[Atler the [] is for out of character speech, "" Is for things your character says
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The ships afterburners throbbed as the guncutter entered the planets atmosphere. He did not wait for the planets occupants to acknowledge Him, ignoring hails and streaking past guard ships. Seconds later the guncutter touched down in the hanger, its serrated dagger like profile dominating the hangar, dwarfing the smaller launches and fighters.
The Master had had a name once. He still did, but not in the same way. He was known as the NightBringer, Killer of the Living, Defiler of the Dead, Keeper of Secrets, The Avatar. The list went on. But his favourite was The Soulless One. Yes, that one suited him best. He tried to remember His name, His true one, that gifted to Him at his creation. Eliphas, perhaps. Insignificant.
He had been created. A soulless fusion of flesh, bone, and metal. He had been created by a seed embryo 'donated' from a nameless clone mother, grown to perfection in a vat. The embryo had been fertilised by his creator, by sheer force of will.
It had been many years since then.
Centuries perhaps.
It mattered not.
He remembered emerging from the birthing chamber, opening His eyes and looking on His 'father'.
He had had kind eyes.
From His birth, He was trained by His father. Created by strength of will, His mind matured rapidly. He learned voraciously, soon understanding all the technologies His father had created, how to make others like Himself.
He did not.
When He was three, His father taught him the secret of creating life. By focusing His mind on an object, and manipulating it, he could force its essence, imbuing it with life.
But His father objected.
He said one most not force things, they must be gently coerced. Fathers creations were always better than His, they were more real. They acted like real things.
He resented it.
He did not want to create new independant beings.
He could not coerce as His father did.
He did not
want to coerce.
He did not embrace life as His father did.
He embraced death.
On His fourth birthday He killed His father, plucking the lifeforce from his body, absorbing it, learning all His father knew, all the facets of his personality, absorbing all His father was.
A sentimental fool.
His father became His first servitor, dark, foul creatures, twisted sculptures of flesh and metal. Kept living by machinery and His will. His father was a most basic model, His fathers corpse was harvested, its vital organs collected and installed in the metal shell He hade made for it. Imbuing the organs with life, He brought the foul thing to life. The heart burst into life, pumping not blood but a biofluid He had designed round the organs interred in the machine.
It was far more efficient than blood.
Lungs inhaled, brain fired itself into action.
Within seconds it was ready.
Slowly, He chose the knowledge He had of mechanics, ranged combat, and piloting, copying each piece before piecing it together in the servitors brain.
It took a long time, He remembered, almost a full year. He was nearly five when He was finished.
That first servitor had been crude, but at the time He had marvelled at His own intellect. 7 feet tall, head sculpted into a deaths head by machine tool and will, armed with two repeating cannon and a variety of tools, it was highly useful. With its aid He had extensively extended His fathers old workshop, and mounted raids on nearby worlds for more bodies.
By the time He was ten there were more than five hundred servitors in His thrall.
He shook his head, cleansed the memories from his mind. Eisenhorn opened the the ramp to the cutter and and led His combat servitors down the ramp. Fanning out the night black servitors spread out around the cutter,weapons tracking the attendants in the hangar. Eisenhorns activated his powerblade as a Servant of the Forge scurried forwards, holding the thrumming blade at the mans throat.
A singed hair fell to the ground.
Eisenhorn had been a worthy adversary. From what he called the 'Helican sub-sector' Eisenhorn had encountered Him, when He was but sixteen. Eisenhorn was the most proficient user of the will he had ever encountered. It had taken over a day to fight Eisenhorn and his rabble to a standstill.
He had lost His fathers servitor that day, Eisenhorn had blasted it to its component atoms with a lance of will.
He had been disapointed to have to harvest Eisenhorn. To absorb such a powerful personality was nothing short of wasteful.
Eisenhorns powerblade remained a mystery to Him. It was not a powersword in the true sense, where the blade generated a field of destructive energy around it but something else, a pure blade of bound energy. It was powered by a miniature nuclear fusion reactor, installed in the hilt, and used no crystal or lens for focusing.
It was a constant annoyance to Him that He could not fathom it. It was no solace that Eisenhorn did not either.
He had left Eisenhorn in possesion of his personality, but without the do-gooder attitude he had had.
He enjoyed the new Eisenhorn a lot more.
Even if he was by necessity a servitor.
