User:Wammnebu/Midhammer 40k Stories and rds/Lotarra Angron mh40K
Go to Slave to Rage Angron's fall to Chaos during the Great Treachery
The Golden Honey
“But Cadia still stands?” Angron asked. “We can no longer hope it will,” replied Lorgar's exhausted shadow. “Of course, Perturabo insists that his fortress is a mathematically impregnable perfection, and that "The mindless masses of man could not capably conceive to concoct a stratagem sufficient to succeed and subdue my citadel.” Their brother, polymath and Viceroy to the Prince of Excess, likely said this with the rhythmic cadence that accompanied all of Perturabo's speeches, but the embattled and weary Lorgar repeated each haughty boast like items in a cargo manifest of hubris. The shadow was perfectly still. “I have my doubts about its capabilities, and after Macharios, even more about its actual purpose. I will not sacrifice the eye for Cadia.” Angron nodded at this, leaning back in his chair. He shifted the weight towards a contemplative position, with his left arm leaning on the armrest of the golden and marble seat, embossed with defaced Aquila’s, skulls, and long forgotten symbols of Ultramar, spoils from a glorious, now ancient victory. The holographic form of Lorgar continued, “Our brother’s single-minded pursuit of the perfect fortress could lead our enemies outflanking us, but I have long since given up the hope to chastise or critique him. You are welcome to confront him about it if you like,” The runes tattooed on his face creased as Lorgar forced a wry smile, “After all, no one understands foolish suicidal assaults and seeking death better than you.” The seated primarch briefly lightened his expression in simple homage to an old joke.
“We may be equals now given your current plans, brother. Your proposal for a Black Crusade at this time is madness. Saporin and I still have not recovered our numbers from the raid by the Night Lords or by the previous failed crusade.” “Nor have I,” Lorgar’s projection responded, the grey shadow cast a dim shadow in Angron’s quarters, flickering amid The World Eater’s collection of both trophies and carnivorous plants, both gathered from across the galaxy over his many conquests. Standing like a pillar in the center of the room, the champion of chaos broke eye contact with Angron, seemingly staring at The large Catachan death weed sprouting from the helm of a Luna Wolf Sergeant. “The Black Legion is still heavily undermanned, but I don’t believe we have a choice. I hope that the alliances with Imperium Undivided will augment us, but even if not, we must proceed. We both know that Terra is preparing its own offensive, and now even the Eldar are too. Yvraine tastes blood in the water, and likely sees our weakness as an opportunity to unite the craftworlds.” Lorgar once again looked Angron in the eyes, his greenish grey reflection dancing of the gold of Angron’s stolen throne, the blades that dangled from his wrists, and the earthy brown of his eyes. “Our best hope is to take advantage of the Imperium’s T'au distraction and destroy some of the pylons that contain the Eye. At the very least, to raid some of the wealthier planets of the Imperium. What we can not do is wait and risk the Eye of Terror by depending upon our brother’s crenelated vanity project.”
Locking eyes with the flickering shadows where Lorgar’s eyes should be, Angron leaned forward. “Then why drag Imperium Undivided into this? If things are truly this dire, do we really want to entangle ourselves with them? I know they would only agree to this in exchange for help.” Angron placed his elbows on his knees not breaking eye-contact with the Lord of Chaos, “I'll tell you this right now Lorgar, I won't allow a single one of my World Eaters or Saporin's drones to die on Sotha just because you owe them a favor.”
“You won’t have to,” Lorgar glanced over to what was likely a computer screen, but from Angron’s perspective he was inspecting another of his trophies. This one an Omnissiahan axe enveloped with exotic vines with deep purple thorns. The Skull of Mars in the center of the axe was defaced with an eight-pointed star. “Luther’s little experiment is not sinking - Angron - his ship of state is already underwater. Imperium undivided has not recovered from losing its beacon and capital on Sotha. Fabius Bile has vanished without a trace, taking most of his genelabs and expertise with him. And while Luther will not admit it, hostilities with Royum Ultramar have all but ceased. For all practical purposes, they are vassals of Ultramar, with the worshippers of our brother leading most of the defenses against the Tyranids.” Lorgar’s tone, perhaps finding some solace in little strategic gains, strengthened. “That is also why this Black Crusade must happen.” Scraping some passion from conviction, he continued, “The forces of Chaos can no longer afford Luther’s Schism. This Crusade will be an opportunity to salvage what's left of Luther’s armies and save them from dying with his foolish ideology.” Angron nodded, it was an understandable premise, if several centuries too late. “Is this why you ordered Typhus and his ilk accompany me in my raids of Macharia.”
