Ordnance is Magic 2: Bombardment Boogaloo

by Perturabo

X. The Prince's Boon

“Heil, cousins.”

The eight Astartes, without exception or pause, raised their bolters and began to fire as the figure smashed its way through the side of a building. Even above the dry snapping of timbers and the endless pattering of shells off ancient, corrupted ceramite, the combined roar of their guns could be heard. Not that Adamant Tower had any real intention of staying long enough to listen, of course; the sudden bursting into action from both sides had done more than enough to trigger his survival instincts. Besides, even without looking behind him he knew this was kin-strife. He couldn’t interfere with that.

When he’d made it down the remnants of a street, far enough to escape the sudden feeling of sickness that had come over him when the newcomer had arrived, the pony skidded to a halt and looked back with wide eyes. The coalition of Imperial Astartes had taken up defensive positions around the edge of the town square, taking advantage of what limited cover there was to surround the enemy. The fact that even Helsturnn was keeping his distance spoke volumes as to the seriousness of the threat.

Approaching from the still-crumbling ruins of a townhouse was a vision out of a nightmare. Ash and dust flaked from its body with every step, exposing what had once been deep silver and bronze armour beneath. That armour was warped nearly beyond recognition, forced apart from within so that corrupted flesh spilled from a hundred cracks. In some places, most notably its arms, the corrupted flesh had taken over completely to render them eternally-mutating messes. Two piggish little eyes stared from the almost comically undersized head nestled in the center of the walking tank, though even its face seemed to constantly ripple with change.

Yet despite all the mutation, Adamant knew it could only be one thing. It was an Iron Warrior.

It lumbered forwards, heedless of the explosive shells striking home all over its body as the ground shook beneath each footfall. The Iron Warrior paused when it reached the corpse of one of its brothers, bracing a foot up on it. The force made the silver armour almost sink down into the ground. A lucky shell, Adamant couldn’t see who had fired it, caught the traitor in the face. It did flinch that time even as its corrupted flesh rushed to repair the damage, the grossly oversized talon of its right hand flexing. Then, before the pony’s horrified eyes, that hand began to ripple and change.

He had heard all the rumours, of course; that in the aftermath of the Chaos Space Marine attack there was still something not entirely daemonic lurking in Equestria. Refugee columns had been attacked and left with what looked like bullet wounds, whole isolated settlements left as smoking ruins overnight despite. He hadn’t believed them, and the Council had dismissed the attacks as the work of the daemons. But still they had persisted, and they had even given it a name – Obliterator. With what he would witness in a moment, it certainly seemed fitting.

None of the loyalist Space Marines sought to stop firing as the obliterator’s arm reformed, stubbornness and the desire for vengeance perhaps outweighing tactical sense for a moment. The Iron Warrior ignored their vented fury, flesh running like a river over its right arm as three metal barrels began to push through. Some juice that to the pony’s sickened mind didn’t seem to be wholly organic or artificial dripped from them as the barrels began to slowly cycle round and round. With a noise that Adamant first thought was a roar, but then seemed to be more like a laugh, the traitor extended its arm and began to fire.

More shells tore through the air now, the stream of bolter fire finally slowing as the Astartes dived to avoid the torrent spewing forth from the assault cannon. The Iron Warrior continued to laugh as he moved the gun-arm round in an arc, clipping one of Zuriel’s pauldrons. Crimson ceramite was torn free, the Angel stumbling back and firing blindly. Another round lodged itself in Moulkain’s power pack, nearly tearing it clean from the Iron Hand’s body and sending it sparking. Even the pony had to hit the dirt, pressing himself against the foul-smelling ground and shaking in fright as a round missed his head by an inch and cut a path through his messy hair.

“You cannot imagine ze joy it brings me to see you all here, mein cousins.” Was it…was it speaking to them, even as it tried to kill them? Adamant found it hard to believe, but it seemed the Iron Warrior was doing exactly that, and managing to maintain a rumbling monotone as it did. “I feared zis world vas running out of things to amuse me.”

