Hand of Corruption
(EDIT: I NO LONGER/DO NOT HAVE THIS ITEM) Eternus Oculus
Tzeentchian Daemon Weapon
Daemon Possessed Reaper Autocannon
Pen: ALL and ALL Cover (Warp Weapon Property) / 9 (If quality does not apply).
S/4/- Single or Semi
Twinlinked: +10 to hit OR extra hit on hit
Reliable (Jam on 100)/No Reload/No Ammo
Flame: Inflicts Flame on hit even if no damage. Roll Agi test or catch fire. D10 Damage each round ignoring armor to the body and inflicting 1 level of fatigue. Willpower test or run around screaming for full action. -20 Agi test to put out flames.
-10 to be dodged
+3 to crit when critting (debatable if this applies to zealous hatred)
Illusory (Tzeentch aligned, Warpflame (Tzeentch Aligned), Piercing (unaligned)
Eternus Oculus. The Eye of Eternity
“Willingly you picked me up. Your first mistake. Willingly you drew me. Your second mistake. I do not allow my servants to make three mistakes, foolish mortal…”
Lexicanum Link: Daemon Weapons…
This cursed weapon appears to be a large mutable metal eye hovering between the horns/spikey bits of the wearer’s helmet. Like This:
A Horror of the warp fills the vessel like a coffin, and was pulled through an infinitesimally small puncture in reality to serve Khaldun Kek for all eternity.
Although the exact means that Khaldun Kek used to find the Eternus Oculus, or as he knows it, by its true name: Animosita’achney’dulturan is known only to him and the changer of ways. But there are rumors… And they involve a great sacrifice, a great change.
I do not write. It is not forbidden, but it is not something that we do. But we do record. We do sing the songs of ancestors. We do remember…
After Yeogeddon, After the treachery there, Bloodhowl led us North Towards the Halo stars, as men call them. But men have not a backbone, no thirst. That is for another time. To us, they are called the spine of the serpent. Legends are made there. Russ may be there. Past the Calixis Sector, we rode our metal beasts to the lands of the enemy.
The Fang sent us leave to pursue our own honors, and Bloodhowl saw first blood there waiting to happen. Silverfang had earned three packs of grey hunters. When I cast the runes upon their leave, I was told to be among them. I had foreseen it, and so it was. We left. Thirty two of us. Ten, and ten, and ten, and one, and one, we were. A brood to cut across space. None would oppose us. I had foreseen.
The vortex screams we were told. But to us it howled, and we howled back. None could oppose us in our fury. I had foreseen. At what men called the Gloaming worlds, a host of victories already lie behind us. I had been picked to tell the stories, and I did. After each slaughter, I retold them one after another, until even my mind strained at the details. We had lost Sven, and Jehrekson, but they slumbered under cold ground now, their threads cut, and we remembered. They were still times worth singing.
Further we went. I told the stories, and I picked our direction, and I cast our runes, and I foresaw. A Spine smaller than the halo stars, a string of bodies, celestial, like vertebrae in the void, lay close. Dozens of foul corrupted bodies lay pinched between plates of ceremite: the enemy no doubt. But they lay dead, and I was atop them. A song worth singing that, and I would after I spilled the blood. My furor was up. The runes were cast, and I foresaw.
Ragged Helix, named finally. The planets beneath our paws were not planets indeed, but pieces of planet, Small, numerous, infinite. Thousands of sorties, easy victories. The pack won, but the cost was not in bodies it seemed, but in our souls. Pendants and bones passed from wolf to wolf in our past, rotted and fell from their bodies as we spent almost two Terran decades at a gait through the helix.
I see it now as I tell, as I sing. Did we change? Our wards, our talismans rotted away, while we entertained our every thirst on slaughter. We drank to excess, we fought to excess, and we changed. Four avenues of change we undertook. Now I see it. A cursed number. I did not forsee that. I did not cast the runes truely. They lied, and we changed. It was on some blasted rock without a name that a piece of the core of the Firebreather, the tenth great company, was stuck from itself, by itself, from within itself.
We had been chasing prey for sometime as it happened. Our captain claimed to have received a familiar ship signal at the edge of our perception a number of times over the long years. Small, only a cutter, it would have had rows, or a sail, had it been at sea, but it was constantly eluding us. Like a companion, it skipped along between great masses of rock through the helix, always just ahead of us, out of reach, out of our jaws. It lead us from slaughter to slaughter and we were sure that one day it would be slaughtered. It would be ours. The pack said that it smelled like one of ours, like an old ship, captured, or lost, that we must retrieve it. It bothered me. It smelled wrong. It smelled like the wyrd. Like an old enemy. Like the oldest enemy. But the runes told me otherwise. They told me: Forward at the exclusion of all else.
The last time we went forward was on that blasted rock without a name. Forward. The enemy was numerous here. That was unexpected, but they were only men. Men in the thousands, but men. With spears, with blade, with rock, they opposed us. Dirty, primitive. Unnatural eyes that glowed fiercely, as if motivated to die. And they did. But something overtook us then. The four-fold fall pounced on us then. When all fell, there were still more in truth. Us. Each other. Brother, and brother, and brother. Ax head, and fang fell on brother, and those with their senses still there own were the first to fall. So consumed by rage, so lost in the bliss of battle, so without the protection or our now rotted talismans, our blasted totems, we changed. And we fell.
I looked down only now seeing what my runes had cast, the future made now. A pile of bodies. Three dozen. Thirty to be exact. Ten, and ten, and ten, and one, and one, minus Sven and Jehrekson. I was there, but this was not a song worth singing. And the only blood I had spilled had been my pack’s. It was then that I saw YOU, prey in disguise, YOU the predator. YOU Thousand Son. Traitorous spawn most foul. And so I sing to YOU my song, knowing that YOU will be the last to hear it. Knowing that my runes were cast by YOU from afar, knowing that YOU orchestrated this revenge, knowing that YOU have some purpose. But I sing this tale to YOU, nonetheless, because someone must hear it, someone must know.