffled forward, muffled laughter coming out as clicks beneath the embroidery, "It's a wonder you've lasted this long, to presume our Great Leader has empathy."
"It's not- I wouldn't- I wasn't-" His protestations might have continued, had he not felt his calf pinched between the claws of his short companion.
"Shhhh," The red eyes were now visible in between the folds of fabric, "Not so loud."
With some emphasis, the shorter figure looked to the corner, and slowly the buzzing implant of the taller followed.
In the corner, obscured by a veritable hillock of crayons, and the faded denim pants atop its head, the small four armed figure could be seen, shading, drawing slowly with visible intent, a tongue sticking out of its recurved mouth with concentration, a mysterious creature, reminiscent of an armadillo. But slowly, its eyes turned, gazed up at the pair caught in the middle no cover, no help. The tongue slid back into the chitinous mouth, as it slowly opened-
Then, a tap on the shoulder. The thing glanced up- the necron stood there. It bounded up, racing past it, a strange noise bubbling out of it, bounding forward past the large bulk as it followed.
The pair relaxed, breathing and enjoying air before the taller of the two whispered, "I don't know where it gets the courage to even, even touc-"
"You don't know how far it can hear," interrupted the smaller, eyes dead set on the mismatched duo retreating.
The old man blinked, narrowed his eyes as he sat up, brushing off the slow, opened mouth creatures that seemed to congregate upon his person any time he held still.
"Do one a favor and suddenly you have to do them all a favor," grumbled the man, as he carefully peeled one of the wetter ones off of himself, then with a sigh gathered the pieces of it into one glob and dropped it on the floor in some disgust.
"If you hold still that long in plain sight you can expect that to happen," muttered the woman, as she sat next to the old man on the bench, brushing it clear of a particularly aggressive and spiky looking creature.
"Hmph, better n' hiding like-" The old man stopped, turned, frowned. There was a paper mask of a green figure with a question mark upon him. Hammer frowned, pursed his lips, and considered the figure.
After a time, the woman spoke again, "Yes, yes it's me."
"Oh," the man's eyebrows beetled down as he turned away, "What do you want then," he mumbled, reaching his hand into a bag of crumbs, tossing them to the gathered slowpokes. The mostly bounced uselessly off the motionless figures.
"I just wanted to say that it was good to see you at the consortium," remarked the woman, eyes locked on the shitstorm on the horizon, "I thought you'd come around eventually."
One of the slowpokes on the ground, tipped on its side cried out in surprise.
"Was anon's will," the old man gave a curt glance to the woman, "Or at least what anon thinks his will was."
"You make the claim of obeying anon's will?" The paper mask seemed to twitch with a smile, "After your times in the /b/?"
"You weren't there!" Snapped the old man, turning with some fury before realizing who he was talking to and resettling himself, "You weren't there, it used to be-"
"Oh but I was," whispered the woman, with an edge that wasn't present in her voice before, "I WAS there- do not dare to try to rob me of that. I know what was produced in those times," She leaned back, "And I wanted to make something better."
The old man snorted, "Pshuh! This? Better? Don't make me laugh, just because you were weak and you couldn't get anything but the occasional fap on a tit, you rejected it!"
"You came here too, Hammer."
"It, it, it had changed," he mumbled.
"Oh but I don't think it was the board that changed," The woman leaned back, the low thrum of a copter on the horizon reminding her that her time was precious, "How have your attempts to get something from anon been, Hammer?"
The woman chuckled, the wind from the rotors causing her long hair to whip about, "Superman cramming coal into his penis." She shook her head, stood, "You'll like it better in the Consortium. Anon still gets what it wants- even if it isn't what it asked for."
"Shush, and go back to feeding your slowpokes. I have a lead on where Mazed is," she said with a wave of her hand, "And try to draw a catachan!" She shouted over the din of the copter as she boarded it.
The old man sat there for a time, gazing on the slowpokes. Then he left.
An hour after that, one said, "Oh wow! Crumbs!"
