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201 Posts
Discussion Starter · #1 ·
Ok, so in my spare time I have basically created a character just because I can. He is an inquisitor, but due to the lack of an Ordo Xenos codex, he is unlikely to ever be incarnated in an army, so I thought putting this here would be more appropriate than putting it in the 40K Army Fluff section.

I'm looking for any comments, criticism, etc. This is going to be the last story of any I write for this character, even though it's actually the first (that sentence will make sense when you start reading the story). It's nowhere near completed and will probably end up being one of those on-and-off projects I seem to forget about. But I am quite determined to see this through, so give me enough support and I will hopefully make it worth your while.

So, here goes. . .

Lux Eterna

+++Accessing data-log+++
+++Security Level Magenta encryption+++
+++Override accepted+++
+++Welcome, Inquisitor…+++

I am in the Schindelgheist system, and I am dying.
In a way, I am glad. I was born here, the Inquisition found me here, and it is one of the few places where I have family. It is fitting that I should lay down my life in its defense.
This log is an account of all that has happened since my arrival on Schindelgheist Major. I leave it so that, if the alien menace that now surrounds us is eventually victorious, all will know what happened here. I leave it so that the brave men and women who have died assisting me will be forever remembered as some of the Emperor’s finest servants.
I leave it, so you may use it to light the darkness that is slowly throttling our Imperium.
Ave Imperator,
Inquisitor Jorken Anateus Rovel, Ordo Xenos.
+++Begin download+++
+++Processing information+++
+++Download complete+++

I stepped off the landing-crafts access ramp and looked around the spaceport. It was full of bustling activity, men, women and children going about their daily business. I kept a firm grasp on Racquel’s hand as usual.
She looked up at me and smiled. I felt the familiar twinge of unease, that sense of wrongness about her. She was a psychic blank, an untouchable. I found it ironic that over our time together, I had become so dependent on physical contact with her.
“Schindelgheist Major,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied. “It feels good to be back. I missed it.”
I breathed deeply. The air was similar to that on most Imperial-held worlds; strong with the stench of industrialization and the unwashed masses of humanity. But it had something else, too. A coppery-tang filled the air, along with hints of iron and salt. The scent of blood.
We started walking towards the exit. Soon we were out of the hangar-zone and in the departures and arrivals area. Suddenly, Racquel tugged my arm and pointed to a small room off to one side of the port.
“What is that room used for, Jorken?”
“It’s a blood-letting room, dear. So that people travelling to other systems do not cause so much trouble in transit.”
She went pale. “You mean- they actually…”
We stopped walking, and I took her face in my hands.
“This system follows a death-cult, my love. I told you that.”
“Yes, but I just thought…”
“That it wouldn’t be so obvious? Fanatics are not subtle.”
I kissed her to calm her nerves.
“Anyway, it will not affect you. You know I would not let any harm come to you. My brother’s house is one of the safest places you will ever have been in.”
“Alright,” she said.
We walked down and hailed a public-speeder. As we got in, I let go of her hand and suddenly felt something strange. There was a disturbance in the warp.
I wasn’t sure what it was, but something was there. It seemed that my holiday wouldn’t be so relaxing after all.
* * *

