Index Astartes: The Warlords

Author's Note: I wrote this some time ago as part of a collaborative online project to create a group of Space Marine chapters for Warhammer 40k that worked together and were dedicated to some form of purity (in part to counteract all the "Hurr, my marines are different in this way from the Ultramarines that pollutes most DIY chapters.) I'm proud of this work, but it is waaay too long for the size of the article that one typically uses to describe a Space Marine chapter. I need to pair it down, and I wanted to store this someplace else in the cloud to keep it safe(r). I also need to clean out some of the html from where I copy pasted it from Bolter and Chainsword. So, essentially, "to be continued" is what could describe this one.

Strength Through Service
The Warlords

[center][smindent=30][i]“Despite their dark and controversial history within the Imperium, my time with the Warlords has convinced me of one thing: there is no chapter of the Adeptus Astartes who more thoroughly carries the Imperial ideal in its soul than these warriors. Their eyes look upon the galaxy with His wisdom. Their hands carry His justice to the stars. Their hearts beat in unison with the Emperor’s.�? Ordo Hereticus Inquisitor Maltheus, M.37[/i][/smindent] [/center]
[skullheaderhalf=328c26]Origins[/skullheaderhalf]
[captionright=Heraldry after the Judgement][img]http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/uploads/1195684035/gallery_21629_1530_7633.png[/img][/captionright]
Since the conclusion of the Horus Heresy, standing Imperial dogma has been to limit the power wielded by a chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. Though they are mankind’s greatest hope against the countless enemies arrayed against them, both Xenos and Heretical, these powerful warriors also represent a great danger if that power is ever turned inward. Thus, after the defeat of the arch-heretic Horus at the Battle of Terra, the wise Roboute Guillman put forth in the Codex Astartes guidelines to limit the power held by any one chapter master. The wisdom of these guidelines has been tested time and again since their inception, and have ever held strong in light of the betrayals of the Badab uprising. It is ironic, therefore, that one of his very own successor chapters, the Warlords, has perhaps tested these limitations more than any other in the history of the Imperium.

Captain Voren of the Novamarines Fourth represented all the qualities desired in a chapter master for the fourteenth founding of the Adeptus Astartes. With precautions against impurity reaching levels that had perhaps never been seen previously, the selection criteria was rigid to an unheard of degree when Voren was chosen. He was cunning, daring in battle, and utterly devoted to service in the name of the most holy Emperor. Perhaps his only criticism could have been the overzealous tendencies he demonstrated on the field of battle itself, preferring to eradicate every hint of an enemy rather than accept any terms of surrender. He believed that the Emperor’s sacrifice during the conclusion of the Battle of Terra was a model for all Imperial citizens to follow, that only through complete dedication and purity of purpose could a man call himself a true citizen of the Empire and, in doing so, make himself worthy of the privileges associated with bearing such a title. Any Imperial citizen who would reject this duty was guilty of betraying and dishonoring the Emperor’s sacrifice, and deservi0ng of the only punishment fitting for such a crime, death. He felt that, at their core, all Astartes should be “Lords of war, terrible but necessary leaders tasked to ensure the safety and prosperity of the human race.�? It seemed that the Adeptus Terra agreed with his assessment, as Voren was one of the first officers selected during the fourteenth founding to serve as a chapter master for the newly created Warlords.

It’s said that Voren himself oversaw the selection of candidates for the first and all subsequent zygotes. Taking only the smallest handful of completely loyal staff from his former command, he insisted on personally building the chapter from the ground up. Many recruits who were rejected by the chapter master with no more explanation than to say “I found his dedication questionable�? went on to serve with honor and distinction in their own chapters. Voren simply required that his own marines were, to a man, a cut above the rest.

The chapter master left the forges of Mars only at the behest of Baraquiel, chapter master of the Castigators, to take part in the swearing of the great oath with his fellows in what has today been dubbed by some as the Astartes Vocates. He returned even more invigorated, telling his advisors that he had been “…moved with joy by the faith and dedication I saw on display amongst the oathbrethren,�? saying that it “Lit a fire in my heart which could never be quenched to see such heroes of the Imperium united by faith and dedication to service in the Emperor’s name.�?

[skullheaderhalf=328c26]The First Battle of Pellidon[/skullheaderhalf]
The first mention of action for the Warlords came from their deployment to the industrial world Pellidon III in the Segmentum Pacificum. The fledgling chapter was tasked to quell an uprising that had been broiling on the planet for over three years since the elimination of their planetary governor and his household by Ordo Malleus Inquisitors. With the planetary governor’s house purged, the council was now devoid of a tie breaker vote to select a successor, resulting in the eight remaining houses dividing equally behind two candidates with no constitutional means of resolution. What began as political squabbling quickly degenerated into open warfare, with efforts by the Administratum to mediate the dispute ending in failure. Aggravated at the loss of production from a key industrial world in the sector, the Lords of Terra felt this was a good opportunity for the young Warlords to prove their battle readiness and to return the world to full operation. While a seemingly innocuous order in and of itself, Captain Voren saw the tumultuous planet as the Emperor-supplied beginnings of his vision. He eagerly loaded his company of personally selected and trained Warlords aboard their Battle Barge, the Imperator Animus, and went to action.

Where the war had previously been bogged down in a bloody stalemate, the addition of Astartes forces on the side of the Puritanical Faction resulted in the termination of the conflict within a matter of weeks. Appeals for surrender by the opposing Libertarian Faction were ignored, and the rival army was butchered by the thousands until finally there were simply no Libertarians left to fight. Why this was deemed necessary at the time is a mystery, as records of the evidence used to brand the Libertarians as heretics is incomplete or missing entirely. Perhaps the complete, methodical devastation of the enemy without any contact with the Administratum or elements of the Inquisition should have been an indication of what was to come, but Voren had demonstrated a merciless streak in the past and the execution of "heretics" could hardly be seen as innapropriate. The Administratum were taken just as off guard as everyone else, therefore, when the Warlords claimed Pellidon III as their new home world mere hours after the cessation of combat was declared. Since this action, in effect, freed the industrial planet from any obligation to provide tithes to the Imperium, this caused a justifiable degree of outrage amongst the ruling bodies within the segmentum. However, the Imperium’s hands were tied, as all new Space Marine chapters are allowed to select a homeworld, and the Warlords refused all pleas to reconsider. With no recourse left to them, the Administratum accepted the Warlords’ decision and pledges to maintain tithes indefinitely and reluctantly left the chapter to settle into its new home.

[skullheaderhalf=328c26]The Imperial Ideal[/skullheaderhalf]
With the acquisition of Pellidon III, Voren saw his grand vision begin to take shape. The machinery of the industrial world was quickly put to work towards the maintenance and growth of the new chapter. Within a decade, industrial production exceeded pre-occupation figures by over a thousand fold, leading to its reclassification as a full forge world specializing in production of weaponry and armament. Private ownership rights for property were revoked by necessity to allow all available land to be put to use for production. This decision was rationalized as being needed for “unification of purpose�? for the world. The ruling council for the planet was dissolved, with members of the surviving factions either absorbed into the new regime or quietly executed. Resistance to the new order was almost non-existent, as the threat of Astartes retaliation caused most insurrections to falter before they even began. The slaughter of Libertarian forces was still fresh in the populace’s memory. Those foolish enough to resist were made a very public example of, with reeducation and propaganda programs painting objectors as the worst sort of heretics and traitors in the eyes of the general public. In short order all resistance was plowed completely under by the new government. Even still, the Warlords’ desire for control was not satisfied.

Voren made no secret of his vision to see his self proclaimed “Ideal Imperium�? expand to nearby worlds. That most chapters of the Adeptus Astartes were content merely to govern their own homeworld he saw as a grave error. He envisioned the Warlords spreading the peace and prosperity that he had just brought to their new home to other systems, creating a vast network of influence and resources that could be tapped at need to further aid the war effort within the Segmentum.

Opportunity seemingly knocked with the development of a full out rebellion on nearby Pellidon IV. Suggestions by historians that the Warlords or Pellidon III officials in some way encouraged or even instigated the insurgency, though persistent, have never been confirmed by Imperial historians. Official records indicate that the insurgency was triggered by remnants of the corrupted house of the former governor loyal to the cause of Chaos, though these records were likely created by the same propaganda machines at work on the home world. In any case, the Warlords’ response was swift and eager.

Unlike their actions on their homeworld, the Warlords had no ally in this new conflict. Frustrated with increasing taxation and trade obstructions from the Pellidon III Administratum officials, the planetary government seemingly went to war more from a desire to overthrow the planetary dictatorship than to break free of the Imperium itself. Compounding this was the Warlords’ relative inexperience. They had not yet progressed to full chapter size and most of the Warlords’ Marines were experiencing their first taste of true battle while Pellidon IV’s population had a long standing history of service in the Imperial Guard, with many veterans returning home to serve in the PDF after battling abroad. An overconfident Voren, expecting an easy victory, was shocked to hear reports of the decimation of the elements of the fourth company he had sent to handle the engagement. Furious at this embarrassment, he threw the first and second companies into the battle as support, driving the Pellidon IV rebels into hiding to avoid the wrath of the angered Astartes. The expected crumbling of the planetary resistance after the commitment of such a massive force failed to materialize, however, and the battle quickly degenerated into brutal guerilla warfare against the occupying forces. After the fifth week of the conflict passed with, still, no sign of surrender on the part of the Pellidon IV rebels, Voren became impatient.

