Whenever she slept, she slept in desperation. Her dreams were filled with broken dreams and shattered hopes and visions of a future taken away from her by destiny.
To whatever realm she was brought by the minions of her slumber, she could then hear the melodies of her cage, both natural and far more esoteric in origin. The subsonic purr of the surely cursed Gyptian cat he had brought back for her from his countless unholy travels. The quiet whirring of the cruel beauty apparatus that eagerly tortured her form into something pleasing to him every dim and gloomy morning. And the painfully slow, rhythmic dripping of the gilded tap, ticking like a faulty clock that dragged seconds into degrading hours of shame. There were no folly birds singing in the morning light — only moaning gusts of wind, bringing no novelty and no soft relief, their whispering voices broken by the sharp and cruel corners of millennia-old walls.
She also re-smelled the chemically altered sweat of her unwanted lover, the most expensive perfumes exhaled by his seduction-augmentations constantly and the alchemical odour of his rejuvenated skin. On top of this there was always the scent of toxic industrial fumes, of smoking furnaces and unwashed masses way below, desperately creeping through the filters of the air recyclers placed in the highly decorated ceiling.
But worst of all was feeling the waning memories of lustful grasps and scratches of passion on her genetically sensitised skin again, the lulling softness of the silken sheets soaked with bodily fluids and the tearing reaction of her body to the ebbing power of her drunkenness and the abating ultra-amphetamines. Reliving those moments of sickly desire and inhuman cravings she had felt when he was with her filled her with hatred and loathing. For him. And for herself.
She remembered her father collapsing to his knees and begging her through tears on the dreadful day the herald of His Highness Chuttrak Mane — Grand Baron of the Western Mega-Watt Clans, Alumni-Seneschal of Ursh Sector Theta-4, and former Lord Commander of the Imperial Contingent at the Dyatlov Pass District — came to her family’s home to court her as a mistress.
Back then she had been a proud young woman. Many a man had fallen for her charms and good looks and had ruined himself through scandal and debt while pursuing her as a lover or as a wife. None had been good enough for her — no war-crippled hero, no cosmetically perfected suitor, no gem-enriched trader in forbidden goods. And this gluttonous, eccentric hog of a man was none of those things. He was merely a forgotten warlord of the past looking for a new sensation. But he possessed what all the others before him had lacked — something she desired more than lofty titles, lush hydroponic gardens, and jewellery brought from alien worlds: Access.
He resided in an elaborate mansion within the Imperial Palace, got weekly invitations to the highest social gatherings there, and friends in positions so secret they would never even be mentioned to a despicable lower noble such as her father. But all of this – the pleading of her parents, the illustrious society she would get to be a part of, or the standing making her untouchable for almost everyone – would not have been enough. No. Love. True love was the only thing she even had considered worthy to take such a step.
And there was true love in her life, though she found it so recently back then, that the uncounted arms of fate must have wrestled themselves to make such an occurrence. Just two weeks before the emissary of Lord Mane had arrived, on a quite boring and inappropriate feast to honour one of her long discarded paramours she had met a man who conquered her heart with the first look of his dark and mysterious eyes, broke her will with just a hint of a smile and inflamed her soul so thoroughly that she never recovered. His name was Lord Astrides – or so she thought back then - and he was no regular man at all. He was enormous, as tall as the mountains of Ural, but not so rugged and derelict. His muscles moved under his dark skin like snakes and vipers crawling beneath a blanket made of woven bronze. His fearless eyes were dark as the black hole stars she had read so often about in scholastic books of her childhood, and he towered over her friends and acquaintances like a dark marble statue of the Emperor himself would always tower over the pathetic figures of her ancestors in the dark crypt of the mundane mountain tower she had to dwell in. The mediocre festival hall in all its inexpensive splendour looked like it was illegally built around him, shaming his powerful physique and unsuccessfully trying to diminish his presence. Only the most powerful man of the region had been allowed near him and even those conveyed their unimportant successes and irrelevant achievements only in a faint voice, cracking from respect and fear. Because he was no simple man, he was a son of the Emperor himself, one of a new kind of humanity, an Angel from beyond, a god walking between vermin, an Astartes warrior of the Imperium.
