[center][h1]Emergence[/h1] Libercon - 300 AWH[/center] [center][h2]Vault of the Forgotten, Hive Cluster Kralhk[/h2][/center] Silence lay upon the ageless stone. It coiled like miasmatic vapours rising from ancient, corrupt seas deep beneath the earth, seeping into every crack, every hollow that might once have been a door. The shapeless grey mounds, eaten away by voracious aeons, breathed in the stillness, and exhaled shadows of creeping menace. Among them it flowed, sharpening the quiescent teeth of the chamber, whose alabaster facets glimmered peacefully, yet warily in the twilight penumbra cast by the monstrous growths on the walls of live rock. Corrosive hunger and lust to consume dripped from the bulbous filaments of the parasitic abnormities as iridescent blood from a gaping mouth. Pools of thirst slithered between the skeletal pillars that plunged down to tremendous depths, and rested on the jagged, vaulted ceiling overhead. Murky eyes idly followed them from the crevices between mangled ribs, never blinking, never moving, even as they slowly sunk into the darkness below. Somewhere, mandibles scraped noiselessly over the foetid air. The closer the strands of silence crept to the center of the vault, the more shapes drifted through them in inaudible motion. Amorphous carcasses of what might have been buildings were replaced by angular figures hewn from stone with claw and ichor, first stunted and incomplete, then greater and more imposing, until they towered over the abysses alongside the pillars. What they were, none could have said save the dead voices of those who first had built them. There were mounds akin to crouching wyverns, protrusions rising from their body like petrified mockeries of horns and folded wings. Others were high, slender blocks, crowned with pyramidal adornments and flanked by sharp flames. Others yet were great spires gripped in the coils of vortices of stone and whispers, rivulets of distorted life coursing along them, merging into thundering cascades of venom. Greater yet were ghosts of pillared temples of cults that were now less than dust. They snarled with their cryptic recesses, clamouring for the rivers of souls that had once sated their ravenous masters, and the world shrank from around them, as though it could perceive their dread intent. At the very core of the city that had risen from death stood the colossal ziggurat of the Old Ones. It was as dark as all things of spirit and matter around it, seemingly woven from shadows given substance rather than reared from stone. Dim luminescence pulsed from gaps that cut its ephemeral walls like eyes, now and then coalescing into grasping shapeless limbs which flailed blindly through the void before dissipating into numberless screaming shards. Gnawing spectres of wraith-fire threshed through the corridors that pierced it like the nest of all things foul that it was, echoing chants of gibbering obeisance to the terror that lurked beneath the earth rumbling with a strength that shook stone. Over its walls, upon its roof, at the foot of its walls gathered monstrosities innumerable, raising their gnarled limbs in unholy supplication and intoning, in preternatural unison, the decayed words of rites that emerged after millennia from abyssal oblivion. Their forms were as diverse as they were many, some bearing their Riglir heritage manifest in their claws and carapaces, others donning distorted guises, viscous, proboscidal, or writhing with tentacles, that could only be born of the direst madness of the cosmos. The only part of the tremendous unreal building that was not acrawl with the hideous throng was the ample staircase leading from the lower ground to its uppermost altar. It seemed to curve in strange manners if observed from most angles, yet rose straight when one trod upon it. There were no braziers flanking it, nor did any strange lichen or wisp of the deep cast its steady light over it, for those who walked that sheer path abhorred all that was not dark. Nor was it in any way adorned for what was to occur upon it. The mere vastness of its proportions and the distortion of its shape were sufficient decoration. At the upper end of the ascending path there stood a great figure of shadow and chitinous bone, which almost rose to the size of the imposing eidolon in the shrine behind it. It was broad and heavy in its onyx armour, to the point that even the mismatched, yet powerful limbs it stood upon seemed to struggle to support its bulk. Designs of purple spirals, burning eyes and snapping mouths flowed over its body, glaring and snapping as they rearranged themselves in an endless hypnotic dance. A faint halo of luminescence whose colours could not be named danced around its double heads, and its mandibles breathed out pestilential fumes. Five of its claw-tipped arms were lifted up in a gesture of invocation. Lower down, at the mid-point of the staircase, another behemoth monstrosity faced the dim-shrouded hierophant. Not so much a Riglir as an amorphous mass of undulating, shifting flesh and venomous blood, it loomed as though itself were some ancestral idol carven out of the same necromantic stone as the temple. Legs moulded themselves out of its churning mass as it shifted from side to side, only to dissolve once more when their momentary purpose was done. It had no head or mouth to chant with, but its limbs rose and fell in waves crested with breathing armour in cadenced motions. Loathsome vermin crept over and around the shapeless colossus, their own chittering and screeching weaving themselves into a rhythm matching the movements of their master. The being at the top of the stairs let out a rumbling howl that echoed through invisible galleries around it, growing and ebbing as it resonated, and the swarms fell still before they had heard it. In silence, it began to sweep and snap its arms in a pattern of growing speed and complexity, tracing circles and many-angled forms until the dripping spikes were less than a blur. As the creature’s arms continued to spin, the rest of its body remaining perfectly still all the while, voices of ages past radiated from the symbols it drew. Songs and laments in hissing, guttural tongues lost to time; the roars of dying gods of a forgotten cycle, then another, then a thousand more; the dull blows of great cities and fortresses crumbling to the ground; the beating of drums, the clash of steel and the cries of war; the creaking of trees struck down by iron and flame. Death sang its discordant song, and reigned supreme through the aeons. In response, the writhing bulk below intoned the hymn of life. Worms flourished from purulent sores that burst out over its skin in an instant; vile winged beings flew out of gaping pits that opened in its armour, to swoop down upon tides of great spiders, slashing and piercing with their stingers and being in turn dragged down and crushed by ravenous mandibles. Maggots slithered among all, gorging themselves on the carrion and filth. Each of them clung to its few instants of being with a hunger and ferocity that dwarfed the most ardent passions of gods and mortals; each fought with strength of desperation no cause can inspire. They surged up the stairs, to meet the oppression of death that bore down on them. The steps were drowned by their frenzied celebration. Though even the giant that spawned them could not have contained so many, they continued to pour forth, clambering and thrumming and lashing until they met the choir of the time-damned. [i][center][b][h3]”In the glory of That which is below, to break the universal chain and arise in the moment of annihilation, may the aspects of existence become as one.”