Between the warp and the divine is the Imperium of Man, that stretches across the breadth of the galaxy. Between two sides of the war that tear at the Imperium is the Segmentum Obscura, which contains much that is uncharted. Between two swathes of primal nebulae that gyre within that unknown, the Kailon Peninsula crouches silent. Between the systems Ossirius and Clotho within that cluster of stars, the void flares.
The jagged tip of the echelon that emerges as reality gives way is the Carnifex Daemon, warp-twisted flagship of Sisyphus Cretidae, long ago of the Raven Guard, now a scion of the ruinous powers. It is flanked by the putrescent Slanniton, the sleek Devourer Compleat, the rusted Voracrux Indon. Smaller cruisers and escort craft blink into being around them, displaying the banners and sigils of those sons of the Emperor that have fallen, each of the hundred ships a note in a discordant symphony of betrayal.
Slowly across the void, the fleet pulses towards the system numbered in the vaults of Terra as Gruul. There a hundred billion souls strive across the twin Eden-class worlds Gruul Prime and Gruul Zeta. Two dozen craft shaped like swift fish spill from the Voracrux Indon, blue plasma drives tearing across the black of space, towards a yellow star at the very tip of the Kailon Peninsula. There a massive gas giant, a failed star, twists an elliptical in the procession of eons, it's only companions the bleak stone moons that circle it.
* * *
"Praise the light of the Astronamican, we come here as our fallen brothers are still but silhouettes againsts the light of distant stars," Admiral-Captain Phan exclaims. The finest of the Adeptus Astartes stand before him, armored in bronze and crimson, green and azure. Mere humans bearing the winged deaths-head upon their epaulets scurry like insects beneath the gaze of the ceramite-clad demigods. Hundreds crowd the bridge before them as the command display that circles the room updates in a scream of holo-runes.
"Is that -" the captain of the Minotaurs begins as the first true-light images blink before them, his voice hard.
"- the Planet Killer?" the vox-casters of the Blood Angel captain finish, the mechanical voice somehow breathless.
"I saw it scarred in the defence of Bellox, scars that could never be healed in the Eye of Terror," Admiral-Captain Phan offers. "Though it's aspect gives equal threat."
"Main forces forecast intercept Gruul fourteen days three hours standard terran," a human lieutenant reports. "Multiple expeditionary craft forecast intercept Tetragon 38 seventeen hours five minutes. Total fleet strength fourteen battle cruisers, four grand cruisers, 88 cruisers, eleven light cruisers. Apocalypse, Oberon, Nemesis battleships. One ship, unknown class. " She snapped a salute and scurried away from the eyes of the god-men that regarded her.
"Our priority is the main fleet. The hive-worlds of Gruul are vital assets," the Dark Angel intoned from a cowl-shadowed face. "They look to us for protection."
"Agreed. But we must foil all of what they desire here. Each of you will commit an intercept and control force for whatever assets they seek within Tetragon 38," Admiral Captian Phan ordered.
It's been a long hard road to the LVO, and honestly, we're a little sick of the whole thing. It's been cut-throat and FLG missions for months and months, and if I see one more Wave Serpent, I might just quit the hobby. So we're moving into casual mode until BAO training starts, three months of fun games, easy dice, and not a daemon summoned from these hot hands. Each week a new warmaster of wackiness will take the reins. Their duties are to make a custom mission, write some terrible fan-fic about the ongoing battle, and make the game really fun. Your friendly neighborhood blogger pulled first week.
My mission was inspired from "The Glorious Tomb," the f'ing amazing audio drama we've all been listening to from the POV of a dreadnaught. We all have these iconic badasses sitting on our shelves gathering dust. Because they suck brutally in the game, I've never felt they were worth it, or when I brought them, they proved me right. My main special rule was "Glorious Tombs," giving all DNs +1 front AV and IWND. Each player had to bring a minimum of three DNs, no IKs, maximum one non-walker vehicle. All vehicles have objective secured.
If you'd like to try a round, Regiment Commander Neymanus made a FLG-style mission sheet -
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B2FffKNu2uAEbWhiTmszY2plR0k/view?usp=sharing
And they were awesome. A harder to kill regular DN suddenly became survivable, and the AV14 Furiosos wrecked house. Blood Angels were the big winners, beating my CSM and a raven guard player. The Minotaurs brought 12! 12! So cool. They tabled me and I've never had such a good time getting my ass kicked.
My List:
2x Helcult Formation - HB w/ TL LC, PF + HF, 2x 30 Cultists
HB w/ TL LC
4x Termis w/ Combi-Plas, 3x Chainfist, 1x powerfist
4x Termis w/ Combi-Plas, 3x Chainfist, 1x powerfist
Biker Lord w/ Mark of Nurgle, PF, LC, 4++ iron halo whatever chaos thing.
Boy this was the wrong list to bring. The termis killed one DN and then died. The cultists couldn't reach the dreadnaughts to tarpit them. But it was fun, and fluffy, because they came to Tetragon 38 to die.
Cultists descend up the death company and the chaplain that leads them. Their god-machine struck down, I got to roll 132 attacks with hatred!
The ranks of cultists stretch into the background. Soon they will be crushed against the iron wall of minotaur dreadnaughts.***
In the thousands they came to Tetragon 38. Spilling forth from crude ships that would never break the meagre gravity of the tiny moon, they came to die. Blood-mad, ravening, endless voices raised to the praise of the machine-men that towered above them, those blasphemous monsters that were a twisted reflection of the hallowed tombs of the Imperium's living dead.
The stalwart Minotaurs met them with flame and bolt; the sons of Sanguinius found them wanting in the crush of close combat. Their leaders and god-idols were soon dead. They pushed mindlessly forward then, breaking against the ceramite bulwarks of machine and man.
Helpless without their objects of worship against the dreadnoughts, it was many rotations of the moon before they were purged; but they were purged to nothing. The laboratories upon the moon were plundered by the forces of the Emperor.
The great shadowed threat had been studied here, the nightmares in chitin that were spoken of in breathless whispers. The makers of husk-worlds had been captured and flayed, stripped by geneticist-servitors to find the secrets of their flesh. So little progress had been made, and less remained amidst the pyres of the dead, but enough remained.
The labs were bombed from orbit, the bare rock of the moon the final enemy the Imperium would fight here. Explosives that could sunder a fortress tore the land apart, a thousand years of geologic calamity rendered in the span of heartbeats. Confident the great enemy had been foiled, the bronze and crimson ships departed.
The great fields of dead laid silent. Flesh carved in the symbols of the deceiver-gods laid impotent. A grave-world now.
Amidst the shattered rocks, black ichor ran. Where it pooled, it thrashed and bubbled. Small creatures soon emerged, running on many legs towards the dead. They feasted upon the flesh of chaos, their mouths ceaseless, segmented tails shitting a steady stream of black ichor as they twisted through the cursed flesh.
The pools widened, the moon alive with a low din of tiny snapping jaws. When all the dead had been consumed, the pools hardened, becoming twisted spires of stark bone and sickly purple flesh. These organic towers spat with spasms that shook the ground, lofting spores past the atmosphere, out into the dark space beyond. There were many moons around the gas giant phalanx; the spores drifted hungrily towards them.