And then his eyes had met hers for the first time. His eyes pierced into hers like the unworldly darkness of the long-sealed, hand-hewn well shaft deep beneath her ancestral halls — the one her father had shown her when she was just a child. She remembered his wicked smile as he teased her about how easily it could become her final fate if she ever betrayed or dishonoured their House. And though the well had been sealed days after her mother’s mysterious and untimely death, and ordered forgotten by her father, she never did. Instead, she started to use it in her thoughts as a bottomless vault for her unhallowed wishes, her most cancerous thoughts, and her vilest secrets. Secrets she now saw openly displayed in the vast and gloomy expanse lurking behind the black irises that gazed sternly down upon her — a sight shockingly different from the times she had looked into a man’s eyes before, always admiring only her own reflection in them, fascinated by the seductive power she had imprinted upon the poor souls standing before her. None of that was true any more.
Even in her dreamscape she kept no tangible memories of the rest of the evening, not of his deep and thought-provoking words spoken beneath the ever-clouded stars of Terra, the gentle touches of hands made for murder and destruction and all those unrememberable secrets whispered in her ear.
He never left her mind from that night onward, and she met him — though far too scarcely for her taste — in secret during all the time she had been handed over to Lord Mane, living in his mansion amid splendour and riches while enduring his disgusting company through seemingly endless nights of depravity and soulless affection. And so she brought her love the breathed syllables of the old man’s drunken and exhausted sleep, the muttered words of triumph he tried to impress her with while mindlessly abusing her, as he was accustomed to doing with all his possessions — except for the ancient weapons and war machines he prized above everything else.
And through all that time she hoped only for one passionate kiss or one intimate touch, knowing those moments would most likely never come. Her love was forbidden by the highest and most secretive rules of the palace, and so her soul shattered anew every morning when she awoke into the nightmare of her life. Desperately she would touch the tiny symbol of the multi-headed serpent he had carved into her thigh the night before — the only solid thing left, for even the memory of the time she had spent with him was already fading. She must have been closer to him than ever, and so silently she whispered his naming phrase — a sentence he had taught her never to memorise: "I am Alpharius."
Saturday, March 7, 2026
Imperial nobility - The Mistress
Friday, February 20, 2026
On the history of the Legions - The VIIIth
As soon as he saw the man limping into the light of the glowing fungus upon the tunnel wall, the boy hid all his weapons but the knife in a narrow ravine. Then he stepped slowly towards the newcomer. And a newcomer he certainly was — still walking upright, still squinting to see, not using his sense of smell at all. Laughable.
The moment the man noticed him, the boy threw himself onto his knees and began begging for mercy, sobbing in his most desperate voice. The man stopped, relaxed his clenched fists, and stared at the pitiable creature on the plascrete floor. Then he bent down, his voice rough but not without mercy: “Get up, lad. I can’t give you nothing, ‘cause I have none.”
Cautiously, the boy rose again, still hiding his armoured-glass blade tucked into the old bandage tied around his waist:
"Plzzz… syre… plizzz, dunot kill me!”
The man let out a hard but hopeless laugh. “I won’t, little one. I won’t,” he said, stretching out his hand in greeting. Of course, the boy did not take it. Shaking hands was a long-forgotten custom down here — and for good reason.
“What ’r u?” the boy asked.
“I’m Exertus, lad. A soldier in the armies of the Man in Gold.” He pointed to his chest, where the boy saw a strange bat tattooed there. “See? The Aquila of the Emperor. I was one of the good ones. Once.” He slowly reached out for the boy again. "You can trust me, lad. Really!” he whispered, forcing a wry smile.
The boy took a step back, feigning shyness and fearfulness while using the movement to grasp his blade.
“Oh,” he hushed, “Den take me wiv you, mazzter… yeah?”
His eyes seemed to close, though he watched through his lashes. The man took a final step closer, his hand closing firmly around the boy’s bony shoulder. “Well, well—”
The boy moved with lightning speed, driving the knife upward into the man’s lower jaw. It did not require much force; the glass shard was sharp — terribly sharp. Bone cracked. The blade pierced upward into the brainstem. The boy’s victim fell to his knees, shocked, staring into nothingness yet still breathing… as he heard the whispered words:
“Welcome t’ the Underdark, zzoldier.”, the boy smiled, “Alwayz wondered wot a ‘good one’ fetch
down ‘ere?”
Deep beneath the scorched crust of a war-torn
Terra, forever unseen by those who do their utmost to forget them and never
destined to walk beneath the pale light of the Sun, live those who still pay
for their ancestors’ crimes — the forgotten sons and daughters of darkness, the
heirs of despair and nightmare, the Children of Eternal Night.