“I hope I am not asking too much of your patience, Angron.” The armored shade spoke empathetically. “Typhus and his Plague Guard can be difficult to stomach, but hopefully you can see that putting aside your rivalry benefits our cause as a whole.” Angron smiled, and with a contemptuous chuckle replied, “Rivalry is too strong a word, brother. The only fear I have with that Barbaran outcast is that he will give my ship a Venereal Disease.” “Of that there is no doubt, but an irritation is still an irritation. Your sensitivity towards this matter is crucial for my plans, and I am grateful to you. At the very least you and Saporin will be rewarded with Canon fodder.” “She will not like this, you know.” Angron interrupted curtly. “Typhus?” Lorgar asked with barely hidden amusement. “As a fellow child of Nurgle, I would hope she would understand, and I’m only asking you to fight with him, not invite him on board for dinner.”
“No one cares about Typhus,” Angron replied flatly, “You -Know- what I am referring to,” Lorgar’s smile faded and nodded. “This Crusade.” Angron looked past Lorgar’s hologram, through the shadow to a lichen and trophy cover wall, in the center of all of the weapons and foilage was a very out of place painting. The large framed canvas was of Saporin and Angron they once were - a gift from a grateful Perturabo following one of the crusades. Saporin, a woman obsessed with functionality over sentiment insisted it be thrown out. Angron, normally in agreement, secretly kept the painting. The resemblance of the two was perfect and intensely detailed, as all things made by Perturabo's hands with Perturabo's memory were. The painting itself seemed to somehow exude emotion, despite the stiff positions of the figures, and geometric precision of every object. It depicted Angron and Lotara standing under The Great Tree, a hand more soft and smooth than the officer's ever was reached towards Angron's crown, brushing aside the butcher’s nails from his forehead as the implants could be removed with such a soft gesture. Angron’s hand placed against chitonous armor forming on her bare back. Their faces locked in a glance showing a gentle smile neither the suicidal berserker nor the stoic commander ever wore in their miserable brutish lives. Angron was a simple man without much taste for art, but his brother’s gift was perhaps the closest he came to understanding. Nothing about this painting was how it happened, but as a whole it came to speak something to Angron. Caught in a sentiment, reached back to his hand to feel the lichen and vines emerging from his scalp. He thought of the wires that once stood there, feeding pain and barbarism into his skull. Wires and tubes of Archeotech that siphoned the humanity out from him, leaving a writhing, shell of wroth, a rabid dog in the shape of a man. Angron's spiritual transformation was no less drastic and complete, than Lotara's physical one; and the path to it was much more complicated than her hand sweeping it away - and yet, in a sense, it was that simple. Nothing in the painting was accurate, yet every single aspect was true. He was amazed that someone could somehow sculpt a monument of truth out of such well crafted minute lies.
Lorgar interrupted his reflection. “She doesn’t need to like the situation, only recognize its necessity. I understand you are undermanned from the raids, but we both know we are running out of alternatives. This may be our last chance to buy ourselves more time.” Angron got up methodically from his looted throne, and briefly glanced at the ship console behind him, alerting him of his approach to The Death Conqueror. “We will see how her mood is after processing the recent batch of prisoners. I will do this brother. But in return, I want you to order Typhus and any others you can spare to accompany me in future raids. The hive needs bodies to feed on, and if Typhus cannot provide them from raids, he can supply them from his own men.” Lorgar nodded without a word, and the shadow cut as Angron prepared to leave his personal craft to board The Death Conqueror.
Angron strode towards the Bridge of the Death-Conqueror amid the hexagon corridors. As crew of the ship scurried and scattered to avoid crossing his path. Those with wings flew to the side, and those without clung to one of the nearby walls as the scampered off to perform their duties for the ship. Angron did not look at the various insect-like humans but heard their pointed feet made soft noises against the wax and moss covered ship. Behind him crew scuttled behind him to clean the massive footprints his bloated armor made against the wax covered floor. One of these days, he thought to himself, he would compliment the crew on their maintenance of the ship. While the lack of any standard noises was mildly disturbing, the endless clanking of boots on metal, gases churning through pipes, and screeches of metal against metal used to drive the Primarch mad.
