M43

The following article is a /tg/ related story or fanfic. Should you continue, expect to find tl;dr and an occasional amount of awesome.

M43

M43 is one writefaggot's nobledark idea of what the next millennium in the galaxy of Warhammer. This is blatant fan-fiction made only for the enjoyment of others. And also because GW sucks at advancing plot beyond several months of in-setting time just to justify the Tau models that are being released at the time. This is still being written and edited so nothing is concrete.

Introduction

At the turn of the 43rd millennium, the galaxy slammed its fists down and started to push itself back up off the metaphorical ground. The Imperium had been bathed in more war and blood in the past ten centuries than ever before and came out of it a bitter, war forged people.

The Death of The Emperor and the Golden Throne

0 250 028.M42

In the 1st century of the 42nd millennium, the Emperor finally left the materium. The golden throne didn't fail, the emperor simply quit, tired of festering and decaying upon a techno-psychic edifice. The Astronomicon did not die with him. It just blurred. The psychic might of the great world of Terra no longer had its focus. The fragmented bits of the Emperor were free to drift about the tides and streams of the Warp. Were they ever to coalesce, the Emperor's soul would be reborn, much like his initial birth.

Without the Emperor providing the psychic power to hold the wall against the failed human webway, it spilled open releasing a torrent of daemons. Within weeks the Imperial Palace became a war zone. The imperial forces local to Sol all converged upon Terra to keep it from falling to the forces of Chaos. Unfortunately for Chaos, it was at a distinct disadvantage having to fight against nearly every form of the Imperium's finest. Invigorated by the very life of the Imperium at stake should Terra fall the Custodes and Companions held the breach as Imperial Fists transformed the continent sized building into an inescapable killing field. The moon of Titan spewed forth the bane of daemons, the Grey Knights. In the first year of the Emperor's Death, the number of grimoires doubled. Mars had a revival as the Mechanicum began to churn out tech and weapons as fast as it could. Not only material but men were shipped to Terra as yet another facet of the Imperium set itself against The Breach as it was called later. The initial wave of Warp monstrosities was but a precursor of what was truly to come.

The death of the Emperor did not only affect the Sol system. The Astronomicon whilst still active was not as bright and focused. Many worlds far away were suddenly in the dark, only seeing occasional glimpses of the light in the Warp. Given the sudden changes the more passionate parts of the Ecclesiarchy went into overdrive. Refusing that their god could die, they stifled all rumors and hearsay. Stating that the Emperor had died was treated as the ultimate heresy. Entire worlds on the fringes of the Astronomicon were purged when the light went dark and the wailing cries of the populace asked where the God-Emperor went.

Centuries later the Golden Throne would truly fail and the human Webway it was sealing would open its floodgates. This was the true battle, the 2nd Invasion of Terra. It slogged on for over a century. The Battle of the Breach, as it was called, would end a year before the millennium changed over.

The Golden Rift War

0 345 028.M42

Given the huge expanses of time that the Imperium deals with on a daily basis, the amount of time between the Emperor’s death and the eruption of daemons from the unsealed human Webway was considerably abrupt. Klaxons blared and lights strobed as the Golden Throne desperately attempted to keep its charge alive. As it sparked and crackled, new sounds overpowered the throne. A deep hum. Seconds later, purple tinged rifts blazed into existence and divulged their passengers. The area beyond the Eternity Gate went from chaotic to Chaotic. Tech adepts and Mechanicus Magos who were monitoring and fixing the throne now found themselves locked in tentacle-to-mechadendrite combat. Custodes ran into battle, Bolters and Power Swords shooting and swinging. The Golden Rift War had begun.

The Imperial forces reeled at the onslaught of daemons. They were pushed back as the weeks ground on and soon the Eternity Gate was lost. Daemons surged outward and within months a full kilometer surrounding the Sanctum Imperialis was a boiling sea of charnel. The humans had not lost. The war had bogged down into a stalemate.

In late 029M42, a plan was formulated by the Adeptus Custodes, the Imperial Fists and the Adeptus Mechanicus. A massive push was made toward the Eternity Gate. As the beachhead reached the door, a pair of techmarines temporarily sealed it while an ever growing pocket of Astartes held off the counter-attack. Within three months, the surrounding area beyond the Sanctum had been cleansed. All that was left was to retake the Golden Throne.

It wasn’t an immediate rush after the Gate was retaken. The Imperium forces knew that retaking the Golden Throne meant nothing if the failed Webway couldn’t be sealed. It took over six months and several dozen Magos to figure out how to modify the Golden Throne just enough to focus the psychic might of Terra instead of the Emperor. As soon as they had a decent patch, the go ahead was given to fight into the Sanctum.

When those doors were first opened, the stench and mist that rolled out was terrible. Lesser mortals would have died immediately. However Astartes are not mortal and the Sororitas and other Adeptus forces were filled with the ultimate righteous fury. The most holy and sacred place in the entire Imperium had been filled with Chaos taint. And they were fighting to take it back. It was now the daemons turn to reel from such a brutal onslaught. By the end of 030M42, the Sanctum Imperialis had been purged of all Chaos filth. The Golden Rift War was over, but it was only a small taste of what was to come.

The Ophellian Purges

 This section has pants-on-head-retarded-zealous Sisters of Battle
and does not consistently jive with confirmed Sister mannerisms. 

3 749 147.M42

When the Astronomicon started to dim and blur and cries of the Emperor’s death rose, the Ecclesiarchy was quick to stem the heresy. While the relative autonomy of the Adeptus Sororitas allowed the Ecclesiarchy to function around the Imperium, it was the local area of the Segmentum Tempestus that took the brunt of Ophelian law. The first reports of the populace crying out about the death of the Emperor were met with harsh methods. Given no chance, such heresy was met with death of all. The exterminatus orders turned half a dozen worlds into useless death worlds. Some were spared by dint of being in the shadow of the Warp rifts, the Storms of Judgement, such as Calsu, Ghorstangrad, and Loriar. Others were spared the initial harshness.

