Editing Nobledark Imperium Writing (section)

= Non-Canonical Stories (Post M41 and Alternate Timelines) =

Abandon canon all ye who enter here. This is the place for all Nobledark Imperium stories that, regardless of how good they might be, represent non-canonical timelines (i.e., alternate timelines or post-999.M41 scenarios). Because the potential future of the galaxy post-999.M41 is supposed to be [[Your Dudes|up to the reader to decide]], all stories have been spoilered in order to avoid potentially ruining anyone's headcanon.

[[File:NotCanonShout.gif|200px|thumb|right|Basically this.]]

== Cypher Claws ==

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Private Dalwort was pretty sure he was going to die. He had known that he would for a while now, not the exact particulars but something like this. It was inevitable in a way, there were only so many ways a soldier in the Imperial Guard could die and almost all of them involved in some way the participation of another party. But he wasn't happy about it, no one bit. This was not how he wanted t go, hunted down across the snow like a beast. He could turn and fight, he knew at some level, he could turn and fight and die like a man. They could have outpaced him some time ago and he knew it, a mere man couldn't compete against an astartes, let alone a blood read monster blessed of Khorne. They were toying with them, he could hear their laughter over the wind in the tree tops and the hammering and blood rushing in his ears. Muscles on fire, lungs laboring to drag one more ragged breath after another into his chest he stumbled on. His nightsider eyes turned night into day by the light of the moon through the branches and he could see corporal Cadful not so blessed stumble over a tree root. Dalwort broke stride to catch him before he fell and was immediately slapped aside by a bright read hand.
 
Stars and whorl of purple and yellow blossomed in the pain of his face as he came back to himself. Everything was sore down one side of his face and he knew, by the fact that he was still alive, that he couldn't have been down for more than a moment. One eye was a rose of crimson agony, vision doubled and already he could feel it swelling shut and bruised and bleeding. A figure writ huge against the dark grey and gnarly tree trunks stood over Dalwort as he scrambled and backed away across the floor, Neth, Tiynad and Hormandz were, he saw ahead, backing away from two other giants that loomed ahead of them.

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A hand more like a metal bear paw lifted him by the collar of his sweat drenched flack jacket and hurled him to where the others had backed to. He could hear it. The laughter, a resonant and cruel sound. They were little more than mice to these creatures Tiynad lifted his trembling laser rifle and emptied the last of his powerpack into a scorch-marked line across one giant's chest with as much effect as pissing into a blizzard. The mocking, hideous laughter didn't change one iota.
 
Private Dalwort, Mordian Nightsider, soldier in the army of the most blessed Imperium resolved that he wouldn't at the very least die in the dirt and with what seemed to him super human effort hoisted himself to his feet, rifle held like a club in hands made numb by mindless animal fear. This was the night he would die, he tried to recall once more the cave he was born in, the land of his people in the endless star speckled night. A mordian's last thoughts should be those of home.
 
A flutter in the leaves above them and the giants stopped their tortuously slow advance. Splintering wood for a moment followed by a large thud and a spray of displaced snow as something in a much cleaner red landed in the trees barely a score of feet away. Tall as a Catachan and built large, a robe of heavy crimson hung from those broad shoulders fastened and trimmed with bleached bones and peppered with frost and the red Fallen astartes finally reached for their own weapons.
 
The nearest swung his chain-axe with a strength of a wrecking ball and the speed of the gale only to find his arm stopped as if he had struck a mountain, the man if man he was in the frosted robes wrenched that arm upwards and flipped the creature into one of it's damned and forsaken packmates before twisting the arm past the point of endurance to the snapping of adamantium armour and inhumanly strong bones. The other two had charged, roaring in rage as their chain axes screamed in a promise of bloody retribution. A promise that went fulfilled as the broad shouldered figure spun and ducked and twisted around their clumsy flailing before landing a punch that collapsed one of their helmets and the skull inside it. The broken armed Fallen and it's associate attempted to get to their feet  but weren't quick enough as the broken armed one was silenced by a thunderous boot impacting it's neck, directed movements becoming the graceless flails of a man dying of a crushed windpipe and lungs filing with blood.
 
Two remained now, circling the Mordian's saviour, waiting for the moment to strike. The man spun to keep them both in his vision as much as possible, shoulders squared, fists bunched the dynamic of the situation seeming to dawn on both of the Fallen at the same time that this wasn't the circling of sharks around a stranded swimmer, this was a wolf indecisive of which sheep to pick first. The figure was smiling beneath that grey beard, grey eyes like hard flint gleamed beneath those grey hairs, eyes of a judge without mercy, displeased and declaring and damning. The one with the laser scorch marks was the laser scorch marks was the first to fall, his head torn unceremoniously from his body, the second tackled to the ground and rib-cage crushed under repeated hammer blows as inhumanly dark blood seeped into the spoiled snow.
 
The whole engagement had in truth been over in moments, the Mordians huddled together as the figure stood upright once more, flint hard eyes fixing on them like those of an apex predator. The Fallen had been terrible beyond words but here was something worse. Those eyes reached into their souls like the inferno glare of a god, seeing their sins and knowing them completely. There was no hiding from him, he knew their names, he knew everything about them and they couldn't look away. The figure took a role of parchment or animal skin from his robe and marked it in the blood of the slain several times. Rooted by all encompassing terror Dalwort and his comrades trembled as he moved towards them with long, sure strides. Dalwort couldn't see, his one good eye was full of tears "please" he silently mouthed through quivering lips "please" the figure now seeming impossibly huge was standing right before him now and reached forward once more and Dalwort finally managed to close his eye and screwed them tight as he prepared for death.
 
