literature

Septimus 1

Deviation Actions

Published: Feb 5, 2013

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Literature Text

The Warbringer creaked and moaned as it swam through the warp, which could clearly be heard from Septimus’s personal quarters. Being the Champion of his own Warband had its perks, for example not being forced to share a room. Strangely enough, however, although he was not forced to share his quarters he allowed a roommate. The warrior who shared Septimus’ quarters was a man by the name of Sven. He was Septimus’ self-proclaimed body guard and once a part of the Vindicare assassins he now lived only to serve Septimus. He was easily one of the deadliest mortals on the ship. In all of the recent chaos most mortals on the ship were just stuck in what felt like a stasis, seeing that they had survived the annihilation of the majority their Warband. Now they just had to survive the new shift of power as the remaining Astartes, those whom were not loyal to Septimus, would surely make an attempt on his life so they could take control of the Warbringer. A small war council had been brought together to decide how best to approach this upcoming conflict.

Septimus had his bolter stripped down to hundreds of precisely machined pieces, calmly running his rag through the barrel. He meticulously made sure every part was covered in solvent and mechanical lubricant, chanting weapon rights under his breath in order keep his machine spirit content in the ancient weapon. “Septimus how should we handle this?” Brunner questioned, his Arbiter armor rattling slightly as he changed the position of his imperial styled shotgun. It was tightly griped in his armored hands; the double headed eagle that once showed loyalty the Emperor had been removed and replaced with an eight pointed star. The exact same had been done to his armor. Brunner was the leader of the largest gang of cultist aboard the Warbringer. Seeing that his loyalty lied with Septimus, which set most of the mortal warriors on this ship against whoever dared to oppose Septimus’ leadership.

“I believe that we should make the first move. Kill them in their quarters before they can organize against you,” stated Typhon as he intently studied the skull of an ork warlord that Septimus had taken in a conflict long forgotten. “I mean it is only a matter of ti---" Typhon had been interrupted by the familiar cracks of las rifles from just down the hall, followed by rapid bolter fire and screams of some Brunner’s soldiers who had been put on guard duty.

All of the warriors in the room relocated to defensive position except for Septimus. Sitting calmly at his weapons table he began to reassembling his relic bolter, acting as if he had not just heard the violence just outside of his room. With a small snap and a few clicks it was all in one piece again. He finished by sliding a full magazine into his weapon, chambering a round as he slowly turned, shouldering his bolter. Brunner had flipped a wartime tactic table and positioned himself on the other side, his shotgun leveled at the door and his dark grey eyes stared with concentration. He slid an extra shell between every other knuckle so he could reload his shotgun rapidly. Sven, who was still in his bunk, had drawn Exodis Pistol, his other hand gripping a throwing knife. The air in the room felt stagnant as Typhon’s power sword purred to life, casting an unnatural glow across his dark green armor. “As I had said,” He growled sternly, his voice sounded slightly mechanical as it came through the vox in his mark V helmet. Every man in the room could not help but smile at the remark.

The door of Septimus’ room made a few soft clicks as it was unlocked. Everyone in the room was ready for a fight. Sweat beaded on Brunners' brow as his heart rate started to slowly escalate in anticipation. The clicks suddenly stopped. Septimus placed his finger on the trigger, his sapphire irises illuminated as his body coursed with an unnatural power. This would be no real fight; Septimus knew he could stand against any being on this ship. This would be nothing more than an attempt at a coup. With a hiss the adamantium door slowly slid open.

Stumbling into the room was a bound and beaten naked space marine that Septimus recognized as Sargent Velga. This was the same man that led a raid team of twenty former Crimson Fists, who had joined the Warband shortly before the battle had devastated them. Every weapon was trained on who followed the bound prisoner. Shortly behind followed Cyrion, his bulky terminator armor nearly too wide to make it through the door. Its surface was freshly scared from the engagement with the cultist. Cyrion’s storm bolter pressed roughly against the center of sergeants scared back. “Now while you were off having this war council, I have found the one who was going to attempt to take this ship as his own.” His deep voice rumbled, like a rhino engine turning over. In a different life he was a veteran of a first company, now he lead a squad of Terminators who had been loyal to Krag Whitefang.