Without warning, Astartes forces were recalled from the planet’s surface. The rebels celebrated in the streets, believing themselves to have somehow removed the Warlords’ heart for the battle. The awful truth, however, became immediately apparent, as the Imperator Animus turned its eye balefully upon the planet surface, unleashing a devastating series of orbital bombardments, blasting the most densely populated hive cities of Pellidon IV to rubble within the opening salvos of the attack. The infrastructure of the planet was utterly destroyed and over two thirds of the planet’s population was annihilated during the course of the month long bombardment. The Warlords had finally overstepped their bounds.

[skullheaderhalf=328c26]Judgment[/skullheaderhalf]
A massed Imperial Navy fleet, under the command of the chapter master of the Judicators, arrived from the warp shortly after cessation of the month long bombardment, ordering the disarmament and immediate surrender of all Warlords forces. The destruction of Pellidon IV’s infrastructure and populace had provided enough evidence for the Administratum to begin an inquiry into the Warlords’ actions. Further arousing suspicion were the repeated refusals the chapter had made towards offers of Inquisitorial assistance in routing out the heretical influences from the insurgency. This led an already suspicious Administratum to dig deeper into the chapter’s activities, revealing the most damning evidence of all: pictrecords showing evidence of colony ships being constructed and outfitted mere days after to the outbreak of rebellion on Pellidon IV. That the Warlords had never truly intended to pacify the populace and had intended to annihilate them from the beginning became painfully obvious, and implicated Voren and the planetary government in empire building and gross misuse of power that had not been seen since the days of Horus. The fact that the Warlords and their colony fleet were not immediately destroyed on the spot, especially given the shadow of the thirteenth founding which still loomed over events of the era, is testament to the diplomatic ability of their Chapter Master and the already growing reputation for dedication to the oath of purity that all Astartes Vocates chapters embodied. The colony fleet was ordered home and a special tribunal was called to determine the young Warlords’ fate.

Though the chapter’s guilt in the gross destruction of human life was irrefutable, the disturbing but undeniable fact remained that the Warlords’ actions were not truly beyond the realm of an appropriate response to heresy. Whether the force utilized was warranted or not, the entire populace of Pellidon IV had revolted against the Empire. They had shown no sign of surrender or repentance from their anti-imperial stance. The Warlords were within their right to utilize any force they deemed necessary to end the conflict. Examined from this angle, there were simply no grounds to warrant destruction of the chapter. Further complicating matters was the fact that the brutal regime on Pellidon III put in place by the Warlords was only maintained by the presence of the chapter in the planetary system. It seemed no adequate judgment could be reached, but in the end Voren, nearly weeping with shame at having seemingly failed the oath he had sworn only ten years earlier, threw his chapter on the mercy of the court and accepted personal responsibility for the crimes, whatever they were determined to be.

Faced with the unpalatable consequence of further violence and loss of production from the inevitable rebellions resulting from purging of the Chapter, and finding the execution of his oathbrethren almost too unpalatable to stand, the Judicators chapter master made the only decision that could realistically be made. The Warlords were stripped of their heraldry, a move unprecedented before or since in Imperial history, until such time as a Master-Balancer of the Judicators deemed them worthy of having their honor restored. The Astartes would cover up all chapter and personal heraldry. No member of the Warlords who died in the line of duty would have his name recorded in the official records. They would become nameless, faceless, thankless servants of the Emperor.

Further, they would release Pellidon III from its status as home world and relocate to Pellidon IV. The populace of the rebellious world, or the fragment of it that still survived amongst the blast craters, were ruled too far lost to heresy to be recovered, and the world was subjected to immediate Exterminatus. Every marine in the Warlords as well as the entire planetary government were mustered aboard the battle cruiser Basilisk’s Eye and forced to bear witness as what had once been the future of their pseudo-empire was subjected to the world killer virus and incinerated into a lifeless hulk. Humbled and chastised by their punishment, the Warlords began the arduous task of building an airtight fortress on the barren rock that was their new home and prepared to do their duty, as always, in the Emperor’s name.

[skullheaderhalf=328c26]Redemption[/skullheaderhalf]
Early records and personal writings in the planetary archives indicate a perhaps understandable level of bitterness from both the Warlords and the government of Pellidon III at having their aspirations so thoroughly dashed. However, the loyalties of both entities remained firmly with the Imperium and their oath to accept any judgment, no matter how severe, and so they resolved to make the most of their situation through dutiful service. Voren was the first of his warriors to take his armor to the chapter’s forge, taking up the hammer and scratching away his name and chapter symbol personally when the techmarines refused to deface the ancient artifact. He ordered that their auto-reactive shoulderpads be painted over with black, a reminder of the penance that lay before them and the path leading up to it which lay behind. He immediately swore an oath over his armor, now devoid of decoration, that he would not rest, and would remain proudly nameless in service of the Emperor, until they were deemed worthy of having their heraldry restored. This oath was echoed by the entire chapter, including dedicated serfs, and served them in good stead to carry them forward through this difficult period in their history.

The outbreak of the conflict many centuries later with a chapter of the Astartes Vocates which fell to heresy did much to ease the tensions experienced between both the Warlords and the Administratum. The Imperium now had a more active enemy to combat, and the Warlords had an opponent on which to vent their frustrations. Rumors persist that the master of the fallen chapter attempted to bring the Warlords with him in heresy, but was flatly rejected by the Warlords’ second company, who died to a man in the retaliatory massacre. The chapter served with distinction in a primarily fleet based effort, committing the first and third companies to disabling the system’s orbital defenses while the Judicators’ lead strike force attacked the home world. This victory, however, came at heavy cost, as in the course of the fighting chapter master Voren was mortally wounded holding the bridge of a captured strike cruiser from traitor marines. The first company apothecaries managed to rush him into stasis in preparation for interment within a dreadnought, but Voren, who had never truly recovered from his grief following the destruction of Pellidon IV, elected to step down from his office and appoint a new chapter master.

Later writings by the then Venerable Brother Voren indicate that, as his chapter fought against their brother Astartes, he began to realize how closely the fall experienced by the fallen Oathbrethren echoed the fate that very nearly befell his own. That Astartes could, in attempting to best serve the Imperium, unknowingly end up in the grips of heresy did much to cause the Warlords to reexamine their own actions. “It is not a far cry,�? he wrote, “To imagine the symbol of the Warlords in place on the power armor of the enemy rather than the symbol of the (NAME DELETED BY THE INQUISITION.) That I nearly led my brethren to such a fate is a thought too appalling to bear.�? Apparently, this paired with the Warlords’ role in the chapter’s purge did much to redeem the chapter in the eyes of the High Lords as well, as they were allowed to begin recruiting again on a probationary basis shortly after the conclusion of the conflict.

By the time of the Melkar III purgation in M40, the Warlords had been remade into a stronger force than ever before, forged in the fires of patriotism and tempered by the knowledge that a heretical mind could still betray a loyal heart. Forced to do battle for centuries with no possibility of recognition or personal glory, the marines had redefined their view of the Imperium and their role within it. They gained a reputation for fierce loyalty to the Imperium as an entity, but also became known for sublimating or even outright defying Imperial authority if and when they felt that the greater good was served by doing so. While this trend often earned them enemies amongst those adepts or officers they had seemingly betrayed, it just as often won allies to the Warlords cause from elements of the Inquisition or Imperial Military that deemed the actions to be necessary and appropriate. It was thus that a changed Warlords chapter set out aboard the Imperator Animus, carrying elements of the first and third companies, to join an Inquisitorial task force alongside elements of the Judicators chapter battling Chaos cultists. It was only after Imperial forces were fully committed to the battle that the awful truth of the engagement became clear, that a cult of Nurgle was operating in the Hives, converting the majority of the population to mindless plague zombies. When it became evident that the entire population was lost and that the cultists were attempting to escape aboard civilian and military transport ships, the Inquisitorial fleet was forced to bombard all but a single spaceport in the planet’s capitol. Knowing that the brunt of the Plague God’s forces would be coming for them next, the majority of the Warlords’ third company volunteered to stay behind and hold the diseased hordes off while the rest of the Imperial forces escaped ahead of the planet’s pending Exterminatus. Just before radio contact was lost, the captain of the third company asked that his men be given no recognition, in keeping with their ongoing punishment. “Tell my brothers only that, this day, Warlords died in service to the Emperor.�? Shortly thereafter, cyclone warheads completed the work of burrowing to the planet’s core and purging all life from the planet’s surface.

In recognition of their service, the Master-Balancer of the Judicators, both impressed and grateful of the Warlord’s courageous actions, lifted the Pellidon IV judgment and restored the chapter’s honor. With hearts exultant at their vindication but saddened by the heavy price it carried, all the forces of the Warlords returned home exactly five thousand years and one day after the Exterminatus of Pellidon IV and began a ceremony oddly similar to the one undergone five millennia previous, the restoration of the chapter’s heraldry and the bestowing of names to all battle brothers who had helped to make it possible.

[skullheaderhalf=328c26]Beliefs[/skullheaderhalf]

[smindent=30][i]“From the moment you were born to the day you die, you belong to the Emperor. As he sacrificed his life for you to live, so shall you do for your fellow man. When you are tired, he will make you keep moving. When you have given your all, he will ask for more, and you will give it to him. When you are wounded, he will force you to keep fighting until the moment of your death. And when you die, and die you shall, you will not be remembered for your deeds or your heroism. But you will be remembered by your brothers as a Warlord who served the Emperor, and that is the greatest reward you will ever receive.�? –Nameless Venerable Brother, War College lecture on the subject of the duties of the Astartes.[/i][/smindent]
The Warlords are thoroughly and completely dedicated to the Emperor’s vision of a unified Imperium. Only by acting in concert, with singularity of purpose and purity of thought, can humanity stand against the horrors that await it in space. Service in the name of the Imperium is the duty and privilege of all Imperial citizens, and any who shirk that duty weaken the Imperium in doing so. The Astartes are given the greatest privilege of all, to dedicate their lives to the Emperor’s service as its elite warriors. In being chosen to become a Warlord, a recruit is given the means to serve not only himself or his world, but to have millions of lives served by his every action. To this blessing, no other gift can ever begin to compare.