The Conqueror of Nucreria was unique among the ships among the rotfather, and even among the forces of chaos. While timid servants of the false emperor would find it horrific, it was clean and orderly, and lack the superficial markings of excess found among the forces of chaos. So many of his fellow traitors treated their decadent collapse as a sign of devotion to the plague bringers and sons of decay. Having recently Travelled as a guest of Lord Typhus, he couldn't help but compare the immaculately wax covered hexagonal corridors to the rancid and decrepid vessel of The Plague Guard. All of the horrid, grating sounds as if steel and ceramite itself was heaving from infection and that circuits and thrusters could vomit and wretch. The Lord Commander of the Plague Guard, had the arrogance to boast about the despicable state of his ship, as though the leaves, lichen, and mycellium of Angron's scalp was proof of a lack of favor, especially when compared to the bloated, fly-infested, and corroded flesh of Typhus. What's more, the spurned son of both of his fathers, Mortarion, and his biological father on Barbarus, seemed to imply it as proof that he and his belovedIn would be eclipsed by the rising cloud of his legion. Another time, Angron would have seen such a slight against his beloved as reason to attack the bloated failure in a fit of rage. Then again, in those days it was not hard to find reasons to do that. Now he felt mostly bemusement by the little rotting man's self suppositions. Typhus wore the ornamentation of the Rotfather's blessing but he never had more than an infantile understainding of it. But not Saporin, she devoted herself to the hidden workings of atrophy. Saporin was not some petty bloat spawn, she had ascended to become an aspect of the Rotfather's will. And that is because she, unlike Typhus, understood that Nurgle's blessing of rot and decay are because of his gift as the of life from death. She has devoted herself to The Strategem of Rot. Death and decay, like any war, required organization and the union of thousand of beings working in tandem to bring about death. And because none of his bloated pox-ridden and rust covered brothers understood this, they could never hope to replace Saporin as the most favored. That never seemed to stop them from trying.
Angron allowed his muscle memory to guide him through the labyrinth of the ship. On occasion, trying to guess whether this was once a part of The origional conqueror, or one of the many shipt that had been salvaged and affixed to the ship. It would be impossible to know by appearance alone, as every corridor was thick with its insectoids, cavern like columns, and the occasional vines and foilage surrounding holy symbols of the plaguefather. Passing the manufactory chamber without so much of a thought about it, Angron was stopped by one of of the creatures. Instinctively the Great Warrior spun quickly and assumed an attack stance, hands gripping the axes chained by thick vines to his wrists. He softened his pose as he looked at the recoiling massive insect that was questioning its courage to tap the Primarch for attention. There were still signs of the being's once human form, in the eyes, fingers, and lip like orifice on his head. Otherwise the creature was a multi-armed being covered in long hairs and chitin. "Lord Champ..." the creature redacted its introduction out of nervousness, correcting itself, I mean, My Lor.., I mean, the Beloved of my Mist.." "Don't bother with titles, out with it!" Angron said impatiently. He stared at the being whose fully human green eyes struggled to keep contact. Angron, realizing that his intimidation would only delay this discussion longer, broke eye contact. His eyes searched the the being, who wore something that was attempting to be a human uniform, a fact that still amused Angron. It was little more than an apron covered with pockets, com-badges, and a satchel for a dataslate. Close to what could generously be called the left shoulder was an ornate symbol of nurgle inscribed within a red hand. It was carrying a data slate and its pockets were lined with samples. The Being responded, "I came here to talk about the most recent batch of collections you gathered." "What's wrong with them?" Angron demanded. The creature instinctively recoiled and was preparing to retract, but somewhere it found its spine. "We dont know, but to put it Simply...everything. The bodies will not decay, we believe that they have been cursed by the Anathema. They have resisted the blessings of The Father, and more scientific efforts to undermine this curse have produced little results. What little honey that has produced is vile and saccharine." The creature using its fifth right arm pulled a small vial from its pocket and gave it to the Primarch.
Angron accepted the vial, the creature instinctively darted his hand back, expecting Angron to assault him. Angron tried his best to smile in appreciation, but it seemed to only appear like a menacing grimace. "after all these mellenia, they still see me as a slave" He thought to himself. The Primarch held up the honey through a nearby light-source, then groaning with irritation that the light was insufficient, he scraped out the wax, moss, larval nests and fungi that had grown around the bright yellow lamp. Thousands of small creatures scattered. He held up the honey again. Not having any knowledge of either the mystical or mechanical arts he expected not to see anything. To his shock even he could tell something was wrong. The honey looked like...real honey. It was not the blood red with purple luminescent hints that the crew feasted on. It was gleaming golden yellow. He thinks he had tasted such honey, once when he was a slave on Nucreria he was "gifted" with a spoon of it as his prize for victory in the arena. But he remembered hearing somewhere that honey came from something flowers, it shouldn't come from the rancid flesh of looted corpses like the honey of The Hive. It didn't come from corpses at all, or did it? Angron wasn't sure where materia honey came from, and now that he thought about it, it wouldn't have surprised him if Nucreria made gladiators drink honey made from their fallen comrades. "Im suprised that such a thing could resist the blessings of The Plaguebringer, have you contacted the Trisagion, have their wizards offered any advice?"