The speeder stopped at the gates of my brother’s mansion. I thanked the driver and paid him. Racquel and I disembarked.
Although I would normally have simply made my presence known, I decided I would enter quietly. I quickly disarmed the security system on the front gate and walked with Racquel around to the back of the house, near the kitchens. We could hear a loud, strong baritone singing along to the March of the Primarchs.
I smiled and quietly opened the kitchen door. There, with his back to us, was my brother, singing as he cooked. He appeared to be slicing fresh plim fruits.
“I see your taste in music hasn’t changed one bit, Adreon,” I said.
He whirled around and, without hesitating, threw his knife at my head. Acting out of instinct, I ducked as Racquel screamed.
I stood up, took one look at the expression of shocked amazement on his face, and burst out laughing. I stepped forward and embraced him.
“Ah, Adreon, it’s been too long,” I said.
“Only ten standard,” he replied. “Anyway, what were you thinking, sneaking in like that? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Call it a return to my roots. Remember when we used to hide from the abbot at the Schola Progenium?”
“How could I forget? The whipping he gave us when he found us…So, how are you these days?”
“I’m well, thank you. And how is little Lucia doing?”
“Oh, she’s doing wonderfully. In and out of the garden chasing imaginary aliens every day, just like her Uncle Jorken.”
“Well, God-Emperor protect them when she’s older.”
Adreon motioned for me and Racquel to sit down. He added the plim fruit slices to a bowl of fruit salad then joined us at the table. He turned to Racquel.
“So, who’s this fine young lady then?” he said, obviously taking note of how I kept her hand in mine.
“Adreon, this is my wife, Racquel. Racquel, you already know about Adreon,” I said.
Adreon raised his eyebrows at this. “Wife, eh? Who’d have thought it; Jorken actually managed to smarten up long enough to find himself a pretty woman.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about how we met later, but not now. Now, I want to talk to you about the city. I’m here for a holiday, but I…felt something earlier. Something wrong.”
“An inquisitor on holiday? Wonders never cease,” Adreon said. “But, yes, it’s been a bad year. The mutant population has been getting all riled up of late, and the cults are getting worse.”
“Excuse me,” said Racquel. “I’ve been told this is a world which worships through a death-cult. How can the cults get worse if they’re devoted to the Emperor?”
“Not every death-cult you’ll find worships our Lord-Emperor,” I said. “Some are devoted to other, older deities. Those are the ones the Ordos Malleus and Hereticus must deal with.”
“No matter,” I continued. “I’ll keep an eye out for anything unusual. Otherwise I’m just here to relax after that damnable business over Kryptmann. Marcas and Fabio will be bringing our things over soon.
“Now, Adreon, do you mind if I sample that fruit salad of yours? I haven’t had plim fruit in Emperor knows how long.”
* * *

Something woke me. I rose suddenly. The sudden change from sleep to consciousness left me feeling dizzy and unfocussed. I heard a footstep just outside the bedroom door and my mind cleared instantaneously, years of hard-learned lessons having their effect. I stood up and moved silently across the floor. Racquel murmured and rolled into the patch of warmth my presence had left in the bed.
As I neared the door, I moved out of Racquel’s sphere of influence, and immediately I could feel the horrid, painful strength coursing through my body. I stumbled and reached out to steady myself, closing my fist around one of the ornamented bedposts. I stood up straight, then realised I had forgotten to release my grip. The top of the bedpost was still in my hand, and I sighed inwardly as I saw I would have to pay for yet more repairs.
I edged towards the door and grasped the handle lightly, so as not to break it. Using as little strength as I could, I then wrenched it open with a sudden, violent movement.
There, standing on the floorboards, was a little girl, around six years standard. She looked like a porcelain doll, with pale white skin and ebony-black hair. I quickly took a step back to enter Racquel’s blank aura.
“Uncle Jorken!!!” she shouted then leapt at me.
I picked her up and started laughing.
“Hello Lucia,” I said. “You gave me a bit of a fright there. You shouldn’t be sneaking around this early in the morning.”
“I wasn’t sneaking,” she protested, pouting. “I wanted to meet Auntie Racquel.”
“Racquel is asleep. Why don’t you wait until she wakes up to say hello?”
“Okay. Do you wanna play a game?”
* * *​
I was having my morning cup of caffeine concentrate when Marcas and Fabio arrived with information.
The twin brothers were my two most promising acolytes, and I counted them among my closest friends. They always dressed and armed themselves exactly the same, and the only way to tell them apart was by the black hearts tattooed on their cheeks. Marcas had his on his left cheek, and Fabio had his on the right.
“Good morning Jorken,” said Marcas.
“Good morning, boys. What’ve you got for me?”
“You told us to keep an eye out for anything unusual,” said Fabio.
“Yes. . .”
Marcas interjected. “We’ve found something. Mid-hive morgue filed a cause-of-death explanation that doesn’t have any precedent over the last three or four decades.”
I nodded.
“Ok. Let’s check it out.”
* * *​
The corpse was not a pretty sight. Then again, few corpses are, in my experience.
He had been a middle-aged man. The files named him as Antonio Faltsen, a mid-hive metal refiner. He had no connection with any of the listed cults in the city.
The manner of his death was fairly obvious. Something had destroyed his upper abdomen and the lower seven centimeters of his rib-cage. Whatever it was, it had left an entry wound bigger than my hand.
Marcas came up to me. “Prelim examinations indicate massive internal trauma. I suspect a bolt weapon.”
I nodded. “That’s how it seems. You stay here and continue examinations. I’ll take Fabio down to the spaceport for a little chat with the cult in control of Customs.”
“The Bloodied Stars?”
“Yes, Marcas. The Bloodied Stars.”