“Oh shut up, you traitorous skijta.” Helsturnn cursed, popping up for a moment to let off a few more ineffectual shots before hunkering down once again. The Obliterator chuckled.

“You remind me of one of my brothers, dog. He vas an idiot…more so zan ze rest.” Even above the deafening din of the combined gunfire, Adamant could pick up something strange in the Iron Warrior’s voice. It was different to that of the loyalist Marines’s – less formal, the vocabulary less tight and clipped. Perhaps it had something to do with the nature of its corruption, or perhaps it simply had not had chance to speak amongst brothers for a long time. Even as it stepped off the body of its brethren and released a burst of putrid flame from its other mutated arm, Adamant could feel the Obliterator’s eyes studying its foes closely. “I can still read your thin-blooded heraldry…First Legion. Sixth Legion. Ninth Legion, and Tenth Legion. All primogenitors…ze Powers have blessed me indeed. I have missed killing your kind in ze war.”

“We killed our share of you in the Heresy, too.” Nehemiah’s words were calm as ever as his bolt pistol barked, light rippling down his power sword. “The last we saw of your kind, you were all running into the Eye.”

“You fought in ze war?” It was hard to tell given the distortion in its voice, but the Iron Warrior seemed genuinely surprised. “Zat is good…far more satisfying.” To Adamant’s eyes, it smirked, the other arm converting to some tainted form of flamethrower now to add to the conflagration. “With who do I have ze honour of sparring, cherub?”

“Nehemiah,” the Angel growled, doing his best to ignore the insult. “Knight-sergeant of the First Legion.” The Obliterator nodded, as if it was sniggering.

“Vortun.” It rumbled in return. “I do vat I vant.”

No sooner had the traitor finished speaking, the Wolf leapt into action. His patience thoroughly strained by being forced to take cover, Helsturnn rose firing his bolter one-handed as the other unhooked and revved-up his chainsword and his power hunter’s legs carried him across the short distance. Distracted as he was by the Dark Angel, Vortun turned too slow to stop the Grey Hunter as he flung himself forward. With a howl, fangs flashing, Helsturnn braced himself on the corrupted traitor Marine’s body and locked his bolter to his thigh. Using the now-free hand to grab hold of what remained of the armour, he struck down in curving, slashing motions with the chainsword. The whirring teeth passed across the Obliterator’s exposed face, digging in deep to the tainted flesh. Even from a distance, Adamant Tower could see black, oily blood spray through the air and hear the Obliterator’s cries of frustration towards the Wolf. A vengeful grin slowly crept its way over his face as he stood.

It faltered when one of Vortun’s arms reshaped again. The power claw that had taken the place of one of the flamethrowers suddenly closed around Helsturnn’s leg, talons crushing the storm-grey ceramite with ease. The Space Wolf howled, dangling almost like a child’s doll as the Iron Warrior straightened as much as he could. Uncaring of his comrade’s proximity, Voss unhooked a grenade from his belt, quickly priming it before hurling the explosive with clinical precision. Vortun turned just in time to catch it on a thick pauldron, though he still staggered as the blast and accompanying shrapnel washed over him and Helsturnn. Ignoring the metal shards now cutting into his face, the Wolf took the grip of his sword in both hands and started to hack at the claw holding him. It didn’t really seem to pain Vortun, but it did irritate him. With a heavy step forward, the Obliterator drew its arm back before hurling the Space Wolf through the air.

The idea that anything could throw a Space Marine around like a ragdoll seemed ludicrous to Adamant, but the evidence existed before his very eyes. Helsturnn managed to twist himself in the air slightly, landing in a crouch and skidding to a stop only a few yards away from the pony. Adamant spared him a nervous glance; the Wolf was breathing hard, yellow eyes flashing with feral instinct as blood seeped down and matted in his beard. The predatory sight was unsettling, to say the least, but the pony didn’t have much of a chance to worry before Helsturnn growled and began to charge once more. He was limping slightly, the leg that Vortun had crushed evidently giving him problems, but anger seemed to be carrying him through.