There was a slight heaviness upon his shoulders. After what seemed an eternity he opened his eye to see the grey haired and blood drenched figure gone, leaving only the dead as testament to him ever having been there. The dead and a forge-world fresh Cameleoline cloak over his flack jacket. Looking around his comrades were similarly gifted and as confused and terrified as he imagined he looked, and above them the sound of laughter booming as thunder and as terrible as an avalanche "HO, HO, HO".

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== Unnamed Alternate Timeline Story ==

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“It is an esoteric art, young seer, one that is not often explored by practitioners of our Path. And admittedly, in times like these it is more practical to gaze into the future to find the sword stroke that will cut down the foe. But still, there is a great value in what we do, for the road not taken has much to teach us.

“Now, expand your mind as you have done before. Feel the infinite strands of time and causality spiraling forth from this point. Good. Now, instead of reaching forward, reach back. It will feel strange, but try to find a point in the past, and focus. It may be faint, but give it time… Ah, I see you feel it. Different, aren’t they? Those are the ashen echoes of what could have been. Pick one, and follow it for a while. Immerse yourself in it. Let yourself fall into the mists of what never was and never will be. Part the veil and look inside this world of lost possibility. What do you see?”

---

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The throne room was bathed in warm light from the setting sun that filtered through the stained glass windows, long shadows thrown carelessly against ornate walls. It was modestly sized but handsomely furnished, fitting for the humble, diligent Planetary Governor who ruled there, but today it had a different occupant.

The Grand Vizier stood at his usual spot behind the borrowed throne, arms crossed behind his back, as he watched the last of the courtiers and petitioners trickle from the hall. The Emperor raised his hand in a benevolent wave as his subjects left, some of them still with looks of slack-jawed awe or religious rapture on their faces as they turned to look one last time upon their immortal ruler. A pair of golden-armored Custodes closed the great doors with a final clang, and the room was empty. The Emperor let out a long sigh and rose, making his way towards the private exit behind the throne. The Grand Vizier fell in beside him, matching his stride without a word. The Emperor would speak when he wanted.

The pair proceeded through the door to the hallway that led to the residential wing of the palace that the governor had lent to them, and after a moment of companionable silence, the Emperor spoke. “Any news since our briefing this morning?”

“Nothing requiring your attention, Your Majesty.”

The Emperor raised an amused eyebrow. “Your Majesty? Using titles today, are we?”

“You saw how these provincial types were falling over themselves to call you by the most elaborate titles possible. They love the pomp and glamor, so we may as well humor them while we’re here.”

“Very well then, my Grand Vizier. What did you think of Lord Farwell and his proposal?”

“An earnest man, and his plans for increasing agricultural production here were sound, though perhaps accepting them would anger the Melisians.”

“Let them be angry then. They may fume and fuss, but they will not cross the throne in such times. We cannot have the entire hive world of Kado so dependent on Melis for supplies, and an expansion here would do much to bolster the stability of the agricultural base in the subsector.”

The Vizier smiled wryly. “They may not see it that way, but I agree: their objections will not have much force given their economic ties and the fact they have more tractors than lasguns.”

They continued down the hall and out into a small courtyard, where two serving girls were idly gossiping, leaning against a column. They turned at the sound of footsteps and froze wide-eyed as the Emperor and the Vizier approached. They managed to dip down into shaky curtsies and squeak out a stammered greeting.

The Emperor smiled gently at them, the expression radiant on his sculpted features. The serving girls flushed an alarming shade of red, and one of them seemed to be hyperventilating. The Vizier rolled his eyes.

“If you would be so kind, inform the good butler that we will be having our dinner in the garden pavilion today,” said the Emperor. The serving girls nodded frantically but did not move. “You may go now,” the Emperor prompted gently. The pair blinked, the spell broken, and fled in the direction of the kitchens. The Vizier shook his head, and the Emperor shrugged helplessly.

As they made they way towards the garden, the Emperor turned again to the Vizier. “What of Biel-Tan? The last report indicated the Court of the Young King was in a frenzy. Will a visit be necessary?”

“No, Your Majesty. I only just received word. It seems the good Ambassador Cain has managed to slow the situation somewhat, and given the pause it looks like the cooler heads of the Court will prevail. We will continue to monitor the situation, but it seems unlikely we will have a rampaging Bahzhakhain waking sleeping Tomb Worlds.”

“Whatever we’re paying that man, it’s not enough.”

“A true hero of the Imperium.”

They pushed open an elaborate wrought iron gate, and then they were in the garden. The Governor’s wife was something of a gardener, and in the carefully cultivated beds and trellises were plants and flowers from a hundred different worlds. Flowering shrubs, elegantly pruned trees, crawling vines, and overhead four-winged dragonets and Elysian swallows flitted about the branches.

The Emperor stood a moment, looking across the garden. “The First Lady has an eye for landscaping. A marvelous garden, is it not?”

“That it is, Your Majesty.”

“Please, no more titles when we are alone here. I’ve had my fill of that today.” 

With that the Emperor stretched, reaching towards the sky, and in a burst of white unfolded his wings. Huge they were, pure as driven snow, and even now having seen them for ten thousand years, they were a beautiful sight to the Vizier. “As you say, Sanguinius.”