‘Cyrion, how are you alive? Last thing I heard you were stationed on board of Whitefangs' flag ship,’ Septimus purred softly as his muscles relaxed, pivoting back around to face his gear table. He carefully laid down his bolter, making sure it was still unblemished. “Me and the rest of my warriors were stowed away with the legacy,” responded Cyrion. The terminator armor still loomed above his battered captive, the bayonet attached to his storm bolter pressed into the prisoners' body, stabbing between his shoulder blades and allowing blood to tricle down his back. “So, Whitefang knew he was going to die? Why did we go into that sector in the first place?’ The questions almost came out a whisper from Septimus. “Because he was gifted with a sight from our patron, and you were the reason for said sight. It was before we even picked you up as a child. He had foreseen a boy whose eyes would glow blue. He sacrificed everything to keep you alive,” Cyrion growled softly as the prisoner started to shift his weight.

Velga vaulted forward out of Cyrions' reach and in the direction of Brunner. Typhon intercepted the prisoner, slamming his elbow against Velas' sternum fracturing it. This staggered him and before he could regain his balance Typhon drove him from his feet with a swift boot to the chest. The prisoner, in vain, attempted to wrench the ceramite boot from his chest. Septimus walked over, signaling for Typhon to remove his boot. Septimus pulled the man from the floor, slamming him into the nearest wall. “You planned to kill me? Take my title as champion? There are many reasons you would not have succeeded. However cliché it might sound, who sent you?” Every word pushed from his lungs in calm tone that was laced with something beyond danger. Septimus’ blue eyes pulsed as they stared into Velgas'.

The head Apothecary of Warbringer doubled as the Torturer master. His name was Damion Vargas. He was a master at all things medical, including genetics. Damion was smaller than most marines, but he made up for his short stature with an aptitude for unrelenting violence that few could match. Cries of agony echoed from Damions' torture room as he separated flesh from muscle. The Red Corsair Sargent was strapped down by oversized ceramite cuffs made precisely for Astartes. The flesh had been flayed from his entire upper torso; large sterile nails had been drove into key points of his revealed anatomy. Each one drove into a cluster of nerves to cause the maximum amount of pain, even enough to surpass a space marines legendary thresholds for pain tolerance. The sterile room smelled of antiseptic. Everything was shining and sterilized, a very unfamiliar sight upon the Warbringer. In the florescent room stood two marines, one dressed in nothing but a pair of surgical fatigues and the other in full battle plate.

Septimus was grinning, now dawned in his full battle plate expect for his helmet, which was mag locked to his thigh. Without his helmet, Septimus had a perfectly sculpted face. Strong jaw, short cropped onyx hair, with only a few scars adorned his flawless appearance. Dominating his features where a pair of radiant sapphire irises. The Champion had always enjoyed Damions' work. The pain Damion could bring with only a few thin spikes was more than Septimus could using his Power sword. Septimus leaned down above the now flayed sergeant, his face coming inches from the skinless face of the traitor. “Well, it seems you were acting all on your own. Attempting to steal my ship from me? Let me explain something to you. Majority of the marines on this ship are loyal to me. They may have been a part of Krag Whitefangs' Warband but I earned their loyalty through blood and sweat, showing them exactly what type of warrior that I am. So now that Krag is dead and the old Warband is all destroyed, excluding us and this ship. The Wolves of the warp are dead, and now my own Warband rises from the ashes all the stronger. But you! To think you can be here for such a short time and start a mutiny with your inadequate band of pirates?” Septimus took a step back, the Space Wolf rune sword at his hip rattled protesting at his movements. He turned to look at the short squat frame of Damion. “Add him to the Hall of Agony, Damion. I am going to have a talk with his men, see if they want to share his fate.” With that Septimus pulled his helmet from his thigh, locking it down on his head with a small hiss as the recycled oxygen filled it.

The Warbringer was as big as a city, and like most cities it had its gangs. The gangs of the Warbringer were only active on the lower decks, seeing the upper decks were reserved for space marines and their slaves. If any of the Cultist gangs attempted to claim any of the upper deck, they would be quickly dispatched by Septimus himself. He hardly tolerated their constant fighting on the lower part of the ship. The only reason he did was because the gangs also did large amounts of upkeep to areas that could not be kept up by servitors. The ex-crimson fist had taken up resident on the lower deck, cutting out a large area of territory for their own use. They quickly made their new piece of territory into their own stronghold. Septimus, Typhon, Sven, and the Kruger twins made their way down to that section of the ship. Septimus knew they would be on the defensive, seeing that hours earlier their leader had been abducted. Following behind Septimus and his guard, Brunner, and about forty of his cultists, keeping their distance until they could be used as an auxiliary force in case of the Crimson Fist opening fire.