It was hard to read the faces of these insects, but Angron could perceive that combination of hurt pride and revulsion. "The Word Bearers? The perfervid imbeciles who summon a patch of algae and call it a boon of The Rotfather? They would have some council for the magnificent apiaries of The Conqueror? I would not dare risk them poking around MY!" the creature corrected himself, now out of embarrassment "...queen's great halls."
Good answer, thought Angron, "I see. Will this impede the Crusade?" "Another one!" The Creature looked shocked. So soon? We still haven't replenished our numbers from the Last Crusade. Lorgar can't be serious. We aren't ready."
"How long do you need?" Angron asked The creature apparently had already reviewed the estimates on its dataslate. Eyes fixed to the screen, it began speaking just as much to itself as angron. "Between the acquirement of new candidates for transformation, replenishing honey production, inspecting the honey processing, acquiring research from at undoing the effects of this incorruption plague, at the most optimistic it will take at least 3 centuries." "You don't have three centuries." Angron replied curtly, "you have one at most." "It can't be done." "If it cant be done, Then we will fight the crusade undermanned." "What! My queen is running an intricate and sophisticated operation. We aren't a bunch of pain-addled meatheads on Nucreria chosing to die on a hilltop." Angron raised an eyebrow, the creature lowered its tone again, "With all due respect..." Angron interrupted, "With all due respect," he paused looking for a nametag somewhere- couldn't find it, "...broodkeeper, all wars are "pain-addled meatheads dying on a hilltop. Your intricate organization doesn't fight wars or win battles, it means we choose the hilltop. Do you think that white piece of cloth protects you from the realities of war? If the Night Lords come blasting through this ship that dataslate of yours will stop their rage or bolter fire" The creature froze it's green eyes grew wide in terror. Angron was surprised by its shock, It does not remember? That was only 4 crusades ago. As he stooped to pick up the Broodkeeper's dropped dataslate, Angron softened his voice as best as he could, "What is your name broodlord?"
The creature reflexively began to spill out a mess of screetches, chirps and unintelligible noises, before remembering who was speaking. "Sorry, I believe I was once called Zoay."
"Did you serve with us on The Conqueror, Zoay, or have you joined us later?" "The Conqueror?" She word was echoed with a mythic reverence. No, I was part of the Macharian raid I believe." Angron thought to himself, the Macharian raids were within the last mellenium. From what Soporin told her of the gestation, it takes at least 2 centuries for gestation, longer for advanced drones as she was. The broodkeeper had to be barely over a century, which means this was only her second crusade. "You are extraordinarily young for a broodkeeper, so the queen must clearly see promise in your skills," Either that, or her superiors selected her to report catastrophic failure to the Primarch, but Angron kept that thought to himself. The heartless machinations of superiors against their underlings never ceased to amaze him. He tried to encourage the creature.
"I understand this fear you have. You are afraid of pain, of death of failure. I used to run from it too, I hid from my fear by relishing in pain and despair, you seem to be hiding in your data. So let me give you some data: The Imperium has several fully formed legions, and half the galaxy filled with bustling planets filled with Guardsmen and Astartes in the millions. Even at twice our current strength we are undermanned, and in the time it takes us to produce two thousand more drones, will will lose about 800 drones 10 astartes. In that same time the Imperium will gain countless billions of soldiers, hundreds of astartes, and will lose nothing. They will grow stronger in the time it will take us to rebuild. You will never be able to outproduce them, you can only keep us going. So do your best and be prepared to lose it all. That was what your Queen did. In those days she was still only a captain of a single ship. We had no broodkeepers, no Anthroids, no carapace warriors. It was just us Brothers-in-arms: Soporin, me, the Gladiators, and a skeleton crew of loyal Humans, and less than half of the World Eaters. We were outnumbered then too, but despite everything we have survived, even thrived."
Angron was never very good at inspirational speeches, so maybe a bribe would be better. He knew that most of the higher level drones had a love of collecting trinkets, he reached into his pouch. "Here, perhaps its time you start having a weapon to practice with," Angron said producing a large glimmering adamantine knife. Zoay's eyes glimmered as she looked at the knife. It was a large serrated blade, almost a sword. The blade was nearly white when reflecting against the lamp above them. Upon it is bore the 8 pointed star scratching out the sword and wings of the Dark Angels." "Zoay Broodkeeper of Soporin" Trying to sound authoritative, Angron put on his best impression of Lorgar's Bombast, The Imperium has bested you this day, you have been defeated but have managed to survive. In the Arenas of Nucreria to survive the death games was what separated the fodder from the gladiator, and so as a artificer and gladiator you will now serve your queen." Not seeing any shoulders, he rubbed the flat of the blade on each side of her upper neck. "Remember you are your Queen's spawn and your Queen's soldier. It is not enough to have her mind, you must have her courage as well." As he finished saying these words he gave the knife handle first to the now beaming anthropod, who grabbed the knife with both hands.