Another Astartes was approaching, closing in on his brother fast. Zuriel, the apothecary, presumably to treat whatever wounds Helsturnn had suffered in his crash landing. He was fast, and heedless of the bullets, but even with the five other loyalists pinning the traitor down Vortun was still cutting a healthy swathe of destruction through the area. A thousand calculations passing through the Obliterator’s head at once, he extended a lascannon from an arm, aiming it squarely at where the Blood Angel would have to stop to examine his brother. Adamant’s eyes widened too, as even he saw the path the laser would take. It would hit. More to the point, from what he had seen so far of the weapon’s capability’s, when it did hit there wouldn’t be much left over of the Apothecary.

A flash of sable caught his eye, suddenly bursting from inactivity into unstoppable motion. Moulkain was moving to defend his crimson brother. The exposed servos in the Iron Hand’s legs pumped and whirred as he stomped his way closer, his boltgun unleashing another torrent of unerringly accurate fire. It tore into the Obliterator’s face, reducing more of it to a bloody ruin. Still, Vortun stood. The continued punishment from the Tactical Marine, not to mention supporting fire from the other Marine’s, did have the desired effect of drawing his attention; thick oil dribbling down the front of his silver armour as he took aim with the lascannon.

Moulkain was a son of the Gorgon. He was cold, remorseless, a seemingly unstoppable walking mountain of steel. But he was not fast. Even as Zuriel and Helsturnn began to peel off to help stabalise the latter, a beam of crimson light was unleashed from the barrel of the gun. It cut through the air, and try as he might the stoic Iron Hand couldn’t quite move himself aside in time. The laser punched clean through his chest, through both hearts, atomizing the bionics and scant flesh that remained. The Iron Hand jerked, finger tensing around his gun’s trigger and letting loose another barrage of shots as smoke rose from the gaping hole bored clean through him.

Then he dropped, and the Medusan did not rise again.

Helsturnn howled as he saw another brother die, almost clawing at the Blood Angel as he tried to return to the fight. Voss reacted with a typical lack of emotion, still punishing the Chaos Space Marine with boltgun salvos. And Adamant just stared. The pony couldn’t help but have his jaw hang slack; he knew the Astartes could die, Uzzael had died, but actually bringing himself to believe it was quite another matter. With some effort, he managed to pull his eyes away from the body, and onto the Obliterator.

Every shell that hit him, every blast of a grenade, only seemed to anger him more. The Iron Warrior was on the warpath now, even with the repeated wounds he’d taken. Blinding balls of superheated plasma exploded from the cannon his arm had become, setting the bone-dry grass around the warring cousins ablaze. His rage was palpable, and right now even the mutual hatred between the Astartes seemed to be secondary to Vortun’s desire to live up to his name – to obliterate anything he could.

Breath harking in his throat, Adamant realised the Iron Warrior’s beady eyes had settled squarely on him.

***

When he was feeling particularly poetic, which thankfully was rare even for him, Mordecai would often muse on the differing personalities of each of his companions…he couldn’t quite bring himself to call them ‘friends’. Though he wasn’t quite sure if he believed in any sort of creator-figure, Mordecai found it mildly amusing how easily he and the others slipped into the archaic view of the four temperaments; He himself was the only one who really fit the Sanguine personality type, though he wished there were more. Zuko and Varvillon were Melancholic, of that there was no doubt. Rorke, and to an admittedly lesser extent Lorkhan, would always lean towards the Choleric. And while the usually relaxed traits associated with the Phlegmatic type seemed overly-generous for Vortun and Barbus’s demeanors, it was probably the most fitting.

Of course, that was an over-simplification, as easy as that was to forget sometimes. But it did drive home to Mordecai that out of all those he considered himself close with, only Ahriman was truly calm.