Septimus signaled for the group to halt as they entered the Crimson Fist territory, marked by a red fist painted onto the wall of the Corridor that led to their stronghold. Typhons’ voice cracked through vox in Septimus’ helmet, “Septimus do you think we should even take this risk? I mean, we could get some more of our guys down here. They have twenty men; we have four and half, counting your pet assassin.” Typhon had obviously been thinking on the matter, which was quite odd for the berserker. “Don’t worry brother. I am going in alone. If I ask you to come for me, then do. Besides that I am going to handle this unaccompanied.” With that Septimus turned, using the hand signal for ‘hold ground’. He made sure to check his gear briefly before he started his long walk down the corridor. He held his palms aloft in a peaceful gesture as a barrier came into sight. Septimus could see movement on the walls of the barrier. He could also see the snub barrels of heavy bolters glaring at him. Septimus gracefully strode down the corridor with a swagger that spoke of strength and confidence, coming within ten paces of the barrier. Septimus could see the marines who were aiming at him, a thundering voice shouted at him from behind the barrier. “Halt! Turn back and we won’t shoot! This is our territory! You have no right to be here!” Septimus tilted his head slightly as if he did not understand the warrior who had spoken to him. “I don’t think you understand. This is my ship. I command it and all aboard it, so I have the right to walk where ever the hell I please. Now open the damn gate! I want to speak to whoever has taken the place of Velga.” Septimus could not help but let the edge of annoyance be traced in his words. To his surprise, the gate was wrenched opened.

Stepping from barrier was an abnormally large space marine, his blue and crimson armor in pristine condition. The only thing that was tarnished was his chapter emblem, which had been scraped off and painted over with a large red X’s to show they once may have been allied to the Red Corsairs. “Who do you think you are?” questioned the massive Crimson Fist. “I am Septimus, the Champion of this Warband. You are under my command now,” Septimus replied. The giant marine squinted his dark eyes slightly, as if he was having a hard time understanding the comment. After a moment, the Crimson Fist spoke. “No,” he answered simply. “Velga is our leader. He led us away from the chapter, now he leads us to riches,” he continued, before Septimus could reply. Septimus responded by pulling his helmet off and mag locking it to his thigh. He gave the much larger space marine a slight smile before he spoke. “Now big guy, let me explain something to you. Velga is as good as dead. If you don’t follow me, you will be too. Understand?” Septimus still had a soft grin as the unnatural glow of his blue eyes began to get a bit more radiant with each passing breath. Septimus had noticed that more Crimson Fist gathering, watching the confrontation. Obviously this large marine was their champion. Septimus would have to make an example of him in order to force the others in submission. He could not risk this becoming a fire fight; he knew he could not take down this group alone. With a blurring burst of speed, Septimus jolted forward. Within moments he was in front of the huge Crimson Fist. Before the giant could respond, Septimus slammed his right palm upon the chest plate of the Marine; the blue in his eyes glowed so brightly it was hard for the Crimson Fist to look into them. He did not react to the attack. It was almost as if he was mesmerized by the illuminescent orbs.

The last look the Crimson Fist gave Septimus was one of confusion. A small trail of blood dripped from the edge of the traitors lips, slowly increasing until he was vomiting up what seemed like an endless faucet of thick black clotted blood. The Crimson Fist doubled over, grasping at his abdomen. Septimus stepped back, allowing the marine to curl onto the floor and writhe in a pool of his own life blood. Septimus looked up at the Marines who had lined the wall of their Barricade. They all stared at Septimus. “Any of you who do not pledge your loyalty to me will meet the exact fate he did,” Septimus gestured down to the now lifeless body at his feet. The sapphire glow in his eye had lightened, but was still shining with less intensity. The Crimson Fists paused for moment before they lowered their weapons. All of them stepped down from the barricade, making a row of two deep and nine long, except a Crimson Fist Apothecary who was attempting to extract a gene seed from his fallen brother. Once he had finished, he fell in the behind the rows. They all got down on one knee, pledging themselves to Septimus in a perfectly synchronized chorus. When they were finished, they all stood. “Now go the Artificers and have your Armor repainted to our war band colors, and the lens of your helmet altered to blue.” Septimus glanced down at the dead marine for just a moment before he turned, walking back down the hall in the direction of his waiting forces.

As Septimus stalked back down the hall in the direction of his men, he could feel a chill run up his spine and through the top of his cranium, stopping just behind his eyes. A small voice inside of his head whispered, “Oh my sweet son Septimus, was it worth using what I have given you?” The voice was soft, nothing more than a sweet whisper. “Of course it was. It is mine to use, and you have no true right to question me,” Septimus spat back, his voice was thick with malice. “Oh don’t take it so personally my son. I am just wanted to see if you were ready to accept the fullness of my gift. When you are just ready just say the words, pledge your soul to me just as those traitors have pledged themselves to you, I will make you more powerful than you could have ever imagined.” Once the voice finished speaking the chill left Septimus. Sighing softly, he continued to walk down the halls, consciously hating what he would become if he ever gave in.