Sanguinius patted him on the shoulder. “Come, Oscar. Dinner awaits us.”

They walked down the path to the pavilion at the center of the garden and passed by the pride of the First Lady: a small collection of plants saved from the destruction of Old Earth, crowned by a single rosebush. They seated themselves at the table in the pavilion, and soon the butler and a host of servants came down the path, pushing carts loaded with food and drink.

The golden man and Man of Gold reviewed dataslates and holopads as they ate, never taking their eyes from the information at hand even as they worked on the food, reviewing reports, approving orders and laws, ceaselessly manning the wheels of government that endlessly churned to keep the vast machine of the Imperium in motion. Finally, the last course was cleared away, and Sanguinius set down his holopad and took a sip of tea. Oscar paused, stylus hovering over his holopad.

Sanguinius sighed. “Just ten minutes. Let me at least enjoy the sunset.”

Oscar nodded, and looked of towards the horizon together. 

“Should we spar again, later tonight?” asked Oscar.

Sanguinius groaned. “You’ll be the death of me. Tapping into the Warp always makes me queasy, and I’ve already been locked in the throne room all day listening to complaints about the price of grox.” 

Oscar chuckled. “I could use the night off as well. Your control of lightning yesterday nearly bested me. Your powers may very well match my own soon.”

“Hopefully not for a while yet, I’d rather you be the one to freeze battlefleets with your mind. But I did notice the same thing, likely due to the increase in Imperial Cult activity that the Synod reported.”

At that, Oscar opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. Sanguinius looked at him. “You have a question.”

He hesitated. “About the Imperial Cult… I’m not quite sure how to put it.”

The angel smiled. “A topic of conversation we haven’t breached after ten thousand years of friendship? Now I have to hear it, if only for a break in the monotony.”

Oscar looked his friend in the eyes. “Why do you let them worship you?” 

He saw a glimmer of surprise. Sanguinius looked up, brow furrowed ever so slightly. When he looked back down at Oscar, his smile had become sad. “Because that is what they need of their Emperor. Of me.”

“It is a falsehood. They call you a god when you are only a man.”

“I know, Oscar. I more than anyone know of my own frailties and failings. But that is not what need. The common man is not like you, the truth is not so sacrosanct a thing to them. They need a hero, a savior, one they can emulate, one so perfect and invincible that they can believe in him with all their heart so they can go on for just one more day in this galaxy of pain. They need a god.” Sanguinius looked off towards the sunset. His eyes were distant.

“When you placed that crown on my head, Sanguinius the man died. In his place you created the Emperor, embodiment of the Imperium, vessel for the hopes and dreams of quadrillions of souls, the immortal Angel that would save them all. Never have I forced them down this path, Oscar. They pray and worship and hope, and I in turn take their pain and expectations and longing upon myself. All for the sake of the lie that anchors them, that keeps the Imperium turning: The Emperor Protects. Even when I have failed so many of them, they still believe: The Emperor Protects.”

Oscar was silent for a moment. “Do you resent me?”

“Never, Oscar. Someone has to be that beacon for them, and better it is me than anyone else.”

“You do not bear this burden alone, Sanguinius.”

“I know. I have you, and Lady Isha, and many others, and truly without all your help I never would have made it to today.”

“Yes, I do recall a certain large Ork I helped you with,” said Oscar drily.

“But I have thought about it.” Sanguinius twisted a long strand of his golden hair with a finger. “For all our power, the fate of the Imperium will not lie in our hands.”

“Oh?”

“A great many people – you included, I think – believe that it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that hold the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness, love, and courage. And if the Church gives them that strength, is it not worthy? If the guardsmen in his trench fights a little harder for his fellows, if the clerk at his desk pushes through and finishes one more report, if the tired mother finds the strength to hold and read to her children, then all of this will have been worth it, and that is where we will find our salvation. Not in me, or you, but in the strength of the people and in each individual citizen, whether it be man, Eldar, Tau, Demiurge, or others.”

“So you say.” Oscar poured an amber liquor into two glasses, a favorite of the locals, the bottle glugging softly. He slid one to Sanguinius.

“You’re unconvinced.” Sanguinius laughed. “This conversation got quite heavy, didn’t it? I’m no good at this ‘god’ business, it seems. Ask your wife about it, she’s had millennia more experience than I.” They both sipped at their cups. “How is she these days?”

“Overworked, just like us. Splitting her attention between the Warp and realspace is tiring, and the needs of the faithful are many in times like these. She is well enough, though.”

“Once again, my heartfelt thanks to the Mother Goddess of the Imperium, especially for her help with the plague at Monarchia. Even the Word Bearers were at a loss, and without her direct intervention we likely would have lost the planet to Nurgle.”

Oscar smiled faintly, a hint of pride on his lips. “I will convey this, she will be pleased to hear it.”

“A shame she could not have joined us for this trip. She would like it here.”

“That she would. But enough about us.” Oscar peered at Sanguinius closely. “What about you?”

The angel sighed. “Not this conversation again.”

“You know I’m right.”

“Let me recount your arguments: An Empress would be of great symbolic and functional importance to the Imperium. A woman of talent would be able to take on duties of government we currently administer, relieving our workload and allowing the Traveling Court to spread its reach. She could also increase our influence by presenting a different face from us, two towering demigods, and represent the Imperium separately on her own missions. It would also help Imperial morale, giving the citizens a great event and moment of joy to celebrate. And finally, as consort, she would be to… address my needs, both emotional and otherwise. Does that all sound about right?”