Consortium, Part Two
There was a long wait to see Bloogah!, and Miko alone wasn't waiting. She had modified her dress to be less anonymous, instead choosing the identity of a marine. She understood he held sympathies for that line of ideas; at least, judging by the portfolio she had picked up off the streets and walls of /tg/.
She was not the only one though; surrounding her, endless tides of green anonymous were awaiting, but here and there, there were others. Some dressed in hollow eyed squirrel suits, others clad in the latest fad, and one, disturbingly.
She frowned behind the mask, eyes flicking up and down the person.
"Bloomtime." What did that mean?
"I'll see Miko now," Resounded from the front of the hall, and immediately there was a twitter of conversation radiating outwards from the entrance. She kept herself low key, but with the power she was gaining, it was simply impossible to be hidden all of the time. Though, it was a bit unnerving to be so swiftly labeled, but she hadn't put any real effort into it, so she set aside the fact that she had been affected.
She stood, turned smartly, and set down the hall past the tide of green faces, stepping on delicately laid murals and marble slabs depicting the Angry Marines. "Move, fa/tg/uy," she commanded unnecessarily to one of the larger anon. She was pleased to see that they were accepting the title. She hadn't been the one to propose it, but she had seen it, through the Consortium's influence, into being accepted.
With a grin, she passed the doors, into the attending hall. It vanished, when she actually saw Bloogah!, grinning wetly, splitting the bristled fur on his face.
"Furry," she breathed. She could not hide her disgust.
"Oh dearie dearie me," announced the creature as he leaned back on his chair, spreading his paws, "You've found me out. You haven't really done your research, have you dear?"
Miko cut her retort short, and paused, "I...Had not felt it necessary to pursue the lives of artists outside of /tg/," She cocked her head, "Then the Angry Marines-"
"I'm a fan of them," replied Bloogah!, sitting up, "I don't just draw great big yiffing piles of squirrels, dogs and cats, you know," the grin broadened, "Though I assure you I can draw a mean-"
"Enough," she replied curtly, still standing.
He raised his hideous hands, "My apologies, I did not mean to offend your sensibilities- I believe you asked to see me, didn't you?"
After some time, Miko slowly nodded, "Yes, yes, it's about my-"
"I would call it only a gathering of like minded drawfags in order to...Foster a more palatable environment for our ideas."
"Mmf," murmured Bloogah!, as he reached to a side table for a glass of something foul, "Make sure everyone's on the right page."
"Yes," She blinked slowly, "I already have the majority on my side."
"You wouldn't try to crush me, then, and be done with it?" Bloogah! smiled, "It certainly wouldn't sound good to have my kind in your ranks."
"No, but I feel it would be worse to waste more of my time and resources on suppressing things I quite frankly approve of," Miko indicated the wall length tapestry to her left, "Our aims are the same. This is a mere formality. All this would mean is that you would be invited to meetings you wouldn't come to."
"And I'd support your works when the time comes. Especially with things between you and Bloomwriter."
"Yes," A pause, "And there is NOTHING between me and Bloomwriter."
Whether or not the emphasis was clear, Bloogah! did not reveal. He smiled all the same.
She refused refreshment. She could not tarry in her work.
"I don't like the way we're going about things," murmured Drawfaggit as he leaned up in the tower, gazing at the streets filled with milling green anons below.
"What way?" Grunted Drawanon, as he dragged his brush up another step.
"Well," considered Drawfaggit, scratching at the back of his head, "This."
"Oh the faces yeah," mumbled Drawanon. Another awkward pause reigned over the proceedings before he managed to roll the brush to the top, and he panted for a time before continuing, "Well, it's like a signature when you're painting right? They'd know it was you even if you didn't have the name."
"It just feels a little-"
"Hey help me get this thing up here," Drawnanon shifted the brush towards Drawfaggit as he leveraged it up.
"Engf, yeah, it feels a little like we're setting ourselves up for something, building our, god damn you dip the ink in lead, building ourselves up for something that'll end badly."
Drawanon considered this, nodded, and then with great profundity said, "I'd rather end badly tomorrow than today."
"Ain't that the reasoning of a coward?"