The Sisters of Battle burned all who cried out that their God-Emperor was dead. The possibility that their patron deity could die was inconceivable. The world of Ulsis Prime was the site of a change in doctrine for the Ecclesiarchy. It was one of the last worlds to be officially sanctioned for purging.

The Prismarine's Objection

4 343 148.M42

Ulsis Prime, a garden world, one of the few. It was also the home of the chapter of the Prismarine. In the year 148M42, a small fleet of the Ecclesiarchy descended after they received requests for aid from the planet. When the Sororitas landed they discovered the reason for the requests. The planet had lost contact when the Astronomicon blurred and intense warp activity had kept it hidden. Having no sight of the light of Terra, the leadership assumed the worst, the Emperor had died. When the Sister heard of this, they flew into a promethium fueled rage.

The entire city of Azure Finatu was vaporized from orbit while the bulk of the Order ate through Saphra Eutic. The once pristine beach world was now wracked by billowing smoke and ash that polluted the oceans and beachside jungles. The purge came to a climax in the government towers of the capital city of Jade Lasting. The Canoness and a quartet of her most trusted Battle Sisters had marched to the seat of the Planetary Governor. Aides and other necessary members of the government were batted aside as the Sororitas plowed through the halls toward the office. One Sister stopped as she heard an aide mumble about the end coming and the Emperor forsaking them. The Sister un-holstered her Flamer and burned his outline into the plasteel wall. They continued on, barely a step missed. The double doors burst open.

The Planetary Governor, Srin Bartiq, looked up, alarmed at the intrusion. “You had better an excellent reason for interrupting-”, he growled as he looked up. “Governor Bartiq, you are being called to answer for the heresy of your world!” the Canoness shouted. “Heresy? Explain yourself!” Srin retorted, standing for effect. “Heresy most atrocious! Your world is claiming that the God-Emperor is dead! You’re lucky that we decided not to exterminatus this world and move on.” the Canoness shouted, “Your answer NOW! Lest you die where-” A rumbling stomping could be heard coming toward the office. A booming voice echoed into the room, “Hold your flaming tongue.”

A massive form shoved the Canoness’ retinue aside as he entered the room. “You, ~sister~, also have something to answer for.” This was the Chapter Master of the Prismarines, Alecksander Nobol. The massive Space Marine waded into the office. “While our esteemed Planetary Governor explains his ‘heresy’ you can explain to me why you are destroying one of the only garden worlds in the Imperium. And, let me be clear, it had better be better than ‘we are hungry’ because at least the Tyranids are honest,” the massive Astartes proclaimed. The two leaders were speechless. The Canoness stuttered, “Y-You-you...I-I don’t have to answer to anything! This man is a heretic! PREPARE TO BE PURGED!”. She leveled her Flamer at the Governor.

A blur of moving metal, the Chapter Master appeared in front of the Canoness. A ceramite gauntlet clamped over the baffle of the Flamer. Tiny puffs of fire leaked out between Alecksander’s hand until the pressure of his grip caused pressure to build and explode. Dropping the wrecked weapon and stepped up to the Astartes looking up into his face, “WHAT. IS. THE. MEANING. OF. THIS!?!” “Meaning? Since neither of you seem to understand what is being asked of you, let me explain. As for the supposed death of the Emperor, it is true.” The Canoness’ face degraded from angry to furious, “You. Heretic.” “The Emperor is dead. His physical body is gone. What YOU will have to come to terms with is that his soul is not,” responded Alecksander. The Canoness squinted her eyes at the Space Marine. Her quartet of Battle Sisters stepped in, sensing a climax to the discussion. “Unconvinced? Why don’t we ask the other ‘heretic’ in the room. Srin, what of the Emperor’s soul?” Alecksander casually said as he leaned back toward the Governor. “Uhhh...w-w-well...our astropaths h-have seen small l-lights…,” the Governor squeaked out. The Sororitas looked a bit confused. The Lord of the Prismarines looked back at the Canoness down in front of him, “Let me clarify. Whilst the astropaths have been getting hit-and-miss glances of the Astronomicon, they have consistently seen small lights as if the Astronomicon is incredibly far away. They have never seen these phenomena before. So given the Astronomicon dimming and occasional disappearances and the sudden appearance of these phenomena it would seem fair to consider that the fragments of the Emperor are these lights. So what do you think?” The Canoness was silent, deep in thought. She double-took toward both the Governor and Chapter Master, “NO!”

“The very idea of saying that the God-Emperor is dead is heresy in and of itself! Regardless of the truth of it, your slanderous speech is nothing but HERESY! AND YOU WILL DIE LIKE A HERETIC!” The Canoness screeched and stepped around the Marine headed toward the Governor. A large gauntlet grabbed her pack and swung her around, throwing her into the plasteel wall. Her look grew even more furious, furious that her righteous cause had been stopped, that the heretic would live. It changed in an instant, to one of stunned surprise. Alecksander’s right hand gripped her face. “RID MY PLANET OF YOUR IGNORANT FILTH, WITCH!” he roared as he picked her up and crushed her against the floor. “NOW! Did any of you fail to understand our little discussion?” the Chapter Master turned toward the remaining Sisters. They were visibly angry, no doubt agreeing with their canoness. But only with her reasoning that claiming the Emperor was dead was heresy. They did, however, understand that the Space Marine was probably right in his theory about the Emperor’s soul.