“Masterfully argued, Your Majesty, I am utterly convinced.”

Sanguinius shook his head, unable to contain a smile. “You would be, but I am not so easily swayed.” He gave the liquor in his glass a swirl. “They say a man is lucky if he can find true love once. I already have, so to find it twice is to ask too much of this universe. I’ve already had my happy ending.”

“It was worth a try.” They sat a moment in silence, appreciating the sunset. “Do you still think of her?”

“Every day,” said Sanguinius, his eyes distant again. “When I lost her and Belisarius in the same month, I thought the light had gone out of my life, and so it has, to a degree. That part of me is done.” He finished his drink with a gulp. “I said the day you placed the crown on my head was the day Sanguinius died, and the Emperor was born. That was a lie, of sorts. The day Sanguinius truly died is the day I lost them. Now, our dream is all that is left to me.”

“You have heard reports from the Blood Angels, I am sure, of the Lady in Red?” said Oscar quietly.

“Of course.”

“If it truly is Lady Cyrene, why has she not shown herself to you in your visions?”

“If we assume it is truly her, then she has her reasons. Cyrene was always independent and willful in her own way, and I loved that about her. I trust that what she doing is right. And if fate deems that we will not meet again in this world, we will meet again in the next.”

Oscar followed suit and finished his own drink. The sun was only a slight arc above the horizon now, midnight blue descending and jealously pushing out the last few hues of pastel pink and yellow. “We should be going soon,” said Oscar. “There is still work to be done.”

Sanguinius nodded. “I will meet you in the study soon. I just need to be out here for a little while longer.”

Oscar rose from the table and headed down the path to the palace. Before he turned the corner, he looked back at the pavilion. Sanguinius was silhouetted against the setting sun, wreathed in a corona of light, and for a moment, he was a duality: he looked utterly magnificent, every inch the Emperor and god the people claimed him to be, and utterly alone, an all-too-human man crushed by the weight of his crown.

Oscar felt a stab of pity, and regret for what he had done. He turned and left, grateful to his friend that it was not him.

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== The End, But One Of Many ==

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Millions of years in the future…
 
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Scribe-thane Escribdeus dug. He scraped at the earth with his hands, pulling away paw after pawful of sand. In spite of this seemingly primitive behavior, most observers would note that he had come a long way from his ancestors millions of years ago, which had been little more than rats.
 
He wore robes for one. He wasn’t an animal.
 
Slowly but surely, he scooped away at the stone tablet emerging from the ground ignoring the sensation of sand grains in his fur. Once it was sufficiently clean, he brought out his equipment and began analyzing the stone. Luminescence dating, to tell when the stone was last exposed to sun or heat. After a few minutes, the machine spat out its answer with a beep.
 
The numbers couldn’t be right.
 
He ran the analysis again. The answer was the same. He scooped several more handfuls of sand away from the artifact to make sure it wasn’t what he thought it was, it couldn’t be what he thought it was, but it was. The scribe-thane brushed at the emerging stone plaque, careful not to damage anything, until he saw the alien glyph of the Ancients clearly denoted upon their surface. He felt a swell of joy in his heart.
 
Scholar-Seer was going to be so pleased when she saw this.
 
Elsewhere, Mistress Scholar-Seer Senic was indeed pleased, but for reasons that were much more carnal than her thane would have thought. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. For a species that put an emphasis on tactile stimulation and social behavior it was only natural that they would put a high premium on grooming and reproduction. Add to the fact that solid-colored fur, whether her own grey or black, brown, or white, was considered an attractive characteristic by her species and it was unsurprising that she received so many offers of mating.
 
“Mistress!” Escribdeus said, throwing open the flap of the tent and completely ruining the mood, “glorious news-news!”
 
Scholar-Seer Senic let out a shriek, startled by her piebald-colored assistant. It wasn’t out of modesty, no one in the room had anything that the others hadn’t seen before, but nobody liked to be started in the middle of an intimate moment. Picking herself up off the ground, the Scholar-Seer gave the oblivious scribe-thane a death glare.
 
“Mistress,” he said, “we found one. “Two-hundred years more young-young than youngest known Ancient relic based on multiple methods of dating.”
 
Senic was shocked. She had expected they would find something here but nothing this young. This was certainly something worth interrupting mating for.
 
“You’ve done well thane,” she said, “have extra rations-treat as reward for good-good work.”
 
The scribe-thane squealed so loud the Scholar-Seer thought he was going to pass out before excitedly scurrying out of the tent. He was such an excitable sort. She wondered if she had been that way when she had come of age at five years old. She supposed she had better return to work too. Dismissing the lower-ranking male with a chitter, she donned her robes and the horned headdress that marked her as a figure of authority. She enjoyed mating as much as the next member of her species, but her true passion was in studying archaeology. The lives and ways of ancient peoples.
 
Opening the flap of the burlap tent, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the harsh light before walking through the work camp. All around her, thanes were busy at work, two arguing over cataloguing a plastic idol, another taking a break and chewing on a gnawing aid. Such was typical for her kind. When a newborn in any clan reached juvenile age, they were apprenticed under the aegis of a Master or Mistress in order to learn skills and discipline, and eventually be deemed an adult. It was their way. With their reproductive habits, large numbers of thanes were not unexpected, though in this case these were not all her own apprentices. At least with modern medicine it was better than in the medieval era, where famine was common.
 