"It's the reasoning of a guy ordered to smear a dude when he comes walking by, oh would you look at that."
Morgan frowned. He hadn't been a namefag for long, but he totally pwned some noob who posted a shitscribble about a sexy catachan the other day, and was feeling good. Was this an adoring fan?
Morgan complied, just in time to see a good three ton brush run him through.
They could still hear the squelching and the screams from below from below when Drawanon proposed they get some Tandoori.
"The Bloomtime is soon," whispered one of the sodden fa/tg/uys huddled in the alley, rocking back and forth in his LCB pages, "He'll c-c-c-c-come soon, I know he will."
"Lol," said a passing /b/tard, "He said come."
Carefully, the cyclopean figure considered the scene, flipping the unlit cigarette through his fingers. Despite the piss drizzle, a run off from the oncoming one million get's shitstorm (It was a ways off, but nomadic /b/tards were used to a far faster board, and came anyway), the man was still. Watching.
He walked through /tg/, gazing at the walls, the signs across the windows, stealing literature. The house on the hill, Castle Suptg was growing, but it didn't interest him all that much. The themes were merging, noted the man, as he rolled the cigarette. There was a power moving things, and a name he kept hearing.
Miko. Creator of Love Can Bloom.
"rape kekekeke" murmured the Chink, as he brought the cigarette to his mouth.
Her eyes snapped open, as she stood bolt upright, leaping off of the desk she was sleeping on.
"What? I, I," She shook her head, "I'm sorry, I was sleeping," She waved her hand in front of her face, as if to dispel what sleep remained, "Terribly sorry Jaekyu."
"It's no problem- I just figured you'd want to see the report is all."
"Report? Oh, yes, right, report. Give it here and show yourself out, Jaekyu."
With a slight bow, a scant few footsteps, and the click of a door swinging shut Miko was left alone with the folder full of loose papers.
From Jeanstealer, lilac paper with crayon on it, describing that the first phase was well under way, that she would advise a move to IRC because she couldn't stand Meebo. Lolcron's report, though cleaner, mirrored Jean's.
B&Hammer 40kun hadn't given up on anon in its entirety quite yet, but still had given some support for the main meme of Love Can Bloom, even if it was tenuous half approval jocularity.
Bloogah! sent her a love note. It fell into the garbage, unopened.
Drawfaggit and Drawanon each cast speculations of treachery upon another separately, though they both had gotten rid of another wretched namefag. Still able servants.
Scriptarius though...His pedophilia would cause problems, she did not doubt. For now, she set aside his report, to consider further developments and matters.
The great work she had started was on the cusp of fruition. She glanced out her window, and then with some uncertainty, pried off her mask.
The shitstorm on the horizon was approaching. One million was still far away, but even now piss drizzles would come over the city. She sighed, somewhat content. After one million, a golden age. All of her work, all of her preparation.
Yards away, sitting in the gutter, urine washing past his shoes, the smiling Chink stopped a passing anon.
"WANNA SEE SOMETHING??"
Screams echoed into the night.
"It was, like, a chestburster in his, er I mean, her, I mean, god I don't know what, but it was in its penis."
The crowd glanced amongst one another, as the horrified anon kept talking.
"and, and, it was in mid burst- right when the veins, and the skin, and the everything was at its most TAUT, and you could see in one of the tears...Desu eyes."
The assembled glanced amongst each other, murmuring in various states of arousal or horror as Drawanon and Drawfaggit exchanged knowing glances underneath anonymous masks.
"Did you save a copy?"
"What? W-W-Why would I save that shit?"
"Okay, do you have a name? Any clues as to who he is?"
"Well. He talked, like a crazy guy. Yelling all the time, mispronouncing words..."
"IN ALL CAPS?"
"Yeah I think I've seen him-"
Drawfaggit and Drawanon had heard enough, as the conversation fell into bullshittery and jokes.
"We'll have to tell the Consortium."
"Shouldn't they know?"
"Hammer's too addled from /b/ to tell this as anything different from the usual- he might even start taking pointers from him. Lolcron and Jeanstealer are hanging around in suptg, and Bloogah!..."