The Ecclesiarchy fleet soon left. The Prismarine chapter began aiding in the reconstruction of the damage. Alecksander hoped that the events of Ulsis Prime would reach ears that would listen.

Be Vigilant, Lest You Accidentally Purge the Astropath

In their zealous fury, it was not uncommon for a Sororita to execute the navigators in their ship the instant they lost sight of the Astronomicon and cried out for the Emperor’s death. This was heresy to them. As information became more widespread, navigator purges dropped to normal levels. In the first century after the Emperor’s death, quite a few Ecclesiarchy ships were stranded in the Warp due to panicked astropaths being killed. Suddenly a little heresy turned into a whole fucking lot of heresy.

Navigators were not the only ones to be the victims of uber-zealous purging. Astropaths. Many lost the shining beacon of the Astronomicon and interrupted their communications to announce the death of the Emperor. Many were shot mid-scream. This caused many planets that would have otherwise been fine, to drop off the psychic radar for various periods of time.

Green and Black

Fast Times in the Eye of Terror

9 ??? 214.M42

Vulkan, the lord of the Salamanders, one of the few opponents to the Codex Astartes and one of the fewer perpetuals in the galaxy, was one of the strangest inhabitants of the Eye of Terror. Not strange because of some crazy tentacles, or some eyes on his ass but because he didn’t have any of those. In fact, he wasn’t even pledged to one of the gods of the realm. He called the Eye home because that's where the enemy was. Vulkan was a man of the forge. So in his post-human wisdom, he decided that he would carve out a small forge on a moon in the Eye and perfect the tools of the Imperium. In the past 10 millennia, Vulkan has perfected 2 patterns of regular Power Armor, 4 dedicated versions of Terminator Armor. The powered suits were not his only projects. He tweaked some of the weapons he could pick up off the dead traitorous Astartes, but his true triumphs were new weapon platforms for Astartes. Of course the most amazing thing to come of his hermetic projects were his own suit of Power Armor. Completely ditching the Terminator pattern he had, and, after 47 centuries, he had created a new pattern of armor wearable by only Primarchs and possibly skilled Companions. The Nemean Power Armor was a marvel, looking and functioning like something out of a Dark Age STC.

While the constant work and fighting kept Chaos’ whisperings at bay, it didn’t keep his own whisperings at bay. After so long, he could no longer deny the fact that he was lonely. The daemons he encountered would much rather eat him than begin to talk. And the humans, oh the humans, they were almost worse. They talked alright, but it was gibbering, and mad ravings. They might be willing to sit down and have tea, but only if that tea was your blood and the cup was your skull. So he kept to himself.

The loneliness was not to last. In the early beginnings of the 42nd millennium, things changed. He began to see less daemons and traitorous scum. But in their absence, something else filled the void. A glimmer in his head. Unbeknownst to him, these were fragments of his Father. His loneliness no longer increased. As a couple more fragments found their way to the primarch, he eventually decided that he had done enough, had enough. It was time to leave the Eye of Terror.

Nemean Power Armor

Ceramite is tough no doubt about it. But what Vulkan produced in those years in the Eye was levels beyond mere ceramite. Vulkan named it Malcite (mal-kite) because of writer providence. Nemean armor also incorporated another machine spirit. Not one but two machine spirits, one for combat systems and the other for suit systems. One machine spirit no longer had to split its attention. The servos and pistons and artificial muscles of the suit were upgraded as well, by the master of forges. Despite not impeding an Astartes before, the Nemean suit enhanced the wearer’s strength and agility by a factor of hundreds. If the underlying mechanics were amazing, the gilding and adornments were beyond.

A myriad of universal ports allowed for a stunning amount of additions and weapon choices. One of Vulkan’s more expeditious additions to the Nemean armor pattern was not actually armor itself, but servo-skulls. Not content to have mere servitors, these were field packages that could be taken along without hindering the wearer or taking weapons and equipment that turned out to be inappropriate. Quite possibly the biggest advantage they gave was the possibility of utilizing weapons previously delegated to only Dreadnaughts and mobile platforms. One such package was called Recta Rubra. When activated, a large servo-skull, most likely a former Ogryn would attach at a several ports in the lower back. Mechadendrites would snake down to the lower legs to attach supporting struts and anchoring mechanisms. The bulk of the servo would reinforce the back and release a pair of twin-linked Lascannons that would straddled the shoulder pauldrons. Other strike packages included a portable void shield and personal gun servo-skulls that mounted a varied amount of weapons.

Nocturne Returne

3 048 215.M42

As his personal craft touched down on his unused landing pad, Vulkan sighed. It was one of the biggest sighs of relief that he had ever breathed. It was good to be home. And he came bearing gifts. He made a mental note to find out who some of the more ‘hyper’ techmarines were. He debated whether to tell the Master of the Forge about his pet project and decided to show him. What’s the good of making a ton of super cool toys if you can’t show them off. That could wait for later because he had someone waiting for him. As he stepped out he heard the greeting, “My Lord Vulkan, I would like to welcome you back to Prometheus. I am Tu’Shan, Regent of Prometheus, and current Master of the Salamanders Chapter.”

“Tu’Shan? A good strong name. And that armor. I haven’t laid eyes upon such beauty in millenia. I can assume that means that the forges and workshops have not been abandoned?” Vulkan responded, rather dryly. “Well, yes, my Lord. In fact, I believe the Forgefather, He’Stan has been itching to meet you. No doubt the rest of the chapter as well,” the Chapter Master answered. This was not the light-hearted and warm Vulkan he’d read and heard of. Vulkan sighed again, “Yes...meetings. It is my duty to meet the men of the Chapter. I must request we wait to visit Nocturne for a week or so. I understand that the next Time of Trial is fast approaching?” Tu’Shan’s mood turned a bit sour at the rather dark tone, “Yes...sir. I will inform Hesiod of your plans. It will do Nocturne good to go through the next Trial with you at our helm.” The Chapter Master’s vox crackled, alerting that all of the brothers that were presently on Prometheus had been gathered. “If I may interrupt, all the men are gathered awaiting you, Lord Vulkan. Shall we go?” Vulkan straightened, “I suppose we shall, lead the way.”

