Campaign Update: World Eaters

The emissary of the Warmaster had arrived. It was a small and rather pathetic-looking creature; it's body an indistinct mass of flesh and steel machinery wrapped in bright red robes. It's hood obscured a face made of metal and bare bone. Moving through the command compound, it exuded an aura of grotesque authority so powerful that the unshakable traitor space marines it passed pressed themselves against the wall in avoidance. 

Zungarz had known this devil among devils would arrive. The success of the traitors at gaining control of the vast production facilities of Xhorik Prime would mean that the Warmaster's eye would be upon them and that the future of the war would start here. The Warmaster was pushing his grand plans forward and would need the industry of Xhorik Prime to provide tanks and ships to carry his dire vision to Terra. The war against the loyalists was not as one-sided elsewhere. Gripping his emblem of Khorne, Zurgarz hurried towards the main chamber, eager to have his audience with the one who spoke for the great Horus.

The herald of Horus was easy to spot despite its short stature. Only the venerable Death Guard terminators, whose minds were likely too rotten to comprehend fear, could stand in the creature's presence. The other marines in the room kept a generous distance. As he approached, Zungarz felt a strong repulsion towards the red-clad figure, an invisible force pushing him away. However, his single-minded desire for glory and recognition gave him a will of iron. The World Eaters chaplain marched fearlessly forward to join in the whispered conversation. Breaking off a hushed sentence, the emissary turned to fix its glowing red eyes on him.

"Who is this man who presumes himself worthy to approach me?" the being of twisted wires and flesh growled. "I am here to speak to Praetor Wolfgang, not his subordinate." 

Zungarz felt a flash of anger at the insult. Wolfgang was dead or at least nearly so. He had been gunned down by loyalist plasma gunners before Zungarz's very eyes. From his position atop the tallest tower at the center of the battlefield, he had witnessed his commander fall before the torrent of lethal energy blasts released by White Scars emerging from a drop ship and one of his Deathscythe bodyguards carry his body away after the battle. That single powerful retainer had sliced an enemy officer in half with his fearsome scythe and also destroyed the last two members of a bike squadron with another masterly swing. By the law of Khorne, that retainer was the new master of the Death Guard, having slain the foes that killed his former Praetor. By doing what his master could not, he had proven his right to command, as well as Wolfgang's unworthiness.

Zungarz, on the other hand, had carved a bloody path through his enemies to plant the flag of the traitor army after tearing down the loyalists' banner. By the days' end, he and his Hell Hounds stood knee-deep in the dead, the corpses of their enemies piled atop one another. He never took a single step back. It was only running out of enemies to kill that finally halted his rampage. 

Zungarz and his Hell Hounds hold the tower and protect the traitor standard from a terminator of the Ebon Keshig of the White Scars.

"You speak of worthiness?" Zungarz sneered. "*I* am more worthy than that weakling Wolfgang to parlay with the Warmaster. Speak with me."

The Death Guard terminators grunted loudly in protest, spinning to face Zungarz. One towards the back of the group spoke in slow, croaking syllables.

"Hold your... insolent... tongue..." it wheezed loudly, "Praetor Wolfgang... is... commander... of this... army." The terminators turned menacingly towards the chaplain, hands closing around weapons. "You... forget your... place."

"I forget nothing!" Zungarz barked, throwing a hand around the grip of his crozius arcanum. "Wolfgang is a coward, utterly unfit to lead! He lets his metal behemoth do his fighting for him! He stands in the shadow of that machine, content to observe his enemies blasted instead of crushing them with his own two hands. He is no better than a wizard! He has lost his warrior spirit! A servant of Khorne could never bend his knee to one so unworthy."

Zungarz turned to address the decrepit being wrapped in red robes. "If Wolfgang is indeed leader of this force, then let him show himself. He cannot because he is dead! Or too weak to carry on."

He gave a satisfied snort to the terminators. "I saw a member of his guard dispatch the loyalist scum who shot down the Praetor. That man has taken Wolfgang's glory and must declare himself Praetor! Then I shall challenge and kill him. It is Khorne's law! The strongest must rule."

"Lord Wolfgang lives!" roared the Death Guard veteran. "He is receiving... Father Nurgle's... gift. His wounds... are grave... but he will recover, ...stronger than... ever!"

"He lives?" Zungarz spat, surprise plain upon his scarred face. "He allows himself to live with the shame of being bested by an underling? To have his brothers see him weak and helpless? His warrior pride cannot tolerate such an indignity!"

The emissary of Horus released a tiny, evil cackle. "Oh, a servant of Nurgle can live with *anything*, berzerker." the twisted being uttered, its words ringing with cruel amusement. "The gift of Nurgle is life eternal. His minions are unburdened by mortal fancies like pride and honor. Only victory matters in His eyes."