Lost deep in his thoughts, Septimus had not noticed that he had missed the corridor that would have taken him back to his forces. This had him accidentally walking into a Cultist shanty town. Septimus could see the shapes of people huddling inside make shift houses or peaking around corners to stare at him. This excluded one small boy whose body was covered with thick blue scales. He just stood in the middle of the row of shanties, his deep crimson eyes glared at the marine. They were filled with hate. Septimus squatted down, beckoning the child over to him. As the kid came closer, he could see that someone had stitched him a tiny uniform that was now covered in blood and filth. In his fist he gripped an improvised shank that had obviously fashioned from what only could have been human bone. As he come closer to Septimus, the small boy started to shake slightly, his knuckles white from gripping the weapon so tightly. “And what do you plan on doing with that?” questioned Septimus, a soft smile laced across his featured, a gentle humor in his tone. “I was told that if the giants ever came down here, they would do nothing but kill,” the young boy hissed his words. He had a prominent lisp due to his mouth being full of razor sharp fangs. Septimus nodded. “Yes, young one that would usually be the truth, but today that will not be so. Where are your parent’s boys?” questioned Septimus, his tone was curt but much softer than if he would have been speaking to anyone else on the Warbringer. The small scaled boy looked up at Septimus, staring deep into his blue eyes showing no fear. The child sheathed his shiv before he spoke. “My mother died when I was born. My Father was killed when this place was almost taken by the gangs. I have been on my own ever sense.” Septimus nodded, a solemn look overtook his features as he listened to the boy’s story. Septimus stood back up, letting his height tower over the scaled child. Unlocking his helmet from his thigh, he locked it back onto his head, the emotionless ceramite face stared down at the child. The blue eyes on the helmet pulsated momentarily before he turned and started to walk back down the corridor he had come through. Glancing back over his shoulder he called out, “Well? Are you coming or not?” With that he began walking again. Septimus did not look back, but he could hear tiny foot falls behind him. He could not help but smile inside of the helmet.

Sven meet Septimus as soon as he rounded the corner to meet his troops. Before he could speak, Svens' voice filled his Vox Piece. “Sir, the Artificer is Reporting nineteen Crimson Fist showed up, requesting to have their armor modified to our Warband standard. How did you get them to join us?” Sven stood directly in front of Septimus. Septimus could feel the small boys' presence behind him. “The same way I got you away from those Cultist of Slaanesh,” Septimus replied tersely. Sven took a step back, his dome tilted slightly to the side. “Well, that must have been one hell of a show master,” he said softly. “ I don’t have time for this right now Sven. Bring this child to Damion. Let him scan him and do a checkup. Tell him to send me a full report, and once he is done I want him brought to the slave quarters of my bastion. Have them show him the basics.” Septimus command was executed right away. Sven scooped the boy up and bounded down the corridor in the direction of the Apothecaries infirmary.

Septimus look at Typhon, The Twins and Brunner. “Now I want you all to go inside of the stronghold I just obtained. Clean out anything of value. It’s all mine now. And make sure all of the gene seed you find makes it back to Damion. Anything else goes in my Treasury or armory. I will distribute it later.” Septimus’ Vox projected it loud enough so all of the men could hear his command. With that, they all marched in the direction of the Stronghold. All of the mortal soldiers saluted their Champion as they marched by. Brunner stopped in front of Septimus and did not speak until everyone else had passed. “I was curious if me and my men could hold up in this Stronghold for the time being. We need to a place to launch offensives against the Gangs, and a place where the Warp beast will not drag us away if we sleep.” Septimus paused a second before he answered, the deep blue lens of his helmet starring deep into Brunners' emerald eyes. “You can. Arm it yourself and take control of the lower decks of my ship.” Septimus took a few steps away, letting Brunner go on about his duties. He sighed as his vox cracked to life, filling his helmet with the snide voice of their navigator. “We will need to make an emergency drop from the warp in twenty five standard hours. We need to do some patch work so we can make it to the Maelstrom rift.” Nodding a few times, he did not even bother with a response, instead just turned off his vox. Septimus began walking in the direction of the Hall Of Agony. He wanted to spend a few hours letting out his tension on the traitor Velga.