To the Warlords, the question of the Emperor’s divinity is rarely if ever addressed. For the battle brothers that make up the chapter the question is not only heretical, it is pointless. Where does one draw the line between God and Man? Does any such line truly exist, and if it does, does it carry any significant meaning? These questions are seen as the height of triviality, an exercise engaged in by bored philosophers with no better way to serve the Imperium, and as such are below the Astartes. No matter the answer, the Warlords’ devotion to the Emperor and his works would remain constant regardless.

As such, the Warlords carry this idea of unity through service into their daily lives. When not actively combating the enemies of the Imperium, battle brothers drill constantly, with every Astartes seeking that degree of ultimate ability that will best allow them to carry forth the Emperor’s vision to the stars. During their training, neophytes are instructed in every facet of the care and maintenance of the power armor and weaponry they hope one day to inherit, both as a means of instilling discipline in the raw recruits as well as to further ensure the personal stake that all Warlords have in finding success on the battle field. In many ways, the Warlords consider themselves to be much the same as a their wargear, tools through which the Emperor can carry his will to the stars. Thus, it is considered a great honor to be assigned a place in a Devastator squad and entrusted with the care and operation of a more powerful piece of wargear, and promotion to sergeant of a tactical squad is often celebrated by granting the marine an antique suit of power armor. This represents both a gift and a responsibility, as it is now their burden to ensure that the armament they have been granted is put to the best use on the battlefield. To a Warlord, a bolt round that misfires is merely a sign of inadequate maintenance on the part of the marine who prepared it. An offense such as this will likely be punished by a period of self-imposed fasting and contemplation on their failure to the Imperium of Man, along with a redoubled focus on personal wargear maintenance for the duration of the penance period.

While they acknowledge that they are not alone in their level of devotion to the Imperium, the events of their own fall as well as their witnessing of the fallen Oathbrethren’s and many other supposedly faithful servants’ betrayals have instilled in them a level of distrust towards other elements of the Imperial machine. Long periods of isolation from their battle brothers, traveling from combat zone to combat zone with only the members of their unit to rely upon, left an isolationist streak that remains to this day. They have no tolerance for authority figures whose actions waiver from the Warlords’ view of what is best for the Imperium in any engagement. This has made them both a boon and a burden to the forces of the Inquisition, whose records contain almost an equal number of instances where the Warlords served them loyally as cases where they have openly defied them.

While they would like to say that this mistrust does not extend to their fellow Oathbrethren in the Astartes Vocates, the fallen chapter’s fate demonstrated plainly that even the most loyal of Imperial hearts can still be swayed by the taint of heresy. While this mistrust is rarely acted upon, it has on occasion led to events like the Interdiction of Celio VI, where a Warlord Captain temporarily assumed command by force of an Imperial Guard artillery battery to order bombardment of a civilian zone. While the bombardment prevented the escape of heretic forces with a stolen cyclon missile warhead, the act drew criticism both for causing massive civilian casualties and for crossing the boundaries of what military power should be allotted to the Astartes. Their actions were eventually exonerated both for the successful completion of their mission as well as their past history of service, but not without leaving some concerns on both sides of the event. While events like Celio VI are rare, they have left the Warlords with a “colorful�? service record, at best.

[skullheaderhalf=328c26]Organization[/skullheaderhalf]
[rightsidebar=Chapter Master Arthur Salahar]The current master of the Warlords first served as a tactical marine for the 2nd company’s third tactical squad. After distinguishing himself in the battle of Omicron VI by leading his unit behind enemy lines to destroy three dozen captured Basilisk heavy artillery emplacements which were held by traitor guardsmen, he was appointed squad sergeant. He rose quickly through the ranks to finally become Captain of the 2nd shortly before the outbreak of the Damocles Crusade, where the Warlords were given the honor of serving with their parent chapter, the Novamarines. Salahar saw his first test as commander on the fields of Verdenia Primeris, where he led the entire 2nd company along with support elements from the 6th and 9th and elements of the Sublimators chapter against an occupying Tau force. Though suffering grievous defeats in the early days of the campaign, Salahar recovered quickly by making contact with local resistance cells to supply reconnaissance data as well as studying the unorthodox Tau methods of warfare. After adapting a version of the Mont’Ka philosophy for his own use, the T’au forces soon found their own tactics being used against them, with what seemed to be obvious targets of opportunity suddenly being reinforced through a cunning series of ambushes, leading to the devastation of Tau forces on the planet. By the end of the campaign, the Tau Shas’O had given him a codename which translated to “Quicksilver,�? both in reference to his silver hair (as witnessed by a Gue’vasa spy) and the seeming trend of his forces to simply flow around and away from any blow that was dealt to them. After months of bitter fighting the planet was retaken and the Tau fleet driven away, only to be handed back to the enemy during the general withdrawal across the Damocles Gulf, a wound to Salahar’s pride that remains to this day. Now promoted to the level of Chapter Master, he has begun a personal crusade to retake Verdenia from the Tau in honor of the battle brothers who fought and died there decades earlier, and has vowed to see the planet back in Imperial hands before he dies. [/rightsidebar]
Being Ultramarines successors, the Warlords pay due diligence to the primarch Roboute Guillman as the greatest military strategist of the modern era. The Warlords obey strict adherence to the Codex Astartes with one caveat: the first company. During the five thousand year penance, the chapter’s ideas about individual service and accomplishment became skewed to the point that individual honors are rarely if ever given to individual marines. As such, the ability to select those marines who are “more�? or “less�? worthy of accolade to serve in the first company became outmoded and deemed unnecessary. Tactical Dreadnought armor was distributed to the four individual battle companies along with responsibility for their maintenance and protection. The longevity of these holy artifacts within a battle company is a point of personal pride for its members, and it is rare to the point of being unthinkable for any Warlords’ force to leave a suit behind when withdrawing from a combat zone.

The honor of being a member of the first company is instead given to the chapter’s extensive core of dreadnoughts, the Nameless. During the period of penance, many Warlords took their vow to serve until their chapter’s honor was restored literally, fighting on through wounds that should have killed them to be given the blessing to continue serving the emperor as a dreadnought. Though it pressed the forges of Pellidon III to their limit at times to keep up with this demand, the Warlords chapter master has always commanded that any marine who is worthy and wishes to be given the privilege to be interred in a dreadnought shell will be granted this boon. Though this practice must by necessity have been abandoned in many combat zones, the chapter still maintains an average of between 40 to 50 of these venerable war machines at any one time. Many of these are ancient enough that they have literally become nameless, serving the Emperor for so long that they have forgotten their own personal identity and know themselves only as a Warlord. The lack of records during the penance period have made it impossible to determine who some of these nameless brothers really are, and though it is impossible to confirm and would make him the oldest living marine by a large margin, rumors persist that Voren himself lives on in one of the many dormant shells, sleeping and dreaming of battling the Emperor’s enemies and restoring his chapter’s honor.

One of the most important ceremonies the Warlords maintain, the Day of Redemption, marks the date on which the chapter concluded their personal penance. This is a day marked by meditation, concluding with a meeting of the chapter to read first the tale of the chapter’s fall, their redemption at Melkar III, and the honors gained in the previous year by individual marines and the chapter as a whole. This is the only time where deeds are recorded and honored. If possible, the entire chapter assembles within their fortress-monastery on Pellidon IV for this occasion. If any of the battle companies are currently on active duty, the chapter makes what efforts it can to ensure a cease fire for the day and the reading of honors is transmitted across the galactic void by the chapter’s astropaths. Of special significance is the naming ceremony, where newly inducted battle brothers are given a new name by the chapter council to replace that which they’ve carried since birth, symbolizing the trust and honor the chapter is placing in them by granting them the privilege of serving the Emperor.

[skullheaderhalf=328c26]Homeworld[/skullheaderhalf]
The revocation of Pellidon III’s status as an Astartes homeworld did little to slow the planet’s dedication to the Imperium. Whether out of true loyalty or simple self-preservation, the current planetary ruler, along with his ancestors stretching all the way back to the original planetary governor himself, have spared no expense in ensuring that the world is ready to provide whatever the Warlords need for full battle readiness. A majority of their manufacturing capabilities were long ago turned over to the creation of implements of war both for the Astartes and the Imperial Guard regiment stationed in the system. The second largest city-district on the planet composes the chapter’s personal forge. Manufactorums tower into the skies and burrow deep below the surface, churning raw ore into processed material day and night, providing the means for construction of the bolters, vehicles, and wargear needed for the Warlords to carry forth the word of the Emperor to the stars. Most important of all, the facility tasked with creation of Dreadnought sarcophagi rests as the pulsing, beating heart of the forge itself, constantly working to grant fallen battle brothers the Emperor’s Blessing.