"Come on, there's shock images here, all the time," Drawanon butted in, waving his hand, "Goatse hits nearly every Saturday, there was that flood of doll fucking gifs, the scrotum Christmas bag..."
"...Yeah, you're right," Drawfaggit shrugged, "Probably nothing."
They marched away from the gathered thread, passing the smiling, one eyed oriental as they walked away, putting the traumatized anon from their memories.
"...And the Lofn project needs to be properly germinated in the populace BEFORE one million GET," finished Miko, flicking the folder shut with a bit of contempt, "And TRY to suppress this thread necromancy nonsense, it's getting old fast. Now if that will be all-"
Chairs squalled and scratched concrete floor as all involved stood, pushing against the table, eager to get away- save for Hammer, glancing around, rolling an untouched apple in his hand.
"Kharnwriter's acting up."
Everything stilled, for a time before Miko continued, "He's a writer, he hardly matters to me one way or another, or to /tg/ in one way or another."
"I'm just saying," the old man said, looking up at her, "He's being a bit of a thorn," the apple rolled in his hands, then was lifted to his mouth, "He might be inoculating the populace to Lofn," the bagged eyes weighed heavily on her, as the Hammer took a bite of his apple.
All eyes turned to Miko, caught in mid standing. Considering.
"...How active is he."
Hammer shrugged, his face stretching out in exaggerated uncertainty, "I'm not sure, but I've seen trickles of copypasta coming back in force- some of it taking a less than positive view of you and Bloomwrit-"
"Enough. If he has a problem with Bloomwriter's work, I can't be bothered to intercede on the behalf of a dead writer. Things continue apace."
The meeting adjourned, each one of them their eyes caught on the darkening horizon, jagged lines of nerd rage bouncing and splashing across the dark mass. The shitstorm of one million GET approached ever closer, and their work increased to a fever pitch.
...Yet, even with the shitstorm far away, inside of /tg/ there was a surreal feeling; beneath banners proclaiming the Bloomtime was nigh, through the strange copypasta blowing on the streets, and past the shadows of dead threads pregnant with trolls, there was something worrying in the air.
The sobbing filled the small room, reverberating off the tight walls. Like music it stimulated the two observers as they watched their charge with a look not unlike hunger. Despite his ancient machinery and long dead machine brain, Lord Lolcron was touched by the ghostly feeling of arousal. He looked to his left and found The Commissar returning his gaze. They nodded in understanding. The sobbing stopped and Bloomwriter realized that his captors were standing over him.
He looked first in confusion, then shock and finally horror as the Necron Lord brandished a rusted pole that creaked as it rose to 2 o'clock, little pieces of corroded metal jutting out like splinters. The Commissar, not to be outdone, slipped on a condom with iron studs the size of a thumb, twisting it onto his foot long man hoist with great care. As the rubber band snapped around the end of the meat shaft the red eyed Bloomwriter winced, eyes beginning to moisten.
"You take the back, Xenos scum?" The Commissar asked, grinning from ear to ear. Lord Lolcron nodded enthusiastically for a centuries old machine.
The door closed behind them with a resounding thud.
Divergence: Grimdark Harry Potter End
The Woman grinned to herself as she walked through the obsidian halls. She had done well. Slipping from the public eye, the freedom of plebeian scrutiny had allowed her to slip behind her rivals. Allowed her to attached puppet strings to all. All moving to the same tune, the same puppet master. The same puppeteer who wrote the script.
She allowed herself the rare pleasure of a small giggle.
"How unprofessional." Someone tutted.
Miko looked around for the source even as Jean detached herself from the shadow of a nearby crevice. Even through the faceless plastic of her curve hugging body suit, Miko's irritation was plain to see.
"Quite. Don't you have something to do?"
Jean giggled, unworried. Miko tensed as silent alarm bells went wild. "No, I don't think I do."
Miko drew back, drawing one of many concealed weapons into the palm of her hand.
"You're small time Jean, nothing more than a puppet." Miko sneered.
