Chronicle of Isha, the Goddess of Life (Warhammer 40,000)

[SuperPulp2789]

They are wasted on Slaanesh, hell I gotta say they may as well have already "died" post-corruption as all those new cruel and bizarre "interests" and "enjoyments" took over the rest of their personalities

 

[Nidhog153]

A/N: Apologies for the two month hiatus. I've been trying to create a backlog of chapters, so I don't have to feel like I'm being hounded by upload dates. Real life has been busy as well, so I'll probably be switching to a monthly upload schedule. This Apocrypha was written on June 23rd, and it's mostly here because I was worried people didn't know who Rylanor was or what he is most famous for in 40K. The events are a re-telling of the latter part of Isstvan III from Rylanor's perspective.

A few Dramatis Personae might also be necessary.

Saul Tarvitz : Depending on the novel, he is a captain, first-captain, or simple line-officer within the Emperor's Children. When the loyalists were betrayed on Isstvan III, Sault Tarvitz (Emperor's Children), Garviel Loken (Sons of Horus) and Tarik Torgaddon (Sons of Horus) managed to reorganize the scattered loyalists into a cohesive fighting force. Their objective was to hold back the traitors, and find some way to report Horus's treachery to the Imperium. After three months of ruthless fighting, Horus was forced to orbitally bombard the loyalists, as their position within the Precentor's Palace had stymied every ground assault the traitors launched against it.

Vistario, Akhtar, and Murshid: The trio of Thousand Sons sent to investigate a cryptic message in the short story "The Ancient Awaits". They find Rylanor in the ruins of Isstvan III.

—-------------------------------------------------
"Hold!" Rylanor's voice boomed through the Dreadnought's speakers. Bolter shells and Volkite beams bounced off his thick adamantium carapace as he returned fire with his auto-cannon.

The Venerable Dreadnought and the dozen or so Space Marines that followed him traded fire with men using the same Mark IV Power Armor. They ducked in and out of cover, dashing out only when their brothers managed to give sufficient suppressive fire for them. Beams, bolt shells, and balls of plasma flew back and forth between both parties. Yet, Rylanor and the other loyalists were forced back, bit by bit. It was not that they were lacking in terms of armaments, protection, or tactics. They were evenly matched against their enemy in those regards. They were simply outnumbered.

Dust and rubble fell down upon them as the basement shook violently.

"They're trying to bury us with orbital bombardments!" One of the loyalists spat angrily.

Rylanor grimaced as he let loose another stream of explosive shells, forcing the traitors to hide, and allowing one of his brothers to fall back safely.

Things were much worse than they seemed.

The basement of the Precentor's Palace was well over a kilometer underground. Only the dorsally mounted Bombardment cannons of their Battle Barges could shake this place. But, that was not the worst problem. If the Precentor's Palace was being bombarded, it meant there was a hostile warship within firing range above them. A warship that might shoot down the only hope they had left here.

"Fallback to the hangar!" Rylanor ordered. "I will hold the entrance! The rest of you activate the remaining anti-orbital defenses! Stealth is no longer an option! We'll launch while the warship above us is distracted!"

The loyalists sent back their affirmations via the tactical display on their helmets, and began to retreat deeper into the facility. Rylanor stood between them and the traitors, using his Dreadnought as a moving shield as he waddled backwards. The thick adamantium blocked the bolter shells and Volkite beams fired their way, while the occasional armor piercing balls of plasma were smashed apart by his power fist's disruptive fields.

Even after his internment into a Dreadnought, Rylanor's eyes and reflexes remained largely intact. Swatting away the glowing balls of plasma, and dispersing the superheated matter before it could touch him was difficult, but not impossible.

As the Ancient retreated with the other survivors, he reflected as to how exactly they had gotten here.

Rylanor had become separated from Saul Tarvitz and the other loyalists during the initial Virus bombing. He had been outside when it happened, atop the roof of the Precentor's Palace. The civilian populace of Choral City melted away before his eyes as the Life-eater virus did its work.

The Venerable Dreadnought he had been interred in was thankfully able to withstand the virus's penetrative capabilities. Ordinary Power Armor filters only slowed the virus, and did not offer full protection. He retreated back into the Palace, after committing the atrocities of his gene-father to memory. The firestorm was coming, and even his Dreadnought would not survive it.