Walking up the sandy hill to the dig site, she noticed one of the large rat-wolves trotting alongside her. Emitting a brief chirrup, the rat-wolf came close enough to her to give the domesticated rodent a piece of jerky. The rat-wolves were good guardians. Useful to have around. As she reached the digsite itself, the rat-wolf realized that it was not going to get any more jerky out of her, and turned back to go lounge around with the other rat-wolves under the tents.
 
When she reached the digsite, she saw it was still much as she had left it, neat lines of string demarcated squares over the Ancient ruins. However, at the far end of the site, she noticed the new Ancient plaque uncovered by the new excavation efforts. The Scholar-Seer’s pulse quickened. As swiftly as possible, her hind feet tread over the sand, until she reached the stone edifice itself. Crawling down into the hole, she put her hand upon the glyphs, letting her fingers brush over the alien carvings. Then she stopped. Although she could not get a good look at him, she could see the scribe-thane standing behind her out of the corner of her eye.
 
“You know what they say-say?” she asked, not turning around.
 
The scribe-thane shook his head. He had learned to make out some of the lettering on the Ancients’ monuments, but he had never really learned to read their writing.
 
“Can tell you. You want to know?”
 
The scribe-thane nodded excitedly. The idea of learning the craft directly from the mistress was something that anyone would file their incisors for. The Scholar-Seer turned from the plaque to look the thane in the eye.
 
“Assume you know basics of story. When world young-young, galaxy was in primordial chaos. From chaos, gods emerge. Our gods, the Ancients, and their enemies, Cancerous Ones. Emprah, the gold-god, decide that galaxy in chaos unacceptable. Rescue-steal Great Mother from the tallest tower of Cancerous Poxed One, who claim-kidnap her as his own at dawn of time. Mother-goddess decide to join gold-god in his quest. They create thirteen children, twelve sons and one daughter, to aid them in their quest. Lionman Russ, the savage knight. Fuegan Manus, the smith. Sanguinala, the banshee daughter. This why thirteen so important to us.”
 
The scribe-thane nodded again. He knew the story, everyone learned it as a child.
 
“Great Mother and Father and their children fight war against cancerous ones. They seal away Cancerous Ones in the netherworld. Some guess-think that this myth explanation of why life and death happen. But no one can deny that Ancients exist. Great Mother go on to have many children. Many species-things. Populate galaxy with new life. For many-many years life bountiful. But then gods vanish. So do children. Leave only us, youngest child of gods. No one knows why.”
 
Scholar-Seer Senic turned back to the tablet.
 
“This tablet-stone important because it younger than any other, and so reveal-tells more of gods’ story”
 
“What happened?”
 
The Scholar-Seer put her hand on the tablet for a moment. Then her face fell.
 
“Things change. Final war-battle began. Center could not hold. Slaves of Cancerous Ones broke free from the Netherworld, intent on dragging mother-goddess back with them. Dead-things from before age of gods returned and took revenge to reclaim lost thrones. Great devourer come from east, eat fourth of galaxy. Much death-death. Home of gods under battle-siege. Many desperate things done. Moon of unnatural-things, prison of those not meant to be, opened. Oblivion-god set free to make war-death on those who trod upon his kingdom. All children-species called for final war. Cancer-gods try to kill last hope in cradle.”
 
The Scholar-Seer studied the tablet.
 
“And then what?” the scribe-thane asked.
 
“I…do not know. Story-tablet stops there. Had to guess, think it fear-warning for future. Tell not-born generations what happened. Not sure why.”
 
The two shared a moment of silence for their sobering discovery, only for the chitter-bead tagged in the Scholar-Seer’s ear to go off.
 
“Mistress. News-news from star-watchers. Most important. They see-see ship in atmosphere. It look…look like crescent moon.”
 
 
 
 
GOOD END
 
Lofn Ulthran stood at the bridge of the Lady Betsy, looking out at the surface of the planet over which the ship orbited. She wasn’t happy. Few people would be if they were woken up at three in the morning several days ago and told she was urgently needed, and I quote, “right the fuck now”. And then were unable to get a good night-cycle’s sleep for the next few days. Going somewhere “right the fuck now” took on a very different meaning when you knew someone with access to a Necron inertialess drive ship. 220 years of being a diplomat and you would think she get a little bit more respect.
 
That said, the decidedly less sleep-deprived part of her brain could understand the need for urgency. Odysseus had finally shown up again. During all the craziness that went down during the Second War in Heaven the planet, which previously orbited the near-Sol star of Epsilon Eridani, had been shot deep into the Warp like a pinball. It had gone so deep that at least among the Administratum there was a betting pool of if and when the previously habitable planet would ever show up again. And then it happened to show up in the Skavos cluster, a region which until recently had been covered by a Warp Storm for as long as she could remember. Lofn shuddered. Odysseus had been so deep in the Warp there was no telling how long it had been there. Subjective millions of years could have passed for the people on that planet in the 220 years the planet disappeared from realspace. She couldn’t imagine what they could have gone through. It was no wonder the Imperium had asked her to represent them. Who else would you call to make first contact with people who hadn’t seen the Imperium in centuries, if they even remembered at all.
 