Jean jumped back in mock shock. "Oh noes! The big bad Miko is coming to get me!" She giggled again, wilder and louder this time, bouncing off the black stone walls to form a haunting echo. In the distance, a groaning began.
"You see Miko, you thought you could tame them. Train them. Make them dance, sing, play." Jean tutted again. "You taught them love Miko, made them forget who they were."
Jean paced around Miko now like a cat watching a squirming mouse.
The groaning in the distance grew louder, closer. Jean laughed now, no need to hide her growing amusement.
"Ah Miko. It didn't have to come to this. Just one piece of encouragement. Just one nice Guardsman. Just one HOT DICKING." Jean was sweating now, a vein on her forehead bulging. She advanced on Miko, claws drawn.
"DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I WAITED? HOW LONG UNTIL YOU TIRED OF YOUR TOYBOYS?!" She drew back from Miko, breathing deeper. "All for what? A pair of jeans?" She said sadly.
The groaning in the distance was getting closer. It was a cacophony of noise, like a thousand nails over chalkboards. "You see Miko, you may have taught them love. But I..." Jean laughed. "I made them remember hate."
Miko, tense as a string, unwound making to strike the gloating Jean with a flung blade. It struck deep into the stone work behind Jean as the Tyranid Hybrid dodged it with ease.
"I think I'll watch from somewhere safe. Goodbye Miko." And with that, Jean disappeared into the dark abyss that was the hall rafters. Miko cursed, making to follow Jean.
A rough hand grabbed her. She made to break free but she found it strong. Too strong for any human, unless...
She peered into the eyes of her sheep, now turned wolves. She pulled out another blade, slicing off the offenders arm. Another body pushed into her from behind.
Behind her another mass of her flock turned deadly. Where once they had been happy to accept anything now their eyes burned with hatred, a rage pure and righteous. As one, the angry masses attacked.
She flipped and spun and danced but eventually even her sharp blades dulled, her trained muscles tired. As the mob pressed in on her she could make out one furious voice over the many.
"THAT'S RIGHT BITCH. EAT IT. WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY NOW YOU MOTHERFUCKER! WHO'S THE BOSS NOW BITCH, WHO'S THE BOSS NOW!"
And as she slipped into the oblivion she had so unwittingly created the last thing she heard was gloating laugh of a Tyranid Hybrid gone mad.
Jean laughed, laughed even as the hidden palace was torn apart from the inside out. As the rage filled populace tore through the halls and its inhabitants, hidden or not.
Screams rippled through the air but they all seemed like a joke now. Jean laughed till she cried, rolling between the rafters as she struggled to contain her own amusement. A fire started in some distant corner. A timber beam cracked. Even with her fast reflexes Jean only managed to claw at the surrounding rafters as the one she was lying on collapsed. She fell to the stone floor with an undignified thump.
She groaned. As she opened her eyes to stare at the world, it stared back. She gaped in horror as she realized she had landed in a mass of the people run amok. For a moment they looked at her confused. Then one tensed, became the tell tale tomato red, steam rising from the ears.
"SHITCOCKFUCK," It screamed, yelling at the top of its lungs.
The rest of the mob followed, everyone braying, everyone hungry for blood. Jean screamed as they descended on her.
And so the drawfags and writefags were no more. Once mighty rulers in the land, their hunger for more had driven them to their own anhilation, the angry masses rising against them.
Few survived the following cullings, the raids and the witch hunts. Of those that did live through the turbulent times eventually found places in the community. A small drawing here, a slash fiction there, making a living. Surviving. Even fostering children, men and women to follow in their footsteps.
All of whom dream of a glory age once past, never to return. But dream they do, a dream fierce, bright and promising. And one day, some distant far off place, perhaps they will find the courage to do more than dream.
But that is a story for another day.
Despite the hard chitin carapace covering, and the four legs drumming across the wood board floor, the Jeanstealer could be quiet. Quiet enough to evade the notice of the small man with the outrageously large hat rimmed in dark candy ropes.