"I am already preparing for a raid out of the Eye, I want you, and only you, to prepare a manifest of the most crucial essentials. If you or any of your scientists feel capable, they will accompany me on my next raid to one of the forgeworlrds. Perhaps some information will be there. In the meantime, have faith in Father Nurgle, be resourceful with what you have, and get me as much info on the pollutant you can, we will just have to be more picky with our corpses. Whatever this warp-magic is, Its probably expensive, not everyone will have it. Now, have you any further business with me?"
The insect with piercingly bright white human eyes shook its head, and so Angron dismissed her without a word. she walked back to her chamber ogling the knife. He continued to quickly walk up the craft to the Bridge.
Finally reaching the bridge he entered into a vast auditorium surrounded by stalactites, columns, and walls of massive hexagonal combs. The individual combs were too small and numerous to see, but Angron knew that residing in each comb were individual cells in which the tasks that took the Imperium dozens of systems to replicate served the War machine of their Captain in a single ship. Cells where newly acquired candidates were transformed through the blessings of Nurgle and the geneseed of Angron into Hive soldiers for Saporin or new Astartes for Angron. Others were nests where the bodies were arranged to host the larvae of new worker drones. Other cells were little agri worlds where living organisms from across the galaxy were bred for livestock, and others where this rotting livestock mixed with the rancid corpses of a thousand plundered worlds, providing the blood red honey that fed the ship’s untold millions of crew. The cavernous hall reverberated with the echo of hundreds of workers performing their needed functions for the ship, whether it be research, repairs, or flight computations. The Buzzing of armies of winged crew-members flew from wax stalactite to wax stalactite overseeing the maintenance of the ship.
In the center of this immense chasm was an obelisk-like structure with an organic bridge leading to it. Now a pillar, this massive monument in the center was once the command bridge of The Conqueror, placed at the center of this massive hive. The gravity generators of the room had been arranged so that those lacking flight could walk along the walls of the hull. Somewhere, under Angron's feet beneath miles of wax, hives, compost, and reconstituted metal lied the ruined stained glass windows and gargoyles of an Imperium that both were once a part of, and both had swore to fight. Surrounding the bulkhead was the remains of the hull of The Conqueror itself. A bare porous husk that had been eaten through and built upon to create the entire complex. Angron walked on the bridge surrounded by an endless chasm as deep as the Champion was once long till he reached the captain's throne at the top of this center monument. As to be expected it was empty. "Saporin" the primarch shouted, "I demand an audience!" Despite the vastness of the chamber, his voice made no echo, muffled by the constant low buzzing of activity that permeated the complex.
From below the bowels of the ship, she arose – Saporin – Mistress of the World Eaters and Queen of The Conqueror of Death. The 8 foot tall figure surrounded by 6 harpoonlike pincers stood in mid-air supported by four transparent wings that beat with a rhythmic hum and a mighty gust of wind. Upon her carapace armor was a red handprint with the eight-pointed star placed inside. "An audience you have, Angron." She responded. "My children were just speaking of you, hoping to know when you would supply them with a bounty of sweet nectar of fallen loyalists."
Angron replied, "Yes, one of your drones just told me,” he said gesturing vaguely behind him. “They’ll have to wait, you seem to have a problem in manufacturing." Walking towards her, Saporin’s proud smile began to fade and head cocked to the side in a confused expression. Angron held up the glistening, flawless, golden ichor in front of Saporin. She stared at it confoundedly, then with one of her larger pincer, dropping it in front of her hand to study it herself. "Come now, Angron, you’ve had 10,000 years to learn practical jokes, now is not the time to develop a sense of humor," saying as she opened the vial and placed a glimmering droplet on her finger. "I do not know what trophy you brought back from your travels, but this is..." Placing a drop to her lips her lampblack eyes widened with shock, almost bulging out of her face. Her lungs inhaled a scream and waves of pain and horror rippled across her normally stoic face. Angron had no idea what was in the vial, but whatever it was must have been powerful as Saporin lost control of her wings and flung herself onto the pillar. Angron raced to her side. Seizing her before she fell off the rail less cavern and, feet firmly planted in the wax, pulled her close till her head was pressed against his right side, absorbing the momentum of plunge. Previously convulsing, the pincers on her back dug into Angron, wrapping around him as though a spider with its prey. Were it any other man, those pincers would have left him a writhing mass, but the body of a primarch was extraordinarily resilient, and pain was once Angron’s only companion. His body would heal, and Angron accepted the embrace of both his lover and his once fellow traveller without flinching. The noise of the entire hive came to a halt, and an oppressive silence filled the air.