In accordance with Voren’ teachings, the populace is taught from an early age that the Empire only functions as a result of service by individuals. The message of strength through unity is broadcast from every video screen and posted on every public message board. By the time a citizen reaches adulthood, they are so indoctrinated in this belief that to even consider resisting one’s duty is almost unthinkable (and those individuals who do think about it are quickly rooted out and eliminated.) Men and women wake up in state owned apartment complexes. They eat artificially produced nutrient broths containing the state recommended levels of all important vitamins and minerals while listening to the news voxcasts delivered straight from the mouths of the only source they have been taught to trust: the government controlled media outlets. Each family engages in the recommended number of minutes of calisthenics every morning to ensure proper bodily maintenance for optimal labor efficiency. Jobs are assigned based on aptitude tests conducted at the end of the state mandated educational program. Marriages are arranged based on genetic compatibility. Deaths are scheduled based on a citizen’s ability to complete physical aptitude tests as they progress in age. The entire world is a living machine, working day after day in the name of the Emperor.

Pellidon IV, by contrast, is a tomb world, its pitted and cratered face interrupted only by the Warlords’ chapter keep. The fortress-monastary serves as a place of quiet contemplation paired with vigorous training. Much of the fortress was left exposed to the eternal night of space, with only a layer of transparent plasteel and void shielding separating the marine from the black expanse. This was done by Voren’s order as a reminder of the role the chapter played in making the world as it is today. Chapter meetings and ceremonies are conducted within a large central auditorium, austere and undecorated beyond the banners of the respective battle companies. The Warlords gather here both to plan the beginning of a new campaign as well as to commemorate their victories.

Much of the fortress is taken up by the facilities of the Librarium. As the Warlords place a great deal of emphasis on mental preparation for combat, extensive archive halls provide record storage for all the chapter’s engagements. Lecture halls dot much of the surface areas of the fortress, wherein Librarium staff, veteran marines, and even venerable brothers encased in Dreadnought armor present lectures for both neophyte and experienced battle brother alike on topics ranging from the Codex Astartes to combat tactics utilized by Xenos and Heretical forces throughout history. Vaults buried deep beneath the planet’s surface contain the chapter armory as well as relics from previous battles and the sacred sepulchers. The rest of Pellidon IV has been given over to use as a training facility. The vast crags and ash plains, while not especially terrain rich, provide a variety of training grounds for new Astartes to learn to ply their craft.

[skullheaderhalf=328c26]Gene Seed[/skullheaderhalf]
Like a full two thirds of the Astartes Chapters founded since the end of the Horus Heresy, the gene-seed of the Warlords’ chapter comes from the sons of Roboute Guillman, the Ultramarines. Like many chapters created during the fourteenth founding, their gene stock was especially pure to begin with, and great effort has been taken by the apothecaries of the chapter to ensure that it remains as such.

If the life of an average citizen of Pellidon III is controlled by their superiors within the planetary government, this is doubly true for those selected for service within the Warlords. The state of a Space Marine’s existence is literally determined by the chapter from their first moments of life to the time the Emperor calls them home in death. Compatibility testing is performed on all male children at birth, and any child meeting the stringent genetic purity qualifications is taken away immediately to the chapter keep on Pellidon IV (giving birth outside of a state sponsored medicae facility is permissible, but failure to submit a male child for testing within six days is a class J offense, punishable via death by firing squad.) Astartes recruits are raised from infancy by chapter serfs on the cold, lifeless planet surface within the chapter’s fortress. Most do not survive to return to their homeworld.

The chapter controls every aspect of a potential Astartes’ development, including supplying the applicant with the numerical designation that will identify them until the chapter sees fit to bestow them with a name. Training begins literally when the neophyte is old enough to hold a bolter and chainsword. Rigorous testing for genetic purity and implant compatibility is a near constant process through most of an applicant’s early life, interrupted only by periods of brutal physical conditioning and hours spent in lectures with the Librarium learning the art of warfare in the 41st millennium. Those who are eliminated prior to becoming an Astartes are either killed during the course of training, employed as chapter serfs, or (in the case of those who survive unsuccessful implantation procedures or are otherwise physically unable to serve the chapter) converted into servitors. No matter their fate, the chapter ensures that every potential recruit does their part in making the Warlords as strong and battle ready as possible.

[skullheaderhalf=328c26]Combat Doctrine[/skullheaderhalf]
[smindent=30][i]“We will bring the righteous hammer of the Emperor down on these heretics, and make certain they know that the time of their judgment is upon them.�? – Chapter Master Arthur Salahar, prior to the purgation of Regia VII.[/i][/smindent]
The battle brothers of the Warlords chapter prefer in all cases to bring their most devastating weaponry to bear on any engagement. They are not interested in seeing an enemy defeated. They want to see the enemy eradicated. The distant, impersonal nature of a whirlwind missile or orbital bomb suits them, as the destruction of the enemy is seen as a product of the chapter, and by extension the Emperor, rather than an individual effort.

The Warlords are perhaps most effective in fleet based efforts, where they can be given free reign to unleash whatever weaponry is available upon enemy forces in preparation for boarding actions. This paves the way for ground based attacks, which are often heralded by relentless orbital bombardment interspersed with drop pod assaults. Extended surface campaigns typically make heavy use of the Whirlwind anti-personnel vehicle and heavy infantry charges by dreadnoughts. By the time the whir of jump pack engines reaches the ears of the enemy, their defenses and personnel are likely decimated beyond the point of possibly offering any resistance. The chapter’s tactics, however, remain flexible. Their complete control of industrial output on their homeworld makes resource allocation less of a problem than with other chapters, and most battle barges and strike cruisers carry a complement of excess weaponry and wargear beyond what is recommended in the codex to allow for a change of tactics on the fly.

More than most other chapters, the Warlords do not hesitate to make the hard decisions on the field of battle if they feel that the gains for the Imperium outweigh the consequences, even if it means sentencing large portions of the Imperial citizenry to death. Their service record is littered with instances of collateral damage that perhaps could have been avoided. The gas attacks on Hive Correthon to eliminate an infiltrated genestealer cult, the artillery bombardment of Celio VI, and numerous other events have left a swath of destruction in the Warlords’ wake that has left some Administratum officials leery of utilizing them for anything less than the direst of circumstances.

The Warlords have seen Exterminatus face to face on their homeworld, and have recommended it on several occasions when they felt it was more efficient than spending resources trying to save a doomed world. The intentional destruction of all life on a world is the most difficult decision that any man could ever be forced to make, but the Warlords face it with the same dire, steady assurance that it is done for the greater good, expending the life of one world to save thousands. This once led current Chapter Master Salahar to nearly come to blows with the Ultramarines 3rd Company Captain Ardias after calling the loss of the Ultramarines 1st during the Battle of Macragge “A pointless, worthless waste of manpower.�? They have often fallen on the side of Inquisitors such as Inquisitor Lord Kryptman, supporting his efforts to initiate Exterminatus on worlds that stood in the path of hive fleet Behemoth and aiding in his escape when Kryptman was dubbed a traitor. Due to the incursion of massive Xenos threats in the near proximity of their home world from both the Tau Empire as well as the Tyranid invasion, this preference for utilization of weapons of mass destruction and minimization of Imperial military casualties has only continued to grow.

[skullheaderhalf=328c26]Battle Cry[/skullheaderhalf]
“The Imperium Prevails�?

Used both as a battle cry as well as a salutation.

[leftsidebar=Author's Note]AWOL is a Bolter and Chainsword forum lurker, checking from time to time and posing comments when he feels they're warranted and when his PHD studies grant him time to contribute. Thanks for development of the Warlords goes to all the members of the Astartes Vocates and many others, without whom my chapter could never have been given the life they currently enjoy. Though the Vocates creative flame has begun to dim, the Warlords will do their best to carry it forward from now to the end. [/leftsidebar]

My Halloween Costume

I've got red on me.

The Heist

The old man squinted through bleary, rheumatic eyes at the piece of parchment arrayed in front of him. He had been working for hours, mindlessly completing the tedious, repetitive task of decrypting the scroll, his own blocky, hurried writing contrasting sharply with the precise elven lettering circling the perimeter. His spectacles had long ago dug deep furrows on the sides of his nose. They were inflamed enough now that they were nearly as red as the dye in his itchy wool nightshirt. He had pushed himself well beyond the point of fatigue, working into the late hours of the night by flickering candle light. Feverishly he pressed on, obsessed with the need to KNOW, to understand what mysteries the parchment held. Every letter decoded added to the tantalizing hints, drawing him on, keeping him from the warm, inviting embrace of his bed. The sheet was now criss-crossed with his black notes, lines drawing arrows to the terrain features on the map in the center. All the vital landmarks were marked out and pieces of terrain were highlighted, building up and organizing the clues to the location of the greatest mystery of all: the location of the tomb of Acerak the arch-mage.

Balthus didn’t remember when he first sat down and started writing. Days prior? Weeks? Months even? It didn’t matter. The mystery had to be decoded, and he’d long since abandoned as ridiculous the suspicions that had initially grasped him: that this map was an accursed thing, and that to truly understand its secrets would lead only to madness and death for those that pursued them. None of that mattered anymore. The mystery had woven its way so thoroughly into his desires now that no spell or curse was required to keep him at his task. This was all to him, the only thing that mattered. And now, at last, after so much toil, the answer was in front him.