The newcomer chuckled as Mordecai got to his feet and opened his arms, a disarmingly warm smile on his own face. Ahriman reached up with a hand, flicking a light switch almost without actually touching it. As light flooded the room, he began to approach, though his movements seemed more akin to gliding than actually walking. In contrast to the silvery hue of Mordecai’s own skin, Ahriman’s was almost golden. Dark, clever eyes that flashed with constant curiosity took in the room around him, brown hair cropped close to his head. Even as Mordecai took in the sight of his friend, he realised that the boy’s clothes were different than he remembered; the last time he’d seen Ahriman, his robe-like garments were predominantly crimson with golden and ivory trim. Now, however, he wore a deep sapphire, with only gold remaining to accentuate it around the sleeves and neckline.

The polite boy put such thoughts to the side as Ahriman reached him, the pair of them holding one another’s gaze for a moment. Then, with another grin and chuckle, each grasped the other’s wrist and shock. It was an old, curious gesture that showed mutual respect between warriors. Mordecai was not certain why he used it so often, only that it felt…fitting.

“In the flesh.” Ahriman’s voice was deeper than his own as he responded to the greeting, but accented and rich, as smooth as flowing wine. “I apologise for barging in on you like this, my friend. I did not mean to…interrupt.” On the last one, he gave a teasing smile, inclining his head towards the keyboard Mordecai had been practicing with. The boy looked round, chuckling in admission.

“You did no such thing, old sport, I assure you…it is always delightful to see you.” He let go of Ahriman’s wrist, quickly pulling out his tea-flask and pouring them a cup each. “How the dickens have you been?” He asked, handing one of them over and sipping from the other. “I must say, the change of fashion suits you.”

Ahriman chuckled as he swirled his own drink, but beneath the amusement Mordecai detected a hint of sadness in his voice. It was confirmed when the boy sighed. “More necessity than choice, I’m afraid…after recent events, many of us decided that maintaining old red-and-gold was in bad taste.” Reading Mordecai’s blank look of questioning incomprehension, he grimaced. “Prospero High was…vandalised. The hoodlums from Fenris State, we believe, more than likely with Russ’s quiet backing.” The calm demeanor cracked for a moment, anger curling Ahriman’s lips into a sneer at the mention of the old rivalry. “Many of our libraries were stolen from at best, torn apart at worst. Khalophis, Phosis, Ankhu Anen, Principal Magnus himself…I’m not really sure where they all went.” He sighed sadly, still grimacing. “I keep contact with a few of the others. Sobek, Amon, Hathor. It is…not enough. The school has been closed until further notice, though those of us that remain wear these colours still as a mark of remembrance.”

Mordecai stared as he listened, mouth slightly ajar in disbelief. Lorkhan’s hatred of Canterlot High was one thing, and the school had had problems with others – most notably Terra Academy and Deliverance Prep – that had sometimes spilled over into violence, but the idea of actually attacking with the mercilessness Ahriman described remained deeply shocking. For a moment he said nothing, blinking slowly as he processed the information.

“Oh, good heavens…I am sorry, old thing.” He insisted, patting the other boy on the shoulder fraternally. “That is truly awful…” Ahriman remained silent a moment, before smiling once again, shaking his head.

“You have my thanks, but you need not fret…I already have a plan in mind.” He promised cryptically. Before Mordecai could press him any more, Ahriman returned his attention to the keyboard. “And enough about me…you still haven’t explained this. I haven’t heard you play this old thing in years.”

It was Mordecai’s turn to grimace, nodding thoughtfully. “To be quite frank, this is more from necessity than choice myself…” Feeling Ahriman’s eyes on him, Mordecai took a deep breath, and began to explain. He told his friend about Canterlot High, about Lorkhan, about the threat of decimation following their repeated acts of aggression, and the Battle of the Bands. Even as he did, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t telling Ahriman anything he didn’t already know – although, that was how he usually felt when they spoke anyway.

“…as you can imagine, it isn’t not going as well as one would hope.” He finished with a sigh. “Lorkhan and the others are marvelously stubborn, but they do not have any…what’s the word…” He thought on it for a moment. “Skills.”

