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.

I will endeavor to format all the dialogue, so give me time.

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 as well” 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. 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, 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.

The 9th Primarch

Live, Die, Repeat

9 ??? ???.M??

“~You may break my body, but you will never break my spirit~,” Sanguinius choked out, garbled with blood. He was barely ambulatory, having taken a massive beating from his Daemonic nemesis. “SPARE ME YOUR DRIVEL! BREAK THE BODY ENOUGH AND THE SPIRIT SHALL FOLLOW!” K’Bandha grabbed the primarch by the shoulder and right leg, Sanguinius was barely able to struggle. “HOW. DO. YOU. LIKE. IT,” K’Bandha shouted as he brought the primarch down upon his beastly knee, shattering his back. The Bloodthirster tossed the body to the ground and roared long and proud. Sanguinius’ soul floated back to the relative sanctuary of the Warp. K’Bandha stomped over the another daemon that was casually watching the blood sport, “BRING HIM BACK, I’VE STILL GOT THREE MORE BODIES TO GO!” The daemon, a Lord of Change, sighed, “That maybe true, but is this the best way to go about the plan? Primarchs are fairly intelligent, so it would be fair to assume that they would listen to reason? It has worked before.” “SHUT YOUR TRAP, SCHEMER. BY CONTINUALLY KILLING HIM, WE SHOW HIM THAT ‘WE’ ARE IN CONTROL. AND! AND I GET TO KILL HIM! A LOT!” K’Bandha screamed in the Lord’s face. “Fine, fine. It would be interesting to see him kill you. We are about due for some change.” the Lord of Change muttered to himself, giving into the Bloodthirster’s demand.

Sanguinius floated in the Empyrean, just an amorphous ball of soul. It was peaceful, he could see why Magnus liked it, at least when the monstrous denizens weren’t trying to eat him. But peaceful at times. His reverie was shattered by long stringy tendrils snaking toward him, appearing from nowhere. He had no defense against this, no way to avoid them wrapping and binding him. They began to drag him toward their indescript origin. He knew what was coming.

Some nefarious plans were made and favors owed cashed in, all for K’Bandha. At least he thought so. He was part of a much larger plan, that he didn’t care to know of. All he was told was that he would be able to kill Sanguinius multiple times, provided he give his support. He was a fairly simple daemon when it came to such things; he readily accepted. The first part had been gathering bodies. Luckily, the Khornate Champion had not been in charge of this. Things he collected tended to not stay collected for long. And they needed intact bodies; not his strong suit. Unfortunately, the primarchs soul could not be bound to some random Astartes, they needed the best of his gene-seed. So the targets had been the higher ranked members of the Blood Angel’s successor chapters. They tended to single out Sanguinary Guard quite judiciously. Rest assured they did not go down easy. After a while, they had several suitable bodies and the powers that be set K’Bandha to his grisly task. He did not think it was so bad.

Sanguinius gasped awake. It never stopped being a gut-churning event. He looked down at his body and the armor he was in. He hoped it wasn’t someone he knew. The two rivals battled, Sanguinius died again. He was no match for the daemon while it was in its own element and his body was not his own. Die. Floating. Tendrils. Wake Up. Fight K’Bandha. Die as he laughs. Sanguinius was not sure how much more he could take. Every time he died, he knew that one of his men, his brothers had died as well. It wasn’t a valiant sacrifice either, just mindless slaughter. He came back again. He stifled the urge to vomit. He look upon his new body and recognized it. A huge stone formed in his stomach. This was the body of Alatron, one of his Sanguinary Guards from long, long ago. He was in the armor of the Sanguinor. This was too much for him. Rage and anger surged through him. He got up, renewed. “~K’Bandha, where is your honor? Is killing my friends satisfying your god? No more, you cur, NO MORE!~”, Sanguinius roared at the Bloodthirster. He charged, raising an armored fist. K’Bandha did not move. “NOT THIS TIME, THIS TIME YOU LIVE,” the daemon replied as it headbutted the charging Blood Angel. Staggered and off his feet, Sanguinius waited for death. K’Bandha reached down and grabbed an arm and started dragging the unconscious primarch toward the Lord of Change. “LET’S GO, BEFORE I FORGET AND KILL HIM.” The Lord of Change nodded and began to cast a profane magic, “Indeed. I feel the winds of the Warp changing already…” The trio vanished in a blurred splash.

The Empyrean Council of Bel-Ghast

9 ??? ???.M??