[/h3][/b][/center][/i] Death and life, flesh and mind clashed, tore at each other, spun, intertwined, shattered one another, their blood and ichor mingling and flowing into the pit of night as one river. [i][center][b][h3]”Though there may seem that there are many, there were always two. Though there may seem to be two, there was always one. Our claws crush the spine of time and close the circle. The end with no beginning approaches.”[/h3][/b][/center][/i] The gashes and sores on the body of the mountain of life began to swim and hover in precise, yet chaotic paths, tracing the name of what had none in signs that could not have a meaning. Liquid flesh burst in torrents from within the husk of the dark priest, forming itself into faces, limbs, pulsing organs in the same instant as it collapsed. [i][center][b][h3]”We are the One who dwells within. We shall inherit the end.”[/h3][/b][/center] [/i] [center][h2]Holy March of Outremerine, Edge of the Chasm of Ineffable Odds[/h2][/center] A horn blew from the direction of the nearest wall. Nartos did not turn to look. If they were calling, he was too far to be of any use to them. He could, in truth, not have been more than three hundred steps away, but with those things flooding the battlefield every inch of ground gained was a hard-fought victory. No, he and his maniple were far more useful holding back the waves that kept crawling out of that cursed pit. A commander with little experience of the Outremerine way of fighting would have punished such a thought, but the usual tactics did not work here. Flanking was of no use against the creatures, and not even the newest reinforcements needed to have this explained to them twice. Not that there were any in the point positions, anyway. Like him, none of Nartos’s fellows spared as much as a glance for the call. Those at the forefront gave a push with their locked shields, throwing back the monsters that lunged and clawed at the gaps in the wall. Most of them picked themselves up almost immediately and leapt back into the fray. Their shells might have been cracked, their eyes missing and their arms limp, but they always kept coming as long as they could move at all. Legend had it that they were the unnatural spawn of some ancient god-monster, and they certainly looked the part. Foul things, unworthy of any offer of redemption. If there was something that nobody here lacked, it was the desire to smash as many of the vermin as they could. And, for most, it was the only thing that kept them going, along with unbreakable faith. The beasts charged again. This time, the shields parted, and mauls came swinging down in the gaps between them. The creatures fell, but just then a fresh wave came bounding over their corpses. Heavy iron spheres rose again, tossing back most of the assailants, but a few managed to dodge the upward arcs and burst among the ranks, tearing and biting savagely. The second line hefted their smaller, lighter maces and rained blows in almost as much of a frenzy. The beasts died. This was not the first time they had broken through, and it was probably not the last. Nartos could not say with certainty, but this was the longest onslaught he thought he could remember in years. Usually, they did not last more than three or four hours, but now the great affront overhead was coming into sight in the rays of the rising dawn, and still they came. His entire body was one aching sore, blood, both his and not, mixed with nauseating sludge splattered his armour from head to toe, and still they came. The others around him were in no better condition. Worse yet, their numbers had been dwindling. Every time the monsters broke through the shield wall, a few warriors were left lying in puddles of gore and dirt at their feet. And, as they tired, ranks split more and more often, while the enemy always came with new forces. A cry of “Breaker!” made him raise his head, fighting the leaden veil of fatigue. Sure enough, a horrendous towering shape was approaching among more of the thrall masses. Without even the strength for a quick invocation to Justinian to spare, he hoisted his warhammer and waited for the abomination to draw closer. Only a few more steps… Two, one… Now. The first line split open, moving to meet the charging swarm head-on. With sideways blows, they tossed a few of the creatures away, clearing an opening for a few precious moments. That was all he needed. Nartos and four others, all that remained of the hammer-wielders, sprang forward, carried mostly by the weight of their weapons. The giant horror lashed out with two of its claws, catching and crushing one and tossing a few of the shieldbearers aside. Before it could reach down with its upper pincers, the others swerved aside and struck. The thing screeched as one of its legs was snapped by a clean blow and black blood sprayed from where the other blows had landed, but did not relent. As it fell, it brought one of its claws down on the soldier beside him, smashing their head into a gruesome bloom of blood and flattened metal. With an almost superhuman effort, Nartos swung his hammer again, carving what passed for the monstrosity’s head in. He remained immobile for a few moments, leaning on the weapon’s haft and breathing heavily, oblivious to all that was around him. It was only when the screams flew past him that he could rouse himself and look up. More of the beasts were coming, but they were not any he had ever seen before. At first, they looked just like centaurs. But centaurs did not have a skin of living armour, or wriggling worms instead of a face, or scythes instead of hands… [i]”The fort- Justinian be- They will overrun-”[/i] Fragments of words swam in the mire of his thoughts. He tried to raise, if not the hammer, at least a hand against the shadows that were closing in, but they were too fast. There was a blade, then pain, then darkness.