Ahriman couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that, though he still seemed sympathetic. Silence persisted for a moment before the golden-skinned boy reached out, playing a quick melody on the nearest keys.

“How much time do you have?” He asked. Mordecai gave a slightly morose chuckle.

“Barbus knew…all I remember is that it’s not long.” Ahriman nodded again, rolling his tongue round his cheeks thoughtfully. Though Mordecai kept his expression calm, deep down he nurtured the hope that his friend could come up with some solution. Ahriman usually could.

When a smile broke out across the boy’s face, Mordecai let the unfamiliar sensation of hope blossom within him a little more. Ahriman nodded, turning his attention onto the polite boy. “I…believe I may have a solution to your problem, my dear Mordecai…if you will allow me to displace you for an evening.” He didn’t need to ask twice, Mordecai reaching over to don his hat and coat. Ahriman gave another pleased smile, before leading him out.

***

The walk had been undertaken in amicable silence, if only because Ahriman’s theatrical side meant he’d reveal nothing until he wished. The night air was cold, but mercifully still. The boy had led Mordecai to a house in the center of town; it belonged to Ahriman’s family, who Mordecai knew were immeasurably better-off than his own mother, though very rarely did they stay there. Ahriman explained he’d needed a break, to focus his mind, and so he’d chosen to vacation there for a while. Mordecai saw no reason to disbelieve him, and in any case he was far more interested in the countless knick-knacks and curios dotted around the expansive home. Ahriman himself was a bit of a collector, and the scholarly parts of Mordecai almost chomped at the bit to examine some of the items he spotted. They were not, however, what Ahriman wanted to show him.

“What…are they?”

Mordecai’s question was met by a good-natured chuckle. The answer to it should perhaps have been obvious. The instruments sat in the room before him, laid out with uncanny care. He counted a keyboard, a drumset, guitars – everything the band had been practicing with that afternoon. They were in considerably better condition than the shoddy equipment that Olympia High had offered them, but despite his shock Mordecai couldn’t help but feel that there was something ‘off’ about them. Perhaps it was simply the jarring design of them; unlike the grey, blocky things he’d been used to, these were sleek and coloured a reflective ebony. Highlights of bright pink and regal purples added splashes of colour, predominantly concentrated around the almost-spiked edges of the instruments. As he examined them, Mordecai saw two designs repeated over and over. The first was a sickle-and-circle design, his intellectual side picking out the combined symbols for male and female. The second was far more ominous, though the boy couldn’t place why; an eight-pointed star, each edge of the Octed barbed and sharp.

“They are how you will win.” Ahriman answered, as Mordecai found himself struggling to pull his eyes away from the star. He had remained at the entrance to the room, as if wanting to keep his distance from the gifts. “An…interesting design choice considering your group’s predilections, I appreciate, but I didn’t have much of a choice on the design when I acquired them.” As strangely entranced as he found himself by the instruments, Mordecai kept an ear open, expecting an explanation on just how Ahriman had brought them into his possession. None came. “Play one.” He said instead, gesturing with a hand.

At that, Mordecai looked round, part of the boy wondering if he was being mocked. Ahriman certainly seemed serious enough, though. Grimacing thoughtfully, he turned back to the esoteric instruments, instinctually making his way over to the keyboard. He searched for an ‘on’ switch, but none could be found; reasoning that it must always be on, he shrugged, fingers pressing down on some keys in a basic melody.

The sensation hit him like a train. It was warm, tingling, setting every nerve in Mordecai’s brain and body alight with blissful fire. He staggered, shivering as the sudden onrush of pleasure made his nostrils flare a little. Before he knew it, he was back at the keys. Mordecai knew he was an amateur player at best, but his fingers moved almost with a life of their own to fill the room with more of the melody. The light-headed feeling from earlier had returned, far more pronounced now, but he almost couldn’t feel it beneath the heights of ecstasy and deep, crushing depths of sadness his own music inspired within him.