After that, he managed to regroup with a few other loyalists who had evaded the Life-eater virus, as well as a few unexpected individuals.

'Ironic, that we were saved by our original enemy.' Rylanor thought bitterly as he laid down another stream of suppressive fire.

The original mission on Isstvan III was the suppression of a rebellion. That mission was still underway when they had been betrayed, and there were still enemy Warsingers fighting on the planet. Rylanor and his loyalists had run into one such group of survivors as they searched for Saul Tarvitz. A battle ensued, and the Warsingers were eliminated. However, their actions puzzled Rylanor.

Soldiers who could continue fighting, even as their entire planet died around them, did not move without purpose. The Warsingers were an empathetic group of fighters. Rylanor had seen them attempt to comfort or shepherd survivors, even as the Life-eater virus ate away at their skin. A few of the other loyalists shared Rylanor's confusion, and used their enhancements to recover the last memories of their enemies. That was how they had learned of this underground hangar, and the ship that lay within it. It was this ship that had given those Warsingers the hope to keep fighting during the Virus bombing. Now, it was the hope of Rylanor and the remaining loyalists.

'One ship…' Rylanor thought as he retreated backwards into the hangar. 'If we can get one ship off this planet, we can warn the other Legions of what happened here…'

The entire underground hangar shook again as another magma bomb detonated above them. There was the scream of shearing metal, and the roof buckled. Support beams and jagged chunks of ferrocrete fell down upon them.

Rylanor smashed an incoming piece of debris with his powerfist, turning it into dust before its weight could crush him. "Take off!" he roared.

There was no more time. They had hoped to launch in secret, but the waves of traitor troops deployed after the Virus bombing forced them to fight. Now, with this orbital bombardment, they would have to put all their faith in the skills of the pilot, and dumb luck to evade the warship hovering directly overhead.

The sleek ship rose off the ground. It had no weapons, nor shields. All it had to protect itself was its speed and relatively small signal profile.

There was another quake, and the roof collapsed. Tons of rock rained down on the rising ship, slamming it back into the ground and cracking its hull. A falling support beam cut through its starboard wing. The engines of the starship flared, as the last inputs of the now dead pilot were registered. Vitrifying flames bathed the loyalists behind Rylanor, vaporizing their flesh and melting their armor in an instant.

Pure hate roared through the Dreadnought's speakers as Rylanor laid into the remaining traitors before him.

They had failed.

The traitors' deeds would go unreported and unpunished. Even as he pulverized traitors with his power fist, and tore them apart with unrelenting streams of auto-cannon fire, he had failed.

—-------------------------------------------------

Rylanor was left alone in the dark, half-collapsed hangar. For some reason the stream of traitor Space Marines had petered out.

'Did a hallway or staircase collapse? Surely, I have not killed all of them.' Rylanor mused to himself. His internal tactical display showed that several days had passed since he had killed the last traitor he could find.

The Dreadnought squatted down, de-powering its servos and hydraulics as Rylanor reduced the output of his generator.

If the passage to the surface had collapsed, then Rylanor was trapped here. He was interred in a Dreadnought with only one arm. Digging himself out of here was impossible.

'Nothing to do but wait.' The Ancient thought grimly, as his consciousness slowly dropped into a stasis coma.

Whether it was rescue or the chance for further retribution, the Ancient would wait.

—-------------------------------------------------

It was a sound that awoke Rylanor; a base thrumming that rippled through the very ground, sending a prickling sensation through his skin as it passed through him. His Dreadnought reactivated as a gout of dust and debris blew out of the old passageway. Rylanor kept his Dreadnought still. He was currently hidden behind the remains of the crushed starship, out of direct line of sight from the hangar doors. The allegiance of these new intruders was unknown to him, so he kept silent as they walked into the hangar.

Rylanor's concern grew as he heard the new intruders entering the hangar. Their footfalls were heavy, a clear indication of Power Armor of some sort. Yet, it was not that sound that set his nerves on edge.

It was their voices.

He could hear them talking to each other, clearly and without the tell-tale sound of vox-muffling. That meant they were walking around without their helmets on, but he could still not understand what they were saying to each other.