201 Posts
Discussion Starter · #3 ·
I stood in the shadows at the back of the cult’s tidy little shrine-room and watched as Fabio slammed a man repeatedly into the altar, head-first.

The man was Arian Forkes, patrician of the Bloodied Stars. His cult ran a smuggling business, keeping control of imports and exports. For the most part, they dealt in weapons.

I gestured for Fabio to stop, then walked up to the altar and examined Arian’s face. He was bleeding quite heavily, his nose was broken, and he seemed to be missing several teeth.

He was smiling at me.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” he said, pausing occasionally to spit blood. “Why did you have your man attack me?”

“I wanted to know what you’d been smuggling in recently, Arian. You wouldn’t tell me.”

“So?” he replied. “That’s no reason to beat up an old man.”

“You’re not even forty standard yet,” I said. “And I need to know. If you don’t tell me now, I’ll just kill you and search through your possessions.”

He nodded, giving up. “Good point. Ok, I’ll tell you. But I’d like you to give the initiates a training session some time. They aren’t shaping up as well as I thought they would.”

“Done,” I said. “Bleed on it?”

“Bleed on it,” he agreed.

He produced a small knife, seemingly out of nowhere, and made a shallow incision on his wrist. He passed the blade to me and I did the same. Then we pressed our wounded wrists together and shook hands.

“Now, my lord,” he said. “What do you need to know?”

* * *
“Killed by a bolter? Impossible,” Arian said, shaking his head.

I leaned forward. “What do you mean, impossible?”

“The only bolt weapons that come through the system are destined for the Astartes. I’d be a dead fool if I tried getting my hands on one of those. Literally.” He stood and walked over to a filing cabinet. He continued speaking.
“I have informants in every cult in the city, licensed and unlicensed. Not one of them is in possession of anything as powerful as a boltgun.”

I paused momentarily, confused. “But then, what-” My vox-link beeped.
I activated my earpiece, and Marcas’ voice came through, sounding tinny and mechanical through the link.

++Jorken, I need you here at the morgue. I finished the examination and . . . Well, you’d better see this for yourself++

++Affirmative. I’ll be right there++

I stood and looked at Arian.

“I have to go now. I’ll be back in around a week for that training session.”

He nodded. I left.

* * *
“So Marcas, what did you discover?” I said.

“Whatever killed him was most definitely not a bolt weapon. Or indeed any kind of solid-shot fire arm,” he replied.

“How so?”

“I examined his wound. There is none of the debris you would expect from a boltgun. Then I had a closer look. From what I can tell, this damage was caused when someone ripped some sort of . . . implanted organ out of him. There’s a set of torn arteries that indicate the general size of whatever it was. It was about fifteen centimeters from top to bottom. I estimate the weight at around four hundred and fifty grams.”

“So someone wanted a spare liver and used this poor bastard to grow it.”

“No, Jorken. It’s far worse than that. Take a look inside him. Right at the bottom of the wound.”

