Author's note: (yes the Author has decided to refer to himself in the third person here, what an Asshole.)

Hey, welcome to my fic and thanks for clicking here! Seriously. It's much appreciated. If you could take the time out of your day to read and review, that would be awesome, but if you don't that's cool too. I don't currently have a beta and as I already have some chapters written out, if anyone is interested just shoot me a PM and I'll try and find you. I guess. Or something. In the meantime just read. And possibly review.

Also, this is the first chapter, it's slow. The rest are better. Pinky swear.

Thanks, -Crutch

Chapter 1: A Godslayer

The Guardsman dived through the hail of warp-fire, away from his platoon, sliding into an icy crevasse hidden from the carnage of the battle surrounding him. He peered through his own breath crystallizing in front of him as he desperately rifled through the contents of his jacket. Laughing on the brink of hysteria he found what he was looking for and hurriedly pulled the blue-backed volume into the open air:

"The Imperial Guardsman's Uplifting Primer."

Pulling off his gloves despite the bitter cold, he quickly skimmed through the contents of the book, his shaky finger pointing him along the Gothic Script as he searched:

"Page 41, Daemons of the Warp."

Jumping suddenly at the sound of crunching behind him as he flicked to his desired page, he turned to see the most unholy creation the warp could spawn, a grotesque armored devil looming over his hole, the crimson light emanating from it shining red off of the freshly fallen snow. The Guardsman stared at the Daemon, it towered over a mortal man, its body seaming hollow, inconsistent even. It felt like all of his Organs had simultaneously dropped to the pit of his stomach- he knew no other way to describe it than pure fear. He looked into its beady yellow eyes and then at its horned, arched body, and then down to the four comparatively cuddly 'Daemons' that were diagrammed on his page. He had a feeling the book wouldn't help much. The Beast advanced into the hole, its cloven feet pressed firmly against the walls of the crevasse, supporting it above the ground.
"Be- Begone foul Beast!" He stammered, finding deepset courage as he raised his Laspistol and fired. The Daemon laughed, as if tickled, before moving in a blur until it was face to face with its human toy. It smiled, rows upon rows of glistening teeth as the Guardsman's gaze fell to the large, Obsidian Blade which had been plunged into his chest. He tried to speak, but blood came out instead of words as the blade was twisted further into his gut.
"I want you to beg for mercy- Human...", It hissed, emphasizing each word with a sharp turn of the Sword. "I am your God now!"

*rustle*

The Daemon suddenly looked up, irritated that something else was disturbing during its play time.

The tip of a Power Sword began to peer through the Daemon's chest at the Guardsman, sparks playing along its edge as it was pushed clean through. A man stood behind the beast, his trench coat billowing out behind him in the funneled wind of the hole; quickly becoming coated the Daemonic Ichor shooting from the wound in the Daemon's back. The Daemon stumbled onto the Guardsman as the man released his blade, before its great horned head clicked round to see its unmaker.
"Nobody kills my men but me.", He growled as he tipped his peaked Commissarial Cap. "Not even a God."

The Guardsman looked up at his savior's heavily scarred face, his painfully thin features twisted into a grimace, obscuring his dead eyes which were slicing into the Daemon. He raised his Bolt Pistol and fired muttering hurried prayers to the God-Emperor as he did- the Daemon exploded into a bubble of gore and screams before being whisked back into the foul realm it emerged from. Sounds of further screaming erupted, ear-piercing shrieks filling the air as the other Daemons were banished also, their sole anchor to this world destroyed. The Guardsman looked at the soot gliding in the air where the creature had been and heaved a bloody sigh of relief. He felt the cold nozzle of the pistol against his forehead and resigned himself to his fate. The Commissar held his finger on the trigger and took a few deep breaths to steady his breathing.
Fuck it.
He turned the gun around and smashed the butt into the Guardman's temple, knocking him unconscious.

o0O0o

A hushed silence fell as the gore-soaked Commissar began to clamber out of the crevasse, his upper body now visible to the rest of the battlefield; blood steaming off of him as it met the bitter air, the unconscious Guardsman still slung over his shoulders. He peered upwards, expecting to see his Comrades looking back at him; but instead saw a woman, more akin to one of the sand sculptures he found back home in Criea than any woman he'd seem before,with artistic curves are dangerously sharp features, all contained by her her carapace armor which clinging tightly to her muscular frame.
"I'm afraid you'll have to come with me. I promise I'm not a Daemon." She purred.
"Counter proposition, you say you were mistaken, walk slowly away, and I don't shoot you in the face for heresy." He growled, raising his bolt pistol. Some members of his platoon sniggered, but stopped as the woman's collection of Servo-skulls descended upon them.
"You seem to think you or your men have a choice!" She giggled.