His eyes widened as the last word of an ancient, lost elven language stared up at him. Elrohir it said, a name or a place if it was anything. He turned, frantic, to the pile of reference books stacked up next to him, throwing the top three to the side and onto the floor in irritation as he scanned the page in question, at last alighting on the needed detail. “Ha ha!” he cried, drawing on the map one last time, tracing an arrow to a non-descript field and triumphantly circling an open glade. He stood, his moment of victory for a moment pushing out his feelings of fatigue, dancing in place and singing a victory song. Finally, with a groan, he stopped and put a hand to the twinge in his lower back, his age and arthritic joints finally making themselves known, and stared down at the scroll with a beaming smile on his face. And then, as he had done upon completing so many mysteries prior, his mind set it aside. He put his feather quill back into the ink pot and, a satisfied sigh on his lips, at last retired to his bedroom for the rest his body screamed for, safe in the knowledge that his patron would be pleased with his efforts the next day.
He never even noticed the shock of black hair and emerald eyes staring over his windowsill.

“Hold still you great oaf,” Esmeralda grunted, watching the old man shuffle off towards his bed, an eager gleam in her eyes. “This is our chance. Don’t blow it!”
“You hold still,” Rexar grunted, his olive skinned face flushed an unusual color of maroon from the exertion of lifting Esmeralda to the windowsill. “Your squirming is not making this any easier.”

Esmeralda didn’t even hear him, her eyes locked on the scroll lying carelessly open on the desk. Had Balthus thought to close it up in his desk, had he remembered to reactivate the magical wards that sealed his home, all would have been lost. But the silly old fool was too wrapped up in his work, as Esemeralda knew he would be. “The man never changes,” she said under her breath, her mind wandering back to a forgotten eon long ago, when she had spent hours of her own time seated at that same desk, laboriously inscribing scroll after scroll while Balthus (who still looked ancient, even back then) stood disapprovingly behind her, correcting every aberrant pen-stroke. Her hands ached just thinking about the whacks from his ruler. Now, however, as she saw him blow out the candle and lie down on the mattress, still clad in his red robes, she knew her chance for some payback had come.

She waited another score of heartbeats before sliding open the window as silently as she could. She looked down, gesturing for Rexar to give her a boost through the window, and slid lithely into the study, pointedly ignoring the half-orc’s muttered curses from outside. She crept across the room, eyes darting side to side and ears pricked for even the slightest noise, and finally stepped up to the old man’s desk. She looked down at the map and the tapestry of hasty notes scrawled across it, sighing in bittersweet satisfaction, knowing it would take hours of her own work just to decode the old man’s terrible penmanship. In her eagerness to snatch the scroll up from the desk and begone, however, she neglected to watch out for the old sage’s ink pot, accidentally bumping it with her hand and sending it tumbling towards the ground below. She cringed and ducked behind the desk frame as it exploded on the ground, an ear-splitting crash filling the previous silence.
“Huh? Whazzat? Who’s there?” came a sleepy voice from the bedroom.

Esmeralda knew she was in trouble even without hearing her half-orc “backup” sprinting away from the windowsill at full speed. Thinking quickly, however, she conjured the magical energy she knew and loved, filling the old man’s bedroom with the deep reverberation of purring. “Mitsy?” came the voice from the bedroom again. “Blasted cat. How many times have I told you to stay off my desk? I should have you skinned…”

As Balthus’ voice faded back into sleep, Esmeralda let out the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, waiting a few tense moments longer before reaching up and hastily grabbing the scroll from the desktop. She crept to the window and slid out, landing with a thud in the soft mud outside the windowsill and running for the light of Rexar’s lamp flickering frantically as the warrior waved her over to him.
“Did you get it?” he whispered, climbing up into the driver seat of their cart.
“Yeah, I got it. No thanks to you, you bloody coward. He’s a broken down old man! What did you think he was going to do, throw his chamber pot at you?” Esmeralda gave him one of the sharp looks she had inherited from her mother, a kind that could nearly cut to the bone of a man if she was angry enough.

“You said he was a wizard,” Rexar returned, feigning innocence. “I didn’t want to get magicked.”

“Bah, don’t tell me Rexar, fierce half-orc warrior, is afraid of a seventy plus old man who happens to know a few magic trick.” she said, the glare replaced with the mischievous twinkle she had picked up from her father. “I’m sure you could deflect any spell he threw at you with a twirl of your spiked chain, anyways.”
“Yeah,” he said, at first doubtful but growing with confidence, “Yeah, that’s right. But I didn’t want to attract attention, you know? With our luck, there’d be a town guardsman wandering by when it happened, and I’d hate to have to kill the old man and a member of the watch in the same night.”

“Obviously,” Esmeralda wryly agreed. As usual, the undertone of mockery was lost on the half-breed as he gestured towards the passenger seat of the cart. The young mage obligingly climbed up next to him and, with a flick of the reigns, Rexar got the cart making its bumpy way down the cobblestone trail.

Eagerly, almost frightened, Esmeralda unrolled the scroll, laying it flat on her lap and examining it closely. Immediately her eyes were drawn to the circle in the middle. The ink was slightly smudged from being rolled up while still wet, but she could see it there nonetheless, clear as day, with the old mage’s writing next to it. “Tomb of Horrors” it said, in small letters that didn’t do justice to the thrill she felt upon reading them. THE Tomb of Horrors. The tomb to end all tombs. The brass ring for someone who made their living plundering the vaults of the rich, powerful, and tragically deceased. It was said a mage could set herself up for life if she could survive a trip inside and make it out with even a handful of its riches. She had searched for years for even a sign of where it may be located, and now here it was in her grasp. If she’d have been paying attention, she may have felt the sensation of the tomb’s allure worming its way into her mind, adding to her already great desires and prodding her with an unnatural desire to come and find it as soon as possible, the same desire which had led so many before her to their untimely death in that pit of misery. But Esmeralda saw only one thing, the thing she had spent years searching for: the end to the quest that had driven her for as long as she could remember.

“I’m coming, Dad,” she said, rolling the map up with satisfaction and stuffing it into a scroll case. “I’ll find you soon.”

The cart rolled down the path in silence for a moment longer before Rexar turned to her, a quizzical expression suddenly appearing on his face. “Hey wait,” he exclaimed, “I thought you told me you were gonna steal the old man’s gold?”

Running Workout

http://www.active.com/running/Articles/The_best_running_workout_you_ve_never_done.htm?cmp=17-6030

This is more for my own purposes, but I really need to get myself back into running shape. I know I can do it, but I have to actually get up and get out there. Support from people I know can help.

A Growing Problem

There was a time in recent memory when I was a fan of World Wrestling Entertainment. I went to the pay-per-views. I hollered at the screens along with the unwashed masses. I mocked the people who obviously still thought it was real while alternately ooing and aaahing at the athleticism and grace on display in many of the match-ups. I played the collectible card game. Hell, I went to a Wrestlemania. This was not a passing infatuation, is my point. I was a fan. Scratch that, I was a BIG fan. I tell you this not as an awkward confession or because I'm somehow proud of supporting this business. I just want to set up context so you can have a frame of reference for what I'm saying here.

Eventually there came a point, however, when I had to walk away. For many, this isn't that strange of a concept, as they also had to at some point put aside childish things and walk in the shoes of an adult. For me, however, my break with the WWE came about not as a result of maturation but rather disenfranchisement. Ultimately, I got tired of seeing the performers I loved die. I was an Eddie Guerrero fan. I adored Latino Heat, a man with charisma coming out of every pore who could actually move in the ring and who, even when he was playing the good guy, still had this edge of being a cheating SOB that the crowd ate up. He brought himself back from an early life of drug abuse only to die of a heart attack in 2005 at the age of 38 after cleaning his life up. I liked Mr. Perfect, who killed himself with painkillers and cocaine. I watched Miss Elizabeth, Bam Bam Bigelo, Andrew "Test" Martin, Kris Kanyon, and so many others that I saw fall. But none of them, none of them, affected me the way the Chris Benoit murder/suicide did.

I remember the day it happened clearly. I just happened to have been at home alone that Monday night, meaning I could turn on Raw and not hear any grumbling (as it turned out, she was as shocked as I was.) That show was dedicated to him, with tear filled interviews being gushed out by the wrestlers on the roster who hadn't heard what had actually occurred. The next day, as the news came out, those stories became the most sour mockeries of good taste that had ever graced the WWE airways (and this is counting when Owen Hart fell to his death from the rafters, only to be rolled out of the ring so the show could go on.)

Chris, it turned out, had never been a great husband or even necessarily human being. His wife had left him once previously from reported abuse, and rumors of more had quietly lingered in the background for some time. However, especially in light of his in ring persona as a hard working every-man type character, Benoit was well liked and typically was a fan favorite. Nothing implied that he was capable of strangling his wife and suffocating his son while he lay in bed, before ultimately hanging himself from his weight bench. No one could have imagined it was possible. I mean, didn't all his friends and family go on Raw that night and let out the testimonials of how great a guy he was? How could anyone be capable of this?

The answer, it turns out, is that it could have been a lot of things. He had his own trouble with drugs, again, particularly the painkillers that plague most wrestling locker rooms. He was found to be taking steroids, either as a prescribed drug as WWE claimed or, probably more likely, to help provide the impressive addition to his bulk that had appeared some years prior. All of these gained the initial brunt of the blame for the events, but some time later another result came along which I ultimately found more compelling.

Examinations of Benoit's brain found him to be suffering from a severe form of concussive traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), a disease resulting from repeated traumatic brain injury. As described by Dr. Julian Bales, head of neurosurgery at West Virginia University, Benoit's brain was found to be so damaged that it resembled the brain of an 85 year old Alzheimer's patient. Some of his coworkers would say later that Benoit was one of the few people who would take hard hits like taking a chair shot to the back of the head, a spot that is currently banned from WWE matches. And as I heard this news, I remembered all the times I watched Benoit take some of the hardest hits I could remember, guys nearly turning him inside out from clotheslines of throwing him violently to the mat from top turnbuckles, and I started to realize that by doing the best he could every day at his job, the WWE may have damaged this man's brain so thoroughly that he no longer was the same person anymore, and the company he worked for may have let it happen. And as I looked at Benoit, and looked at all the other wrestlers that had died young after working in this industry, I discovered that I could no longer, in good conscience, support with my customer dollars an industry that kills it's performers. So I walked away from wrestling fandom, and I never looked back.