He stalked slowly down the ramp, another four servitors escorting Cain in His wake.
The Servant who had so foolishly challenged the servitors almost fainted when he saw Him.
He could see the black metal mask His father had given Him for a face reflected in the mans eyes.
With a glance He ended the man’s life, absorbing him into Himself.
“Where is the Forge Lord Gelitas? He was instructed to be here, in this place, at this time.”
A second Servant edged forward cautiously, eyeing Eisenhorn’s still ignited blade, his fear nearly overruled by his lust for technology. “M-my lord, -“
“Master.” Eisenhorn corrected tonelessly.
The Servant, one of the Electropriests, licked his lips nervously. “Master,” He paused, and seeing no objection continued. “The Forge Lord does not communicate his will to us, he is...he is...” The Electropriest seemed to shrink slightly. “Who are you? Who are you who would walk amongst us with such technology? Who-”
“He is The Master. And He does not answer.“ Eisenhorn was one of what could only be called His pets. Servitors whose previous hosts had impressed Him enough to be given an edited version of themselves. With a measure of independence. They were all created for a purpose. Eisenhorn was a soldier. He was a servant of The Master. And as The Master would not suffer insolence or opposition, Eisenhorn would not suffer it on His behalf.
“He does not answer? What-“ Eisenhorn’s blade ignited the air in a blazing curve as he neatly beheaded the Servant as around the hangar, and bewildered Servants and lackeys suddenly realized with horror that this was no visiting Magos or General, no High born noble from the spires of Heraphax III. The Master absorbed the fleeing life force of the dead priest. Forge Guard rushed to positions, weapons fire spattering across the Cutters nose, bouncing harmlessly from the bodies of the Servitors, and simply disappearing as it neared the The Masters flowing robes. Eisenhorn addressed the room at large, or possibly the slumping body of the priest. “He does not answer. He is the final authority. And We His Servitors do not answer to those such as you.”
“Cain.”
“Yes Master?”
“Empty out the holds. Call the fleet. The Forge Lord has decided to ignore his summons. Teach him the error of his ways.”
Cain nodded, sending an impulse into the Cutter, and shouldering his custom made bolter, a gift from The Master for his services, he felled a towering Forge Guard with a shot to the neck, severing arteries but leaving the body recoverable. Two additional hatches on each side of the ramp from which The Master had descended immediately opened, and more combat servitors marched forwards, firing in staccato triple blasts. As The Master stood at the foot of the ramp, plucking the released life energies from the falling Servants of the Forge, the Fleet of The Master Jumped into orbit round the planet, swiftly firing drop pods and boarding torpedoes full of servitors into the planets surface and the orbiting defence fleet and emplacements.
Heraphax IX fell in 3 hours, and the slumbering Forge Lords and Emperor Finest noted not a thing.
[Name: The Master
Allignment: True Neutral. The Master cares not for the morality of others, He is entirely amoral.
Race: Cybernetically altered human.
Gender: Male
Weapons: The Master has several augmentations and more than one hidden weapon, but He does not engage in petty combat. His preparations are only that: Preparations. He does not believe in being caught unawares, though His psychic abilities can generally put paid to anyone who manages to get into a position where He would need to defend Himself.
Fight Style: The Servitor Legions engage by speciality and brute force. Theirs is a strategy of total war. There is no retreat. No falling back. The Legion advances as one. The Legion advances until the enemy has fallen. The Servitors have never been beaten.
Admires: Himself, The Ascendant Collective, the group of individuals who He chose to join Him in His mission, Cain chief amongst them, and certain of His pets. The Peace of Undeath.
Hates: The Master has few emotions. He does not hate as mere mortals understand the word. But it can be said with reasonable accuracy that He hates the Living. The Chaos of Life. And those foolish few who choose to stand against Him.
The Master is the main protagonist in this. I imagine the vast majority of you will plan to oppose Him, although some may seek to join Him. Weighty conditions must be met to do so, but by the same measure He will not fall easily. Keep in mind none of your characters have yet met or even noticed The Master. Heraphax IX is completely locked off to those not of the Servants of the Forge or the Emperors Legions, as it is essentially a small barely habitable rock that serves as a base for the Servants of the Forge from which they service those ships of the Emperors Navy in the system in need of the heaviest repairs.
Heraphax X is also off limits, serving as a major military base for the Emperors Navy and Legions.]
]