As long as mankind has walked the Earth, there has been law — from the unspoken codes of the earliest societies to the complex scientific statutes of a forgotten Age of Technology. And as long as mankind has walked the Earth, there have been those who broke them. And they had to be punished.
For countless generations, outcasts, lawbreakers, dissidents, and criminals of a broken age were banished to caverns and dungeons far below the surface — places so dark, so vile, and so hopeless that a death sentence would sound merciful compared to the fate of these prisoners. Those poor souls are forever barred from natural light and fresh air, fed on leftovers or corpse-starch rations at best — and on subterranean vermin and one another at worst — and ever vigilant against the dangers of the hostile environment in which they are forced to survive. But there is no life in prison, just existence.
But if one thing is true of mankind, it is that it is hard to kill, surviving like cockroaches even under the direst circumstances. And so those prisoners endured, clinging to life until their last breath was taken, forging a brutal and merciless society of their own. And they continued to exist. And to procreate. Spreading like a virus, lifeless but most dangerous. Contained only by the cage doors, the concrete the walls and the automatic gun turrets.
Violence is the bloody coinage of these societies, with sexual favours, bonded labour, and sometimes even their own flesh and blood serving as small change in their cruel economy. Love and mercy are weaknesses that have to be forgotten, suppressed beneath an ugly shell of anger and instinct for survival. And so those poor souls, born of violence or coerced lust, never have a chance to understand what being human truly means.
Most infants die regardless — often together with their mothers — during childbirth. Those are the fortunate ones, for they never have to witness abominable men burrowing their filed teeth into the flesh of the newborn and sucking the sweet marrow from their bones.
Those unfortunate enough to survive for weeks or months endure the humidity and stale warmth of long-forgotten tunnels, where their mothers hide them from human hunting packs. Others suffere the misfortune of being sold to the Raiser clans and are raised by wet-nurse slaves in an environment filled with the constant crying of the hungry and unfed, and the stench of hundreds of children left to soil themselves.
Growing older is no easy achievement either, for in times of famine and want even the most underfed children were highly prized commodities. Yet in every litter there were some stronger than the others, more resistant to pain, infection, and malnourishment than their brothers and sisters. These were destined to endure, learning to see in the near-utter darkness and to move in absolute silence.
They are tought the cruel, mutilated tongue of the Underdark, hissing and whispering to one another, and they later memorise the strange signs painted upon the walls — runes so ancient and unholy that almost perfect eyes alone were not enough to perceive them, but rather a hardened soul and a twisted mind.
And so the years pass for those born into such misery, raised in confinement though never convicted of any crime. In time they gather together, forming packs, or flocks, or murders, or — in imitation of true society— gangs and syndicates. And what they had once lacked in sin and criminal guilt, they soon accumulate in abundance.
Those desperate few who reach their teenage years are soon fully confronted with the harshness of their surrounding society — its cruel politics, its lust and desire, and its corruption. They are required to rise continually in power, brutality, and cunning in order to survive and see another day.
But some of them — some of them are lost.
Never to be seen again by their peers, and never spoken of thereafter. Those are
the truly fortunate ones: the ones chosen by the most cruel, most despicable,
and often most effective fighting force the Imperium has to offer — the Cursed
Ones, the Children of the Night… the VIIIth Legio Astartes.
Monday, February 16, 2026
Daily Duties of a Space Marine
+++ Ordinance LXVII–VII–55.8922
+++ Temporal reference: 833.717.M30
+++ Concerning the Regulated Daily Observances of the VIIth Legion Astartes During Periods of Fortress Garrison
By decree of Maximus Thane, Grandmaster of the Imperial Fist legion and the High Legion Command under the sigil of Terra, the following schedule is ratified for all duly sworn Battle-Brothers of the VIIth Legion during garrison duty. Deviation without superior dispensation is subject to censure.
0400 — Reveille
At the fourth hour, reveille shall be declared by authorised vox-hailing the ceremonial tolling of the Gilded Bell of the Eternity Gate upon Terra, sounding seven times in solemn remembrance of the VIIth Legio Astartes.
Battle-Brothers shall cleanse the body in full discipline, with particular attention to face and hands. Shaving and grooming shall be conducted without excess. Thereafter, pre-scribed light attire shall be donned: linen tunic, linen braccae, and regulation leather boots.