Using Angron's shoulders as a support she quickly picked herself up, and clutched the vial. Her eyes were no longer human, and yet Angron could read the despair and shock written upon them. Her face, normally a deep violet was a sickly mauve, making her eyes seem somewhat darker, and the normally obscured scar on her left side looked as though it was a giant gash. Her eyes seemed to be staring at Angron’s arms, as she returned to her senses The color in her face returned and pushing away her lover, called to her drones through a few symbols, and barks into her combadge, the hive was again a buzz with activity. Four winged soldiers also flew behind Angron . "We must speak in private," she said to Angron, trying to find her voice. Having been accustomed to this, Angron did not resist as the four guards carried the massive being in power armor. The followed the Queen into the center of the wax covered pillar to a small cavern a few miles down. Angron was briefly disoriented by the gravity and light change, as they went from the bright glow of the throne room to the lightless metal interior perpendicular to the hive. The Humanoid wasp soldiers dropped Angron on the floor and departed without saying a word.
Angron's Lymphic Node activated and he was able to see the dark room as clear as if it was day. Despite the layers of sediment and vegetation growing around the defaced statues and hollow glass he recognized the room. It was the ancient commander's bridge where the creature once known as Lotarra Sarin, flag officer of the Imperial Navy, commanded The Conqueror. This section had been a dead husk for thousands of years. Like a whale carcass, all manner of life was built upon its ruined dead husk. There had been no light for millennia, but neither needed the light to see. Saporin turned to Angron still clutching the vial. "How did this happen?" Angron, slowly moving closer to Saporin relayed what the broodkeeper told him, "Seems the current collection of soldiers were somehow warded from Father's blessing.” Angron wondered if he should be ashamed about his ignorance of the inner workings of the hive, but the body language of Saporin told him this was severe. “I’ll admit I don’t understand your process, but something about the bodies not decaying." An foreign strand of panic entered her voice. “By the Dark Gods, everything could be corrupted. If this spreads…” Saporin reached once again to her comm, but Angron gently reached for her hand to push it away. “Your broodkeepers have the situation under control, there is no need to act on impulse.” She searched his face for some sort of condescension or stoic composure. There was none, only a superhuman calm, as his calm brown eyes searched her face for signs of stress. His calm unflinching expression was infectious; She spoke again.
"No ward has ever been strong enough to poison an entire production line, and you only gathered less than a million. We will have to drain the entire run, and rely on reserves, but that will mean our newest spawns will have to be gutted, this could corrupt everything." The queen stared at her old captains chair, now a fraction of her height, and absently walked toward it as she tried to collect her next move. Angron moved closer to her: "Lortarra. what was in the vial?"
"It was Poisoned, clean somehow.” Her face searched for an answer in the surrounding dark vessel. Angron suggested perhaps it was the work of his still loyalist brothers. Magnus, the great throne bound sorcerer could perhaps devise a protection for soldiers. Or perhaps even his fallen brother, Gulliman. Though still only a nascent god of the warp, The Three Headed Eagle’s power continues to accumulate as the untold billions of warriors from Ultramar and beyond die with his name on their lips. “It didn't feel like whatever Aurelian or Magnus would concoct. It felt, familiar, older..." She refused to allow that thought to dwell, attempting to shudder a shadow from the back of her mind, her massive black eyes turned to a defaced statue. "It wasn’t a ward, I could feel the gifts of Nurgle dying within me."
Then turning to the Champion, her eyes and lips ablaze with ideas and solutions. " You are still human, maybe you could try to cut a deal with that idiot Golden brother of yours for a ward protection? The Eldar and the Imperium are always looking for proxies for their cold war. We could help out so long as it doesn't interfere with chaos…or maybe not… Perhaps we can go further, we have spent too long in Segmentum obscura anyways - Wards against our facilities wouldn't have spread that far. Ork honey is never as satisfying but we could make do, maybe feast on the tau and tyranids as well. Or maybe go farther. Our allegiance is only to The Rotfather. It will only be a matter of time before The Imperium takes Cadia eventually anyways, might as well get it over with and benefit as well."