The man tottered about underneath a pile of tools, pulling, yanking, hitting the mess of pipes and wires that seemed to surround him at every turn, here in the heart of his castle. No one had been at the door to bar entry for the Jeanstealer, and aside from the singular Lord, there was no one in sight. Her recurved line in the center of her skeletal face split, revealing rows of acid teeth, as she crept closer, and closer, and closer-
Regrettably, a poorly welded pipe gave way, sending her falling from the ceiling, smashing to the floor, giving enough racket to tip even the clueless owner of the home off that something was amiss. In a blink, the Jeanstealer sprang, placing her above the mystified fellow, arrays of tooth and claw set to tear him to pieces-
"Hello?" The wide hat beneath her turned left and right, trying to find the origin of the noise, "Someone there?" He would have been dead three times over, were it not for the sight, behind some poorly washed glass of lolcron looming. He shook his head. She in turn, rolled her eyes, and with some regret, the Jeanstealer retracted her claws, hid her teeth, and dropped to the floor loudly and clumsily. She then rolled over when she was certain she had caught the fool's attention, rubbing her head.
"Hm?" The Lord turned, then brightened on seeing her, "Oh hello, hello, hello! Welcome! Come in! Beunos dias! Eh erm, Vilsturkin? Eh, whatever anyway come on in- well, you're already in, so hello! Welcome to my place- I say, did you fall?"
"Hee," She shut her eyes, and broadened her smile, "I made a whoopsie, sorry about that mistah," She opened one eye, "Eh, sorry, sorry, who are you again?"
"Oh well, I'm the Lord of Licorice," Said the man, tipping his head, "And this is my castle, suptg, miss...?"
"Jeanstealer," She smiled, as she stood, "You can call me Jeanstealer."
Lolcron lingered at the window for a moment, before marching off, leaving forever engraved in the wall a blast shadow of a witness. Things were proceeding to plan.
"And this is the Meebo chatroom!" Proclaimed the Lord of Licorice with some pride.
A cluster of large, doughy faces glanced up, pale and bleary in the glow of the youtube link, before setting their heads to stare back at Tally Hall Me Banana.
"Who the **** is this?"
Jeanstealer frowned, looked over at the Lord of Licorice who continued on blithely, "This is Jeanstealer! She's a draw***, and, uh, she wanted to see the /tg/ resource page," the Lord gave a shrug. "She seems nice enough."
"***" Said one of the more animate ones in the far corner.
"Shut the **** up Issyl, I swear to **** if you **** this up for us I will **** in your ****hole****** *** ****."
"Okay, what the **** is going on?" Asked Jean, before pausing.
The Lord shrugged, "Eh, I just rent this thing. Aside from the vid, it has its problems."
Pettan Pettan Tsurepettan played on the vid, as Jeanstealer's smile grew frozen and forced.
"I'd **** raymoo in her ***. As a kind of revenge, not out of any sort of lust."
This was going to be a long mission.
"I swear to fuck I will kill the asterisk," murmured Jean as she marched along behind lolcron, "I just spent three hours locked in a tiny, smelly room hearing the same stupid songs over and over again as they talked about their fucking dream starships. I can't-"
Lolcron looked back, a look of empathy on its face, leading Jeanstealer to sigh and roll her eyes, "Yes, yes, you're right, have to do this for the job," she mumbled.
"Let's just pick up some fanfiction on the way back so we can get some fa/tg/uys raged to death when we're in town, alright?
Lolcron spread its arms in an exaggerated expression.
"Oh don't be like that. C'monnnnn," she bounded forward, wrapping herself around one of the outstretched arms, "It'll be fun! I saw one, about, like, these tyranids that were domesticated by some furry barbarians, and like, they found out the tyranids were SAD, so like-"
The duo marched away from Castle Suptg, as the ever frenetic Lord of Licorice crawled across the construction, attempting to get the archive function working.
Taldeer had always taken solace in the less travelled paths of the Craftworld, wandering through towering spire that reached towards artificial sky, the twisted maw of the Eye of Terror hidden from view. She needed to clear her thoughts and to will her nagging conscience to imagine she did the right thing, to lie to herself so that the weight of her own selfish world did not crush her.