"Victory without glory is no victory at all!" roared Zungarz, his temper burning with mad fury. The Death Guard terminators growled menacingly. The voice from the back wheezed out a gravelly retort.

"Spoken like... a Khornite...You would... lead this army... to destruction... fighting wereworms on the... dark side of... the abyss..."

"I agree." the emissary of the Warmaster added harshly. "Lord Horus will never let a disciple of Angron command any of his armies. He barely tolerates that maniac. The lot of you are weapons with no sheath. Khornites are fit only to be set loose on the battlefield and chained up when their use is fulfilled." 

Zungarz roared in his fury and outrage and within moments, over a dozen members of the Hell Hounds thundered into the room, chainaxes screaming like banshees. The only sound louder than the whine of rotating metal was the bellowing of the blood-splattered berzerkers themselves. Each wore a suit of power armor that had once shone the purest white but had since been painted crimson from spraying blood. Zungarz smiled with the arrogance of a predator toying with its prey.

 "One word from me and everyone in this room dies!" he screamed, crozius arcanum spitting lightning. 

However, instead of the fear and respect he was expecting, the herald of Horus only issued a skeptical look and regarded him calmly. It raised its palm, displaying a very ancient symbol of Horus; an eye with eight arrows pointing in all directions. Zungarz felt himself getting lightheaded. His vision was blurring and fading into a blinding white glow. The noise of his followers, once as deafening as a freight train, was now fading to a whisper... As he lost consciousness, he heard the strange courier for the Warmaster speaking in his smug, robotic voice.

"Tell Praetor Wolfgang he has done well. I shall deal with this upstart. He and his mindless followers cannot be allowed to compromise this facility. Production must flow for the war effort."

"As... the Warmaster... commands..." croaked out the Death Guard veteran. Zungarz felt himself falling into a vacuum of silent whiteness.

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He awoke in a strange outdoor location. The wind howled and blasted harshly against him. He could not remember how he had gotten there...

Gathering himself and rising to his feet, Zungarz noticed he was surrounded by many familiar blue and white bodies. The members of the World Eaters had all been gathered and deposited in this isolated stretch of nowhere. They had their armor and weapons. Even the vehicles and Delrog himself were present.

"Falgrim! Belias! Larn!" shouted the chaplain of the Blood God to his squad leaders. They hurried over to their trusted battle brother. Zungarz rubbed his talisman of Khorne, trying to interpret his god's will. "We displeased Lord Khorne. We are being tested!"

The three ichor-stained warriors continued to stare, waiting to hear their chaplain's words. Zungarz began to pace, gathering holy vigor.

"The last battle... It was too easy!" he raved, eyes bulging. "We fought only children, their bones snapping like twigs! Their armor crumpling like paper!" Other members of the World Eaters chapter began gathering, feeding of their chaplain's burning energy. "We headed straight for the center! We rose the banner to the sky! We called a out a challenge to the enemy to send their very strongest!"

Many World Eaters were shouting their agreement and waving their axes high overhead.

"We did as our Lord demands but it was not enough! The enemy was weak! We failed to gather the glory Lord Khorne demands! He has turned His gaze away from us and towards some other battlefield where those faithful to Him and His laws prosper! We are forsaken!"

The berzerkers around him roared in protest. They had showed courage and absolute dedication to carnage at every step of the campaign against the White Scars. To be abandoned by their Praetor and their god was such an injustice. Still, Zungarz knew that he did deserve his fate. His desire for glorious single combat had not been satisfied. He, too, hungered for a real battle. His fellow World Eaters were roaring and bashing their armored fists against their chests, lamenting together.

The din echoed throughout the surrounding miles of wasteland, drawing the attention of many ork warbands. As dawn crowned the horizon with golden light, Zungarz saw with great anticipation a vast war party of ork vehicles of all shapes and sizes supported by dozens of huge walkers racing towards him. The wall of crude machines came rumbling noisily forward as the traitor marines formed ranks for combat. In the final moments before the immanent slaughter, Zungarz turned to give his final instructions to his squad leaders.

"If I am wounded, kill me. Do not let me be seen weak. I cannot stand to have anyone pity me. Remember me as Zungarz the Strong!"

With that, he charged forward into the maelstrom of ork iron, followed closely by his loyal brothers in arms. 

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The orks, though outnumbering the Khornite berserkers ten to one, were massacred. Zungarz himself took the head of a warboss as tall as a dreadnought. The nearby ork tribes began to tell tales of the Mad Knight; a merciless force of destruction that claimed the lives of anything caught in his path. Zungarz himself marched onwards, never pausing for food or sleep, sustained instead by battle. Always he searched for a way to regain his cruel god's favor. Endlessly, he hunted for a worthy adversary.

However, his ultimate goal was to prove himself and the greatness of Khorne to the Warmaster. To finally be given the respect he deserved.