Why do I bring this up now? Because CTE is starting to show up elsewhere, particularly in the ranks of the National Football League. Chris Henry and Owen Thomas are examples of football players who are no longer with us and who have been found, after their death, to have suffered from CTE. Concussions are currently at the forefront of the consciousness of many football fans and, probably more importantly, many parents of kids who want to participate in the sport. It's unclear if this is just a small example amongst a wider problem set of if this is truly as pervasive a issue in football as it appears it could be, but the bottom line is we have to find out, and we have to do something to stop it.I would hate for things in the NFL to reach a point where I have to make a similar call between my conscience and my passion for sport.

The future is nigh!

Real life tractor beams. Zomg!

Cracked.com is Amazing

I love both the content and the fabulous writing. I could describe it, or I could just gratuitously link spam.

Bad Ass Moments

Things From History We Remember Wrong

Baffling Flaws of Sci-Fi Technology

5 Real Life Death Stars

It's not war if you're not talking about Gigantic Stuff

I write like
Douglas Adams

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Our New Buddy, The Lich King

So we made it. We downed Sindragosa, now we're chillin' (wah wah) with our buddy, Arthas Menethil, the Lich King, up on the Frozen Throne. We're gonna be seeing a loooot of each other for a while now.

Sandbag

Heh.

Heh heh.

Heh hahahahaha.

Oh, Christ, Hurse. You have to be the most pathetic pile of garbage I’ve ever seen.

I’m not even going to pretend that I’m doing anything besides sitting at my home, having just completed viewing the atrocity you just inflicted on the IWC public. Yep, it’s the day of the show, and I’m just putting a promo together now. This is more or less the exact thing I would hammer Christian Savior for, a textbook sandbag. You could literally stack a bunch of copies of this promo together and block a flood. I’ll leave it up to you to speculate as to why I’m being so callous, especially given how considerate and personable I am most days. It could have something to do with the fact that, since I’m apparently not competing in matches anymore until I cash in the ultimate incentive, it really doesn’t matter what I say here. It didn’t matter last week, after all. I mean, honestly, who would want to have both the Ultimate Incentive and the legitimate Number One contendership? It’s not as if I’ve ever implied that I wanted to take this company over by the throat, and that would have been the perfect way to do it. And, I mean, it’s not as if I walked out from the back with both competitors in the number one contendership match last week basically unconscious, then proceeded to brutalize them even further, and set myself up to essentially plant a boot on the chest of one of them and take the win for myself. Clearly, the best thing I could have done was what I did, hand the number one contendership to Jackson Adams, someone who doesn’t even sort of deserve it, basically doing the exact thing I’ve been criticizing the IWC management for doing since I came back.

Maybe this is my idea of playing mind games.

It could be I’m distracted. After all, I did imply that I was murdering someone in my last promo (something I’m surprised didn’t come up in your usual recapping and mocking portion. I mean, you go after the running promo? Really? I basically left it out on a platter for you!) Plus, the World Cup’s on, and for whatever reason I seem to be interested in soccer all of a sudden. It’s also just possible that I don’t really care about you or this stupid match, no matter that the booking office is trying to sell it as something of an attempt at reckoning between us.

I mean, does the world really need another Hurse/AWOL rematch? Haven’t we done this dance enough times? What incentive is there for me to even participate in this farce? I’ve got nothing to prove where you’re concerned. I don’t even remember how many times I’ve beaten you. I’m apparently comfortable just having the Ultimate Incentive. Nothing’s on the line. And despite that throwaway line I put out there about you “tarnishing my legacy,” I really couldn’t care less what you do from one moment to the next. The slow decline of your career has frankly been a source of amusement to me up to this point, Hurse. My loathing for you personally makes watching Robin Brooks twist you around her fingers something I’ve thoroughly enjoyed.

In case it isn’t clear, I don’t like you.

But that doesn’t mean I want to compete in a match with you either. Neither of us is going to enjoy that, are we? No, I didn’t think so. I mean, let’s run scenarios for a moment. Let’s say, hypothetically, things go cleanly and the match ends predictably, with me beating you. Ok, neat, the world keeps spinning, Hurse lost again, and life moves on with no real changes. Or, more likely, any of the numerous people who just flat out don’t enjoy my company could turn up during the match, climbing out with tasers or handcuffing me to something as has been the case, recently, and I’d end up losing. And again, nothing would change. So why bother?

Bravo on choosing Too Mag as a partner, by the way. Well done, there. I shouldn’t have to really explain my opinion on that particular move, given that I just dismantled my entire stable a few weeks ago to avoid having to associate with that waste of oxygen, so well done on picking up the scraps. It’s almost as impressive as your ability to find a stand in for him to use in a promo (I could tell it was an actor, as he wasn’t screaming and actually put together decipherable sentences.) But, really, I suppose you can’t fall off the floor, so he can’t exactly make you any worse, can he? And if we’re being fair, Too Mag did perform the feat of convincing some people he was an actual legitimate contender recently when Simon Cagero was pushing along behind, getting his wins for him.

But if you’re pinning your hopes on Too Mag getting a win for you, well, I don’t need to tell you how sad that ultimately is.

You’re a broken shell of a man I used to know, Hurse. I don’t know where exactly you lost what measure of talent you had, but it is gone now. Stunt promos can’t get that back. At this point, I’m not convinced anything can. If I can be bothered to come down to the ring, I’m just going to beat you and move on, a speed bump on my way to…wherever I’m going. More likely, I won’t bother.

After all, if I don’t even care enough to compete for a number one contendership, why should I care about finishing off a broken down has-been like you?

Hey, I Can Put Videos On This Thing!

Tragically I appear to have only just realized this. So here's a quick video I shot of some cool looking jellyfish at the Boston Aquarium. Enjoy!

Star Wars: The Old Republic E3 2010 Trailer

This video makes me at least want to give the game a try. We'll see if I actually want to go long term and whether or not the system specs are too high for my computer, but I definitely enjoyed KOTOR I and II, so there's a good chance I'll be down for this.

Intruder

The camera activates, revealing a dark room, partially illuminated by the orange glow of a streetlight shining in through a window. It’s difficult to tell exactly what the observer is looking at, but from the number of shots shown previously in this particular room, it would appear that this is the living room of AWOL’s apartment. The only human occupant of the room, however, seems to be a figure in a black coat at the back of the room, rifling through one of the former champ’s shelves. A book goes flying, landing in the seat of AWOL’s chair. Shaking his head in dissatisfaction, the figure turns back towards the rest of the room, looking for a moment at the television before turning away from it. Finally, his eyes seem to alight on the camera. The man gives a thoughtful scratch at his chin, walking forward towards it and bending down, his bloodshot amber eyes gazing at the recording equipment thoughtfully, obviously adding up the dollar signs in his head. A wicked smile crosses his mouth and he starts to reach forward towards the camera until a voice from outside the shot interrupts him.

“Hey, help me out for a second pal. Does this smell like chloroform to you?”

The thief looks up, confused, before a white rag is shoved quickly over his face. AWOL’s massive bulk passes quickly in front of the camera shot just as it tips over to the side, quickly breaking into static.

***

Alas, it seems Action Jackson is here to stay, despite our best wishes. And here I already went out and bought a farewell banner for you and everything. What am I supposed to tell all the people I invited to the party?

Oh, did I forget to invite you? Sorry about that…

I’m not sure I get you, Jackson. I’m honestly not sure I’ve ever really understood what makes you tick, and I don’t think I ever will. Of all the people in the world I would expect to turn into a crusader for all that’s right and good, you were probably ranked just behind Bernie Madoff on the list of probables. And yet here you are, standing in front of a mob of angry, disenfranchised cast-offs from the ranks of relevant IWC competitors, demanding that the home office step out of the way and let the in-ring competition work out the way God and Vince McMahon Sr. intended, mano-a-mano with no outside interference. On the surface, I should be applauding you. Hell, I support the cause, Jackson. You’ll note my actions on the weeks prior to Paranoia in casting off the last remnants of the Empire, though I’ll admit it was more than just slightly motivated by not wanting the annoyance of having Simon Cagero actually thinking that he in any way had the ability to tell me what to do.

Nonetheless, I am forced to remember history here, JA, and I’ve got to admit I have my doubts about your sincerity. Put aside for a moment your single handedly breaking up the second iteration of our group all by yourself, the long string of groups just like the FSS you used to advance yourself, and every other miserable thing you’ve done during the course of the shell you call a career. I’m still forced to remember the instance a few weeks prior to now when you and your current cronies, who supposedly don’t stand for that sort of backstage shenanigans, jumped me as I was leaving the Two for One Special and threw me in the trunk of a car. This came after your attacking me to try and press gang me into your stable in the first place, I strive to point out, a behavior I really have to assume runs contrary to your purported mission statement.