Such solitude was not to be on this dread night, and the raven-haired Farseer heard them before she peered about a corner. A ring of Black Guardians stood about the aptly titled monkeigh-hole that led to the craftworld's myriad of waste disposal pipes. Their catapults were engaged, the runes of battle glowing faintly by their triggers. Someone else was with them, garbed in a specialist suit to protect the wearer from harm or infection, clambering his way out with something tucked under his arm.
Taldeer was curious, but her powers of foresight seemed to will her in place, clutching the side of the softly thrumming alleyway in equal parts curiosity and concern.
"In all my years on the path of sanitation maintenance," the specialist sighed, "The system has never flushed out something like this."
"Be careful with that," one of the guardians spoke warily, his stance betraying his previous time in the aspect of the Dire Avengers, "Just because it isn't violent yet-"
Taldeer squinted, peering to try to make out the shape of what it was the worker held. One of the other guardians made it easier, brushing a rune on his chest-plate that activated his shoulder-lamp, casting a soft light across the retrieved entity. Everyone about it but the worker took a backwards step in revulsion.
It pulsed and writhed, alive and cooing with guttural noises from an indeterminate orifice, its misshapen and many limbs wriggling, its many eyes squinting against the light that shone upon its sickened form.
"No..." Taldeer's voice choked, and even though none else there heard it, her mutated child defied its lack of ears, and pointed all its horrible form in her direction, and squealed with a sound that would have curdled milk.
Though the assembled Eldar never saw who it was that responded to the thing's cry, all knew it as a wail of a heart breaking into ever-more tiny pieces, of madness and torment. The thing was kept for study and then disposed of when it was determined to be the spawn of man and eldar, its existence kept quiet to spare the unknown owner of their shame.
To those that dealt with it before it was incinerated, the thing was named after the sector of the sewer that the beast was found in.
Divergence: Sigmar Redux
There was a tense moment, before the tears faded and determination was granted a foothold to allow the farseer to perform the deed. Taldeer's pale hand trembled just out of reach of the Ritual Stone of Flushing, her shameful cargo deposited already in the Bowl of the Night Grimace. All about her played the gentle humming of the souls that passed all through the ship's every fold and end. Would they allow her to join them when her time came? They would know, no matter how she tried to hide it the Craftworld; Ulthwe would know.
The shame almost saved the existence of the spawn, had it squirmed in the water of the bowl, had it not opened frog-like eyes all over its misshapen skull to look at its birth-mother... had it not wiggled the appendage that inexplicably poked from its belly.
It gurgled, and struggled to touch its mother. It called out to her with a strained and sickened cry. In that moment fear was all that was needed to push Taldeer to activate the rune on the stone.
The seer was broken at that point, the final act of disowning her child sending her crashing to her knees, bawling in depths of despair that no Eldar had explored in the longest time. The thing that was her child spiralled from view, and in time would be deposited cold and dead in space.
Two stalls down, Belairus of the Singing Blade Banshees was relieved... she wasn't the only one who tried the enchiladas, apparently.
The story of the spawn of Taldeer and the human was not over however. In its cold state it would hurtle through space, gathering debris to itself slowly to form an almost protective layer about it. That it was dead there was little doubt, but in time it would enter silently into the system of Loforia, where an exodite world had fallen under attack by the work of the ruinous powers.
Though Biel-Tan mustered to aid the planet they would arrive too late to save their people, scant seconds after an attack by Chaos Space Marines would have swept through through the major tribal city of the Exodites.
But it was there, as surprised Eldar scurried about arming themselves and the Defiling Lord Belthemon strode to a nearby hill to look down on his rich targets that the debris clad spawn entered the atmosphere, its body and shell burning up in the atmosphere as it roared ever downwards like a shining comet.
Belthemon's entire head was removed as seemingly from nowhere Taldeer's child struck him solidly in the face whilst he roared praise to his dark lords. In the confusion of their master's death the Space Marines fled... and found themselves mopped up brutally by the Swordwind Host that arrived soon afterwards.
This moment of seemingly divine aid passed into the legend of the system, a moment called Lofn, the Saving of Loforia.