o0O0o

The Commissar woke up, sat on one side of a grubby plasteel table in a small, white-lit interrogation room. He glanced around, noted the two-way mirror on the far wall and then became aware of the 'Daemon Juice' that had pooled on the polished floor around his coat. The woman on the other side of the table coughed for his attention:
"So your men say you encountered a Daemon in the field," She stated blandly, all traces of her earlier giggling removed as she leaned forward, revealing the Inquisitorial Rosette plastered to to her chest. "The only explanation I can see, is that you were mistaken-"
"With all due respect, sir, What I saw was a Daemon, it smelled of Chaos for Throne's sake!" The Commissar growled.
The Inquisitor tittered, "Darling, we all make mistakes! I'm certain it wasn't a Daemon, but rumor-mongering like that could cause a great deal of panic, and that would certainly need to be dealt with, wouldn't they?" She hissed back, winking at him, making no other effort to hide the venom in her voice.

The Commissar nodded blindly, he had long learned when to shut up. He wasn't as enraged at his idolized Imperium's betrayal, just that the Inquisition had to be such a dick about it. He thought he faintly heard a cry of "Not a Daemon? Uncuff me and say that again!" from behind the two-way mirror but the Inquisitor took no notice.

o0O0o

They were quickly sent off-planet due to 'political reasons' (the Planetary Governor was paid a large amout by the Inquisitor.)

What happened that day was kept a closely guarded secret, with the platoon involved being sworn to secrecy. Undetterred by this, the Guardsman who had lived through the ordeal spent his every waking hour in the Medi-wing of their transport regaling anyone who would listen with a blow by blow description explaining how he and "that dark broodin' bloke, Commisser Vickar" had saved all of their lives, much to the increasing annoyance of the regiment's Commanding Officer, Colonel "Ceramite Balls" Jones, who was bedridden next to the Guardsman after apparently having a fist fight with a Power-armored Inquisitor after he explained the Inquisition's view of the 'Daemon Incursion' to him- the members of the regiment swear blind the Colonel also broke a pair of Handcuffs while being detained. Being a closely guarded secret, it was naturally spilled in its entirety when an onlooking Guardsman drank too much Amasec to any members of the Criean 1st who hadn't seen the action first hand.

The Commissar had taken to slinking around the living quarters of the transport, doing his best to avoid his comrades' attention; at first it had been delightful, he had earned his comrades respect, which is no mean feat for a Commissar, but he soon grew weary of his platoon's constant affection- earlier in the week they even baked him a cake. Oh how he'd been mocked for that. How was he supposed to build a reputation as an uncompromizing killer if he was seen by the rest of his regiment holding the multi-tiered Victoria Sponge lovingly baked by his platoon, who were meant to be terrified of him, mind. It was a walked briskly down from the living Quarters, through the worn metal corridor towards the 'mess hall', which was essentially a cold, metal, damp-smelling room, which was huge in itself, despite its low ceiling, and could just about contain the entire number of he and his comrades. He kept to the sides of the corridor, dressed in his "off-duty" Commissar's waistcoat, careful to avoid anyone he knew- which, being a small regiment of about 600 men, was everyone.

He entered the expansive hall, relieved to find it almost entirely empty, and set about locating some food. The Commissar spent a few seconds mock dithering about his choice of rations;decisions, decisions, Grox or Grox? Both with Amesac because its safer than the water. He then went about deciding on an easily defensible table in the room. He has always come early to do this, and was never sure why. He liked to think it put just enough order into his ever-changing life for him to function successfully. His chosen table wobbled as he put his dish down on it, but he had come prepared- he hastily extracted his well-worn copy of "The Imperial Guardsmen's uplifting Primer" from the pocket of his waistcoat and slid it under the shortest leg of the table; steadying it. His mind was cast back to his days as a recruit in the Schola Progenium as he looked at his name that he'd scrawled on the blue Book's cover back when he thought it was useful:

"Allessandor Vikare"

He suddenly grinned to himself, he'd finally found a use for it! He turned back to his Grox just as the first few Guardsman sauntered into the mess hall.