Now should I be surprised? No, not really. You’re a maggot, if I’m not pulling my punches, but I don’t mean to imply that this is meant in some way as an insult. Maggots are fully capable of surviving and thriving in the world, and no one should judge them for that. Like a maggot, you only have a very simple programming scheme that controls your behavior. You crawl along the ground, mostly escaping notice because of your low profile, and waiting for just the right piece of carrion to drop down and become available to you for an easy meal. Now, it seems, a chance at the world title has hit the ground, and so of course you’ve put off your early retirement from the company to try and come back and lock your little mandibles around it for a nibble. No wonder, in truth, that it has attracted you for a bite, given the current rotten, broken down status of the World Title in the IWC. Unfortunately, JA, the bottom line is that you have to go through me to get to it, and I’ve got no interest in seeing any more jokes like you picking up the belt. Admittedly, you’re miles and miles ahead of Porno Lad in my opinion, but the only way I can be sure to see to it that this doesn’t happen again is to take it for myself. This isn’t about putting you to a tes, or seeing what you’ve got. It’s about the world title, and about me taking control of this company for myself. For my part I’m sorry that you were put in my way, but it’s going to happen regardless.

***

The thief’s eyes open slowly, blinking in confusion as they look around at the current unfamiliar surroundings. The look of grogginess won’t leave his face, but AWOL’s hand quickly reaches in and gives the side of his cheek a not entirely gentle slap. Anger flashes in for a moment and he quickly tries to stand up and confront his attacker.

Only to find that he is currently duct taped to a table.

More specific, straps of the aluminum coated adhesive are wrapped across his torso, hips, wrists, and legs, holding him firmly to the stop of a steel tabletop draped in plastic sheeting. AWOL leans forward, his face an inch from the thief’s, giving him a curious expression.

“So, do you work with someone from the home office? Did Christian Savior put you up to this?”

“Mooff.”

“Oh, right, sorry about that.”

He reaches down, quickly pulling another loose strand of the tape from the thief’s mouth, eliciting a response of “Aggghhh! Fuck! What the hell, man? What the fuck? What the-“

He is interrupted as AWOL gives another full slap to the face, turning the man’s head sideways so violently that it makes the duct tape creak.

“Now,” AWOL patiently responds, “I’m not going to give you another warning. You violated my home. You were rooting through my possessions. By all rights, I should have just dealt with this problem on the spot. However, I have given you this moment for us to have a little chat here, and I would take it as a personal insult if you waste this opportunity with pointless profanity. Do we understand each other?”

The thief looks around, still clearly panicking, but finally nods.

“Good. So let’s start again. Who sent you here?”

“What? No, man, nobody sent me. I was just looking for an easy score. Your apartment complex has shitty locks. I knocked over one on the third floor last month.”

“And I should believe you because? This is a matter of concern for me, friend. I have a lot of…associates who would very much like to see me go away for a long time, and would have no problem with stooping to having someone break into my home to make it happen.”

“Seriously? Look at me, man, I’m just looking for a score. I need money, man, I got kids to feed.”

“Bullshit,” AWOL responds, his easygoing demeanor vanishing in an instant. “I took your wallet. Do you know what I found there? A scrap of paper with an address for a soup kitchen and five bucks. You don’t have kids, or if you do you’re not interested in supporting them. It’s more likely you’re trying to get money for meth.”

“So, if you know that, what the hell are we doing here? Why are you asking me these questions? What the fuck is your problem? Are you crazy, man?”

AWOL stands up straight, walking away from the man to a stand-up toolchest resting in the corner of the room. Pulling out one of the drawers, he slowly draws a long-bladed machete from the confines, letting it glint in the light coming from the halogen lamps surrounding the scene.

“Now there’s a loaded question…”

***

As for you, Savior, I’m sure you’ll have all sorts of pithy little nit-picks waiting after this little segue into my recreation time, but I’m not entirely certain I care. You, Mr. Savior, are what I really care about, and to be honest I’m sure I won’t be seeing anything from you until somewhere around seven o’clock tonight anyways.

What do I say to you at this point? Honestly, give me something. Throw me a bone, here. Clearly you’ve run out of material at this point about me, since the best you’ve got to offer is the old “raging bull” favorite you’ve been throwing around for weeks now. So maybe you can help me out. Has anything changed about you? Is there anything new to say? Not so far as I can tell. I think I remember at least two different occasions when you’ve claimed you were going to reinvent yourself, unleashing “Project Rising Phoenix” or “Project Payback” or, fuck, who knows, “Plan Nine From Outer Space,” whatever bullshit names you were tossing around to make your schemes sound more legit and ominous. As far as I can see, however, nothing about you is any different than any other day I’ve had to face you. Still whining. Still pretending that the title should just be given to you by sheer virtue of your being the person that you are. Still dismissing opponents as a result of the tiniest minutia you can come up with while ignoring the vast majority of material they put forth.

I mean, have you really sat down and watched the sort of moronic bullshit you’ve been up to over the last several weeks? You lost the threeway at Two for One and literally snatched the belt up off of the mat and ran off with it. Seriously. You stole the belt and ran home. Six year olds do that, Savior. Little kids that don’t get their way throw tantrums like that, not grown men who want to be respected and looked upon as a champion, and that’s just the beginning of the story, ultimately. We progress from there to madcap antics like alienating your entire stable, turning on your ownership powerbase, and now, like Jackson Adams (ironically), you find yourself actively arguing that you’re being held back by front office collaboration.

Seriously?

This needs to be an end point for you, Savior. It’s time for an intervention, but since you’ve pushed away all of your friends, I guess it’ll be me that has to do it. You’re spinning out of control. That inevitable decline I said you were headed for a few months ago? Yeah, it’s here now. You’re in it. You’ve got no one besides the wife I’m apparently not allowed to mention anymore and that conveniently inserted new character in your backstory from your last promo. You’re getting more and more desperate as time goes on, and now you find yourself with another shot at a number one contendership, and I get a feeling that’s it. You’re about to be as much of a pariah in the hallways here as I am, but unfortunately, I don’t think you have the intestinal fortitude to withstand it. Maybe you could head back to SCW, though from what Adams was saying you seem to be struggling just as much there as you are here.

I’m sure you’ll scoff and ignore anything I have to say. I’m a realist. It seems to be your main motivation in life, ignoring anything anyone else says to you to your own detriment. I’ll have to beat it in to you, so that is of course what I will do to you at Riot!. Yadda yadda, blah blah blah, same things we’ve said for months now and to every opponent in every other match, whatever. No one cares. The bottom line is, every time you’ve beaten me some of your random friends from the back have been involved. Now, you don’t have them anymore. The math seems pretty simple at this point, I’ve gotta say. Maybe this is your big chance to try and show me what you’ve got, Christian, but I doubt it. More likely it’ll be the same shenanigans on a different day, and in the end I’ll probably beat you, especially if you’re subjected to another vicious T-Shirt attack, or I might end up handcuffed to something or beaten down with a ringbell from one of your friends. It’ll all get sorted out in the ring.

***

“You see,” AWOL says, tapping the blade thoughtfully on the top of the metal case, “Ultimately, we all have our needs. You need your drug fix, so you do something illegal to get your rush. I…well I have other needs.”

He places the knife on the top of the toolbox, reaching in with his other hand to pull out a Dremel tool.

“I’ve tried denying them for several years, now,” he continues, monologuing as the thief becomes ever more panicked as he tries to pull out of the bindings. “I even came to a point where I forgot that they were there. But they WERE there, friend, they never went away. They simply were waiting in the background, biding time, keeping me company through my daily life and prying ever so slightly at the edges of my consciousness until eventually I simply…had to let them out.”

The dremel joins the knife. Next comes a hatchet.

“And then I saw you in my living room, rifling through my things, and it all made sense. Everything came sharply into focus in an instant and I knew, man, I KNEW, what had to be done. It was…well I can’t really describe it.” He pauses, eyes glancing through the clear plastic tarps lining the room, unfocused, clearly seeing something far beyond the veil of what is visible to the average man. “I guess it could be called a moment of clarity in an otherwise unclear world. Everything out there is anarchy, and I enjoy that. I do. But there’s always been something that felt…unclean about it. Dirty. Inconclusive. I go out and I fight day in and day out, and nothing ever changes. But for you, today, something is going to change, permanently. And all I can say to describe it really is that it just…feels…right.”

“Come on, man,” the thief pleads, wriggling against the restraints, “I won’t ever come near you again. I won’t do anything to you. You can have your stuff back.”

AWOL picks the machete up from the table, thoughtfully resting it against the palm of his hands.

“Ooohhh shit, look, I’ll bring back the stuff I took from the other guy in the building, too. Come on, man, cut me some slack. Give me a break!”

AWOL looks up, locking eyes with the man, before walking back over to the side of the table. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. If nothing else, I’ve already committed far too much time on this promo to not go to the end and put it on IWC TV. My…fans…would be extremely disappointed.”

“Jesus Christ,” the thief screams, tears now flowing freely from the corners of his eyes, “You can’t do this! You’re putting it on TV? They’ll fucking arrest you for murder, man! They’ll give you the fucking needle!”

“You know, that’s what I thought for the longest time, but the further I have gone on, the more I’ve realized that apparently people in my line of work can get away with anything they want. I don’t really question it. I’m just going with it.” He shrugs and gestures towards the camera with the blade of the machete. “Besides, as far as anybody out there knows, you’re just an actor I hired for a CD promo.”

“The body, man! They’ll find me, and they’ll know it was you!”

“Well, that’s what the circular saw is for. Don’t worry, nobody is ever going to find you, or indeed any sign you were ever here. And it’s not as if anyone will be looking for you, will they?”

“Please! God. Oh god, please, just let me go. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just name it.”

AWOL stops, thinking.

“Anything?”

“Yes, fuck, I’ll do anything.”

AWOL ducks back down, an inch away from the man’s face.