The trio of champions reappeared in the pictorum of a massive Chaos Void Station. This particular void station was orbiting the massive Warp star of Bel-Ghast. The star was a churning Warp engine, pumping out cursed solar radiation. It was stars such as these that the Dark Mechanicum converted for massive daemonic forges used to create such deviated, twisted abominations. K’Bandha released his charge and stepped back, letting him get his bearings. Sanguinius looked around the void station view deck. The baser structures were darkened steel and ceramite. The glass ports were spiderwebbed with cracks that grew and receded as the whorls of warp splashed against it. The pillars and arches were covered with screaming daemonic faces etched into ebony and obsidian. Not all of them were immobile. Sanguinius took a step forward towards the glass, “~It’s surprisingly beautiful, given that we ARE in the Warp.~” K’Bandha grunted, “I DIDN’T BRING YOU HERE TO GAWK AT STARS...I’D RATHER HAVE KILLED YOU BUT SOMEONE WANTED TO TALK TO YOU.” Sanguinius turned his head toward the champion, “~Talk eh? You were never much for talk~….,” he trailed off as he realized he, K’Bandha, and the Lord of Change were not alone. A massive figure armor of spikes and black crenellations stepped forward, his steps shaking the deck. A deep, coarse voice boomed in the spacious viewing deck, “I LOVE...hhhh...YOUR WORK.”

The massive god of war and blood stepped forward, “SAN...GUINIUS...hhh...YOU WILL...hh...BE...GLAD TO KNOW I...hhhh...CON...SIDER YOU MY...CHAMPION.” Sanguinius spat down and looked the embodiment of bloodshed, “~Khorne, you nor your lessers have ever been one with words. I would never kill for you~,” Sanguinius leaned back, “~It will take more than just you to convince me to even judiciously pull a splinter~.” Khorne was silent. A slithery voice sounded from a darkened corner, “What makes you think the esteemed god of brutality is alone? Then, maybe he is after all?” Tzeentch, a cross-legged being with a plethora of sinuous horns and as many arms floated out to join the conversation. “Yeess, pretty maahrine, I would never leave you alone with such a callous brute,” Sanguinius felt a sensuous hand slink up his back, even through his armor. Slaanesh slinked to the now forming line of gods. That left just…”Sanguinius….” Nurgle forced out. “~I’m not simple enough to assume that all four gods of Chaos gathering together is anything but important, so care to expound?~” Sanguinius asked seemingly interrogating the lords of the Empyrean. “Oh ho ho. He’s intelligent AND intuitive? Or perhaps a lucky guess? Either, we might have somethings to show you.” Sanguinius got a look of disgust, “~Fine, I’ll bite. Show me, worm.~”

Slaanesh stepped forward, “I’ll be doing the biting, hee hee.” Khorne looked over, “KNOCK IT...OFF...hhh...WHORE…” “Oh fine, fine. Our first little juicy tid bit is that you have always been touched by the Warp. It’s in you, baby,” Slaanesh acquiesced. Sanguinius’ look of disgust increased and mixed with horror. “Oh yes, daddy dearest, came to us a long time ago. He asked for help making you guys and we just couldn’t say no to a handsome man like your Father.” Slaanesh finished. “No, Father would never stoop so low. He couldn’t. He...he wouldn’t...you lie daemons!” Sanguinius retorted. “We might be lying...but what if we aren’t?” Tzeentch asked as he psychically projected the encounter. Sanguinius was appalled at what he was seeing. “HOW DO...YOU EXPLAIN...hhh...THE TWO DEFECTS...YOUR CHILDREN...hhh...WORRY SO MUCH...hhh...ABOUT?” Khorne added simply. Sanguinius face changed to annoyance at the thought of the Red Thirst and Black Rage; he glared at Nurgle. “as much as I love to spread defects and disease it wasn’t me as that helps spiky over there far more than it does me...thank your father for that one” Nurgle answered the unspoken question. “Those two defects might have been one of the reasons you brother Horus offered to you multiple times? Don’t you think? After all are you two brothers short of twenty? Did you ever find out what your Father did to them?”

Tzeentch constantly bombarded the Primarch with questions. The information processed in Sanguinius’ head. His two lost brothers had been killed by Leman. The understanding was that they were so mutated that they fell to Chaos, so the Emperor had them killed. It wasn’t until later that the defects in his gene and chapter showed up. What if, since Horus knew of this, he didn’t want to see one of his beloved be killed? Would the Emperor have killed him and his chapter when the Red Thirst manifested? He himself killed his own men to keep it secret. What about when the Black Rage came about? Questions raced through his head.

Tzeentch continued on, “There’s another thing I could be curious about, your prescient visions. Did it ever occur to you that they might have been self-fulfilling? That despite your Father’s declaration during Nikea, that he said nothing about seeing the future? As I recall, that is my domain, is it not? Perhaps your ‘loving’ Father knew all along? There was tangible jealousness of your brothers at your closeness with Horus. Could it have been possible that your Father used you?” Sanguinius stared down eyes darting left and right, trying to think this through, “~U-u-used me? How?~” Tzeentch saw the nibbling doubt and pressed in. Slaanesh’s depraved grin grew toothier and larger still. Nurgle and Khorne both grunted to themselves barely audibly. “How? I might be able to answer that. Your Father was well aware of your defects, much like your two missing brothers. A leader striving for a great Imperium cannot have such perfidious mutations in a stage of humanity that is supposed to be on its way to perfection, can he? But unlike those two brothers, you were well known and loved, right? Don’t be afraid to admit it. How to get rid of you? Set series of plans in motion that ends you regardless of what choices you make.”

