text: The traitor stood over his broken father with victory within his grasp. There was no God Emperor to be worshiped, just a man. “I never wanted this. I never wanted to unleash my legions. Together we banished the ignorance of old night, but you betrayed me. You betrayed us all. You stole power from the gods and lied to your sons. Mankind has only one chance to prosper, if you will not seize it, then I wil-” and with a press of a button the tv switches off. “Alright, to bed with you.” I order my apprentice, Vanessa. “B-but what about the ending? Is the Emperor gonna die?! Did Horus just win?!?! How can I sleep knowing there’s a possibility of the Imperium falling to Chaos?!?!?!” Her questions grow frantic as she grows pale in the face, either from anxiety, or loss of breath from speaking so fast, and loud. “That’s just a tough shit you gotta take kid, cause if your eyes aren’t shut in the next thirty minutes, you’ll be guessing the ending for the next week.” The eyes to my mask dim from shriveling patience and she takes the hint, removing herself from a brown wool couch that suffers multiple tears and stains from lord knows what. My mundanely milk white walls suffer the same as the couch. Most of everything in this apartment suffers in some way shape or form. I hate this damned place-just the walls alone give me a feeling of great dissatisfaction. I feel trapped in this place. Trapped with a brat who I must leave a legacy to. The brat in question has just emerged from the cramped little bathroom that stays snug in the corner of the apartment. “Can you...eeeeuuuaaahhh...maybe tell me a story before I go to sleep?” She questions through a hefty yawn. I suppose it’s normal for children to enjoy stories. I was like that as a child-demanding my mother to tell me stories of heroes and their great battle against villains. Of course then I learned the difficult truth of good, and evil in society. There was barely a difference. “Fine.” I mutter. “Get to your room and get changed, I’ll be in to tell you something in a minute.” While I'm not too pleased with it, I find this option much more appealing than her losing sleep because she didn’t know the ending of a damn movie. The girl smiled from cheek to cheek, running to her room with breakneck speed, accidentally hitting the door to her room before she could open it. Dumb kid. With a swift motion, I pick up a pack of cigarettes and my lighter from the coffee table beside the couch. I'm gonna need these if I’m to make through for Vanessa’s storytime. I enter the girls room, seeing the kid already in prayer position, so I join my little disciple. My knees fall to the floor about a foot away from her, my hands follow in this action, laying palm up on the floor beside, my eyes shut, and with everything ready, we pray in unison. “All mighty King of Corpses, hear us. We tire of the long day and wish to find solace in an even longer night. Allow us rest, so that we may awaken strong to fight for you come daybreak. Grant us the bravery to endure the dark so that we may not fear the might. Give us a moment of peaceful mundanity tonight, so that we may prepare for the great wars of tomorrow. Allow us rest All Mighty King of Corpses. Cloak us in the quiet black and the warm red. By your name we pray. By your name we live. By your name we kill...Amen” The words barely escape our lips before Vanessa almost throws herself into her bed, covering herself with a large purple cotton blanket. As I rise from prayer, I remove the circular piece from my mask, leaving open a small hole that's usually used for smoking and pill popping more than eating or drinking. With Vanessa in bed and waiting, I sit on the chair that rests not five feet from her, lighting my cigarette, and taking a hefty drag as I do so. “Have I ever told you the history of our people, V?” I ask with wearily lit eyes, hoping I hadn’t recounted the tales of Grimald and his knights during one of my drugged up tirades. Bright eyed, and smiling, she nods with the typical enthusiasm of a child. Good. Out of all the war stories and monologues my own mentor ever gave, it was the origin of our people that I’d always crave to hear. It was unlike the stories of Greek or Norse myths and legends. There were no grandiose victories over the course of Grimalds crusade. No statues to be erected for the heroes of the Mortemus. No good ending with a some stupid ass moral lesson for children to learn from. This was a story that whole species could learn from. No good vanquishing evil to give the listener a feeling of ease when it’s all through. This was With the corpse of a smile on my face, and a cigarette loosely dangling from my mask, I begin. “Back in the 11th century-before we started calling ourselves the Mortemus, we were known as the Knights of Mortem- Knights of the Dead. When the Christian Churches Second Crusade was underway, the pope at the time had decided to invest in soldiers of a more superstitious nature. They had just won their first victory against the Muslim threat, so now they had wiggle room to worry of a more sinsister danger-working behind the scenes to topple their holy empire. I speak of course of demo-” “Demons really exist?!” She blaringly questions with wide eyes that looked around every dark corner her room had. “Don’t be a pussy kid. We’re only just starting and you’re about to shit your pantaloons.” I half heartedly joke, getting a giggle out of the girl. “Yes, demons exist, and I’m not talking about the demons that lay within humans. I talk of true demons, child. Demons that lay within the shadows of this world, waiting patiently to strike us down when the days of the God of Gore and his deliverance are upon us.” Vanessa raises the blanket up just past her nose, shaking from an