“Salamanders, Men, Brothers. My heart burns with renewed fire upon returning! Together we will set all that is evil and tainted afire and burn it out! We will ensure that the Imperium is rekindled and burns brighter than ever before! Our thoughts, our actions, OUR HEARTS will be as one flame. ONE THAT CANNOT BE PUT OUT!” Vulkan looked around and then finished, “INTO THE FIRES OF BATTLE!” The throng of men shouted back, “UNTO THE ANVIL OF WAR!” With that the mass devolved into shouting, cheering and clapping as Vulkan left his stand.

Vulkan retired to a private chamber and sat down, weary from that speech. A knock came at the door. He lightly approved their entrance and was unsurprised to see Tu’Shan entered. “My Lord Vulkan, I...have some questions to ask...not about what we will do, but...about you, if I may?” Vulkan sagged back into the massive seat, and rubbed his hand over his smooth head. Another sigh, “You want to ask about the speech don’t you?” “Well, yes. Not about the content, of course, it was a fantastic delivery. The men haven’t been this way in a long, long time. My question...er...comment more like it….that speech didn’t sound like...you seem to feel.”

Vulkan leaned forward placing his elbows on his knees and drooping his tough hands in between. “No, no it wasn’t. A primarch can’t show weakness. I haven’t had much contact with anyone for millennia. Daemons aren’t too talkative, and the traitors are always screaming about the same perverse ideals. There isn’t too much conversation to be had in the Eye of Terror. I can't...I don’t want to over do it. With company. I don’t want to snap. I mean, you can see it even now, that tiny speech wiped me out. I’m a Primarch,” a small laugh coming as Vulkan spilled his inner turmoil. “My Lord...I-I had no idea...Shall I order Hesiod to postpone until you are feeling up to it? We can tell them that you have personal things to attend to here on Prometheus. Or-or that the High Lords of Terra have called and you need to head out immediately. We can tell them-” Tu’Shan stammered as he tried to think of something. Battling orks and Chaos was one thing, but a post-human’s feelings were something he was never ready for. Vulkan cut him off, “No. One week is plenty of time to...acclimate to people. I AM a primarch after all.” Vulkan looked up in thought. “How much of a stick in the mud is your Forgefather, He’Stan?” “I...er...he, ummm, he isn’t as…’boisterous’ as he used to be.” Tu’Shan picked his words carefully. Vulkan’s eyes brightened and he let out a great huff of a laugh, “Hah, excellent! Then why don’t you head down to the forge and tell him I’m on my way.” Vulkan stood up and walked over to the door and left. He poked his head back in, “If he falls on the floor, dinner tonight is on you.” Tu’Shan stood their in shock. “What just happened?” he wondered. Then it hit him and he quickly headed towards He’Stan’s abode.

He’Stan crumpled. His knee pads slammed into the stone floor chipping out divots. “It-it-it’s….magnificent.” He could no longer take it and fell forward barely catching himself with his hands. Tu’Shan managed to stay on his feet, although he too was hard pressed to describe what he was seeing as anything but magnificent. “Called it Nemean Armor. Mostly for us Primarchs. Although I think some of the bigger Astartes could wear it!” Vulkan bellowed, a smile upon his face for the first time since returning. “My Lord, I could only hope to be worthy of wearing such a piece of art. I...am not worthy of the title of Forgefather," He’Stan practically groveled. “Don’t give me that crap. I worked on this baby for longer than you’ve been alive. Heck, probably longer than you and Tu’Shan combined. And I saw some of your work in the crowds. Those suits are masterpieces! So get up and we can talk about what you and I have been up to in our respective workshops.” Vulkan smiled down at him and then looked over at the Chapter Master, “I believe you owe me some dinner.” Tu’Shan started, “I, uh, I-I,” a gleam appeared in his eye, “I believe he didn’t fall on the floor. So no dinner.

Vulkan sagged in mock tantrum, “Oh for the love of my Dad...fine. Let me show you something else. Recta Rubra.” He called out and mentally activated the modified servo-skull. An oversized servo-skull with a jumble of mechanical gears, struts, hoses, and other parts buzzed in. It headed toward the back of Vulkan and clipped in with a clack. The room filled with humming, clicking of parts unfolding and setting, the whirring of pumps and servos spooling up. A thunderous crunch sounded as the stabilizers that had appeared on Vulkan’s lower leg plates clamped into the ground. A final hum sounded as the two twin-linked Lascannons rotated over his shoulders and clipped into place. Vulkan grinned like an idiot and turned toward the firing range that was right between the pair of Salamanders. A huge roar, like the decompression of something in the void erupted from the weapons as the room bathed itself in ruby red light. When the two could see again, they noticed Vulkan standing there proud as could be, grinning just as maniacally. Tu’Shan was speechless. Only the sounds of the forges background noises could be heard until a groan began. Tu’Shan looked over and was just in time to see He’Stan crashed to ground flat on his back. “I believe that’s dinner, Chapter Master.” Tu’Shan was still speechless.

Of Craftworld Alaitoc

The Death of Arisriel

9 586 311.M42

In a hall of carrion and gristle, still wet with blood, she saw her fellow Eldar fall to the ground. Their heads were all looking toward the ceiling. Their mouths wide in a terrifying scream. Yet no sound was coming out. The hallway was completely silent. Then a creature with more teeth than she’d ever seen.