I did so. There was a small pool of a dark-green liquid, standing out against the colours of the man’s internal organs.

“I’m analysing a sample of whatever it is, and so far I don’t think it’s human,” said Marcas. “The only thing that could help me continue examining him is if I knew a little about his last moments.”

Marcas and Fabio looked at me pointedly.

I have never been a master of telepathy, the art of joining my mind with another’s. Indeed, I am no master in any area of psychic ability, preferring not to use my powers.

I am a very powerful psyker, so powerful that some would even go so far as to rank me as level Beta for sheer psychic strength. However, I have almost no control over my power. In fact, most of the time, it manifests subconsciously, giving me strength greater than any normal man. But because I have so little control, conscious manifestations of this power are normally tied to my emotions, particularly fear and anger. I have only drawn as much energy from the warp as I could on one occasion.

The day my father was killed.

I was very young, no older than thirteen but definitely above the age of ten. I walked into my house and saw my brother on the floor, bleeding from his arm. A man in a trench coat was holding a pistol to my father’s head while four others looked on.

I do not remember what happened after that. I only know that nothing of my father’s house was able to be salvaged, and that I had killed three of the men, crippled one for life and severely injured the last before I could be stopped.

The man who would be able to live normally once he had healed was an inquisitor. He was one of those who would kill ‘just to be sure’, and was unrepentant when he discovered my family was free of taint.
I hated him for a very long time. It took me nearly a century doing the work of the Inquisition, but eventually I understood and forgave him.

However, that incident and several others that followed convinced me that I was too dangerous to simply walk around with my powers unshackled. I sought out the company of blanks and untouchables, preferring the unease they caused in me to the pain memories of my power filled me with. After many years, I became used to their presence. I even fell in love with Racquel, who was at the time a member of a friend’s retinue.

Although most of my power is directed towards the physical, I can get an idea of a person’s thoughts and emotions by touching their minds. It was clear that the only way forward in this instance was to feel how the man on the slab had died.

I put my hands on the corpse’s shoulders and brushed my mind against it.

Tired, so tired. Hard to breath, air can’t come in quickly enough. Skin turning blue. Pain, pain deep inside. I vomit blood.


I gasped as my mind surfaced from the well of emotion that was the warp.

I turned to my twin acolytes.

“Well, he definitely wasn’t shot.”

“What then?”

“It felt . . . It felt like he was choking. But there wasn’t anything stopping the air coming in, there just wasn’t enough.”

“Hmmm,” said Fabio. “Let me check his blood.”

He took a vial full of the thin red liquid and put it into an analyser. The machine seemed to ponder the sample for a moment, then spat out a spool of paper. Fabio picked it up and skimmed through the information.

“That’s unusual,” he said.

“What?” I said, wearied by the use of my often unexercised power.

“There’s almost no iron in this sample. Literally less than one percent of the normal amount. If there’s almost no iron in his blood-”

“Then he did choke to death!!!” said Marcas. “No iron means no hemoglobin, which means he couldn’t transport oxygen through his body.”

Something about this struck me as odd.

“So, if there isn’t any iron in his blood, where’d it all go?”

201 Posts
Discussion Starter · #4 ·
I sat down in front of Arian for the second time that day.

“Ah, my lord. I thought you weren’t going to be back for around a week,” he said.

“I wasn’t, but you have informants for every cult in the city, correct?”

“Indeed I do, inquisitor. Just keeping an eye on things, so to speak. Make sure I’m selling the right equipment to the right customers.”

“Whatever,” I said, not caring about his business issues. “Were any of the cults given this man as a target?” I threw the file describing Antonio Faltsen onto his desk.

When he picked it up and saw the hololith attached to the front he paled.

“What is it?” I asked.

“This man is one of my informants,” he said, voice shaking.