extreme feeling of fear, but still staring at me, awaiting more. “Now, the church didn’t want too many valuable soldiers wasted on a witch hunt so they had decided to experiment with this new army of crusaders. It would be an Order of the least qualified of soldiers to be led by the most capable of warriors and leaders. The cardinals would call upon delinquent priests and failed holy men to act as soldiers- or at least dress them up as such. To lead this investigation army, the pope had appointed High Chaplain Daegal Grimald. His second in command would be Sergeant Garin Burchard- Two of the greatest knights in the First Crusades. The High Chaplain was more like a miniature giant than a man, over seven feet tall, built with enough muscle and power that he was said to wrestle with a bloodlusted bear for fun. Grimald wasn’t just dumb muscle though, he was articulate and stoic. Wise and cunning. A good man. His body was built for battle, but he learned to lead with a sharp, diplomatic mind if he could. That wasn’t to say he was shy about the ways of war-not at all. With strength comparable to that of Hercules of Greek myth combined with the tactical genius that even the best generals today would strive for, the mighty Chaplain and his crusaders would lay waste to their enemies in almost every battle they found themselves in. Grimald was often compared to the prophet Moses-always trying to solve conflicts peacefully, but if pushed too far, capable of bringing down none other than God's own wrath upon his enemies and those who would challenge his people. If Daegal was seen as a prophet in shining armor, Garin was seen as a demon bearing a cross. Burchard the Berserker, or Burchard the Butcher-depended on which side of the crusade was talking about him. He was infamously known throughout the holy war for his beastly rage. The way soldiers would tell it, he’d get the devil to possess him, and force the devil to fight for him. Guy was known for raiding villages and cities at night, and by time he, and his small force of raiders had left in the wee hours of morning, there were no lives left to be conquered, just a hollowed city, newly decorated with the flesh and blood of its previous inhabitants. Though he was effective in the battlefield, the church found Garin too feral to be allowed in the limelight of the war, so he was removed from the frontlines of battle, and forced to take a secondary leadership position in the experimental crusade. No more glory, no more battles to be had. There wasn’t even a real enemy to be working towards. The berserker was a fucking ghost hunter now, and he had never felt more humiliated. To the Chaplain who believed in the darker forces at work, this was the greatest of honors. He was chosen to lead a hunt most holy against the direct enemies of God. No longer would he suffer mere humans who would fight for a belief than him. Now, the real evil would suffer him. He would dub this new order of demon hunting crusaders the Knights of Mortem, and their mission, the Brimstone Crusades.” Before I can continue, the kid emerges from the covers a bit more, like a turtle growing brave. “Why would the church put these guys together, though? It doesn’t make much sense to me-making a wise and stoic leader work together with a hot head who doesn't even seem to belong in this crusade to begin with, all to lead a buncha investigators to find demons and monsters. It just doesn’t really make much sense, sir.” The only answer I can conjure for a quite reasonable question is “How the fuck should I know what a bunch’ve old wrinkly dicks were thinking way back when?” I probably asked my mentor questions like these all the time, trying to make sense of the plot holes and dilemmas that ultimately had the potential of muddling the story if one were to think too far into it. I’d always get the same answer that I offer my own disciple, though, trying to be a better teacher than my mentor was to me, I continue on, saying “There is no way of comprehending the logic back then, but it was due to the idocrity of said logic during this time that we have been rebirthed. I rebirthed from human to Thanatron, and you, human to Mechaness. While it’s little better than the answer provided before, my words result in a look of pride at the mention of our ranks. As Thanatron, I serve as my peoples Death Machine. Only the greatest of Mortemus warriors are allowed judgment by the King of Corpses, and if the King finds us worthy, then we take vows to seal away our face, ergo, our humanity, and lead our people, in both progress and battle. In combat, the Thanatron must bear the brunt of enemy forces, leading the conflict from the front rather than in some tent or conference room. Vanessa’s rank commands that she serve as my shadow, just as all Mechaness, and Mechanors have shadowed their Thanatron since the days of Grimald. Normally this honor would be given to the children of Thanatron, though since I lack a breeding partner, I grant my adopted child the honor of her rank. As Mechaness, she is my support, laying down cover fire, picking off the scraps that I’ve left in my wake, ensuring I’m not overwhe-honestly, she’s really around to make my life as convenient as possible-both in, and out of battle. In turn for this I am grooming her to take my place as Thanatron once the days of the God of Gore are upon us. Together we make two of three of our mighty race, the third being my mentor who now acts as our Witchetarum, a shaman that guides us in religion, and warfare. “For the first few months the Men of Mortem were fruitless in their endeavors.” I carry on with the story, afraid of getting sidetracked again in ranks and positions. “Their dark crusades often lead them to dead ends. While the High Chaplain