Arisriel woke from her daydream with a start. She leaned forward resting on her knees, completely out of breath. This was getting far worse. Several years ago she’d start having these flashes of something. Originally just a hall covered in gore. And then a glance of one of her kin. And now they were vivid and much longer. “Arisriel! We must go. The Farseer has announced that all non-necessary personnel to the Vaul deck. I fear what we will hear,” Olavae’s quick order jolted her out of her thoughts. An assembly? Those have only been called before dire times. Actually, the last time one had been called was...before the Behemoth grabbed the Craftworld in its jaws. She and Olavae made their way toward the Vaul deck.

The walls dripped of blood, adding to the pooling ichor on the floor. She could hear the dripping. Each drop sounded as a explosion. This was a new terror for Arisriel, far worse than deafening silence. The other Eldar remained frozen in their perpetual screams. Then from as far away as ever, the dripping began to recede to make room for a new sound. An animalistic, primal, angry screech. The gore and fluids seem to shudder themselves. It grew louder and louder until it was unbearable. She tried to scrunch her face, raiser her hands to her ears, anything to shut it out. But she could not. Her head was turning, somehow against her will, toward the screech. It grew to new levels as the toothed terror again lunged into her view. She blacked out.

When Arisriel came to, she was dangling off of Olavae’s shoulder. “Oh Isha, you’re awake! What is going on with you?” Despite the din, Olavae’s tone was clearly one of concern. Arisriel shakily got to her feet. “What...what did I miss? We can discuss this later,” she said taking in the current state of the deck. “The Farseer has announced that we are on a collision course with a tendril of the Great Devourer. In a month’s time, Hive Fleet Bergrisar will find us,” explained Olavae. All present left, the mood incredibly somber. How many of the Spirit Stones were to be used? How many would return to the Infinity Circuit? In the following weeks the Craftworld seemed to slow down. The Shadow in the Warp turned the air into an oppressive soup. It was like trying to walk through pudding. Nevertheless, Alaitoc prepared for its date with the Tyranids.

New sounds mixed in with the familiar ones. The high zipping of shuriken rounds could be heard echoing off the corridors. The hard ticking of chitin on metal was just as prevalent, albeit in a much more distinguishable pattern. The screams of dying Eldar mixed with the soul shearing cries of the Eldar surrounding her. The creature flashed into her view once more. But instead of waking, it continued. A boney scythe came down to the left of her head while another one rushed at her side below her right arm. She saw her body jerk as they hit and passed through her armour. She felt nothing. No pain, no tearing vibrations. She couldn’t feel the ship shuddering as cysts and pods impacted. There was no sense of motion. Her head lolled forward and everything went black.

Her nightmare ended as a loud klaxon blared its terrifying warning around the Craftworld. They were here. Nobody needed the alarms, the screaming whispers of ‘eat it all’ and ‘hungry’ were always in the background now, as the hive grew closer. She felt tiny tremors both from her sleeping ordeal and cysts burrowing into the craftworld. Olavae burst through the door. “Arisriel! GET YOUR ARMOR ON. NOW!” she shouted at her dazed friend. “I...uh...I-I...yes...YES!” she groggily acknowledged, the gravity of the situation hitting her. Once she had her armor on, she rushed toward the nearest staging area to join with her squad.

Every cyst that impacted shook the local section. The rushed and pull of air as explosions detonated and wink out whooshed past Arisriel. A dull throb pulsed through her as the Craftworld fired long dormant thrusters. She could feel everything. The top half of an Aspect Warrior sailed through the crossing several meters away. Blood pirouetted through the air and spattered the walls with gruesome artwork. As if tethered to the body a Tyranid Warrior stomped around the corner.

She started once again as the toothed monster came into view. This wasn’t a dream anymore, it was real. That’s why it was the most vivid version. Even though it was real, everything was slowing down. It was all happening the same. She watched almost with the same removed vantage as her fellow Eldar all dropped to their knees. Their faces turned toward the ceiling as their mouths opened in a silent scream. As she to fell to her knees, it occurred to her: the sound that should be coming from the screaming mouths wasn’t there. A voice echoed through the Craftworld, “ELDAR, OUR DESCENSION IS AT HAND. THE FORCES THAT ASSAIL US AT EVERY ANGLE HAVE BECOME TOO MUCH. THE AVATAR WILL VANQUISH THE GREAT MOUTH AND THEN CARRY OUR FIGHT TO SHE WHO THIRSTS. OUR DESCENSION!” Arisriel blacked out again.

In an inner sanctum, a dusty avatar surged to life. Wisps of darkness and gray wraiths flew through the bloodstained halls. Conduits and lines surged with white-black auras. The gigantic being filled with ill-gotten souls and began to awaken. The mask and head warped as two horns protruded. The face scrunched and a single closed eye formed. The two metallic arms shook and divided. As it stood up taking its first steps. it hunched over. Its back stretched and wiggled as six spines curved out of its back. The giant sword vibrated as it was consumed by a black gas. As the cloud lengthened, a dull gray halberd came into being. It hefted the death halberd as its singular eye opened half way. “I am the avatar of the end of the Eldar. I am the avatar of death.”

Whilst an avatar of Khaine might have succumbed to a hive tyrant or the flowing hordes of gaunts. But the avatar of death that walked amid the halls reaped all. Unceasing and uncaring. Its halberd wiped away all traces of that which it touched. Tyranid warriors shrivelled and decayed while the wraithbone buttresses cracked and disintegrated. Unlike Nurgle, their was no chance of rebirth. All withered and ended. The chaff of the dying Bergrisar blew away with the solar wind. Silently the empty Craftworld of Aliatoc turned inward towards the galactic center, where the swirling warp rift of Maelstrom resided. She Who Thirsts was about to feel the first birth pangs of Ynnead.