“Was one of your informants, Arian,” I answered. “He’s the reason I came to you earlier. Now, if he was your informant, I doubt anyone picked him out as a target, if only to make sure they’d still get their smuggled weapons. That means I can assume that the cult he was informing on didn’t know about all this, then killed him when they found out he was a spy. So, which cult did he infiltrate for you?”

“The- the Cult of the Violet Emperor,” he stammered.

“What?” I said.

“The Violet Emperor. Their cover is that they venerate the Emperor as soaked in the blood and ichor of the xenos. But Antonio-” he swallowed for a moment- “Antonio believed something was wrong there. He was going to report again tomorrow.”

“If they’re an unlicensed cult, how come they haven’t been destroyed or disbanded?” I said.

“They were. The Ecclesiarchy saw their idea of the Emperor as unclean, so they burnt the cult headquarters to the ground. But a few days later, the cult popped up again in the underhive and mutie-town. Now they’re the most respected of the illegal cults. Their assassins can take out any target. They don’t feel . . . right. They’re too good. And you never see what they look like.”

“Right,” I said. “Where are they based now?”

“Centre of the underhive. I’ll give you a map.”

“Thank you. Don’t be surprised if I end up having to exterminate them.”

He nodded. “I know,” he said. “The Inquisition must do its work.”

I may not have liked Arian Forkes, but he did know how things worked.

759 Posts
This is some very good writing indeed. Your development of characters is fantastic! Your Inquisitor Jorken is very intriguing to me. He seems very...human. Unusual for an Inquisitor. But don't get me wrong, I like it! As I said, you're writing is very detailed, and I am impressed. It's a pleasure to meet a fellow 'author', and one who is my own age as well! It's my pleasure to support you in this, as I know that this forum isn't widely visited. Perhaps you'd be interested in some of my work? If you are, do please let me know. Anyway, I'm impressed, and you deserve some rep, so here it is.

201 Posts
Discussion Starter · #6 ·
Thank you. Yes, my Inquisitor being somewhat more "human" than average was a deliberate choice. I've always thought that people with something to lose fight harder than those with nothing to lose, and I also wanted to explore a slightly different side to 40k, so I put in his family, his wife, etc.

Of course I'd be interested in some of your work. Show me to it!!!!

In the meantime, stay tuned people. Next update should be in a day or two.

201 Posts
Discussion Starter · #8 ·
Alright, another (albeit somewhat short) update for those of you who are watching.

I was getting ready to visit the headquarters of the Cult of the Violet Emperor. I laid a case out on my bed and opened it.

Inside was my needle-gun. Sleek and elegant, of xenos origin. It had been given to me by my old master, who said he had acquired it after he had to work with a xenos bounty-hunter. It had been designed to fire shards of crystal, but I had had it modified so it would use adamantium needles as ammunition. Each sliver of metal was coated in a poison designed to shut down the neural and respiratory systems of a target, ensuring its death or unconsciousness at the very least.

Next I retrieved my combat blade from my wardrobe, with its matt black sheath and a silver aquila set into the handle. Although I rarely used it, I decided it was a necessary precaution.

When dealing with a cult of any kind, I found appearances were important. Make the followers think you were in a position of strength and power before you even began speaking and you would be able to disillusion them far more easily. To ensure this, I dressed accordingly.

No shirt, with leather trousers and knee-high boots. A sweeping, ankle-length coat. The straps for my needle-gun’s holster and combat blade’s sheath obvious against my bare skin.

My heavy inquisitorial rosette dangling from a gold chain around my neck.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My skin was corpse-white, with slight shadows showing around my eyes and under my cheekbones. A series of black, curling tattoos wrapped around the left side of my body and face, disguising horrific scarring from eldar neuro-scourges and monofilaments. Silvery scars, barely visible against the paleness of my skin, were everywhere. They showed I was a fighter, and a winner, to have gained so many.

Racquel stepped into the room.

“Jorken, what are you doing? I haven’t seen you all day and now you’re dressed like you’re about to join a fight or something,” she said.

“I’m going to investigate one of the city’s unlicensed cults, my love. There’s something strange going on.”

