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 Abbadon at the Therapist

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King Clovis

Posts : 1713
Join date : 2010-07-08
Age : 24
Location : Minnesota

PostSubject: Abbadon at the Therapist   Mon Jan 03, 2011 5:01 pm


The small woman glanced down at her clipboard, and then looked back up at the hulking figure that had finally finished adjusting itself on her poor couch. She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, tucking it back behind her glasses, and sighed inwardly. Being the best counselor in the galaxy had its drawbacks sometimes. Still, the pay was good. Tapping her pen on the clipboard, she began.

“So tell me, Mr.… uhm… Despoiler; where do you think your stress comes from?”

Abaddon shifted on her couch again, his terminator-armored bulk threatening to flatten the valiant furniture. “Where doesn’t it come from,” he sighed, his voice surprisingly soft for the most feared champion of the dark gods. “I mean, there’s the gods themselves at the top of the pile: Khorne’s always teasing me that Kharn’s got more kills than I have – up-close-and-personal ones, mind you, Khorne doesn’t like all this newfangled stuff like the Planet Killer – and Tzeentch never shuts up about me being so predictable. And then there’s Nurgle. Warp dammit that guy could give a daemonette weight issues. Doom this and despair that and decay the other.”

The counselor nodded understandingly. “I can sympathize with that,” she said. She could – her ex had gotten involved with Nurgle back in the 960’s. He had said it helped him deal with his depression, but she hadn’t believed him. Proving him wrong was one of the reasons she had taken up psychotherapy. “Is there anything… closer to home… than that, though?”

He hummed a bit. “Like the other champions?”

“If you like,” she said patiently. The trouble with megalomaniacs was that they could never really accept that someone else knew more than them. They had to be led along oh-so-carefully. Especially Tzeentchian ones – her hardest client yet had been one of Ahriman’s Cabal claiming to be bipolar (it turned out he was just suffering a mild bout of warp-induced madness and paranoia, but the sorcerer would have none of it).

“Well, Ahriman’s always been a bit of a pretentious git.” (Speak of the devil, thought the counselor.) Abaddon flexed the Talon of Horus, and she winced imperceptibly as it took another inch of cushioning off the arm of her couch. “He never knows when to shut up, that one doesn’t. Even Magnus doesn’t want to talk to him when he’s around, and that old Cyclops could talk the pustules off Nurgle.”

“Is there anything in particular that Mr. Ahriman says that has a major effect on you?” she asked, marking ‘JEALOUSY - FEELS INADEQUATE?’ on her clipboard.
Abaddon frowned. “Not really, I suppose. He’s always going on about how he would have done the Black Crusades so much better than I did, but then everyone does that these days – not that I see any of them stepping up for a go.”

“And any of the other champions of Chaos?”

“Not really. Typhus is usually off doing his own thing with the Terminus Est, which is a relief really, the guy stinks worse than Mortarion these days. Lucius is busy doing whatever it is that Lucius does down on some daemon world or another – sure, the guy heads out for a quick raid every now and then, but it’s pretty easy to distract him, all things considered.”

She nodded. “And Kharn?”

“Kharn? Kharn’s actually a pretty cool guy, once you get to know him. Gets a bit carried away every now and then, but its all part of his charm. It’s not like he doesn’t give people ample warning – he is called the betrayer, after all. No, Kharn’s never bothered me much. He comes along on most of my Crusades, and we usually end up having a good laugh.”

He leaned back. “Reminds me of this one time we were assaulting Cadia – I think it was back in M34, actually – and it ended up with just the two of us and some traitor company, the Red Rivers, I think they called them. Something to do with a river of blood or something like that, but Kharn had taken quite a shine to them. Anyway, we were stuck outside one of the Kasrs, and Kharn gets the brilliant idea to take one of the Rivers’ landers and do some aerial reconnaissance. So up we go, along with a few dozen of the Rivers to pilot the damned thing, and we see the Kasrkins all there in the main square doing some parade or other.”