Return of the Raven

Absolution

9 ??? 491.M42

Corvus’ return was not filled with pomp and circumstance. It wasn’t spectacular or in a time of great need. As it was explained to the Raven Guard, Corax was on his quest of absolution for the mutants he had let happen. During an excursion on a darkened moon in the Eye, Corax was refound by his father. Not in the practical sense though, fragments of the Emperor were drawn toward the psychic presence of his son. As more and more fragments clustered and attached themselves to the Primarch. As the years passed, Corax started to feel at ease. At ease with the way things had become. At ease with the deaths of his brothers and closest friends. At ease with himself. Almost imperceptibly, that ease transformed into an thought that he might have done more than enough to atone for a mistake that wasn’t his fault.

Lycaeus: Home

3 121 500.M42

In 491M42, another fragment of his father’s soul found Corax. The collected fragments had reached a point of critical mass and finally bonded to form a coherent chunk of the Emperor’s soul that Corax could actually identify. “My son, you have long wallowed in despair in your quest for absolution. Truly, the corrupted Astartes were not your fault; if anyone should be looking for absolution, it’s your brother Alpharius.” Corax felt as if the weight of the galaxy had lifted from his broad shoulders. He could finally return to his brothers with no shame.

A contact pinged on the longest ranged scanners of Lycaeus. It was an unknown pattern that the machine spirits could not identify. The ship was hailed to see if it would communicate before being annihilated by the planetary defense platforms. “Unknown ship, this is Platform Tilado, transmitting in the open. Respond or be destroyed.” To the complete surprise of the men in the comm room, a response came, “When the day broke, I boldly went into the chamber” The communication officer screwed up his face in confusion, and then quickly told his men to cover their ears lest more Chaos speech taint the air and them in it. Another transmission blared out, “I am Corvus Corax, and I have returned.”

Lament for Blood and Chaos

Chaos comes to Rustagrim

4 824 588.M42

The planet Rustagrim is located close to the galactic core, to its east, in the Ultima Segmentum. And currently it is the source of a massive daemonic incursion. It’s capitol, Hive Juris is the last bastion of the planet, the only thing that is keeping Rustagrim from falling completely to Chaos. Luckily, the PDF were based out of Juris.

However, they were not up against mere cultists but the very spawn of the Empyrean.And right now PDF Private Samreal was terrified. He was hidden behind a hab-shelter, knees tucked under his chin and lasgun around his shins. He was so jittery one would think that he had downed a couple gallons of recaf. He could stand cultists, they were just crazy people. Even his wife could pass for a cultist, she was that crazy sometimes. He let out a small chuckle to himself. The joy quickly passed as something scary roared a couple meters away. His jitters doubled as he heard heavy footfalls and the crunching of rubble advance toward his hiding spot. A clawed hand gripped the corner a meter above his head. A hot, misty breeze washed over his neck. It was putrescent and smelled of death. He struggled to bring his head up, to look at whatever monstrosity was looming over him. His uncontrollable tears quickly ended as his screams added to the din that was Hive Juris.

The red and purple streaked sky parted as drop-pods pierced the murky cover. Spirals of smoke whirled in the overwash behind them. Compared to a normal drop, there were far fewer pods than normal. But even just a few Astartes can turn the tide. They slammed into various parts of Hive Juris, adding to the tab of collateral. Such are Astartes. Very few people actually noticed the pods as they fell, mostly because everyone was either focused on hiding and staying alive or shooting the daemon in front of them and staying alive. The Astartes did not care. Flashy entrances didn’t suit this chapter, they weren’t like those Partridges. As the ramps fell and the Space Marines disembarked, those around suddenly surged with confidence. The PDF looked upon the yellow giants with reverence. The Lamenters had come to Rustagrim.

Thungrier stomped along the street toward his squads objective. They were headed toward the PDF headquarters. The PDF weren’t all that effective, but rallying whatever troops and men they had left would still be of use. With the PDF in the fight, the more the Lamenters could concentrate on taking down the daemons assaulting the hive while the men could deal with the plethora of cultists. “DAEMON,” Thungrier heard Kastor shout from behind him. Sure enough a Bloodletter was plodding down the street, babbling incoherently. It picked up its pace when it noticed them. The battle was joined. Thungrier, the sargeant of the squad, ordered his men in a rough semicircle, “Engage the enemy whenever a shot presents itself. I’ll keep him busy!” Thungrier unsheathed a Power Sword. “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!” The two weapons met and cast sparks and jagged trails of electricity. The Bloodletter was matching Sergeant Thungrier blow for blow. The only thing going in his favor were his squadmates off to the side taking shots at the daemon and clearing cultists that were unlucky enough to wander into the battlezone.

The daemon was a highly skilled swordsman. That was to be expected of a daemon of Khorne. It parried his sword and then spun and knocked the blade aside. No longer in danger of being cut, it leapt upon the sergeant and pushed him to the ground. It went for his neck. Spittle formed droplets on his visor as he barely held the daemons gnashing teeth away from him. He couldn’t chance reaching for his sword, he already had it jammed against the daemons throat, a stopgap at best. The Bloodletter was getting stronger as it sensed its victory and offering draw near. He needed to make a decision. Suddenly the weight was lifted from his arm along with the daemon. He looked over to see Kastor bear hugging the daemon as he charged into the side of a hab-building. The hole smoked and bits of the hab were still falling down. An inhuman grunt preceded Kastor’s headless body flying out of the hole and denting a hab opposite.

