'Csak vass, semmi kevesebb'
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| [//jamie_c/@mutantsnakeeyes+] |
+++ commsVAL{=SENT: FALSE +++
+++ urgens: MAGENTA-gravis +++
+++ commsVAL{=RECEIVED: FALSE.incept +++
++ THE FERRIC CATACOMB, ca. 0XXX781.M33 timestamp invalid++
He picked up a quill. It had been painstakingly carved from the thigh-bone of some supposed ‘saint’. He did not know how long the work had taken. He did not wish to know. Contempt bred bile in the back of his throat. Disgusting.
The faint flicker of candlelight illuminated a sigil carved into its shaft, the sigil of the Iron Bore; synonymous with the Iron Guard.Onto leathery vellum stained the foulest maroon, he scratched his last memoir. Not that his death was due, no, for this was no man; this was a demigod, an angel of death, an accursed experiment whose sole purpose was to wage war. No, for this was Ljunge Blégos, Lord Castellan of the Iron Guard, the infamous ‘Blind Butcher’. This was to be his last memoir, for judgement was nigh. One cannot scribble when he has lives to claim, he thought.
The skeletal insides of the Iron Guard’s Chapter barque, Fortitude's Sin, hummed as if to silently commune with its liege. Cold steel contrasted with the grisly trophies of those they had killed and mounted to the walls. Each had the iron bore crudely carved into the bone. A savage mark. He stopped himself, pondering potential hubris; considering his downfall. I have never been this way. Nor, indeed, did he think had his Chapter. Not truly.
‘Fallen’ did not seem apt. Was there a term fitting enough to describe their descent at this point? For it was clear to him that they had tumbled precipitously downwards, into a spiral from which they couldn’t recover.
His brothers had told him this. Within the Ferric Catacomb, this very chamber, upon which they held council. His brothers spoke out, they rebuked an oath, an oath of blood. It was an oath sworn in a time of desperation, when all seemed doomed.
He spat again, bitter at how embattled he had become. Torn within his own mind, split between his heart and his consciousness, pulled apart by the brothers he loved as one fought another in vile rejection of the secessionists with which they had become so embroiled.
It mattered not. He had made their bed for them now. His resolve didn't falter; but a sense of dejection seemed to halo him as he signed off. This was an edict, a call for blood, a declaration of war. This was an order.
He signed off: ‘Only iron, nothing less’.