“But you can’t. We’re on holiday. You need to rest, not go gallivanting off around the city.”

I took her gently by the shoulders. “You know what I’m like. If I don’t check this out I’ll get all irritated and grumpy, and then Lucia will get angry at me and we don’t want that happening.” I kissed her.

“Besides, it’s probably nothing. You can come with me if you want.”

“Of course I am. Without me there, you’d just break down the door and stride in, and then you’d definitely get into some sort of trouble.”

I grinned. In truth, I was glad she was coming. She was a wonderful shot with her autopistol, and

she would prevent me from breaking things unnecessarily.

If I had known what we would find, I don’t think I would have let her come.

Sir Proofreader
4,251 Posts
This story is mildly creeping me out; it just seems I had a very similar concept for an inquisitor and retinue, right down to the psychic blank and twins!

Completely different story, though, and I'd like to see where this one goes...

201 Posts
Discussion Starter · #10 ·
People of LO!!!!!!! I have an announcement! *clears throat loudly*

As of the 11th day of this year, 010 M.03, the Inquisitorial presence known as "Swarbie", "Hivemind" or "guy with the good ideas" will be attending a drama workshop which will allow him to one day infiltrate the chaos-held system of Hollywood.

As this is of the utmost importance, it is most unlikely he will be able to continue deciphering the data-log left behind by Inquisitor Jorken Anateus Rovel, may the Emperor grant him peace.

However, fear not!!! For he will return within the next five days, fresh from his adventures, and full of zeal!!!!! He will begin decoding as soon as he returns.

We ask that you pray for him, so that the Emperor may strengthen his soul to resist the foul temptations of Chaos, and that he may one day achieve this objective, set down for him since infancy.

Ave Imperator!

Inquisitor Fabio Glosche, Ordo Xenos.

Sir Proofreader
4,251 Posts
I'm probably a bit late to wish you luck in your drama workshop but, regardless, I hope it all goes well for you!

201 Posts
Discussion Starter · #12 ·
Thanks. The workshop was great. As long as I don't end up on Neighbours, I'm happy :p

A short update, for you, my fans.

We gathered in my brother’s lounge-room before we left. It was a place to relax, with sunlight streaming in through the windows. There was a shelf of books, all of them classics, and several couches, trimmed with pelts from the native animals. There was a holo-screen set into the far wall.

Fabio and Adreon were sitting on chairs, talking softly. They’d both insisted on coming with Racquel and me. The harsh lines of their compact autoguns contrasted starkly with the rest of the room.

Marcas had elected to stay in the mid-hive area and look for anything we might have missed.

Lucia had attached herself to me, refusing to let go.

“Uncle Jorken, stay,” she pleaded.

“I can’t,” I replied. “I have to do something. But I’ll be back before you know it.”

“But there’s an alien in the garden! I’m scared.”

I chuckled. “Lucia, there are no aliens in the garden. You’ll be fine. The servants will give you dessert early if you be a good girl.”

Lucia admitted defeat. “Ok.”

I gently pulled her off my leg and turned to the others.

“Alright everyone, let’s go. We’re wasting time here.”

As we all piled into a speeder, my vox started crackling.

++Jorken, something’s going on++

++What is it Marcas?++

++People with what seem to be the same symptoms you described are turning up all over the place. Lack of breath, chest pains, low iron levels++

++Get all of them in one place and keep an eye on them. Do what you have to. Tell me if it starts getting worse++

++Right. Good hunting, Jorken++

201 Posts
Discussion Starter · #13 ·
Another Update!!! Sorry about the delay folks, but it happens.

The underhive. A dark, foul necropolis beneath the rest of the city. This was where only the most desperate, those with nothing to lose, would go.

To be quite honest, it smelled of sewage.

Piles of dirt and rubbish stretched out into the gloom as far as the eye could see. I could hear the skittering of the mutants and criminals that infested this place, searching through the city’s waste for food, weapons, anything they could salvage.