The Bloodletter stepped out, snarling, happy. Thungrier had retrieved his sword and snarled back. The two charged at each other once again. Blow for blow, both swung and stabbed on equal ground. A massive swing from each brought both swords together. Metal ground together, sparking and smoking, as both tried to leverage to a better position. Without warning Thungrier reached out and grabbed the daemonic blade. He had made a decision. The Bloodletter shrieked in surprise as it was yanked toward the Space Marine. Thungrier shouted part war cry, part agony as he could feel the taint worming its way through the flesh of his hand. He helmed cracked against the beasts crested face. It staggered back and Thungrier gave no quarter. A jab and a swing later, the body sans head and hand dropped to the ground. The sergeant turned to his men and looked at them. Despite not seeing their faces, he knew what they were thinking. Rev spoke up, “I don’t remember such battled doctrines being approved in the Codex…” Thungrier looked at the Marine, barely beyond neophyte. He sighed, letting loose the breath he didn’t realized he’d been holding. His hand reached up to his broken helmet and tore it off, tossing it to the ground. “No Rev,” he held his arm out and swung down, lopping off the tainted appendage, “it’s not.”

Two weeks later, the skies once again parted, this time for a flurry of drop-pods and several Thunderhawks carrying armor. These were not more Lamenters but their progenitors, the Blood Angels. Reports of Lamenters being on Rustagrim reached the parent Chapter and so they went partially to aid their brothers but more so to look into solving their genetic plague that troubled them. Hundreds of Blood Angels rocketed down, reinforcing the now meager amount of Lamenters that remained alive.

The Chaos forces had been busy as well. Gigantic daemonic engines that belched soot and smoke churned the ground around Hive Juris. Dirt, rock, steel, it mattered not as it was ripped up for some horrendous plan.

In the de-facto headquarters, it used to be a hospital, the two captains discussed the situation. Captain Neris spoke, “Do we have any idea what those foul machines are doing? Our ships have not been able to send accurate scans. Perhaps the Blood Angels were able to get accurate readings?” Captain Donatos responded, “We did manage to acquire some data regarding the status of the planet, hive, and current battle. You are...not going to like it.” “hmph. Give it to me anyways. Better to have some intel than no intel,” Neris growled out. Donatos began to explain, “First off, Hive Juris is the only place not given over to Chaos. I am guessing already knew that. Secondly, it would seem that Rustagrim is actually being invaded by an alliance of forces. We found no trace of any actual Undivided forces, but it isn’t merely Khorne or Slaanesh. Which brings me to the final point, the Hell-Machines. They have been preparing a giant ritual. As I fell, I could see an unfinished 8-pointed star with the hive at its center on my auspex.” Captain Neris braced a hand on a table to his right, “Emperor, a ritual? That big? I dare not think of what they intend to bring about. No sense dwelling on what only ‘might’ come about. What are you planning to do? The bulk of Astartes are now yours, I will commit what remains of my company where they can do the most damage.” The two set about planning the defense of what battlements and ground they still held. Rustagrim’s darkest days were still ahead.

Rustagrim Belongs to the Empyrean

4 869 588.M42

The influx of Astartes did nothing but hold what ground remained. The planet had fallen too far and reinforcements arrived too late. That is not against the Astartes as they actually managed to retake multiple levels of the hive capitol. But it was not enough. A week later, on 02.12.779M42, the Chaos forces upon Rustagrim enacted the ritual they had so meticulously prepared. The 8-pointed Star they had carved out of the ground and filled with blood vaporized and flashed black. A gigantic rift into the Warp opened and sucked the planet into its maw. The two companies of Lamenters and Blood Angels were now marooned in the Warp along with the paltry few living, non-tainted residents of Rustagrim.

If the daemon incursion on Rustagrim was bad before it was bad to the max now. The denizens of the Warp no longer had to figure a way to manifest themselves in the Materium, Rustagrim was but a skip away. All the gains the the two companies of Space Marines were being fast eaten away. The upper spires, a lack of mass, had instantly twisted and frayed or even just vanished, dooming their occupants to a horrid end. All fortifications and emplacements on the outside were quickly eaten away by the tide of daemons. All Astartes had been recalled to an innermost temple the only viable place to hold anymore. The minimal avenues of attack allowed the formidable skills of the Astartes to hold the daemon tide at bay. That was until a massive rift appeared in the center of the room.

As news of Blood Angels being on a stranded planet in the middle of the warp, one such daemon with a history with the Chapter decided to make an appearance. K’bandha the Bloodthirster, Champion of Khorne, nemesis of Sanguinius, was expulsed from the rift with a multi-colored flare and thumped down into the middle of the temple. “BLOOD ANGELS! NOWHERE TO RUN! NOWHERE TO HIDE!”, the Chaos Champion roared. The Astartes in the temple were unsure what to do until they heard their captain. “K’Bandha, you scaley piece of shit. Get that ass over here! Fucking daemon scum! Come die with a bit of honor!” Donatos shouted out his challenge, knowing that the daemon actually had honor, unlike the bulk of the Warp. K’Bandha laughed cruelly and stomped toward the Captain of the Blood Angels 2nd Company. The Captain steeled himself for a grueling battle, not sure that he could win this. A booming voice echoed throughout the temple, “YOU’LL DO NO SUCH THING DONATOS. K’BANDHA IS MINE!”