stood vigilante and his will remained unwavered by his Order's lack of findings, the rest of his men-even his second in command, had already given up on any hope of finding anything. The failed holymen and priests were completely fine with this sort’ve work; relieved of their religious responsibility without having to fear damnation, traveling across both familiar, and foreign lands with no worries of war. It was paradise for them. Garin on the other hand was fuming. It was said that the Chaplain and his Sergeant often argued frequently for those first few months of inactivity. Daegal saw only a savage in his second in command. A man only fit to fight, and nothing else. There was no place in this crusade, or even the holy war for a beast like Garin On the other side though, Burchard felt disgusted with his commander. Here was a giant of a man forged for war, and he wanted to waste his time with diplomacy and politics. Even in the ridiculous demon crusade they took part in, the Sergeant was practically dumbfounded by Grimalds way of tracking cases, wasting too much time talking with locals and reading in his little Christian bestiary to determine what sort’ve “demon” they were chasing. Garin had no problems expressing in rather livid fashion how this was all some sick joke of the church, keeping them away from the Second Crusade, where they needed. He had found out the hard way that there was little to no respect given given to demon hunters in reality. Sure, they were worshiped by zealots and peasant, but were nothing but a jest to those who mattered. Even the other Orders of the Second Crusade were known to laugh and mock the Knights of Mortem, seeing the demon hunters as useless wannabes to be excluded from the brotherhood. Daegal saw it much differently. They were exactly where they needed to be, hunting the direct evils of the world as loyal hounds would hunt soon to be prey.” “Hounds?” Another interruption from my disciple halts my progress. Jesus christ, who knew telling a child a fucking bedtime story could be so difficult? “Yes. Hounds.” I respond coldly, my patience diminishing even further. “These men were simply dogs of the church. Their withered old masters would point, and they’d charge ahead, eager to claim whatever their masters so desired. Wealth, land, people- no matter what it was, any and all would pursue it without question, and for what? Not for bloodlust. Not for true power. Not for the pursuit of greatness and glory-No! It was for “salvation”. They followed their old masters commands to the letter in order to appease a god who wouldn’t even shoot a glance their way. Pathetic.” The red shine of my eyes begins to grow as a result of my anger. “Wouldn’t you do the same though?” Vanessa questions with ever so ignorant eyes. I do not respond, allowing her the opportunity to further explain herself, and she does. “If you never became Mortemus, and someone told you that you could either follow their command in exchange for unending bliss after you died, or you could go to a place full of pain and torture if you didn’t, you wouldn’t at least want to hear what they have to sa-” I don’t even let her finish before I begin pointing out the fallacies of her thinking. “No I wouldn’t. Any scumbag who offers salvation in exchange for servitude is nothing but a self righteous prick who’s better off getting the electric chair. Besides, none of that’s even real V. We find our salvation in slaughter. We worship one deity and he demands no shrines, no buildings, or statues, not even a symbol for the masses to look to. Our Corpse King only asks for the sacrifices of our enemies. He demands we stand steadfast against those who would do us harm. In a perfect world he would have us as artists rather than warriors, expressing ourselves in all the things we’ve slain.” I can see Vanessa getting excited again, her morbid interests taking control. “Mhm! The King will protect us from the God of Gore, a-and will help revive our dying people if we endure the End Times...” She preaches to me for a change, and I feel pride for being the one to teach her all of this in the first place. “Sir? Can you continue the story now?” My student asks with eager eyes. I oblige her. “So one day when the Order was trekking through thick woods on yet another chase for wild goose, they began to hear the collective screaming of men, women, and children from deeper in the woods, so deeper they went. For the first time in this entire crusade, all men knew fear. Ignorant fear of the unknown that they would forever cherish after they had reached the source of the screaming. What they saw would forever change them. The air had been filled with screams all morning, a collective of men, women and children. Horrendous screams that threatened the well being of any who had the misfortune of hearing it. Screaming that High Chaplain Daegal Grimald had known all too well at this point in his career. Abominations barely comprehensible, ripping fellow humans apart like a child would an insect. Tall, slender creatures, with skin that was either ashen or nearly pitch black, each tearing or crushing a human until nothing was left but bits and pieces, only to throw the remains into an already disturbingly large pile. The pile itself laid upon a vile circular symbol drawn in each of the victims' own blood. At what must have been the front of this symbol was one of their “priests.” A nude man with skin tattered, and torn. The pupils to his eyes had been cut out with nearly perfect surgical precision and the skin to his jaw had been completely ripped from his face. Demons...the Knights of Mortem had found demons. Most of the men could hardly handle it. Those who weren’t frozen in place ran as far as they could. Even Burchard the