0415–0430 — Morning Stratification Brief
Immediate superiors shall deliver formal notice regarding Legion and Centuria status, logistical updates, and forthcoming duty allocations.
0430–0445 — Deca-IKM Agility Trial
A short-distance {10 Imperial Kilometre} obstacle course shall be undertaken in light at-tire for the cultivation of endurance, coordination, and fraternal bonding.
0445–0515 — First Nutritional Allotment (Refectory)
Consumption of approved sustenance: optimised nutrient pastes, protein rations, and vi-ta-mineralised hydration fluids.
0515–0600 — Foundational Physical Conditioning
Engagement in weight resistance exercise or heavy construction labour, as determined by availability and strategic necessity.
0600–0800 — Close Assault Discipline I
Instruction and regulated duelling in unarmed combat and short-pattern close-assault weaponry, including (but not exclusive to) dagger, knife, club, and gladius. Cage engagement protocols apply
0800–1000 — Structural Doctrine Instruction
Formal academic study of architectural theory, materials science, and principles of integrated fortress defence in accordance with VIIth Legion siege and defence tenets.
1000–1145 — Ranged Weapons Discipline I
Live-fire exercises with approved sidearms: bolt-, pyre-, plasma-, inferno pistols and Volkite Serpentas.
Mobile and airborne targets shall be engaged at graduated distances.
1145–1200 — Weapon maintenance
Cleaning, inspection, and recalibration of all issued weaponry.
1200–1230 — Second Nutritional Allotment (Refectory)
Increased intake of protein broth, vat-grown muscle substrate, and vita-mineralised hydration fluids.
1230–1300 — Midday Performance Review
Structured analysis of individual conduct and efficacy during the first operational section of the cycle. Discussion shall remain disciplined and devoid of superfluous sentiment.
1300–1445 — Decuria Tactical Ballistics Drill I
Armoured live-fire exercise within simulated combat environments. Primary objectives: maintenance of fire lines, coordinated manoeuvre under hostile engagement, and adaptation to variable terrain.
1445–1500 — Weapon maintenance
Cleaning, inspection, and recalibration of all issued weaponry.
1500–1530 — Deca-IKM Armoured Endurance Trial
Standardised run [10 Imperial Kilometres] conducted in fully activated Astartes power armour. All armour systems shall be assessed for operational integrity.
1530–1630 — Close Assault Discipline II
Advanced instruction in medium-pattern close-combat weaponry, including (but not exclusive to): power sword, chain sword, mace, and axe. Counter-polearm engagement training. All drills to be executed in full armour.
1630–1700 — Panoply Maintenance Routine
Primary armour recalibration and minor restorative procedures. Remaining interval devoted to black carapace interface care and auxiliary wargear maintenance.
1700–1800 — Decuria Tactical Doctrine
Academic instruction concerning evolving tactical doctrines and formal review of recorded battlefield engagements.
1800–1830 — Third Nutritional Allotment (Refectory)
Sustenance as previously authorised.
1830–1900 — Evening Performance Review
Analytical discourse concerning conduct during the second operational section of the cycle.
1900–2000 — Decuria Tactical Ballistics Drill II
Armoured live-fire engagement emphasising mid-range weapon systems and coordinated heavy support integration at Decuria scale.
2000–2030 — Philosophical Contemplation
Contemplative instruction in doctrines of war, brotherhood, strategy, and tactical virtue. Tuition in matters of the Imperial Truth and the new Lex Imperialis.
2030–2115 — Ranged Weapons Discipline II
Live-fire instruction in mid- to long-range weapon systems against mobile and airborne targets at graduated distances.
2115–2215 — Legion Strategic Theory
Hololith-assisted instruction advancing comprehension of warfare at Legion magnitude. Examinations shall be administered for the identification of candidates suitable for future command elevation.
2215–2245 — Fourth Nutritional Allotment (Refectory)
Final regulated intake of nutrient paste, protein ration, and hydration allotment.
2245–2300 — Last Performance Review
Analytical discourse concerning conduct during the second operational section of the cycle.
2300–0000 — Discretionary Interval
Permitted activities include wargear refinement, personal craftsmanship, approved study, or regulated fraternal contest.
0000 — Curfew
At the zero hour, curfew shall be declared by vox-hailing twenty tolls of the Gilded Bell of the Eternity Gate upon Terra. All Battle-Brothers shall enter rest-cycle via activation of their Catalepsean Node immedately thereafter.