“I do not think that is an option,” Angron interrupted her, "Lorgar instructed me to prepare for the next Black Crusade." She scoffed, but her scoff turned to a look of incredulity. The demon princes were not silent, she had heard rumors of Lorgar's plans, she just refused to believe he would be brash enough to carry it out. She searched Angron for signs of just, there were none. "I see," Her face hardened turning away from Angron, then proclaiming in a mocking bravado. "Very well then. Forgive a mere demon for her misgivings, Lord of The Twelfth Legion. As always our forces are at your disposal oh Angron Nucrerian! Mighty Lord of The World Eaters and Favored Champion of Our Lord, Nurgle, The Lord of Decay.” Lotarra spoke in a parody of the overwrought and ritualistic manner of a lesser demon. As though Angron was but a psyker who managed to fumble his way towards summoning a neverborn. Angron, the former slave, and eternal iconoclast, despised titles and formality. To be treated like some bloviating minor official or self-important cultist would sting Angron more than any insult could. “I am a vessel to serve the will of Those granted Rotfather's boon. My ships are at your beckon and my armies shall march with yours with the Great Heresiarch Lorgar Urizen to Glorious victory over the Fool-Emperor. Now unless you have further business, I must attend to my own affairs."
Angron grabbed one of her arms and pulled the distraught Hive Queen towards him. The vial fell out of her hands and hit the floor making a small chime and rolled down the floor. Saporin gave a defeated cry in horror as the aura of the vial seemed to infect the ancient ship. Small strands of gold began and harmonics pierced the comforting darkness, as if long dormant machine spirits were rousing themselves to the call of their lord. There was no longer any pretense of control, and from the depths of her being she cried out to her champion. “It’s him, Angron...oh by the dark gods, its HIM. He's awake, and he will come for us! He knows where we are, what am I to do, we cant face him. Oh Rotfather, oh ancient lord, merciful isha, great nurgle, against the anathema protect us...” The panicked cries of his love, broke him from his curious stare of the vial. Angron clutched her tighter, as though she would melt. Then reaching towards her chest he ripped the combadge off of her and crushed it in his grip. Saporin was a meticulous commander, and there were no doubt sensors and monitors affixed to the badge. Her drones did not need to see their Queen like this. It wasn't becoming, and it was the only time he felt he was no longer talking to the Woman he knew all those centuries ago.
Placing her gently on the throne, he walked quickly over to the vial and placed it in his pouch. Who knows what the honey could have done if it actually touched the ship. The little Broodkeeper’s diligence and engineering skill may have saved the hive from complete destruction. Perhaps he should pay more respect to Saporin’s non-military drones. He thought to himself, as he returned to Saporin’s side. Kneeling before the figure enthroned in past torments and adorned by tears. "How long have we done this?” He tried to reassure her. “After all we have seen and done in the Rotfather's name. The worlds we conquered, the battles we lost. Both of us were there when Kharn fell weren't we? We were helpless to save him as the Black Ravens consumed his very essence, and yet you did not shed a single tear. But now, our food production is down and are weeping over faulty logistics like your name is Perturabo." Angron heard a stifled laugh, and offered a silent prayer of gratitude to the forces that save him from his servitude to rage. The demonette placed her hands on the back of his head where the butcher's nails once stood. His long-healed scalp reacted to the red and black hairs of her elongated fingers.
Angron was not left scarred or distorted like so many servants of chaos, physically he was almost the exact same as when he served on board her ship, back when she was little more than a fleet officer for a demogogue. But the feel was different, her hands felt a face that was once pulsating with a stimulated rage, and spasming nerves as his whole body once convulsed in eternal agony from the butchers nails. Now there was only the cold firmness of the vines that grew from the back of his scalp, contrasted with the steady warmth of his skin. There were no traces of pretension or condescension to him. Why was he not afraid? She wondered quietly. The Anathema’s had done far more to Angron than he had to her. Long ago the anathema had taken her life. She never had to live in the perpetual misery that was Angron’s service to The Emperor of Mankind. His supposed “father” deprived him of companionship, and friendship, of even basic dignity and hope. Angron was beaten and whipped into a rabid beast. A chained animal that could only howl at its master and mutilate those around him. And now the rebellious lord of the twelfth would not be able to look forward to that. They would not kill him, for if they did his misery would end, and his soul would soar to the warp into Gardens of Nurgle and her embrace. The Anathema and those obedient spawn that delude themselves as the Emperor’s “Sons” have no doubt tallied every sin angron committed against him. They would have him repay his pound of flesh with an interest of blood: for the destruction of Ultramar, for Isstivan, for the death of Gulliman, for every raid and child and corpse brought for transformation, for every victorious battle Angron led against, and for every one of their Astartes he brought to her hive to be consumed by her hungry children. They would make him pay for every drop, and yet there was no terror in his eyes.