Sanguinius was unresponsive. “Don’t tell me you never thought of this. In one future you join Horus and the Emperor has free reign to kill you and eliminate the blight of you and your Astartes. In the other future, you refuse Horus and he kills you. You saw the future where you die, but that was every future, right? So you, in your blind faith to someone who intended to stab you in the back, chose to die for Him. You fulfilled the your own prophesy even when you could have lived.” Sanguinius had his hands on his knees, “~I...d-d-don’t believe….believe it. I-I-I can’t.~” Nurgle shuffled forward, the floor beneath him rusting instantly, “your emperor has been decaying and rotting for a lot longer than ten millennia...i would know...what do you think is going to happen when he comes back?” Sanguinius had fallen down. Tzeentch looked up and around as if he had grown bored of the discussion, “The true question is what are you going to do about it?” Slaanesh slithered behind the primarch and put her hands on his shoulders in mock concern, “We both know that the problems of your chapters have become rather...exasperateeeeed, as of late. Surely, when your Father comes, he will order the destruction of your lovely Marines.” Sanguinius took a deep breath and unconsciously leaned into the massage. “HE WILL PROBABLY...hhh...GET LEMAN TOOO...DO IT...hhh,” Khorne growled out, arms crossed waiting for a decision. Tzeentch delivered his final question, “Are you going to let the Imperium suffer the return of your Father? Can you do that?” The four Chaos Gods stared down at the Primarch, awaiting his decision. “~I-I-I can...c-can change...change the w-way...things happen…~” Sanguinius sobbed out, “~h-h-help me...d-d-d...d-do...it….~”

Fallen Angel

9 ??? 703.M42

Deep in Rustagrim, time had barely moved, yet had passed incredibly fast, from when the two champions had vanished. The motes of light left from the previous rift have almost disappeared when they were revitalized by another rift opening. Only the Sanguinor reappeared. Donatos breathed a sigh of relief, the Bloodthirster had been vanquished. Perhaps they would get out of this yet. Then he heard a voice. “~I AM SANGUINEM SUPRA! OUR BLOOD IS ABOVE ALL!~” the figure bellowed as it floated to the floor. Attention focused upon the figure in the middle of the room, as the daemons were no longer a pressing matter. They had stopped attacking. That should have been a clue that something was very, very wrong. Donatos and Neris stepped forward, both hobbling from injuries from the battle in the hellish realm. Donatos looked up at what he knew as the Sanguinor, “I’m sorry, I do not understand.” Neris looked at both expectantly. “~TOO LONG HAVE WE SHED BLOOD FOR A MAN WHO DOES NOT DESERVE IT. A MAN WHO WOULD HAVE RID HIMSELF OF US FOR OUR GIFTS. GIFTS THAT HE BESTOWED UPON US! A MAN WHO WOULD CREATE AND DESTROY WITH THE IMPUNITY OF A GOD, YET HE HAS THE GALL TO DECLARE THAT HE IS NOT. THAT HE IS ABOVE. IT'S FALSE! WE WILL BATHE THE FALSE EMPEROR IN OUR BLOOD!~”

The two captains became pale, instantly. This was heresy, treason of the highest order. And it was coming from such a character as the Sanguinor. “You cannot be the Sanguinor I have been told and heard stories about. Reveal yourself traitor,” Neris growled out. His hand had tightened around his sword. “I’M NOT THAT LOWLY SYMBOL. I AM SANGUINIUS. THE SON THAT THE EMPEROR SOUGHT TO SO CALLOUSLY CAST ASIDE WHEN IT FIT HIM BEST. AND IT IS WITH THAT TREACHERY THAT WE TOO CAST HIM ASIDE!~” Sanguinem Supra spread his arms and bathed the area in a sickly gold hue. All the remaining Blood Angels screamed in agony as their heads were invaded by the first whisperings of Chaos. The Sanguinem Supra twisted the black rage into something new, Aurem Ira, the Gold Rage. Visions of what the Emperor would have done had he discovered the Red Thirst and Black Rage played across the minds of the Blood Angels. How could someone who professed to love them, kill them so cold heartedly. He’d done it before. Donatos was on his knees clawing his eyes out, not wanting to see what was being shown. “~EMBRACE THE THE TRUTH!~” the Sanguinem Supra shouted. “Lamenters! On me! We will quell this foul heresy here and now,” ordered Captain Neris. The Sanguinem Supra turned and faced Neris, “~THE LAMENTERS? THE GIFTLESS? YOU ARE NOT TRUE BLOOD ANGELS. YOU WILL NOT SHARE OUR ASCENDANCY!~”