A huge bright actinic flash, tinged with yellow and white lances of sun appeared at the roof of the temple. A winged figure stood, as everyone’s eyes cleared. K’Bandha grinned a wicked smile and shouted out, Donatos all but forgotten, “I FIGURED YOU MIGHT SHOW UP. ALWAYS WORRIED ABOUT YOUR ‘PRECIOUS’ BLOOD ANGELS!” The glorious visage of the Sanguinor floated down to the floor, eyes locked on the Bloodthirster. The two champions charged at each other, a great battle about to begin. The two weapons, one a massive daemonic axe blessed by Khorne himself, the other a majestic sword radiant and glowing, collided together in a spectacular cascade of sparks, warp fire and bright rays of light. In the Materium, the Sanguinor would have had the leverage to break K’Bandha, but in the Aether, the Champion of Khorne was empowered by pure Warp. K’Bandha’s massive clawed hand reached out and curled around the Sanguinor’s throat. “AS MUCH AS I WOULD LOVE TO KILL ‘YOU’ I NEED YOUR BODY’!” As time froze in the Warp, the two vanished in another rift.

The Wolf Strikes

6 386 653.M42

Abaddon had just launched the 17th Black Crusade. He marched at the front of a huge column of Black Legionnaires toward one of the great pylons of Cadia. He almost felt some sorrow as he killed a Cadian Guardsman, having developed a begrudging respect for a world that had resisted him and his forces despite not having such advantages like not being able to truly die. It quickly passed. The rest of his forces mopped up the surrounding enemy combatants as he stared up at the great pylon. His focus shifted beyond the pylon to the cloudy sky. The smoky coverage whirled and parted for drop pods.

“How would Astartes of the corpse emperor make it past his vast armada,” Abaddon wondered, “they shouldn't have even made it within a light year of Cadia let alone assault it. The only way to get close to Cadia...was to come from behind his fleet. From the Eye.” Abaddon roared to his traitorous troops, "The blasted Thirteenth Company of the Space Wolves is dropping upon us. We will destroy them here. Upon Cadia!"

Despite having a huge numerical superiority, the Black Legion was being torn apart by the super-veteran 13th company. A wedge was being driven into the Black Legion, the tip being an incredibly sharp and violent Astartes, the Primarch Leman Russ.

“What are you pitiful Astartes doing? You have the blessings of Chaos Undivided! Yet you are being pushed back?” Abaddon shouted. He strode towards the Space Wolves intent on curbing the destruction. “LEMAN, it’s about time you came to die.” Leman pulled his sword out of a traitor Astartes and turned toward the Despoiler. The primarch launched into a sprint, closing the gap between them. A Black Legionnaire attempted to intercept Russ. The Wolf King bowled over him in an explosion of ceramite and blood, leaving a shattered body on the ground behind him. Abaddon swung the Talons of Horus at the approaching primarch, “You’ll find me a step above mere Astartes,” the Despoiler smirked. The massive Lightning claws crackled fiercely as they halted against Frostblade. Spikes of electricity shot upward and sparks fell as the two strained against the others weapons. “You. Know,” Leman shrugged and parried the lightning claws, “There’s a reason why,” Leman’s other hand shot out and wrapped around the ornamental ponytail atop Abaddon’s head, “I’m called the Executioner!” the Primarch yanked the Chaos champion’s head downward until it connected with his ceramite knee. Blood and cartilage spattered amidst a brutal crunch. Abaddon staggered back, bloodied, as Leman advanced with a savage smile on his face.

Amidst the carnage wrought by two Astartes forces colliding, an even more brutal fight was going on. Leman was taking it to Abaddon. The warmaster was barely keeping up with the slashes and stabs of the Primarch. The primarch pulled a jab and then swung his sword straight down. Abaddon barely managed to get his lightning claws up and block it. The sword sparked off a claw and embedded into the metal between two claws. It was stuck for the time being, and Abaddon knew it. He smirked, knowing that this was a turning point in the duel. It quickly turned sour as Leman released Frostblade and grabbed the Talons with both gauntlets. Twisting and side-stepping, Leman slid behind Abaddon, wrenching his arm from its sockets. The sheer pain and surprise drove Abaddon to his knee. Leman planted a huge foot on the back of the Despoiler’s shoulder and heaved.

A puddle of blood was fast forming as it mixed with mechanical fluids both coming from the gaping hole where his arm used to be. It twinkled as sparks fell, reflected, and fizzled out. Abaddon was roaring, a seething ball of primal rage and pain. He glared at the Space Wolves primarch as he ground his teeth together. The primarch hoisted his sword, still stuck in the Talons of Horus. He ripped the two apart, the familiar weight of Frostblade back in his hand. Leman glanced at his other hand, at the severed arm with the massive lightning claw on it. He giddily shrugged and adjusted the improvised weapon. Abaddon staggered back against the ferocious assault of Leman. The primarch swung his sword, aiming to slash from the Despoiler’s left shoulder down. Abaddon dodged a devastating blow and moved to capitalize. Leman was counting on the dodge and continued his momentum around. Mid-spin he adjusted the Talon and leapt. As he fell down, Abaddon had finally come within range. Leman plunged Abaddon’s own weapon into the left side of his chest. The disrupting fields of the lightning claws easily penetrated the ceramite of Abaddon’s armor. Russ released the arm and watched as the warmaster fell to the ground.

Abaddon looked up at Leman with pure contempt. He tried to curse the primarch but all that came was a bubbling cough and a spurt of blood. Leman reached down and grabbed the collar of his armor and pulled upward. Not enough to stand, but enough to kneel with the assistance of the primarch, Abaddon glared. Leman placed his sword’s point above his collarbone. “I’m the alpha wolf,” Leman growled and plunged his sword deep into Abaddon’s already distressed body. Leman unceremoniously dropped the body to the ground and raised his sword to the sky.

With their leader dead, the 17th Black Crusade shrivelled. The 13th Company soon made contact with Imperial forces and set about re-integrating themselves as they headed back to Fenris. The Wolf-Time was recorded as happening in the year 653M42. They even woke up Bjorn.