The Ancient looked at his tactical auspex. Only a few decades had passed since he entered his stasis-coma. If this was a few hundred, or a few thousand he might have been able to accept linguistic drift as the reason for why standard-gothic was no longer recognizable.

He heard the clatter of something being kicked across the hangar floor, followed by a series or repeated noises.

Laughter. It was laughter he was hearing. Someone was laughing in this unmarked tomb of his brothers, pissing on their graves with their mirth.

Rylanor remained still, even as fury boiled within him.

He had no idea as to the allegiance of the intruders, nor their armaments or number for that matter. Now was not the time to give in to rage. Better to let the enemy come to him.

The armored footsteps approached the starship he was hidden behind. Rylanor readied his assault-cannon. The power fist was too noisy and too bright to use for an ambush.

The foot of one of the intruders peeked out from behind the corner. Rylanor recognized the colors of the IIIrd Legion, his colors, on the boot.

The next step brought the bottom of the intruder's weapon into view. It was unlike anything Rylanor had ever seen before. Vibrantly painted, it had sinewy organic looking harp strings and echo chambers built into it. Spines and curved blades jutted out from what looked to be an almost phallic barrel with a speaker where the muzzle should have been.

The 3rd step brought the intruder's face into view, and Rylanor struck at it with his unpowered power fist the moment he saw it.

Where there had been a man's head once, was a sickening pile of wrinkled skin covered in spines and glistening lubricant. Whoever this had been, they had replaced their eyes and mouth with black diaphragms that constantly vibrated, allowing the twisted thing to see with sound.

It was a mockery that Rylanor could not allow to exist.

Rylanor stepped out of the shadows, as his former brother's headless body fell to the ground. His auto-cannon was already roaring, obliterating two more traitors as his power fist crackled to life.

More IIIrd Legion traitors were around the ruined hangar, digging through its remains. An unexploded Virus bomb lay on the ground, most likely recovered from the surface by the band of scavengers. All of them had the same or similar enhancements applied to their flesh, and held sadistic weapons in their hands. Twisted sound came from the speakers that replaced their mouths, barking orders in the form of hideous melodies.

Fire was traded between them. Pulses of sound shook the weakened hangar as Rylanor's auto-cannon shredded the traitors, causing their flailing bodies to fire up towards the ceiling. Several shots grazed the Dreadnought, sending spin-chilling vibrations throughout the metal, threatening to liquify Rylanor's flesh as cavitation bubbles formed inside the amniotic fluid around him.

The fight only lasted a few minutes. Even with their new weapons, the traitors could not kill the occupant of the Venerable Dreadnought. However, the Ancient was not uninjured.

Rylanor limped around the remains of the starship. Several of his internal systems were destroyed, and his feet were barely functional. The tactical auspex had shattered from the vibrations, and he could taste blood in the fluid around him.

'One… more…' Rylanor thought as he dragged his Dreadnought around the corner of the ship. A trail of blood and gore led to the last surviving traitor. His bisected upper torso lay there, seemingly dead.

Slowly, Rylanor approached the traitor.

Even this seemingly dead corpse could not be trusted. He was still trapped in this hangar, and that meant he would have to enter a stasis-coma again. No traitor could be left alive; either to harm him directly, or call for help.

Suddenly, the traitor flipped over. In his hands was the weapon of the first traitor Rylanor had killed.

The Dreadnought's waist and left ankle rotated in opposite directions, swiveling Rylanor's body out of the way of the traitor's weapon. The auto-cannon lowered, preparing to fire.

Then the traitor laughed. A repeated buzzing and humming sound came from the diaphragms that replaced his eyes and mouth, then he fired up into the ceiling.

Rylanor's auto-cannon obliterated the traitor's body, but the damage had been done. Ferrocrete and metal began to rain down upon him once again.

The Ancient ducked under the remains of the starship, trying to use it as cover from the debris. Metal supports punched right through the starship's hull, denting the adamantium armor and tearing off one of his legs.

Finally, the shaking stopped, and Rylanor was left alone once more.

—-------------------------------------------------

'How many years has it been?' Rylanor thought idly to himself as he worked with the one hand his Dreadnought had.