To the right was the mutant-town, a series of huts and ramshackle pig-iron houses. The cult headquarters was about half a kilometer in front of us. It was a fairly large, non-descript building, its shape suggesting it had once been a warehouse.

We trudged towards it. As we neared the entrance, we could see two guards. They were obviously mutants. Their size alone attested to that fact. Each was well over two meters tall, and they had a sense of unnatural mass to them, as if their robes concealed their true size. Both guards wore hoods that covered their faces in shadow.

I walked up to them. “We wish to enter,” I stated, keeping my voice stern and strong.

The guard on the left had been chewing his nails. He raised his head and answered: “None may enter here without the Father’s permission.” His voice was low, and very soft.

“I have the right,” I replied. “I am a member of His Most Holy Inquisition, and I demand you give me entrance to this place.”

“None may enter,” the guard answered once more.

I nodded. “Racquel,” I said.

She stepped back, leaving me outside her influence. I took three steps forward, grabbed the guard by the front of his robes and held one-handed against the wall. He was far heavier than I had expected. I quickly fed my body more strength to stop my wrist snapping under the pressure.

“I will ask once more,” I hissed. “Give entrance to this place.”

A new voice suddenly made itself heard. “Barak, Kehvon, let them pass,” it snapped.

I dropped the guard I was holding and turned to face the door. A man, hooded and cloaked, was standing there. He leaned heavily upon a copper staff.

I nodded to him. “I thank you. It would have been . . . unfortunate if I had had to storm the building to gain entrance.”

“I know,” he replied. “That is why I allow you in. Please, enter. We are honored to admit a bearer of the Emperor’s will into our humble sanctuary.”

The others began to file past him into the building. As Racquel passed the man, he hissed and

drew back. “What is that?” he asked his voice full of fear and loathing.

She,” I replied coldly, “is none of your business. She is my own, and if you deny her entrance, you deny us all.” The unspoken threat of what would happen if he tried to stop us entering hung heavy in the air.

“Very well,” the man sighed. “She may enter.”

As I walked passed him, I tried brushing my mind against his. His mind was cold, calculating, devoid of remorse, mercy or pity. It was powerful too, and skilled.

I grunted as he probed me in retaliation. “No wonder the Ecclesiarchy did not approve of you and your worshippers,” I muttered.

“They did not understand our power,” he said. “You, on the other hand, can. You know I did not choose this. I was born to it.”

“That is very true,” I replied, with a predatory grin. “But that will not excuse you should I find you wanting.” I turned, and walked deeper into the lion’s den.

Sir Proofreader
4,251 Posts
This is getting rather interesting. On a slight aside, life as a Blank in the Imperium must kind of suck. I mean sure, you have some fantastic career opportunities, but that's only if someone discovers you before those around you freak out and kill you. What a life!

And yes, here's hoping you don't end up on Neighbours. I don't think I'd wish that on anyone!

201 Posts
Discussion Starter · #16 ·
And now finally: The big reveal!!!!!

The psyker led us through a maze of corridors. With every turn, the light levels dropped, and the walls became rougher. After about half an hour, I guessed we were somewhere behind the building, travelling through tunnels deep in the rocky foundations of the city.

Our guide halted, and gestured towards a small door set into the wall.

“Wait here,” he said. “My brothers have just completed a ritual sacrifice, and we wish to clean the altar room for your visit.”

I nodded. No doubt he was going ahead to warn the other high-ranking members of the cult. But I did not fancy the idea of fighting this man. My mind may have been far more powerful, but he was incredibly skilled. Of course, Racquel could block him out, but I was certain we were being watched. Cults almost always had hidden guardians.

We entered the room. It was surprisingly well-furnished, with a thick carpet, couches, a roaring fireplace and many tapestries adorning the walls. Two of the tapestries fluttered slightly, giving away the presence of secret tunnels or rooms.

I motioned for the others to appear relaxed. We did not want to tip off whoever was watching us to the fact that we were on our guard.