Abaddon grinned. “Out of nowhere, Kharn grabs up one of the Rivers and just throws him right out of the hatch! He fell so fast he nearly exploded when he hit the ground! Turns out he hit one of the Kasrkins right on the head, got blood everywhere, and the guy’s power pack detonates! Before I could even congratulate him or tell him we’ve got a heavy bolter strapped to the wing, Kharn’s throwing more traitors down at record speed. The Kasrkin are all scattering, and Kharn keeps hitting them.”

He chuckled. “Of course, he had to stop eventually. There was only one of the Rivers left, and we needed him to fly us back to camp, but before we turned back around, Kharn grabs my arm and tells me to look down at the Kasr. Lo and behold, all the Kasrkins Kharn had hit had left big blood and scorch marks on the ground, and he’d managed to spell out a message! Want to know what it was?”

She nodded.

“It was a haiku:
Inside your Kasr Is where we’ll be tomorrow So clean up would you?"

“Let me tell you,” Abaddon said, “I about laughed my topknot off. When I managed to turn around, I saw Kharn high-fiving the pilot – afterwards I found out it put the guy in traction for two solid weeks – but when he turns to me he whispers: “I was trying to draw a boat.”

Abaddon chuckled. “Kharn’s one swell guy. Always sees the best in things.”

The counselor was, for the first time in her life, speechless. She just didn’t know what to say to that tale. She leaned forwards, adjusting her glasses.

“So yeah,” said Abaddon, “the stress. What was it you were asking me about ag...ain…” he trailed off as he noticed a glint in her eyes. Abruptly, he realized – the belching smoke, the grimy tracks, the slowly rotating turret- His psychotherapist was a Leman Russ Demolisher.

Roaring, he leapt off the couch as a flurry of heavy bolter rounds tore it to shreds. Lightning wreathed the Talon of Horus, and he dropped into a crouch, cursing himself for not realizing it sooner. He dodged to the side as the turret fired, sending a demolisher shell straight through the window of the office.

Abaddon lashed out with Drach’nyen. The daemonsword tore a burning gash out of the side of the tank, but it gunned its engine and accelerated away through the wall, trying to get enough range to use its weapons against him.

To replace his counselor with a Leman Russ without him knowing could only have been pulled off by some kind of tactical genius-

“CREEEEEEED!” bellowed Abaddon as he charged after the tank. “I’ll have your head spitted on my talon! I’ll hang your guts from my armor spikes! I’ll-” He was cut short as a lascannon beam forced him to lurch awkwardly sideways.

“I’ll rip out your toenails and use them to eat your eyes!” he shouted, finding his rhythm again. “I’ll tear you out of your metal box and feed you to the thousand terrors of the warp! I’ll... do very nasty things to your mother!”

At this, the tank rumbled forwards, its sponsons roaring to life. Bolts thundered out at Abaddon, most going wide, but many still hammered into his armor. He forced his way through the storm and met the oncoming tank head-on, ramming Drach’nyen through the driver’s slit and feeling it bite deep into something behind it. Even as the tank’s dozer blade smashed into his shins he shouted in triumph and ripped the daemonsword upwards.

With the power of the gods of Chaos coursing through him, the tank came up with the sword, rising in an immense arc until it tore free of the blade and went crashing over his head and through three walls.

Startled heads peeked around the edges of the newly opened hole as Abaddon stalked towards the smoking remains of the tank. It had landed upside down, and had crumpled under its own weight. No man could have survived it, but Abaddon wanted to make sure.

Using the Talon as a shovel, he dug his way through the tank until he came to the crew compartment. Instead of finding the smashed and ruined body of his nemesis, though... there was a note. Frowning, he picked it up.

Dear Abaddon the Despoiler,

If you thought this was good, wait until you see what I did to your flagship.

Yours sincerely,
Ursakar E. Creed


"King Clovis, of House Clovianan, First of His Name. Lord of the Clovis, The Clovians, and the Cloviar. Protector of the Clovis, and Lord of the Seven Clovi."