The door opened with a hiss, breaking Lofn from her rumination, and an eight-foot-tall metal skeleton stomped into the room behind her. Lofn smiled.
 
“Obyron,” she said to her old childhood companion, “I assume everything is okay on the ship?”
 
Obyron relaxed slightly. “Nothing much. A Watcher and an eldar got in an argument on the lower decks. Had to step in and separate them.”
 
Lofn smiled. There were few things in the galaxy that shut petty squabbles down quicker than a Necron leaning over them with a death glare.
 
“Any other messages I should be aware of before we make contact?”
 
“No. Well, one message from Ynnead, asking to make sure if you are okay, but that’s to be expected.”
 
Lofn rolled her eyes. “Ynnead worries too much. If I were ever in trouble, he more than anyone else would be the first to know.”
 
“He just does it because he cares.”
 
There was a pause in the conversation.
 
“I only wish the Nemesor could have been here to see this,” Obyron muttered.
 
Lofn frowned. She barely remembered the jovial old Necron from her childhood but he had always seemed like the nice sort. Although Obyron may have technically been the captain of the Lady Betsy, Lofn would never refer to Obyron as such. She knew he would take offense to it. To Obyron, the Lady Betsy only ever had one captain.
 
“I wish he could have been here too. He would have probably loved it. But I don’t think he had any regrets about how things turned out.”
 
“I should have been there, it was my duty.”
 
“You had two conflicting sets of duties.” Lofn responded, “It was either obey your lord and potentially let him die or disobey him and potentially let me die. How many times have we been over this, Obyron? You can’t keep beating yourself up over this.”
 
Obyron grunted. Lofn knew that was for her sake. She knew this argument wasn’t over, but Obyron was willing to let things lie for the time being in the name of getting the job done.
 
“Well,” she said, “let’s go meet the neighbors.”

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== The Visitor ==

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Note: In the same timeline as the Good End of "The End, But One of Many"

Lofn Ulthran put away the last of loose things before surveying her now-tidy apartment on Colchis. Normally she didn’t put much effort into keeping her apartment neat, but today she was expecting a visitor. Apparently Lofn had gotten the job done just in time, for no sooner had she finished the job than she heard the doorbell ring. Humming to herself, she made her way to the apartment door and opened it to reveal a tall, slender figure standing just beyond. His skin was pale and his face angular and gaunt, a white shock of hair upon his head. His eyes were an ethereal blue, and in his left hand was a large, silver polearm that one might say resembled a halberd or some odd combination of sword and spear or, for those familiar with more exotic weaponry, a Necron warscythe.
 
“I see I could not stop for death, so he kindly stopped for me,” Lofn said, sounding oh-so-pleased with herself.
 
“Ha ha, like I’ve never heard that one before,” the figure drolled.
 
“Nice to see you too, Ynnead,” Lofn said to her guest, “and I suppose from that remark death’s too good for a case of fine Valhallan dark?”
 
“Valhallan? Damn, death will bite his tongue for that.”
 
Lofn paused for a moment.
 
“So is it, you know, okay for you to stop by like this? Like, people aren’t going to stop passing on just because you decided to stop for a beer or something?” She said, looking around as though she expected death to be put on pause any second.
 
“Nah. According to mom the process happens regardless of whether I’m incarnated on the material plane because technically I’m doing it simultaneously in the Warp. It’s like how people don’t stop getting pregnant just because mom’s around. I’d ask mom how that could be, but she’d tell me to ask dad, and he’s tell me…”
 
“Fourth-degree interdimensional warp fuckery,” the two said at the same time.
 
Lofn snorted.
 
“Come on in,” she said, turning back to the apartment and heading inside, “I’ll get the drinks.”
 
“You got a place for this thing?” Ynnead said, gesturing slightly to his giant Necron-style halberd for emphasis.
 
“Yeah, put it in the umbrella rack,” Lofn called from the kitchen, “Nothing’s in there anyway, don’t know why I have it, it never rains here.”
 
Depositing his weapon with a loud clang, Ynnead followed Lofn into the apartment. It was a nice apartment, not very large, but rather homey. Ynnead could see not much had changed since his last visit here. Lofn’s paintings still covered most of the walls. He turned to regard the one nearest to him, an eerie watercolor piece depicting a single figure holding open a black, sketchy doorway. He had a pretty good idea what that was supposed to be of. Lofn’s apartment had a single couch, facing the windows overlooking the city. Sitting on the couch sleeping in the sun was Lofn’s chitinous pet. A single look from Ynnead was all that it took to send the creature scurrying.
 
Ynnead and Lofn had known each other since they were children. Ynnead, due to his nature as the child of the Emperor and the Empress, had always been a fixture in the Imperial Court, whereas Lofn had been brought to Old Earth at a young age due to her political importance and at that time the danger in her life. Due to being the only half-human, half-eldar (though exactly what Ynnead was was a subject of debate), and more importantly, the only children at most court functions, the two struck up a friendship. It felt good to have someone else around who could finally empathize with how they saw the world, neither in terms of the obsessive, long-term view of the eldar or the wilder, short-term views of most humans, especially as the two of them sometimes felt like conversation pieces as opposed to people. A couple hundred years later, and their friendship was still going strong.
 
“Is the old man around?” Ynnead called.
 
“He’s around,” Lofn called from the kitchen, “Obyron knew you were going to be stopping by and stepped out for a bit. I think he’s going to go visit the Nemesor’s memorial.”
 
