Rise of the Helcult
In the gloom, reeking scarred masses huddled around a singular hulking monstrosity. Abasing themselves before the corrupted metal nightmare they gibbered and screamed. Their eyes stretched wide, empty milky white sockets glowing, staring at nothing as each of the cultists mouths worked at a feverish pace. They were speaking as if possessed, because they were. They were in the grips of the lost ones. The spirits of the dead ravaged the minds and bodies of the decrepit dwellers. In the low light, the barely perceptible wraiths wisped from man to woman, taking hold and forcing them to voice their lament.
The source of this spectral onslaught was the twisted drop pod that had landed many months ago in the dead of night. It called like a beacon to the follows of the Dark Gods. It remained unmoving for what seemed like an eternity to the writhing masses. Only the screaming, tortured specters emerged to take a cold grip on the crowd and use their twisted mouths to chat of their pathos. At once, the spirits flickered and raced back into the dark red pod. A long silence hung in the air as the cultists all blinked and once again regained control of themselves. The cacophony still echoed inside the ruined, rusted factory where the rapid deployment pod had crashed. It seemed as though the ruined factory had aged even further since the appearance of the pod so many moons ago. It’s terrible influence corrupting anything near where it resides.
A deep burn twisted the side of the pod where it had suffered a glancing blow, sending it careening off its programmed trajectory. It had missed it’s mark.
It had missed the entire planet.
So here is rests, on an unnamed moon in a distant sector, millions of miles off target. His legion desperately searching for the raging war God.
A keening alarm starts to wail and red light floods the building. Across the surface of the pod heavy mag bolts explode outwards in a hail of killing metal. The steel shrapnel shreds a few cultists too close to the pods as it’s disembarkation ramp slams downward, killing several more. A virtual storm of ghostly spirits explode outward from the darkened alcove of the pod, racing around the room screaming a single name in unison. The cultists join in exulting in the final arrival of their Savior.
“Var-ram. Var-ram. Var-ram.”
Var-ram the Bloody Eyed stepped from his tomb of steel. Hissing cables and organic looking pobiscus disengaged and poured out fuel and horrid smelling ichor as the towering abomination pulled itself free. Homing beacons and tracing activation runes lit up the inside of the pod as it called out to it’s lost fleet, searching for it’s brothers to come collect it’s wayward kin.
Var-run took in the sight before him. His ancient twisted visage glaring though a gory maw of razor sharp teeth that surrounded the preserved remains of his head. The Helbrute arched it’s back in a movement more a parody of the man he once was and roars to the black, starless skies.
The spirit wracked cultists begin to scream with him.