My vox beeped.
++Marcas, what is it?++

++It’s the people I gathered together, Jorken. The ones with prelim symptoms.++

His voice sounded shaky, even through the vox-link. ++What about them?++

++All . . . All the men are dead. Most of the women, though there weren’t many in the first place.++

++What happened?++

++You know how we thought that metal refiner had had an organ implanted in him? Well, they’re not organs.++ I began to pace around the room.

++What then?++ I was beginning to get annoyed with Marcas’ refusal to get to the point.

++They were creatures. One moment the people are fine. The next, these warp-damned things are ripping their way out of the men. I tried to get the women out, but the creatures got to some of them. I had to gas the containment zone.++

I felt a prickle of alarm. Something was wrong here. Something obvious, but not immediately noticeable. I swept my eyes across the room. There, on the wall! A claw mark. A dark stain on the floor.

++Jorken, I recovered one of the creature’s bodies. It’s . . . something else. Part human. And, from what I can tell . . . part tyranid.++

Tyranids. Human-tyranid hybrids. People disappearing and turning up dead, with holes in their bodies. A cult that used mutants, based by the mutant-town. A skilled psyker, refusing to show his face.

As my mind swept through all the evidence, I began breathing deeply. Then stopped.

I could smell something. A strong, musky animal scent. While pacing I had turned my back on the

tapestries concealing hidden rooms or tunnels.

I heard a clicking hiss, and muffled thumps from around the room. I looked up to see cultists standing over the unconscious bodies of Racquel and Adreon. Fabio had disappeared.

I turned to face the thing standing behind me. I saw it, and recognized it.


Sir Proofreader
4,251 Posts
So much for a holiday, eh? Maybe your inquisitor will get some relaxation from squishing bugs, though!

174 Posts
You've got a great story here; personally I always prefered this method of genestealer reproduction. I certainly don't want to rain on your parade, or sap your momentum, but according to GW, that's not how genestealers reproduce. What happens is that the DNA of the stealer bonds with the DNA of the host, who continues to live and reproduce normally. The children, however, are far from normal.

First of all, the gestation period for hybrids is greatly reduced and the growth of hybrids happens very quickly once they are born. Regarding appearance, the first generation are very muscular and feral, often with four limbs; these have been refered to in some versions of genestealer fluff/ rules as neophyptes. The second generation are still large and muscular, but seldom multilimbed; it is possible to mistake them for human if they wear hoods, or if you see them in dim light. The third generation are almost indistinguishable from humans; the cult's magus will be a member of the third generation. Collectively, the second and third generation are sometimes refered to as accolytes. The fourth generation will be purestrains, and the cycle begins again.

In the mean time, the hosts remain healthy, devoted breeders for the cult, their minds altered by genestealer dna in such a way that they have a fanatical devotion to their alien children and an insatiable desire to breed. The psychological corruption of the human host is in many ways, the most disturbing element of the process. As the cult grows in number, the original purestrain with the greatest number of progeny will begin to evolve into the cult's patriarch as his psychic powers become more pronounced in order to telepathically communicate with and control the growing numbers of the cult.

Having said all that, tyranid creatures are the most adaptable in the galaxy, and while the typical genestealer doesn't reproduce in the way you've described, it's possible that a splinter fleet of vanguard organisms have mutated in such a way as to alter their reproductive cycle. After all, it's your story, your world.


Sir Proofreader
4,251 Posts
I think he's sticking true to that idea, IofRaw. The Genestealer is most likely an actual Genestealer, summoned by the leader of the cult to deal with the Inquisitor.

But then I've just realise you're most likely talking about the bit with the 'things' ripping themselves out of the hosts, in which case your points hold true.

Maybe it's something to do with the unique genetic structure of the inhabitants on this world? Maybe all the workers are sterile, and the tyrannids had to find other ways to perpetuate a cult on the world. I don't think it really matters, but those ideas just popped into my head as possible explanations!
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