Decades, at the least, although he would not have been surprised if someone told him it had been centuries. Working with only one oversized hand meant progress was infinitesimally slow.

He was currently tinkering with the twisted machine the traitor had left behind. Cables connected both him and it to the reactor of the ship. Its internal powerlines had miraculously survived both the first and second collapses, allowing Rylanor to keep both himself and the twisted contraption powered. The Dreadnought's own generator had died on him shortly after his reunion with his twisted brothers.

The contraption finally activated, letting out a constant hum of bone-tingling noise. Rylanor grabbed it and placed it in the depression he had dug behind him, on top of the other parting gift the traitors had left him. The Virus bomb they had found would be put to good use.

'Now I wait.' He thought to himself as he leaned back, allowing his weapons to point upwards, pretending to be dead.

Rylanor could not move, and he was not going to die. However, he would not spend an eternity waiting for another band of miscreants to discover him.

'Fulgrim…' Rylanor's thoughts uttered the name with thermonuclear hate. 'I will kill you for what you have done to us.' His thoughts did not stop with the compatriots who had died here. The things the IIIrd Legion had been transformed into… that was an unforgivable insult to those who had been transformed, those who remembered what they once were, and to the Emperor who originally made them.

'Come, Fulgrim.' Rylanor thought as he stared up at the ruined ceiling, scarred by the blasphemous sounds the traitors had unleashed.

'Come.'

—-------------------------------------------------

Rylanor glared up at the serpentine creature that had once been his gene-father. The Primarch's lower right arm had impaled his Dreadnought's power fist with a curvaceous alien sword. Another hand had dug itself through a crack in his armor, and was currently wrapping around what remained of his body.

"Do. Not. Do. This!" He barked through the Dreadnought's speakers.

"Why not?" Fulgrim hummed, "I am your master. I can do whatever I like. I can crush you or I can raise you up." The Primarch leaned down, as if to kiss the Dreadnought's helm covering Rylanor's face. "Return to the Legion. Accept the gifts of the Dark Prince, and you will walk at my side, clad once again in flesh. You can be anything, old friend! I will sculpt you into something beautiful - a god to these mortals!"

"All we have left between us is that we will die together!" Rylanor roared.

Blue flames had begun to burn the upper carapace of the Dreadnought. The Life-eater Virus of the bomb Rylanor had just detonated was spreading across the metal, igniting the residual organic material in the dust that was on it. Everything happened in slow motion, courtesy of the psychic sorcery of the Thousand Sons.

"I am Rylanor of the Emperor's Children, Ancient of Rites, Venerable of the Palatine Host, and proud servant of the Emperor of Mankind. Beloved by all! I reject you now and always!" He shouted back in his Primarch's leering face.

Fulgrim threw his head back and laughed.

"I'm sorry, did it sound like I was offering you a choice?"

Fulgrim pulled his hand from the hole in the Dreadnought, dragging Rylanor from his sarcophagus. Nutrient tubes and umbilicals tore as his skin was exposed to the dry dusty air, spilling amniotic fluid that had expired long ago.

"I will remake you, brother." Fulgrim's elongated tongue licked his lips, sensuously wetting them before parting them to reveal the serpentine fangs beneath them. "You will be my crowning achievement." The daemon Primarch crooned as he caressed the sickly pale remains of Rylanor; holding him to his breast like a new mother would her first babe.

Cold dread filled Rylanor's thoughts. He could sense the creature Fulgrim had given himself to. He could smell its intoxicating musk and hear its melodious laughter. His Primarch had not always been like this. He had been a man of virtue once. When and how this transformation had taken place he did not know, but it had happened.

Rylanor was not arrogant enough to imagine himself to be greater than his Primarch. His gene-seed came from the being before him, after all. Unable to escape, fight, or even die he could see the inevitable fate that lay before him. He would succumb, eventually. If a demi-god couldn't resist, what chance did a mortal have?

'But, that is no reason to stop fighting.' Rylanor thought to himself as he glared up at Fulgrim. 'I have waited for over 10,000 years, buried in the rubble you and the other traitors brought down upon us. For 10,000 years I have resisted rot and blinding rage in the butchered remains of humanity's dream. For 10,000 years I have sat with the corpses of my brothers, dreaming of the day I would bring your death. This will not go easily, Fulgrim. I shall not fall to one who has forgotten what honor means.'