The Lamenters were now locked into combat against not only daemons, who’d resumed their assault, but now their fallen brothers. The Sanguinem Supra had released a golden sword and summoned a crozius. Both were laced with black and gold auras. Neris and the reborn Primarch were going head to head. By sheer will, Neris was fighting the Chaos Champion as an equal. That was until Donatos began to get back up. Donatos leapt toward the Lamenter captain, entering the fight to help his lord. “Thungrier! Donatos is your problem! Keep him off me while I end this imposter and this heresy!” Thungrier turned to the turmoil in the center of the room. Neris and Sanguinem Supra locked blades and the Chaos Champion taunted him, “~STOP THIS? ARE YOU SIMPLE ENOUGH TO THINK THAT OUR ASCENDANCY HASN’T SPREAD AMONGST ALL OUR BROTHERS?~” It dawned upon him that his Lamenters were probably the only Blood Angels not murdering anything nearby currently. He set his face and parried the locked swords. Thungrier was having just as hard a time.

A Mournful Fight

9 ??? 703.M42

Thungrier was squared off against Donatos, an enemy who outclassed him before the ascension. It was not going to be easy. “A one-handed man thinks he is a challenge for me? Such hubris! Your blood will spill, hear me young one,” chided the Captain. Despite having had the wound for a week, there simply had not been time to install augmentics, so he had a stump of a left hand, a detriment no doubt. The two charged together, Donatos with a wide swing and Thungrier a close defense. The Donatos’ swing caught Thungrier’s sword and pressed it up against his right pauldron. Energy diffused and crackled as the fields fought against each other. Now locked, Donatos brought his Plasma Pistol to bear, swinging his arm back from its counterbalancing position. Thungrier twisted inwards and pressed his stumpy forearm up under the wrist of the Blood Angel Captain. A ball of compressed sun, rocketed past his head. His hair immediately singed off. The skin on the left side of his face puckered and turned a mottled white as it burned. The additional gilding on the top of his pauldron and a good portion of his pack no longer existed. Where they once were was a rapidly solidifying mass of slag. His eyes went blurry from the heat wave. As Thungrier’s senses cleared a little and he finally got his first good look at the corrupted Captain.

The Captain hadn’t changed as much as his armor. All that was different with the Captain’s physical body was his eyes had turned back and were constantly weeping a thick trail of blood down each side of his face. His hair had darkened several shades. His armor was on a whole other level. The decorative eagles on his pack had morphed into screaming daemonic versions of hawks. They spat out red-tinged smoke nearly constantly. The herald on his back as well as all the aquillas and wings had shifted into eight pointed stars. Even as the fight was going on, Donatos was still growing spikes and points on his armor and the gilding and trim were all turning morbid shades of black and gold. Thungrier didn’t have too long to dwell on the aesthetics of the tainted Captain. He had bigger things to worry about, mainly that plasma pistol. One good shot would be just as devastating as a swipe from the power sword.

After glaring at each other longer than normal combat would condone, the two broke the hold. Donatos came swinging at him again, no quarter, no hesitation. Thungrier parried off a nasty combo with relative ease. A problem quickly arose, his sword had flared out to the side which left him open to the weapon he was worried about. Time slowed for Thungrier. He could see the pistol charging. He could see Donatos face as a smirk slowly formed. Knowing that he didn’t time to dodge he made another one of his ‘decisions’. He shoved his stump forward, lodging what was left of his left arm in the baffle of the pistol. Time returned to normal speed and the pistol discharged. It hit the clog and couldn’t burn through fast enough. Pressure built and it fed back. The pistol exploded showering both in a hail of cooling plasma and metal shards. As he readied himself again, he snuck a look down at his arm. Slagged armor and melted flesh were combining and dripping off. Such is the cost for his ‘decision’. He looked up at the Captain and it was his turn to smirk.

Before either could move, Neris came rocketing through the air, thrown by Sanguinem Supra. The Lamenter collided with the Blood Angel with a mighty ceramite crack. Such was the force that they both tumbled and skidded for quite a few meters. They were both out of commission for the time being. It was just Thungrier against the Sanguinem Supra. Thungrier charged, knowing well what would happen. Just another one of his decisions.

There was no drawn out duel. Thungrier charged and the amped up Primarch dissected him before he could swing. The Lamenter was one of the first casualties of the Sanguinem Supra. Neris roared in protest. He looked down at the still unconscious Captain Donatos and went straight for his Power Sword. Hefting another Power Sword, Captain Neris abandoned defense. He whirled into battle once again, a tornado of blade and disruptive fields.