“Ouch,” Ynnead winced.
 
“Yeah, he really hasn’t been dealing with it well,” Lofn said, bringing over the case of Valhallan beer and handing one to Ynnead, “I’ve been meaning to try and talk with him about it but I worry that, you know, he’ll see me as part of the problem, given everything that happened. I know he really misses the Nemesor, but I also know Zahndrekh wouldn’t have wanted him to mope for eternity like this.”
 
Lofn flopped down on the couch, her arm across the back.
 
“Nothing’s really new with me,” she said, “No real crisis has popped up in the last few months. As I told you before, being a diplomat is mostly dependent on people being stupid and if people aren’t stupid then there’s little for me to do. Mostly I’ve just been doing humdrum stuff, some minor stuff for the Administratum, seeing a few friends, and painting.”
 
“So how’s the reincarnation gig?” Lofn said, popping open a bottle, “More eldar-human hybrids being born?”
 
“More are being born every year, but not many and not very often. You’re still the eldest by far.”
 
“Gah,” Lofn said, throwing up her hand, “Don’t say that. It makes me feel like an old lady.”
 
“You’re the eldest. The eeeeldest.”
 
“We’re the eldest. You’re the same age as me, dumbass.”
 
“I was born four years, seven months, and thirteen days after you, Sol standard time,” Ynnead said smugly, seemingly channeling his father for a moment.
 
“Come off it. Four years is chump change in the grand scheme of things.”
 
“Well, you know what mom says. 65 million is the new 40 million.”
 
“I guess. The eldest, huh? Isn’t that what that one guy used to call himself? The bird man?”
 
“Tzeentch? Yeah, I guess you’re right, he did.”
 
“Is he even still around?”
 
“I don’t know,” Ynnead said, “I didn’t pay much attention to what happened to him. I had bigger concerns at the time. It was a War in Heaven thing. You know I like talking about the War in Heaven just as much as you do. I mean, how would you like it if I asked you about the whole thing with Hive Fleet Enkidu?”
 
“Okay, point taken,” Lofn relented.
 
The two of them both took a deep swig.
 
“So is the scythe holding up okay? You seemed kind of worried about it last time.”
 
“Oh, I think it’s going fine now. It’s kind of like working with a suit of exarch armor and not getting overwhelmed, except instead of a bunch of little minds it’s you know.”
 
Ynnead dry gulped and his voice suddenly sounded very sober.
 
“One big one.”
 
“Are you sure it’s safe for you to be lugging that then around then?” Lofn said, suddenly worried about the contents of her umbrella holder.
 
“It’s actually safer with me than if I were to not have it. The C’tan exist as physical constants, and cannot be destroyed without seriously affecting the underlying nature of causality. As long as a single weakened piece of them exists in the universe, they can theoretically be contained without the entity running free. The consciousness remains trapped in the scythe and can never manifest in a free state. The alternative would be to bury it in a hole somewhere and hope it never gets out. And that’s never worked.”
 
“That sounds like something the Void Dragon would say. You’re still talking to the Void Dragon despite your parents telling you not to, aren’t you?”
 
“I am not and will vigorously deny it if you say anything.”
 
“You’re totally still talking to the Void Dragon,” Lofn said with a mischievous smile.
 
“Yes! I mean, he knows things. Things about how the universe works, what it means to be a god. Things my parents won’t tell me and I wish they’d tell me.”
 
“I don’t see what the big deal is? Cegorach said he’s safe, didn’t he?”
 
“Cegorach says the Iron Storm is safe,” Ynnead responded. “It’s not the kind of vote that inspires confidence. Anyway I figure, Nightbringer is a sociopath, right? So if you hear any voices telling you to do what you think he would do in that situation just do the exact opposite. Plus the way it works is most of what it kills gets funneled through me to be spit back out, so it’s not like its feeding and growing stronger.”
 
“And so you’re not worried about it being fed up with being stuck as a deathstick, deciding to take over your mind and using you like a puppet?”
 
“Hey, it got to take bites out of two different gods. It should be happy,” Ynnead said defensively, crossing his arms.
 
Lofn smiled.
 
Ynnead took a drink, “Are you worried at all that us hanging out a lot is going to get people…talking?”
 
“Only in that gods-awful unsanctioned material, which they still can’t find out who’s producing them. Grruh, so annoying. Can’t you, you know, appear in front of them and put the fear of death into them?”
 
“That would be a horrible abuse of my powers.”
 
“You summoned ghosts to scare me at my twenty-fifth birthday party.”
 
“That was Eldrad under a bedsheet, you do know that, right?”
 
“So you do admit ghosts were involved,” Lofn said with tones of false accusation.
 
“As I was saying,” Ynnead said, getting back to the subject at hand, “There is nothing I would love to do more, but doing so would be a grievous use of my phenomenal cosmic powers. And also because I’m fairly sure my mom would ground me for about three thousand years if she found out.”
 
“Ground you? You’re several centuries old. Sounds to me like you are too afraid of your mother.”
 
“I am not too afraid of my mother. I am exactly as afraid of my mother as I need to be. I once saw her chew out the entire ruling house of Kaelor. Kaelor. What do you think your mom would do to you if you pulled something like that?”
 
“She’d send me back to Cadian boot camp and suddenly I see where you are going with this.”
 
“My point. Has been made.”
 
