Part 1: Vorehammer feat. kidanon and pony adoption

        ***Ponies and vore related stuff will appear in Part 3 once it is up. You can skip this if you're just here for the vore.***

 

Part 1

        After you finish your final litany, you kiss the Imperial Aquila attached to your rosary before pocketing it. Glancing at your wrist watch, it reads 6:20. You run a hand through your bedraggled hair and begin your preparation for the roll-call. You pull your wool toque over your head before donning your heavy, oversized helmet. Grabbing your equally oversized greatcoat, you throw it on and button up. The last but most important piece of gear is your autorifle. You apply the sacred oils and waft incense over the varied pieces of machinery before reassembling the weapon with well-practiced haste, the purity seals are reattached last. Grabbing the rest of your gear, you double-time it out of temple towards your abbey for roll-call.

       

         Upon exiting the temple your senses are assaulted by the all too familiar environment of a world decimated by war. The bone-rattling percussion of nearby artillery batteries forces you to cover your ears lest you lose any more of your hearing. The stench of blood, gunpowder and disease hangs in the air all around. The toque protecting your face from the biting cold also serves to relieve you from your malodorous surroundings, if only marginally. You slog through the muddy trenches towards the crumbling abbey, dodging your haggard brothers-in-arms as they dash about in disorder. Some carry wounded to the medicae, others transport ammunition, while most are huddled around burning drums, attempting to soak up warmth in the waterlogged defenses, seemingly entranced by the dancing flames.

 

        You finally reach the abbey and quickly charge down the spiral staircase towards the ossuary pleading to the Emperor not to be tardy; you probably won't survive another week of half-rations as punishment. You don't know why the Confessor would choose such a grim place to muster the army but it’s not your place to make such judgments. Passing through the winding, torch-lit passages you make it to the grand hall at last. Many thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of men and women of the Parish stand at attention beneath the massive domed ceiling decorated with the remains of your ancestors. While everyone’s attention is given exclusively to the Confessor and his retinue standing atop a great dais at the center of the hall, bellowing a tirade about sin, redemption and the righteous hatred of everything inhuman that is corrupting the Imperium of Man. You push and shove your way to your company or at least what is left of it after a long year of warfare and attrition, ‘The Progeny of the Blessed Martyrs’ entirely composed of the orphans of fallen soldiers. You also notice the old, refabricated Leman Russ battle tank affectionately known as ‘Clanker’, commandeered by fifteen year old Hubert Renby and his crew, towering over everyone else. You are all too young to join the military but old enough to bear arms.

 

        Your short stature aids you in sneaking into formation before anyone notices. You quickly adjust your coat, chest rig and flak jacket while gasping for air from the long run. Glancing at your wristwatch again; 7:09. Oliver stands at attention to your right, he quickly shoots you dirty glare.

 

"Shut up, I don't wanna hear it." You hiss out of the side of your mouth while keeping your eyes forward.

 

        "Here what, my son?" comes a gravely and familiar voice from behind you. Like a specter, Drill Abbot Dollarhyde materializes from the shadows. He is your father, teacher, and disciplinarian. There are many horrors to be found in the Milky Way Galaxy but this man is by far the scariest of them all, at least to you and the other kids that call the abbey home. The burly, bald giant steps in front of you, dressed for battle and wielding a heavy flamer, a chainsword sheathed behind his back.

 

        "F-father, I was in prayer and I didn't know how lat-" You stammer out a clumsy excuse but are interrupted by the abbot's raised hand, motioning for silence.

 

        "What ever business that occupied your time on the eve of battle is none of my concern, lad. My concern is that you have read the report and studied your primer."

 

        Your anticipation of punishment for tardiness is quickly alleviated only to be followed by another bout of dread at the prospect of a 'pop quiz'. Fortunately, you are a dutiful student. Your course material is always studied. What good is a warrior of the Emperor if he doesn't know his enemy's strengths and weaknesses?

 

        "Of course, Father! Today we fight the Tau, their allies and their heretical dogma!" You shout over the roaring mob that surrounds your unit.  

 

        The abbot's heavy gaze does not falter has he nods for you to continue.

 

        You stand taller and puff out your chest with pride as you recite the 'Albius Guard's Primer'. "The Tau are small and physically frail! Their weapons are overcomplicated and weak, unlikely to even crack a guardsman's flak armor and they do not possess the venerable Machine Spirit to insure its operation like those of the Imperium!" You notice that Dollarhyde is beginning to grimace at your quoting but you carry on regardless. "Their allies call themselves Ponies from the planet Equestria. They are warp-touched abominations that look like twisted mockeries of the equines from ancient Terra. There are three known subspecies. Earth Ponies, Pegasi and Unicorns. Although they stand several heads taller than the average human they are dimwitted, clumsy and-

 

        "That's enough, Anonymous!" The drill abbot cuts you off and you look up to see him pinching the bridge of his nose in what appears to be exasperation. "That's all rubbish."

 

        "Father?"

 

        "About the Tau…" He sighs. "My duty to Emperor and Imperium is to see that you all grow to become steadfast servants of mankind. I can't accomplish this if you are fed lies about our foes." Before he can continue horns sound from the dais. The Confessor seems to be satisfied that the militia is thirsting for Tau blood. Soldiers appear from behind the Confessor's throne carrying massive crates before setting them down before the crowd. Upon being opened, Ecclesiarch servants begun handing out weapons, munitions and even explosives of all kinds, stored within. More soldiers reveal themselves handing out banners bearing the Imperial Aquila, some have beautifully illuminated icons of the Emperor, while others simply say "REPENT". A soldier approaches and hands you an autopistol, a grenade and a small white box, your share of the Ecclesiarchy’s stockpile. Looking at the box in your hand, it reads 'ALERTNESS AID AND HUNGER SUPRESSENT TABLETS – Primary ingredient – methamphetamine hydrochloride.

 

        The mob roars in approval as the Confessor waves his staff towards the doors leading to the surface. The teaming sea of humanity pours forward. You and Oliver look at each other in concern before the entire company of child soldiers turns their attention to Dollarhyde.   “Progeny of the Blessed Martyrs!” he bellows in a tone that would bring pride to any commissar. “Forward, on me!” You take a deep breath; pocket your new sidearm and tablets in your greatcoat readying yourself to step into the fire of combat once more.