Once again the two fought as equals. But as time passed and wounds acquired, Neris began to fall behind. They were still in the Warp. The Sanguinem Supra was constantly empowered by the energy of the Warp while Neris was not. Supra was not even close to the power that the Chaos gods had planned for him. Neris lost his grip on the borrowed sword after a powerful strike strike. Another swing neatly severed Neris’ arm. He gasped as the wound became apparent to him. He sagged, struggling to stay on his feet. “~ARE YOU READY TO DIE?~” the Sanguinem Supra approached and asked. Neris looked up at the Primarch, “I was ready to die the day I became a Lamenter. FOR THE EMPR….” His litany cut short as a sword plunged into his shoulder. Donatos pulled the sword out and they both watched the fountain of blood until the pressure in Neris body was no more. “Loyalty to a falsehood is ignorance,” Donatos said in a mock eulogy. “~COME. THE AGE OF BLOOD IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!~” the Sanguinem Supra announced.

The Damocles Cordon

8 --- 750.M42

In the seventh century of the forty-second millennium, Marneus Calgar was once again forced to bring his chapter to bear against the Tau. The 7th Sphere Expansion was basically a footnote in the Administratum. Even though the Tau Empire were encroaching upon the ‘western’ edge of the Damocles Gulf. As the time went on it was evident that the expansion was anything but normal. In 723, the Imperial world of Bast was not even given the opportunity to join the Empire. Understandably, they wouldn’t have joined regardless, but the report that they were never given the chance did raise some flags. 739, the a feudal world K’mara was completely swallowed by a Warp rift. It was filed as a natural disaster until an Inquisitor looked into it. Several interrogations and 2 years of investigating, the Inquisitor found that the Warp Rift was not natural but had been summoned. K’mara had no reported cults or anything that indicated Chaos taint. The final flag that prompted the Administratum to action, was the complete disappearance of the Farsight Enclaves. The worlds were later found completely deserted.

Upon establishing contact with the Tau once again, it was clear that something was very, very wrong. The Tau worlds they came to either greeted them with open arms, welcoming the Imperium or immediately fired upon them with hellish versions of their patent weaponry. There was either no mention of the ‘Greater Good’ or screams of the ‘Greatest Good’. Upon a world in the Vior’la Sept, a shattered battlesuit was found. In it was the diary of a Shas’O from one of the Farsight Enclaves. It described what was the Tau Civil War.

After all available information, much coming from the recovered diary, a decent report was formed, detailing the conflict. After much debate, it was decided that the Tau Ethereals were actually much more potent psykers, albeit still latent. But it was the opening Chaos needed to whisper. Tantalizing targets for Chaos no doubt. Details from the dairy seem to indicate that at some point the Ethereals began to project the ‘Greater Good’ upon themselves. Not all of them but enough. Soon the ‘Greater Good’ of all the Tau became the ‘Greatest Good’. You either served the Ethereals with blind devotion or you died. Already having a surprising amount of control over the Tau, it is unsurprising that few Tau actually died. Based on the change, a consensus that Slaanesh had dug her talons into the Tau. The bulk of the Tau were slaves by mere proxy, whereas the Ethereals with their increased psychic potency were the ones truly enslaved. So the ‘Greatest Good’ was brought to the various Septs. The ones where Slaanesh had corrupted readily joined the dark crusade. The remaining Septs, the ones that were appalled at such a grievous corruption of the grand doctrine, fought back. Eventually word and war had spread to the entire empire, even the Farsight Enclaves hearing of it. Despite their disapproval of the control of the Aun, the Enclaves could not ignore the deaths of their own. After over months of debate, the Enclaves decided that such a threat was so great that it required their full attention. They left as soon as they could. As it stands, the Tau Civil War is still going on, partly due to the stagnation of the technology because of the war.

The Ultramarines were involved with only four major conflicts before the decision to block off the Tau-controlled portions of the segmentum. Two involved purging worlds that had previously defected and then succumbed to the taint. Antother was the destruction of a Tau colony world that engaged a passing Ultramarine fleet. The fourth was also the last conflict before the Imperium withdrew. The 4th Company of Ultramarines was chasing a corrupted fleet from the Tau homeworld. They caught them and forced them down to a nearby planet of the Tau Sept, N’Dras. It was an uncorrupted world already under assault by the corrupted Tau. It was here that the Ultramarines found themselves the unlikely allies to the Farsight Enclave. They stayed no longer than they had to, making sure that the enemy fleet they had been chasing was destroyed.