Eventually he could take it no more, the usually-composed boy stumbling away and taking in a deep breath. Panting hard, he raised a trembling finger to his eyes. It came away wet. He paused; he had not cried, had not even come close to crying, in years. Now, however, tears cascaded down his face – the emptiness caused by the music stopping gnawing faintly in the back of his mind.

“You didn’t imagine it.” Ahriman said, before Mordecai could voice the question. He didn’t seem as affected as his friend had been, but he had not got away freely. “These instruments were engineered by a…unique benefactor, so I have been told.” He took a few steps forward, patting Mordecai’s shoulder now. “I can have them delivered to your school; they will do give you what you need. Consider it a gift, from one friend to another.”

Mordecai was not quite sure how to respond to that. Normally, he would have asked how Ahriman could assure him of all these things, but right now his mind was firmly focused on the offer presented before him. Eventually, he swallowed, turning back to look at the other boy.

“…You…you said you had a plan.” He managed, voice regaining some of its old tone – he’d been meaning to offer gratitude, but the words had slipped free instead. Ahriman didn’t seem to mind, instead smiling and nodding.

“A plan to restore all we have lost…I believe I have found a stratagem, a planned chain of cause and event that holds the key to our salvation and will undo all that has befallen us.” He seemed to be talking more to himself now, slipping freely into melodrama as a distant look of hope crossed his face.

“I call it the Rubric.”

***

“So…where exactly did you get these, again?”

Lorkhan’s voice was distinctly unimpressed as he cast his eyes over the assembly of instruments in the center of the room. True to his word, Ahriman had somehow got them all there by the time school had started the next day, but the reaction from Lorkhan and the others had been one of thinly-veiled contempt. In true, Olympia High fashion, they trusted no resources but their own, and especially nothing brought in from the outside that looked as unsettling as these did.

Mordecai opened his mouth to reply, before catching himself; though they’d only met once before, it couldn’t be said that Lorkhan and Ahriman had hit it off. To avoid any further snarled disgust, Mordecai merely shrugged.

“Does it matter, old thing?” He responded, smiling as politely as ever. He’d finally managed to get over the euphoric sensations the music had inspired in him last night, though some of the tingling hadn’t quite gone away. “We have a tool at our disposal, one that will help us claim victory in this little soiree. I would respectfully suggest that we would be fools not to take it.”

“I don’t know…” Zuko mused, glancing at the black instruments once more. “Something about them feels…weird. Like, stuff we shouldn’t mess with.”

“Are you scared?” Varvillon smirked, though behind it he seemed just as apprehensive. Zuko looked at him with what might have been a glare behind the helmet, whilst the others just stayed quiet, each one turning their own private thoughts over.

“Vat is so special about zese music-making devices zat you think zey vill help us win?” Vortun asked, the large boy folding his arms and glancing at Mordecai. He didn’t waver as all their eyes fell on him.

“I must insist one of you just…plays one.” He answered, with a soft smile.
The others gave him another look of suspicion, but before any could argue Lorkhan relented. Mumbling his breath, the self-elected leader of the band made his way over to one of the guitars. Assuming, as Mordecai himself had done, that the instruments were in a constant state of readiness, he idly strummed his fingers over the strings.

All of them, with the sole exception of Rorke – who just looked even more agitated than usual – shivered as the music played. Mordecai had been able to prepare himself this time, but even he and the intractable Vortun still felt blissful spasms course round their body. Varvillon seemed the most affected of all, breath shaky as sweat already beaded on his brow. Lorkhan shuddered, looking down at the instrument in surprise. Staring for a moment, he began to play again, more of the music sinking into the minds of the group. For saying they were usually so blunt and focused on the tangible, the effect the instruments had had on them was startling to say the least; though Mordecai didn’t take a proper look, he thought he even saw a few other students stop outside the door to listen in.