Berserker himself had felt fear that day. How could he not? This was well beyond any human's capacity for comprehension. But while his knights and Sergeant stood in fear or ran, Daegal Grimald stood firm...and he marched forward. A slow march, each step leaving a tremendous thud that could be heard by all as he walked on. He had no crisis from the scene that played out before his eyes, for he understood perfectly what was occurring. He felt no fear as marched for his foes, for there was only rage to be felt. He would suffer no evil, for evil would suffer him! His march shifted to an earth quaking charge, and he struck the wicked priest with a six foot long mace that was said to weigh over a hundred pounds. The way our people have always told it, upon impact, the entirety of the priests head had blown into pieces, splattering skull and brain across the tainted grounds. This beautiful display of violence was enough to shake Sergeant Burchard out of his little existential crisis. With two war axes in his hands and fear ever present in himself, the Berserker charged forward, hacking and slashing at the creatures with such speed that his plan of attack was inconceivable to the eyes of both human and demon. With their commanders plunged into the hellish skirmish, the remainder of the men who hadn’t ran away, ran forward, motivated by the bloodshed. A force of two hundred knights were put to the test of steel and flesh against a little over twenty demons, this would be a slaughter, and they knew it.” “So our people won the battle?!” She explodes from her blanket, sitting up in anticipation. This was always the best part of telling this story. No purely good endings to leave the listener with an equally purely good feeling. “Just barely, by time the demons had been put down, the Knights of Mortem had been reduced two soldiers. Two of the bravest. Two of the fiercest. Two of the luckiest. As for those they meant to save from vile clutches of the demons, only one survived. A woman who would go on to be our first Withitarum. With broken bones and ripped flesh, Daegal, and Garin survived the onslaught, but their Order was lost. How could they fight this evil when it took everything they had to kill less than a platoons worth of foe? The commanders would have to rebuild. Start from scratch. Those who know of this tale and are not Mortemus would tell you that the two men's minds had broken, but we know the truth. They had been granted clarity of vision, seeing with their own eyes what many had feared in the quiet of their homes. How long had this been going on? How many had been taken by this abominable threat? Who was leading it all? Questions that could only be answered through more bloodshed...much more bloodshed. With nothing left to do other than ponder everything, the three survivors of the massacre left the wicked woods for their church to report their findings. It was a quiet walk back. Neither men nor woman could even allow a sound to break from them, but they all knew there was no return. No normal to return to. We see this as a walk that would forge the future of the Mortemus. A slaughter of this magnitude would never happen to the Knights of Mortem ever again. They would come prepared next time. They would be wrath incarnate to the next batch of demons they found. They would hold no tolerance for the weak willed and meek minded. No feelings but hate for the heretic and the masses of corruption that infected the earth. Grimald would change the name of his crusade when he was back in the sanctum of his church. No longer would the Knights of Mortem endeavor in the Brimstone Crusades. The knights would now take part in the most significant and important scouring known to man. This would be the Oblivion Crusades. The End. There is only shock to be expressed through Vanessa, eyes wide and mouth agape. A smile resurrects beneath my mask before I reattach the mouth piece to my mask, finding I’d gone through half the pack of cigarettes throughout my telling of this story. I’m impressed with myself. Getting up from the chair I pat my apprentice on the head a few times, and shut her lamp off. “Try and get some sleep V.” I suggest, knowing there's quite a startling chance of her staying up all night in order to pick apart and dissect all that I have told her. I was the same way, so even if she does wake up with bags under her eyes tomorrow and yawns every ten minutes, I suppose I can deal with it. Just as I’m about to shut her door and leave, I am stopped in my tracks. “W-wait! I-is all of that really true?!” Vanessa looks at me as if my answer will determine the rest of her life. She’s anxious beyond reasoning for some reason. I pause for a second, letting tension build as I do so. “Yes...it’s all true.” and with that, I wish my disciple a goodnight, and shut the door behind me. As I sit back on that same tattered and torn couch from the start, guilt enters my mind. I lied to Vanessa. Not a complete lie, most of the story is indeed true, but it’s the ending that I twisted. There was more than one survivor from the sacrifice, and more knights endured the brutality than just Daegal and Garin. Yet only three left those woods alive. I know if I told Vanessa this true ending, she’d grow too suspicious to entrust her life to me, and I’ve no use for suspicious brats in my dying legion. I need a warrior who I can leave a legacy to once my time as the God of Gore is upon us. She will be Thanatron someday, and I only hope she’s grown to hate the human as I have. When I finally have the means to wipe the vermin race off of this earth, I hope she will understand why. That I won’t be doing it for some bloated god or deities, but for our people. So that we may replace the human and prosper where they have failed.