It was decided that the Imperium had no place in the Tau schism and to let them solve their own problems. A strong argument was made once the report came out that the Tau had been turned to Chaos and the Imperium must destroy Chaos wherever it may be. It should be noted that one Colonel involved in the debate made some mention of helping them because they are a sentient species as well. He was immediately shot. General consensus was that the uncorrupted Tau seemed to be holding their own and that it didn’t seem that the species was tainted, just the leaders. “Daemons aren’t flying out of their assholes on their faces” one general was recorded saying via scribe. With that, the Imperium set up a series of sensors and orbital stations to alert the Imperium should the Tau attempt to venture beyond. The Damocles Cordon has not sensed anything since.

Magnus the Red Reverts

9 ??? ???.M??

“THE CORPSE-EMPEROR!?!?!?” Magnus roared. Normally the booming voice of a daemon primarch is followed by the general shitting of pants, except the only ones around to hear it were Magnus’ Rubrics. And Rubrics are about as autonomous as servitors. Magnus paced back and forth holding a one way conversation. “How can I feel his soul? Granted I could feel its might when he was constrained to the throne, but that was concentrated,” Magnus quipped to himself. Magnus turned and responded, “Well, Father’s soul finally finished splitting when he died. Most likely the fragments are free to drift on the Warp.” “I’m sure that Lord Tzeentch is aware of this,” Magnus stared expectantly at a Rubric to his right, “buuut, he might want the perspective of one of the Anathema’s sons.” With purple-tasting poof, Magnus reappears behind the Rubric and he leans his massive head over one of the Marines shoulders, grinning like an idiot. “I’m gonna go to Lord T and ask what to do because I have no spine. Good thing I’m not loyal to my father anymore.” Magnus twisted around to the front of the unmoving Rubric, and stared down in thought. “I am perfectly capable on my own, THANK YOU.” His giant red hand shot out and grabbed the side of th Rubric’s head, “I DO NOT NEED YOUR SASS!”

Another sour colored poof. Magnus poked his head out on the other side of the Rubric’s helmet, with a super snarky smile, “Cool your horns. If you aren’t a giant red bitch, then why don’t you do something about the bits of your father yourself? Take some initiative.” The primarch crouched and leapt over the motionless Astartes, “For your INFORMATION, the last time I listened to someone and took the ‘initiative’ I broke something important to important people.” Magnus emphasized by stabbing a finger into the breastplate of the Rubric. With a twitch, Magnus shrunk down, slid underneath the Rubric’s legs and returned to normal size, behind the statue once again.”What are you going to break now? The monotony? Wind? The Corpse-Emperor? ISN’t breaking things what you do?” Magnus stayed behind the Rubric and waved one of his hand in circles, occasionally glancing toward his previous spot. Magnus turned back to face his supposed conversation partner. He grabbed the immobile marine by the shoulders and leaned him to one side, “What iiiiffff you used your immensely powerful Warp-y stuff to pull all daddy’s soul bits into you so you can destroy them, eh?” He replaced the poor Rubric and turned to walk in the other direction, “Bag em and tag em. And you don’t even have to bill me for this plan! Best of all you can do this alone, like you seem to love to do.” Magnus swivelled back around mid-step, “Thaaaat’s….not a bad idea.”

A psychic net cast itself out into the Immaterium at began to retreat to its origin. Magnus mentally heaved to pull his catch into a coherent form. He reeled in about a dozen lost souls, a Fury, a super bright mote of light that radiated purity, several Horrors, and a Keeper of Secrets. “Warp damnit all, Rgion, the fuck are you doing here?” Magnus directed at the champion of Slaanesh. “Ohhhh, sorry big boy, I just saw that pretty fishnet and I jussst neeedddded it. Would you like to see me in it?” the Keeper turned on the charm. “You wearing fishnet would actually be more clothes than normal for you, buuut...NO!” Magnus dropped a psychic meteor and wiped his study clean of the whore, “As for you two, don’t you have some gibbering to do somewhere?” Magnus turned his ire toward the two Horrors. “Not ‘til four, boss,” one of the horrors responded. “Get the fuck out Smehth. You too G’harri. And take that indecisive piece of shit with you.” After they were gone, Magnus set the lost souls in a bowl for a snack later and set about adding the floating ball of light to the ever growing chunk of his father’s soul.

“I don’t know how or what you’ve been doing something. I know you can hear me, DAD!” Magnus screamed at the mass of light until his face turned red. “Answer me! Ten millennia ago I would have blasted you to oblivion like your name was Ollianus, but now….now...now I don’t know. So you better have some bloody answers,” Magnus face was red once again. “calm down” “DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO BE wait, is that actually you Father?” the Primarch halted mid-tirade when he realized what had just happened. “yes” “So, you are there...care to address the topic at hand,” Magnus questioned the light ball. “what happens when you turn on a light in a shadowy place?” Magnus leaned back and thought hard, concerned that this was some sort of Tzeentchian riddle. “it gets light. simple. what happens when you add more light?” Magnus squinted, “The room...gets...less dark?” “bingo, my son” “You planned this, didn’t you?” Magnus gave the ball of light a devious smirk.