“…this will work.” Lorkhan’s voice was quiet, as if he didn’t believe it himself. Then, a manic grin split across the boy’s face. He dropped the guitar to the ground, walking over to grasp Mordecai on the biceps; the others all gasped with surprising protectiveness as the guitar hit the ground, but when Varvillon rushed over to examine it, there was not a scratch on it. “This will work!” Lorkhan repeated, grinning wider still as he shook Mordecai a little in excitement. “We…we can win this!” His enthusiasm was almost infectious, eyes alight with glee as he rubbed his hands together.

“W-we can win…by cheating.” Zuko clarified, though he seemed just as affected as all the others.

“Not cheating.” Lorkhan retorted, far too excitable to be brought stopped now. “More just…playing to our strengths!” The others nodded, once again with the exception of Rorke, who continued to glare.

“So…right, right.” Barbus said, holding his hands up to call for calm. “I hate to be a downer, but let’s think about where we are…we have the name-“

“’Steel Soldiers’.” Zuko mumbled under his breath, obviously still hating it.

“And we have the instruments, now.” His companion finished. “Has…it occurred to anyone that we’re not actually entered in this competition yet?”

That stopped them all, dead. None of them had even considered that yet. Lorkhan’s arms slowly dropped, whilst the others exchanged glances, not quite sure what to say.

“So, let me guess.” Zuko began in a deadpan voice. “More sneaking?” A groan from the others expressed exactly what they thought of that. Lorkhan did not join the chorus, however. He stood looking at the ground, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“There is…one other way.” He said slowly. Their eyes turned to him, and he looked back at them. None of them had clicked yet.

“Some…other way, old sport?” Mordecai repeated, confusion evident. Lorkhan nodded, but he didn’t clarify anything, clearly hesitant to voice it.

“Oh…” Zuko caught on first, the boy taking a step back as he shook his head. “Oh, Lorkhan, there’s got to be another way…” The penny seemed to drop for a few others, more quiet moans of despair leaving them.

“Vould somebody explain to me what exactly he is babbling on about?” Vortun snapped, heavy brow furrowed in irritation. Lorkhan sighed, fidgeting a little; it was hard to tell, but it seemed to be from genuine nervousness.

“I’m going to talk to the Brotherhoods.”

***

“So he took them?”

Ahriman did not dignify the other seated man with a question straight away. The golden-skinned boy interlocked his fingers, resting the tips of his two index digits on his top lip. His face was drawn hard, displeasure etched in every line of his expression.

“He did.” He answered at last, sitting back and folding his arms as he kept his tone business-like. “This…scheme of yours continues apace.” As he finished, the man on the other side of the desk gave a chuckle.

“Of all people, you should be the last to sound so disgusted by another’s ‘schemes’, Ahzek.”

“Ahriman.” He looked round at the man, cultured voice made of stone. “The importance of names is lost on you, it seems…although, ‘Cypher’ must have been chosen for a reason.” Mr Cypher chuckled at the accusation, nodding, but said no more. It was still early morning; the student body, and even most of the staff, of Canterlot High hadn’t arrived yet, but the enigmatic supply teacher had asked his co-conspirator to meet him. It wasn’t something that Ahriman relished.

“I understand the need for such…unpleasantness.” He assured, looking over at the hooded figure. “But you will forgive me if using those I consider friends as mere pawns is distasteful to me.”

“And yet, you did it anyway.” Cypher pointed out calmly. Tense silence descended for a moment. Finally, the teacher moved his chair aside, opening the top draw of his desk and looking for something in it. After a few moments, he found it. Ahriman’s eyes followed the brown book as it was held up to the light. It looked like it had once been a simple journal of some kind, but now the covers were burnt and clasped with heavy metal locks. Looking at it made him feel queasy in ways he couldn’t quite describe, but there was also something undeniably alluring in it. He stood and walked over, hand reaching out to take it. Cypher pulled it just out of his grasp, shadowed expression never changing.

“We had a deal.” Ahriman said firmly as his prize was denied to him. “I need that-“

“For the Rubric, yes.” Cypher finished, the tone of his voice carrying the distinct impression that he knew something Ahriman didn’t. “Believe me, my boy, I’m well aware…in any case, the deal has changed. I need something more from you.”