Standing up, Angron grabbed her by the waist, and together they walked down a familiar path of the old ship. The storm of terror had begun to subside. The great queen of the Hive continued to speak, her head pressed against her love's shoulder. "It's been Millenia since we joined Lorgar's crusade, and since that day we have seen nothing but failures, hardship, defeat. We were so full of hope then, and yes, I did not weep for Kharn, but I deceived myself that his death was recompense for betraying us, for rejecting Nurgle's embrace for continued embrace of The Anathema.” Saporin looked glanced at The World Eater’s pouch, the golden glow of the honey eminating from the pouch. Angron sealed the pouch, stifling the light, and returned her side, his hand resting below her wings in what was once her naval. She continued, “But in that Honey I tasted revelation. I felt the Emperor's growing shadow reaching into the Warp, and he is coming for all of us. The kept hope that no matter what happens, under Father Nurgle we would be under free of his reach, but now that is gone. The Emperors justice looms once again in my ship, and I am no longer Soporin, Arch-Daemonette of Nurgle, I am Disgraced officer Sorrin, killed by the Emperor in my own ship.” They passed from the captain’s bridge to a large butressed corridor, where steel and ceremite was made to look like stone, a cathedral dedicated to a man who insistend their were no gods. His statues and symbols between the arches defaced and desecrated with the unholy symbols of Nurgle, Soporin, and the Eight Pointed Star of Chaos undivided. A pyrrhic act that now seemed to mock her for her former self-assurance.
“How much more can we endure, beloved? We are attacked on all sides and even if we are claw our way, battered and broken, to one victory our enemies shake off their defeat. First it was the Imperium, then it was Malal, and now even the Eldar are awakening to reclaim their Croneworlds? Each Black Crusade carry less troops as our enemies enthusiasm grows. It is no secret in the warp, that Khorne and Mortarion have abandoned Lorgar. I know you care not for the politics of demons, but there are many in the gardens who feel we should do the same. What sort of victory are we hoping to wage if the Blood God has better things to do?”
Angron responded here. “Lorgar is my brother,” “You have many of those,” Saporin retorted, “all your damned “brothers” is what dragged the galaxy into this mess.” “Yes, but only Lorgar is worthy to be called such, he saved us, do not forget he brought you to the Plague God, advocated to him on our behalf.”
“Would you doom Nurgle and I for the sake of Lorgar? What will we do when the Eldar and their new god finally come for Isha?
"We will fight them. Just as we would if we abandoned Lorgar, except we would be alone." "What happens then?" As she asked this Angron and Lotarra passed tarnished silver doors to the ancient mmeeting hall of The Conqueror. Above them a root and lichen covered dome that once depicted a grandiose mosaic of The Emperor of Mankind uniting Terra. The Grandiose overbearing centerpiece of a grandiose overbearing lord, but that had long since ceased to be the most important aspect of the room. Angron pointed to an inconspicuous spot on the wall. "Do you remember what happened here? Lortara. This was the day you saved my life. Up until this day all i had wanted. All i had lived for, was to die with my comrades. I was made for war, by the Slave Masters of Nucreria, by the Nails and by the False-Emperor so many called fools called "father," and so every day I awaited my faith.” It had been long since she had been here, but it was not unvisited. Around this one spot were markings and sacred symbols of the rotfather. Sacred graffitti of pious drones paying their respects to the cradle of their creator. The couple inched towards a small spot near the wall a small patch of grass and nightblossoms emerged from a small spot of ceremite and tile. Illuminated by the purposefully placed candles and bioluminescent mushrooms. “But you saw something else. You died here. I saw The Emperor throw your body against this pillar because you dared to find not an asset but a brother in arms. You knew that those detestable nails has The day you stood up to The Emperor, medical reports in hand. You were stood up to a god while still only flesh and blood. I know, because i saw it was spilled over bowels of your ship. And as I held your broken body I roared in grief and anguish praying that I could die with you. But you gave me so much more. All my life I expected nothing, hoping only for a death among friends. But thanks to Father Nurgle, thanks to your influence, I could live amongst friends. It is fate that we die, but it is fortune we die twice.”
Saporin turned away from him, looking towards the mound, allowing herself to lean on the Primarch. The breath of life, one that she had not taken for 10,000 years vibrated the small hairs on her neck. “We will die, beloved, but we will die together. Because that is all we have ever deserved. Let’s not pretend we were ever promised more than a grisly end. So let them come. Let the Emperor and his slaves march into the Eye of Terror, let the Eldar scheme emerge from the webway, let the Necrons awaken and the Tyrannids feed, let my brother gather the ghosts of humanity against the gates of The Old Golds, and the Ravens of Malice consume our remains. In the future there will be only inescapable darkness and endless war, but we are warriors. Endless war was our masters ever promised us. We will fight for every day that Father Nurgle has granted us this, and should we fall, then we will fall as one, and I will die by your side and die happier than I had any right to be." The daemonette was silent, holding her lord, as he held his champion. They stood for an eternity in silent vigil over the space that birthed them both, holding requiem for what they once were.