In un-reality, the Emperor had been influencing Magnus well before he started his collection. The fragments that were drifting attached themselves to anything familiar and safe: other fragments, souls of the Sensei, the primarchs. That was the deciding factor between Magnus going to Tzeentch for help and doing something on his own. As it happened from an outside perspective, the first few fragments of the Emperor that Magnus gathered didn’t do anything. Unfortunately for Magnus, he turned out to be quite proficient at ‘Warp-fishing’ and soon had add nearly a hundred more fragments. This conglomeration of tiny bits of the Emperor started to expand upon what had been started. More and more slices of chaos and corruption were shed as the pure soul of his Father gave Magnus what he always wanted: a Father that was there and supported him. Constantly empowered, Magnus kept gathering more bits of the Emperor’s soul. The effects compounded until the ball of light as it now was reached a tiny critical mass, if souls had mass in the Immaterium.

“You’ve done so much on your own, Magnus. I am proud of you.” the ball of Emperor bits said. Magnus’ face turned red in a mild blush, “Thank you Father, you have no idea how much that means. But there is still one problem…” “You will never be rid of the touch of Chaos. None of us can ever be. But if we get your soul back, that will be good enough. You have become a mighty psyker, and with my help, we should be just strong enough to reclaim it from the lord of nickels and dimes.” Magnus stood up with vigor he hadn’t known in a long, long time, “You really think so? I don’t think I have to tell you that it is Tzeentch we are talking about here,” Magnus huffed. “If I know that slimy god, he probably has your soul out on his lawn with a ‘for-sale’ sign on it, planning to sell it.” the ball-Emperor quipped.

The Grim Beauty of Lesser Hadryion

Assault on Lesser Hadyrion

4 617 789.M42

Alvon was running as fast as he could. Not away from the battle but toward it. By the Imperial luck of the draw, his company, the 13th Hadryion Corvettes had been sent back to their original tithe system. It was not for R&R. In the distance he could see sickly pink lightning strikes stretching throughout the overcast hive. Chanting sometimes echoed off the metal walls. He was barely holding it together; he couldn’t imagine what his men were thinking. A massive explosion sounded hundreds of meters above him, higher up in the hive. The smoking wreckage of a Predator arced downward as a Thunderhawk roared over him. No sooner had the Thunderhawk’s engines dopplered away, a tortured hum pierced his ears. He had to stop and squeeze his eyes shut just to not pass out. He finally managed a painful peek back at his men. Two of his men had their hands on their knees. Rangle was puking her guts out. Thomps had completely passed out, while the rest of his squad was writhing around with their hands on their ears. He turned back toward the objective as the horrible sound ended. An ornamental gate had crumbled like rock and added itself to the rubble of the war-torn hive. A Noise Marine stepped over the desiccated gate and looked at him.

“Get Thomps on his feet! The rest of you slugs, get to cover and start firing. Do not stay in cover for long. Repeat, do not stay in cover for long!” Alvon shouted orders to his squad as he dashed ahead several meters for the shelter of a small hab-building. The Noise Marine sauntered forward, blaring some abysmal dirge from its pack. It sighted one of the Guardsmen and fired its Sonic Blaster. Dinden had barely made it to his feet when an intense vibration hit him. He shuddered as his the inside of his skull resonated with the horrendous frequency. His head exploded and he sagged to the ground. The waves of sound, now partially visible swept over to another one of Alvon’s men, who had just a second ago, been firing his lasgun at the traitor Astartes. The Guardsman quickly disintegrated along with the chunk of hab-building he’d been hiding behind. The Noise Marine stopped firing and leaned back in an incoherent screech of triumph. The sound made Alvon tingle. Between shots of his lasgun, he was taking glances at his men. The one still alive seemed okay. Then he noticed Rangle get up from behind her cover and slowly begin to walk toward the Noise Marine.

He stared incredulously at the Guardswoman as she passed him. Her half-lidded eyes and near-smile snapped him out of his reverie, “RANGLE! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” “It’s...just….so….pretty,” the woman slurred out, continuing to trudge toward the giant Astartes. Alvon racked his head, “Fuck fuck fuck….. Ulgran!” he shouted to a private. “Yes sir?!?” “PUT THAT BOLTER TO USE AND HIT THOSE VENTS ON THE PACK!” Alvon screamed his plan to the heavy weapons trooper. Several deep booms preceded the wet smacking of metal on harder metal. Several Bolter rounds exploded harmlessly on the deformed pauldrons of the Marine, but one managed to hit its mark and the speaker exploded. As the cackling died in a sputter and the normal sounds of battle returned, the Noise Marine finally snapped back to reality. It looked down at the now swaying Guardswoman. “RANGLE! GET THE FUCK BACK HERE! YOU WANNA DIE?” Alvon shouted now that the spell had been broken. She did not respond to his calls. She did respond to the Noise Marine when let out a gut wrenching bellow and pointed toward Alvon and his squad. She turned around making jerky movements more like a puppet than human and started firing her lasgun. She advanced a step and then her head exploded, showering the Noise Marine behind her in blood and bone.

