Inquisitor 28: Dark Fates

So here ends the fluff that sprung from our I28 Chronicle GM’d by Robin – rest assured there will be some more before long when my Chronicle gets it’s write up!

The mon’keh child gave the last of its essence into Zaheria’s waiting mouth in a final sobbing breath. She gulped down the death, relishing the life-force as it rushed into her, she felt herself invigorating, the hollow space within filling, her soul quickening, rejuvenated by the suffering she had wrought on the occupants of this dingy habitation unit. It would not last of course; it always seemed to ebb more quickly when she rushed her feeding. She did not know how long she would have so did not have the luxury of drawing out the torment as she would have wished, and so Zaheria hoped with all her black heart that she would be called upon to visit violence on the population of this filthy planet soon, it had been too long since she had wet her blades and the rejuvenate effects of this hasty feeding would quickly need to be replenished she knew.

Lahariel had left her to find the soulless one and the red female and to give her time to feed. The Exodite did not have the stomach to observe her in the act of feeding and his disapproval was palpable as he departed on his search, leaving her on the roof of this habitation block. The mon’keh had all locked themselves away in their homes, hiding from the death that was beginning to ravage their city streets, little knowing that a new death had infiltrated their midst, a death which would not be held at bay by a locked door.

As she squatted over her kill Zaheria could see her own face reflected in the little mon’keh’s eyes, huge with terror, Zaheria understood what the child must have seen in her. A spectre from some shadow realm, a daemon from the blackest abyss come to drag her down to whatever hell it is that these aliens dread. And in truth the child would not have been wrong in that thinking for what was she if not a hunter from beyond the veil, come to drink her soul? The light gone from the child’s eyes, Zaheria was quick to sever its head, not wishing to have her victims re-animate and keen to do nothing which would bring her to the attention of denizens of the warp lest She-who-thirsts became aware of her. She gently lifted the severed head and placed it with the other members of the family in a neat row at the feet of the elderly female who she had selected to bear witness to the slaughter. The crone had fed Zaheria a steady stream of grief, horror and impotent rage as one by one her family was brought out and tortured to death before her eyes. Zahara straightened up and gazed at the crone, head cocked to one side, she caught her reflection in a window, a blood drenched spectre to be sure.

“Fear not frail, withered creature, your brief time is almost at an end.” the aged human did not understand her words, but Zaheria did not care, she did not speak for the benefit of the mon’keh and it was not her habit to sully her tongue with their guttural speech unless necessary. She reached down and grasped the humans quivering jaw, forcing her head up to stare into her eyes.
“You have such a short spell of years to live your pitiful little lives, it is a wonder that your species is able to achieve anything more than rutting out your mewling progeny. You are disgusting creature’s mon’keh, and you should know that you are no better than cattle, stock to be harvested. It is to us that you all sh…” Zaheria paused, as she became aware another presence in the room.

“Lahariel, you have found them?” She turned to find the tall Exodite standing in the doorway, cradling his long-rifle like a child. The look of revulsion on his face was almost comical. He nodded slowly, eyes boring into her.

“I have. They are in a place of recreation, it is not far, but you must come now.” He paused, looking round at the horror around him.

“You have finished here?”

Zaheria turned back to the human, forcing her head up she leant forward to plant a gentle kiss on the crone’s shrivelled lips, she held the human there as her knife slid under a sagging breast, between two brittle ribs, forcing its way through wasted muscle until her blade found her heart. The old woman spasmed against Zaheria.

“It is to us that you all shall come, your Emperor on his golden throne shall not save you” She hissed into the crone’s mouth as she died. Zaheria did not let the old woman fall until her death had come to her where upon she slid the blade out of the corpse’s chest and released her grip dumping her unceremoniously to the floor. Zaheria turned back to Lahariel, a mocking smile curling the corners of her now flawless month, her alabaster skin glowing with health under the copious blood.

“I have indeed finished here cousin, take me to them.”


He had no idea where he was, or how long he had been kept here. Wrapped with barbed chains, he was suspended from his wrists and ankles, joints distended and wracked with pain, almost eclipsing the pain from his shattered skull. He could feel broken bone shift and grind in his head, a fiery hot web of agony cradling his skull. Pain was his life now, unyielding agony stripping away all memory of who he had been before. The chamber was his womb, utter darkness surrounding and enveloping him. The screaming tore its way from his ruined throat, formless and primordial in its fear. Dimly he was aware that this was not the first time he had awoken and screamed until the darkness took him again.

When he woke next, he was not alone. Three figures stood before him, indistinct in the black. On the far right, the figure stood tall and proud, while the middle figure was stooped and hunched. The figure furthest away was somehow wrong, exuding a palpable air of corruption. Its form seemed to ripple and undulate with some spasmodic peristaltic motion. The hunched figure spoke, its cracked voice maddeningly familiar.

“Our host has matured fully. It is time for the surrogate to take the offspring”

“This had better work” hissed the tall figure, “we have already invested too much for this to go wrong”

“Calm yourself. The offspring is weaker than the parent, more…dilute. The surrogate will not display the same outward signs as the host”

He sensed the two figures who had spoken move to either side of his immobile pain-wracked form. The third figure stood closer, close enough for him to gag on its aura of wrongness and for the undulating motion to register on the edge of his hearing.

“Let us begin…” hissed the hunched figure to his left.

The rippling form of the centre figure pulled its hood down and he saw things moving and waving in the darkness. As the figure stepped in and he felt questing tendrils of utter wrongness probing at his face and mouth, Titus Lockharte of the Ordo Hereticus remembered to scream again.



By day a mild mannered Web Designer from Swindon, by night a horder and shaper of bits in his mad kit bash laboratory.

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