“That wasn’t the agreement.” Ahriman hissed, through gritted teeth.

“It wasn’t.” Cypher agreed. “But you’ll do it anyway.” Ahriman looked as if he was about to argue, a moment of adversarial silence stretching out again. Finally, the Prosperine student backed down; he had a suspicion he’d need that book if his plan was to succeed, and whilst it pained him to aid Cypher and trick Mordecai into taking the instruments, pragmatism had taken over.

“…Tell me something.” He asked, trying to keep himself civil as his natural curiosity took over. “What is this about? Really, what do you have to gain from making sure the group from Olympia High wins this…’Battle of the Bands’? I had thought at first that perhaps it was simply some cliché, ambitious plan to take over this school, but…that seems far too straightforward for all this.” Mr Cypher studied him for a long, drawn-out moment. Then, the ghost of a smile began to creep across his face once more.

“As perceptive as ever.” The burly teacher nodded. “I should have expected no less…you’re right. This is about a lot more than any petty bid for power over Celestia.”

“I’m going home, Ahzek.” Cypher ignored the boy’s look of irritation as he looked out the window, looking a little lost to thought now himself. “I’m finally going home.”

Author's Note:

You know, I've never seen a Slaaneshi Iron Warrior.

The idea of a pink-armoured Olympian wielding a whip and sonic blaster gives me many conflicting feelings.

Bueno.

Comments

[Cadmium]

This is great did you get the idea with the instruments from my comment or had you planned something along that line all along?
Also i think its understandable why Rorke would be the one who dislikes the instruments considering what happened with the other him in Equestria.
And can i assume that for whatever inconcievable reason every chapter and organization from wh40k has some kind of school or other establishement counterpart in Humanland?
According to this i guess Varvillon is the Slaaneshi of the bunch, Rorke is the Khornate, Mordecai is obviously the Tzeenchian so the only one missing is a Nurglite!

[Perturabo]

5513146
"The enemy of my enemy is a problem for later. In the meantime, he might be useful."

5513368
-I knew I wanted to do something Chaosy with them to give them an edge, but your idea had me grinning for a day at the thought, so in that way I did! You're a credit to the Legion.
-Every Legion has their own school with the Primarch as its Principal (Except Alpha Legion, no-one knows what's going on there). There are a few other non-Legion characters floating around, but Spoilers.
-Now that I think about it, with his fascination for plants and life Varvillon would be the best suited to being a Nurglite. Slaanesh works for him too, though. Nurgle is a hard one to place in the group despite the fact that he's often associated with Iron Warriors; the one who seems most appropriate is Vortun, for whatever reason, but I've never heard of an Obliterator being claimed by a single God.

Zuko is a Champion of Malal hue hue hue.

[Cadmium]

5515383
Obliterators are really more Chaos undivided because the virus that creates them is probably not naturally occuring, if you can speak of natural stuff concerning the warp.

And i can totally see the Alpha legion as a whole horde of exchange students that are all over the other schools and they disappear when someone asks too many questions, no one is really sure who is the principal either its Alpharius or Omegon also noone knows if they are two persons or one and the same and he occasionally appears as a substitude, a new teacher, sometimes even as a student (dont ask me how that works).
Also all of them are called something with Alpha or Omega.

[Perturabo]

5515698

i can totally see the Alpha legion as a whole horde of exchange students that are all over the other schools and they disappear when someone asks too many questions

[ideas intensifies]

[Murder Knight]

So... much... Warhammer...

lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/k4rj1-DZCfTJ5as0YzLBVIralpxkewfuREu1jrtcRIS7Zl4g3LWlZK2FwYV1FNDLWd3SmOGiQ_Y-6aJM6AA5wJLys-Qdp-N6wpCzgbdJNTnN7ONvX40ufevN2RPNVtRDu61xukzouWLQyWdjqYjTlGs=w358-h411-nc

[verypeeved]

iron warriors have had some... bad experiences with slaanesh.