'Primarch Fulgrim!' A sudden psychic message sounded out, sent by the Thousand Son Vistario. 'Rylanor deserves better than you.'

The Primarch's eyes flicked upwards towards the traitor. The ecstatic glimmer within them darkened at the interruption and insult, turning his eyes into black pools filled with the most sadistic poison.

'He deserves better than all of us.' The Thousand Son thought-spoke, then he raised his bolt pistol and fired into the back of his brother's skull. Akhtar's head exploded, and the psychic spell slowing the Virus bomb's explosion lifted.

Fire spread across all of them in an instant.

Fulgrim disappeared from Rylanor's eyes, replaced only with pitch blackness.

—-------------------------------------------------

The first thing Rylanor noticed when he woke was he had his hands back. He opened and closed them dumbly for a moment, unable to understand why they were there. He had lost all his limbs to a long-eared Xeno early on in the Great Crusade. The fiendish creature was quick with a blade, and had dismembered both him and his squad before being brought down by concentrated bolter fire. What's more, the Xeno's weapon had been coated in some sort of poison or virus that prevented his body from being repaired by replacement organs. Internment into a Dreadnought was the only option left for him after that.

Rylanor looked at his hands again, the first time in over 10,000 years.

'Is this the beginning?' He wondered to himself. 'The beginning of their attempts to break me?'

Fulgrim had promised to return his flesh, and here he was returned to his original body.

'But where is Fulgrim?' Rylanor thought. The place he was in was eerily quiet. He heard no melodious laughter, nor spine-chilling chuckles. He couldn't even hear the slightest hint of wind.

Slowly, Rylanor stood up, and looked around him.

He was in the land of the dead. That was the only way he could describe it. Mountains of corpses stretched for as far as the eye could see. Yet, his nostrils detected nothing. The smell of rotting flesh and voided bowels was absent, as if even the bacteria that would have started decay had died.

'So, I am dead.' Rylanor thought to himself as he sat down on the mound of bodies he had awoken upon. He looked around to see if Fulgrim was also here, but saw neither the idealized man nor the serpentine monster.

'Perhaps it is for the better…' Rylanor thought to himself. Hate still burned in his chest. Even if this were truly the afterlife, he could easily see himself trying to kill the Primarch a second time.

But that would be pointless.' He sighed to himself.

For a while, the Ancient of Rites sat there, staring out blankly at the mountainous ridges composed of corpses around him. Then he stood up, and began walking. He had no idea where to go, nor whether there was any point, but sitting here and doing nothing didn't sit well with him.

'I have done enough sitting already.' Rylanor thought to himself. 'It feels good to stretch my own legs after 10,000 years.'

For a while, Rylanor did nothing but walk up mountains of bodies, and down valleys filled with corpses. He had no idea where to go, or what to do, but he walked on regardless. After a while, he realized the scenery had changed. Instead of the land of the dead, he was walking through pitch blackness. He looked down at himself, and found him wearing his old Power Armor; complete with bolter and chainsword connected to his belt. He paused for a moment, then continued on forwards. He had no idea what this meant, but it felt good to be back in his old Power Armor. Bitter sweet nostalgia tightened the two hearts in his chest as memories of the Unification Wars and the early victories of the Great Crusade came back.

'Things were simpler back then.' Rylanor reminisced. 'The battles were costly, and the sacrifices were great. Yet, we still restored more than we ruined.'

They still fought for a dream back then. A dream of a new golden age for humanity.

As Rylanor continued walking, he realized there were others around him. Dark figures hidden in shadow walked endlessly through the darkness beside him. Some did so with obvious signs of fear; backs bent and knees shaking. Others marched stoically, like trained soldiers trekking across a plain.

Suddenly, the darkness lifted as golden light shined from behind him. It drew a sparkling line across the ground, illuminating his path in the darkness.

A familiar presence came from Rylanor's back. The Ancient of Rites turned, and his eyes widened as he saw a familiar face.

"You are-"

—-------------------------------------------------

A/N: So, Rylanor gets some closure after his canon death in 40K in this-verse.

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