The Targinis Uprising - Bellicose and the Cult of The Spoiled Hand (continued)

+++ Targinis III - Residential Sector 'Lillian City' - Present date+++

The streets of Lillian were as regular and uninteresting as any 'working class' sector within the Imperium. Each day of everyday toil was uniformal in almost every aspect. Someone walking amongst these simple, but essential, operations would experience the noisome loading, cutting and clanking of machines of every imaginable size and fashion. The workers were much like machines themselves; bred into their lives of work by their predecessors, who were of the same occupation. The thoughts of building machines and devices of war used by the Imperial Guard were inspiring enough for most to dedicate their lives to long hours of unending labor. It was a simple notion, but an honorable one... worthy of wanting to achieve for most citizens of the Empire.

This notion of duty, work and patronage to Humanity was not shared by all unfortunately. Not every life form upon Targinis III was born to thrive in such a way - where a sense of pride and a meager-but-honest pay wage constituted a satisfying existence. Wherever the light and goodness of the Emperor thrived so dilligently, there seemed to always be given rise to those of darkness... those who craved power... those who refused their roles as meaningless Empire servants. Like the primarchial gene-seeds of the Emperor himself, there were those willing to forsake their masters for any myriad of selfesh, vengeful reasons. And after the daylight sights and sounds of work and toil subsided, Targinis III became a much different place during the bitter reaches of the night.

Strange chanting could be heard coming from the waste-canals beneath the street, unfamiliar figures clad in daemonic runes and maniacal garb were seen coming and going from the access holes of the sewer underworks. Citizens began disappearing at night... and most who turned back up were often left gibbering about an army of xenos and mutant-men beneath the streets. At first, the victims often returned beaten or with strange runes carved crudely into their skins. The attacks became slowly more fatal with time and the ones who dwelled beneath the surface were becoming somehow, organized in their twisted efforts.

Perhaps it is the nature of the Imperium; to simply view the activities on Targinis III as a job for the local security. Perhaps it is their mentality that, in one small way or another, there will always be pockets of Chaos occultism waiting in the shadows, in the darkest corners of the galaxy. And perhaps it was their foolish decision to underestimate this particular 'pocket' of Chaos activity that led to the uprising on this peaceful world that has yieled so much power, rabblesome though it may be, to the dreaded cultists from beneath the surface... and their foul leader - Bellicose.

The number of loyalist Space Marine Captains, Chapter Masters, Company Seargents and Librians who forfeited themselves to become Chaos Lords and Sorcerers were beyond sheer count at this point in documented galactic history. But with the recent discoveries of these strange cultists armies gave way to an ever more troubling discovery; the ones leading these bands of cultists were once of the beloved Chaplain ranks of the Imperium... these benighted false-priests came to be known as the Dark Apostles.

It is unclear as to which Space Marine chapter that spawned the traitor-Chaplain Vicar Bellicose. But if one was to judge him purely on his decrepit green Power Armor, disease-ravaged facial features and by the company he chooses to lead, a decaying band of mutated freaks, one could easily recognize the fealty of Bellicose to the Chaos god, Nurgle. Normally, a local uprising of any sort could traiditionally be suppressed by local Guardsmen without issue. But the Spoiled Hand cultists were nearly as difficult to gun down as the fully armed Cadians. As the firing lines of the local guards emptied clip after clip of small arms fire, ripping limbs and riddling the plague-driven bodies of the Nurgle cultists to little avail. Imperial Guardsmen stood in awe as they could recognize some of their own within the foul cultists ranks; Catatchen traitors, military low-level Barracks workers that seemed to have provided Imperial contraband to his fellow worshippers... at least three pirated Flamer weapons per cultist squadron could be easily spotted.

Having to slowly and cruelly gun down their own kind was far from the worst of it. When the Spoiled Hand fanatics finally descended as a whole upon the local guard and all could finally hear the gurgled praise of Bellicose's offering of Imperial flesh to the Lord of Decay... when the local Guardsmen were forced to truly see the twisted, poxed visages of their new enemies up close and personal... watching good men, good soldiers become debased piles of gore and flesh... that was the worst of it for all to behold.

Strange all the more - it would have seemed as though Bellicose had control of the industrial docks sector... he and the Spoiled Hand crawled back into the crevices of society... back into the underworks... back into the nuturing embrace of darkness and filth. And so... the sun rose. And life in the Imperium reluctantly toddled onward on Targinis III.