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PostSubject: Re: Abbadon at the Therapist   Sun Feb 13, 2011 12:11 pm

The forces of Chaos reigned victorious over the shattered city, littered with the wounded and dying Guardsmen of the Cadian 503rd. At their head, ready to deliver the killing blow to the last world between him and conquest, strode Abaddon the Despoiler himself, his Demonblade screaming as it claimed the souls of a score of men, slashing through the staunch but futile defenses of his feeble foe. He had won. Finally, after all these centuries, he had triumphed, and begun to finish what that weakling Horus had started! And now, now it was time to put the icing on the cake, and finish off that arrogant son of a bitch Creed, as he routed like a coward nonetheless!

Beside him, his lieutenants roared in delight, cleaving through flesh and bone and steel alike, and his bodyguard made a mockery of Imperial pride. Demons from the warp, incarnations of the entropy of Khorne and Slaanesh hacked their way through droves of fleeing shock troopers, and a flanking force of the Night Lords penned in those who were left, trapping them in a great valley.

His final carnage began in a great valley, the product of a near miss by a melta torpedo. A miss that had spared the Imperials yesterday, but sealed their fates tonight! Abaddon flung himself into the fray, cleaving with full strokes the men who stood in between him and his prey, butchering wholesale with his men. The Cadians fought like men possessed, like monsters cornered. Abaddon's men were possessed, monsters in truth as well as simile, and so fought harder still. When the last corpse fell, it was Abaddon who laid it low, sending that cloak, that cigar spinning to the ground with a backhand from his mighty paw. The heavyset, gray-haired man lay flat upon the graying mud, and a pool of blood grew around him. Abaddon felt his breath quicken, and kicked the Castellan over, to see his face as the Demonblade consumed his soul.

"I've won, Creed! I've beaten you, the Imperium is MINE for the taking! The galaxy shall burn! But not before I hear you beg, NOT BEFORE I HEAR YOU BEG!" His voice was torn with emotion, manic laughter struggled free of his throat. The figure tipped over, to lay spread eagle on its back. Silent, broken, and dead. An old man, slain by a casual blow from an immortal warrior. Abaddon felt something leave him. The rush vanished. Creed was dead. He had won... Yes. He had defeated the hero of the Imperium, but Creed was dead. And without ever even knowing that Abaddon had won. The united leader of Chaos knelt down, and screamed at the square-jawed corpse, howling in anger, in the hopes that perhaps his fleeting soul could still hear his words. "I. HAVE. WON. CR-" He froze mid-word, as he realized that the crater was silent. He stood, and thought for a moment that his men were watching him. He was mistaken, for his marines, his warriors, his cultists... Even the demons, were staring open-mouthed, at the crest of the crater that they had swept into.

For one nanosecond. For one fleeting, cursory micron of an instant, Abaddon was confused. And then he knew. He knew what he would see when he looked up to match their gaze. He knew what he would see when he looked up, and realized why Creed had led this defensive force personally, and why he had not boarded one of the Valkyries that had escaped, or a Chimera to flee. He looked up, to see the barrels of a thousand tanks, the crested figures of ten thousand men, the whirring shapes of countless hundreds of skimmers and fighters. He saw in the distance, the smoking ruin of his flagship drifting through orbit a hundred miles away, and heard all of a sudden the unjammed signals of panicked screaming coming in from every one of his officers and aides.

Abaddon saw, before his eyes, his Crusade crumble. And he knew, without looking, the expression upon that fat old man's face, despite the shattered jaw and the broken neck. And he felt his last emotion before the guns started firing, and the torpedoes struck, and the lascannon-bolts flew. Boiling up inside of him, he opened his mouth, and screamed. And over the din of battle, though battle cannon roared and basilisk whistled, though lasgun cracked and Guardsmen cried out with tears in their eyes the name of their savior, no voice cried so loudly as Abaddon the Fool's, whose hatred of one man had cost him a victory that could have changed the galaxy, the one man whose name he now invoked. That magnificent bastard. That tactical geniu-


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