“Then be quiet. You’re kind of ruining this for me.”

The man looks to be about to scream as AWOL shoves the tape back over his mouth. The camera pans back as the thief frantically thrashes, giving out the last of his strength to muffled screams and a last desperate attempt to break his bonds. AWOL centers himself over his chest, lifting the machete into the air as the image fades away to gray.

“I want to thank you. I feel like I’ve made a lot of progress today.”

The final sound is the “Schunk” of a blade striking home.

Sense to Come Out of The Rain

The first peals of thunder roll past my ears as I’m crossing the fourth mile of my run. I’ve been pushing harder than usual today, so for a second I dismiss the sound as being only my pulse pounding in my ears. However, the slow roll of another thunderbolt echoing across the landscape quickly dismisses this notion. As I come to the street corner I pause for a second, my breath echoing deeply in my chest, and look up to the blackened, roiling clouds coming pouring in from the west. I pause. It’s already been four miles, after all, and to be honest it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to rein my training back a bit. I’ve been pushing myself for weeks now, both dealing with Cagero’s meddling on the air and the continuous turmoil of life in general. A rest would be nice. I could turn left and cut the run short, head home, maybe film a promo for Riot!

I consider for half a moment longer before turning right and heading further out, away from home.

The first pattering drops of rain start to fall, and my mind drifts away. When I was a kid I used to hate running, despise it if we’re being completely accurate. I would look for excuses to cut laps short at football practice, and earned quite a few dressings down from my gunnery sergeant for trying the same bullshit during boot. Somewhere along the line, however, things shifted. I think ultimately it stopped being about something other people were wanted me to do and became my own, a test I set for myself on a day to day basis. Can I keep moving when the muscles of my legs start to feel like rope stretched taut beneath my skin? Can I push on when the burning spreads through my lungs and every breath feels like agony? Every second sheared off of my time, every foot that I’m able to travel further than I had gone before, is a personal victory. It’s pure, unsullied, clean. There are no run ins, no backstage politics, no money grubbing ex-wives. It’s me, my own personal place and moment in time, and often the only moments of the day when I actually feel like I’m where and when I’m supposed to be.

The rain suddenly accelerates, going from a slow drizzle to a downpour in a heartbeat. My clothing is almost immediately soaked through, rivulets of water running down both sides of my skull and down in front of my eyes. Another flash of lightning illuminates the street, temporarily revealing the image of a woman in a sun dress sprinting towards an office door, her brief case held precariously above her head. I feel a thrill as the wind starts to whip down the streets. There really is nothing like the fury of a Midwestern thunderstorm. They arrive out of nowhere, dumping their torrential fury on the unsuspecting masses, their arrival only heralded by the sounds of tornado sirens or the howling of the wind across the plains. It’s chaos unleashed on a grand scale, and it speaks to the same grain of chaos I carry around in my heart. And then, just as quickly, they move on, in an instant reverting back to a sunny day so quickly that, if you were unobservant, you might wonder how exactly everything became drenched when you looked away for a moment.

This chaos, this is what I want to bring to the IWC. Christian Savior wanted to characterize me as a heel or face, as if those definitions have any sort of bearing whatsoever. I’ve consistently been defined more by the people I’m put in front of from a week to week basis than by any of my own actions. I’ve always done things with a personal, violent style that many find difficult to condone. That is, of course, until I’m doing them to their own personal, most hated IWC competitor. Then, obviously, things change and I’m a hero. Huzzah! What a glorious day, right up until the moment I am instead turned against their favorite, handsome world heavyweight champion and I’m a villain again. I’ve never put much stock in it, to be perfectly blunt. This week I’m facing three hated competitors, so I guess that makes me a face.

Somewhere around mile five and a quarter, a car passes by, momentarily blinding me with their headlights. I can only imagine the expressions of the people behind the wheel. Curiosity? Pity? I smile through the curtains of rain, flashing a salute at the driver and carrying on as if God isn’t spraying the city down with his personal firehose. I can feel the insoles of my shoes squidging beneath my feet with each step, and, to my irritation, I find my thoughts wandering back to work.

Adams, Brooks, and Savior. Calling getting into a ring with them climbing into a pit of vipers would be an insult to the vipers. Adams is a treacherous little shit, and I might be the only person in the company who is actually disappointed to see him leave, if only because it means I’ll never get my chance to thank him personally for the part he played in turning me down this new and exciting chapter in the story of my mental collapse. Instead, I merely have to console myself by pummeling the other two, who are no less deserving.

Robin hasn’t really done anything particularly troublesome to me since her return, other than I’m sure I felt her small, feminine boot heels on my back during the numerous Five Star Society gang assaults I’ve endured during their time here. Tragically, that sort of thing has become so commonplace in the IWC shithole that it barely deserves notice. I do, however, take exception to the situation between her and Hurse. Not that I really consider him to be a particularly good friend either, but I do happen to have a long enough memory to remember a time when Hurse was a decent wrestler who was on the way up in the business, as opposed to the broken shell that dances around wearing his skin for the amusement of the people in the crowd. He’s a joke, now, and as far as I can see Robin Brooks is responsible for that. If nothing else, that would be enough of a reason to pummel her. The fact that a shot at the World Title is on the line merely adds to the flavor.

Christ. The World Champion. Porno-fucking-Lad, the IWC world champ. How…in the fuck…could this have happened? What sort of upside down world have I found myself in? As I dash down the street, I look down an alley, halfway expecting to see Rod Serling standing under an umbrella, narrating how there isn’t enough KY in the world to satisfy a Porno Lad world champion…in The Twilight Zone. Even without the history between Savior and I, the fact that he played a role, indirect and unwilling though it may have been, in making this travesty a reality would be the paired motivation I would require to put him down to the mat. I’ll admit, the fact that his compatriots turned on him and eliminated him from competing for the belt is incredibly unfair. However, given the sort of ridiculous shenanigans that have facilitated each of his victories over me, I seem to be having a difficult time finding any sympathy. Truly, this seems to me to be one of those incredibly rare situations in this business where a miserable bastard like Savior actually reaps what he’s sown. And now he’s out on his own, all alone but for a wrestler from his past that none of us have ever actually heard of before, so maybe, for once, things can go down cleanly and we can settle things between us once and for all.

Of course, I thought the same thing last time, right up to the second Josh Hudson snapped a pair of handcuffs around my wrists and I turned around to see Savior tapping his forehead, as if he actually had anything to do with it besides being lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.

I’d chuckled over that bit for months, I can assure you. Not so much, however, as I am now at the thought of me somehow swinging from Dan Douglas’ nuts to get where I am in this company. Put aside for a moment the fact that Savior’s been doing that very thing basically since day one of his arrival in the IWC, and you’re still left with the comical image of Dan-fucking-Douglas doing me a favor. ME. A person he detests on a personal and professional level. A man who has gone out of his way on more than one occasion not just to hold me back but to flat out try to end my career through intermediaries just like Savior. This is the man who supposedly is doing me favors?

I taste the rain as a sarcastic smile splits my lips, letting the streaming water pour past my bared teeth.

On even a general scale, the idea of someone helping me in this company is completely laughable. I fought on my own through a stable of five competitors for my first world title, and for the second, the only way I could get a title shot was to win the fucking Rumble Bash. So I literally went through the entire roster to get a shot for that belt. Can he really think that putting me into a match with two competitors who’ve been haunting my every step for months now is somehow doing me a favor? I can’t imagine it. Unlike Savior, when I say I know that he is intelligent I actually mean it. No one gets as far as he has with his lack of ring talent or athleticism without being able to stay one step ahead of the people around him. It’s spin, and it’s painfully obvious. It isn’t my fault that both of them were incompetent competitors in the ring. As both of them would eagerly point out, they’re both former World Champions, and the fact that this simply means that out of the pile of mediocre wrestlers making up the roster, they happened to be the least mediocre on a particular day.

Frankly, I have to assume that the accusations are simply a new level of desperation setting in for the Falling Phoenix. He could have at least said it was Cruze or Desolation doing me a favor, though those outcomes are almost as unlikely as Douglas. He’s lost his stable. He’s lost his backing from the front office. His brother is here and has, recently at least, been far more successful than him. It’s the same decline I’ve seen coming for some time now, leaving the poor bastard literally shooting his promos in back alleys with washed up wrestlers who don’t even have a fully charged battery for their camera (though, tragically, it appears there was just enough juice for his whole promo to at least make it to IWC.com.) It’s tragic really. I might feel pity for him.

If I was capable of feeling anything anymore.

I round the last corner. My apartment building looms before me, at the top of a massive hill. I take a deep breath and put the first foot to the road, climbing with what’s left of my strength up the incline. Things are finally starting to change for me in this company, and it’s a trend I intend to continue from this point forward. The only way I’m going to get anywhere near the place I deserve in the IWC is to seize it by the throat and drag it to me. I see that now. It started with putting down Psycho and Cagero at Paranoia to win Ultimate Incentive. It continues with Brooks and Savior on Riot! to become the number one contender. And it ends with Porno Lad or, more likely, whoever manages to beat him lying broken at my feet and the World Title held above my head. It isn’t a matter of mental toughness or physical endurance. At this point, it’s only a matter of time. And this go-round, Savior won’t have a conveniently timed SCW invasion to pull me off of him.

I crest the hill, water streaming off of me faster than the slow drizzling remainder of the rain coming down lazily from the sky. I look at the front door. I’ve finished my goal for the day’s training. The storm and ruminations on the coming violence have my blood up, however, and I’m not quite ready to quit for the day.

Turning back to the road, I start to run once again.