“I would probably die if I had to go back to Cadian boot camp,” Lofn said, repressing the shivers.
 
“If you ever die, I will play you at any game of your choosing for the chance to come back to life. Except Battleaxe. You cheat.”
 
“What can I say?” Lofn shrugged in pride, “I’m an Ulthran.”
 
“Technically so am I,” Ynnead pointed out, “Mom was what, some distant cousin or something of Eldrad’s way back before the Fall.”
 
“Wait, if Isha was Eldrad’s distant cousin, does that mean we’re related?”
 
Both Lofn and Ynnead got a look on their face as if both had stepped on a particularly foul smelling piece of grox dung.
 
“I really don’t like where this train of thought is going,” Ynnead said.
 
“Ditto.”
 
“Speaking of Eldrad how is the old bastard?," Lofn said, changing the subject, "I saw him the other day and he got all weepy, he wouldn’t explain to me why.”
 
“He! Will! Not! Leave!” Ynnead said, suddenly animated, gesticulating with his hands. “I have tried to be generous with him, given the circumstances, but he refuses to leave that wraithbone prosthetic of his. I try to point out that reincarnation is a thing and he can be young again if he wants, but he won’t do it. I try to point out that the thing he’s in is an old relic outdated by modern standards and the least he could do is upgrade to something less shitty, but he won’t because he’s afraid I’m going to snatch his soul up when he tries to transfer. At which point he usually makes some remark about knowing me since I was in diapers. At this point he’s so stubborn he might as well become a universal fixture.”
 
Lofn broke out laughing.
 
“What!” Ynnead said, “what’s so funny?”
 
“Can you imagine,” Lofn said between laughs, “Grandpa Eldrad. The universal constant? I can just see him sitting around, waiting for a pair of young races to go to war on whatever planet he’s on, and then he’d rise from the ground like a fucking Necron and go ‘I have awoken from my eons long slumber, to tell you kids to get off my lawn.’”
 
Despite his frustration, Ynnead couldn't help but snicker at that. Before long the two of them were laughing.
 
“Hundreds of years and he still won’t leave that wraithbone shell," Lofn sighed. "Gods, are we going to drive our kids crazy with our antics when we reach that age?”
 
“Yes!” Ynnead said rather too quickly, “I mean yes, I can see that. Driving our children crazy. The ones we have. With other people.”
 
Lofn looked at Ynnead for a second, then flopped back on the couch.
 
“Yeah, I can see that,” she said.

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== Mon'Tau ==

Editor's Note: Deemed non-canon for being a too on-the-nose reference, though similar events are likely to have happened, namely Kais learning to control his anger and learning that Imperials aren't as wise and all knowing as they make themselves out to be to the Tau Empire.

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He rushed through the door, the elevatus doors clicking shut behind him. [[Nobledark_Imperium_Notes#Shas.27O_Kais|Kais]] fell to his knees and breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the splat of Blue Horrors against the door behind him. It was only when he had a moment to catch his breath that Kais realized he was separated from his team. Alone. Again.

Kais wasn’t superstitious, but the number of times this happened was almost enough to make him believe this “[[Nobledark_Imperium_Writing#The_Month_of_Murphy|Murphy]]” the others in the Gue’vash’vre’s retinue kept talking about really existed.

The Gue’vash’vre, the Inquisitor, had been investigating a trading company looking to exploit suspicious goods that had been obtained from a Rogue Trader. The goods, sure enough, had been artifacts tainted by the Warp, and when the Gue’vash’vre had tried to intervene things had of course Gone Horribly Wrong and the artifacts had summoned daemons.

Daemons. It always had to be daemons. Or cultists. Or genestealers. Why couldn’t the Gue’vash’vre ever uncover a conspiracy that was devoted to breeding fluffy gyrinxes or something.

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The vox speaker in the elevatus suddenly crackled to life. Kais perked up. He didn’t know the vox systems were still working down here. If anything it would have to be one of the traders, who he had seen run deeper into the facility when the daemons attacked.

“I’m willing to take responsibility for the horrible events of the last twenty-four hours,” the raspy voice claimed, “but you must understand, our interest in the Warp was purely for the greater good…”

Greater good? What did this gue’la take him for, a Shas’Saal? Did he think that just by saying the name of the Tau’va it would miraculously make everything that had happened justified?

He couldn’t stand these kind of people. The ones who thought hyperspace and the things inside it were just a toy. He could understand it back home in the Empire, but here? They played with fire, but they weren’t the only ones to suffer the consequences when everyone else got burned.

“Everything has clearly gotten out of hand now…”

Kais stood and took a moment to examine the corpse sharing the elevatus with him. Ever since the events of Dolumnar IV he had become familiar with the sight of death at the hands of the Neverborn. Far too familiar. He only got a glance before he had to look away, but the image was burned into his brain. He wanted to tell himself that the gue’la had died in some other way, but he knew that wasn’t true.

The man had died screaming.

Kais felt a chill run down his spine. There it was again, the same feeling he had felt on Dolumnar IV. He tried to keep it locked up, and on most days he succeeded, but sometimes it couldn’t help but get out, especially when exposed to this…this injustice.

The people he had met across the galaxy called it many things. Righteous fury. The warrior’s madness. Kais knew all they were but flowery names for what it really was.

Anger.

“…but it was worth the risk, I assure you.”

Kais put his fist through the voxcaster.

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