Alvon turned around to see his company’s Commissar standing in the middle of the street, Bolter smoking. Another squad was massing behind him as well. “MEN, IT IS OUR DUTY TO THE EMPEROR TO PURGE THIS HERETIC! FORWARD!” the Commissar rallied the fresh squad and the remainder of Alvon’s squad. A fury of lasgun bolts and explosive shells pelted the Noise Marine. Under such an assault, the Astartes dropped down to its knees, its armor and exposed skin smoking and smouldering. A second later it let loose a scream that sent a shiver of pleasure down the Guardsmen spines. No sooner it dropped completely to the ground and began to melt. The squads breathed an audible sigh of relief and moved to an intact hab-shelter to discuss their further actions.

Inside, the current progress of the battle for Hive Siberni was laid out. The lower levels had been mostly cleared, with the exception of a particularly dug in force of cultist in a Mechanicum vault. The middle tiers were being assault by the Guard, which is where they were. And the upper levels and spires were barely being suppressed by air forces. After that was established, both Alvon and the Commissar agreed that they should advance southward and regroup with G Company to assault the temple on this level, not that Alvon actually had a say or anything. The two squads slogged out the door and their world went white.

The hive was splashed in the light of several tremendous pink lightning bolts. A multitude of screams pierced the battle as they harmonized into a singular scream of agony. The air grew thin as a portion around the hive sucked in towards the top. It exploded outwards in another second. A huge spire that had once held the family that owned the forges of the hive crumbled and fell. In the center of thousands of dead bodies splayed out in lasting agony and pleasure, a singular figure stood, Fulgrim, the daemon prince of Slaanesh.

As Fulgrim appeared in the materium, the group containing Alvon was overcome with an immense pressure, like they had just taken on ridiculously heavy packs. Their legs gave out under the psychic weight. One by one they blacked out, the only signs of life were their shallow breaths. Fulgrim had entered the fight.

Fulgrim's Penance

9 ??? ???.M??

Deep on the Planet of Pleasure, Fulgrim sat upon a beautiful throne of pristine pearl, inlaid with obsidian runes. His sharpened fingernails clattered upon the armrest. He wanted something, but then again, he always wanted something. He thought about calling in a daemonette. Eh, they were a dime a dozen, perhaps he should have a pair of his new Phoenix Guard duel, to see how long they go and how much blood they could spill. He lingered on the idea of a duel. Just as he was about to call for them, and a daemonette, because why not, a huge ball of light pulsed into existence in the center of his throne room. The daemons currently in the room and the traitorous Astartes rushed towards the new presence, desperate for some new experience. They made it no closer than 10 paces as some flew back and splattered against the walls. Others just collapsed upon themselves and popped out of un-reality. The Astartes all disintegrated as their bodies were ripped apart layer by layer, cell by cell. Fulgrim was soon alone. He looked at the ball of light, which was now red with golden-white swirls in it. “What have you done? Reveal yourself,” Fulgrim accused at the hovering essence. It pulsed bright once, then twice, and then exploded in lances of super-bright energy. Fulgrim winced but kept his eyes open. They burned. It felt good. Then a staccato burst of light rushed him and his world went dark.

Fulgrim awoke to an eerily silent palace. It was...nice. “Wait,” he muttered to himself. Something was different, definitely different. He shouldn’t be finding pleasure in a silent room, that was something...that he did before he turned to Chaos. He looked down. He still had four arms. He twitch a non-standard muscle and a scaly tail draped itself over his shoulder. “Still in the body that Slaanesh gave me,” Fulgrim wondered aloud, “But I can’t understand this feeling.”

He stood there for quite sometime deep in thought until he was finally disturbed by a daemonette skipping into the room, “Hey master, we got a messenger from the Planet of Sorcerers. He said something about Magnus wanting to see you. I ate him, I hope you don’t mind.” Fulgrim wove a hand through his hair, “Magnus eh, I guess I could go see that red hermit. A change of pace sounds rather nice.”

The two Primarchs stood face to face for the first time in centuries. “You’ve changed Magnus, what is it?” Fulgrim asked the red figure. “I could say the same to you, Fulgrim,” Magnus responded, “perhaps you no longer want to burst your eardrums with awful music and play around in bloody slip and slides?” “Brown noise has nothing to do with ear….wait, how would you know?” the reptilian prince asked in sudden realization, “You did it didn’t you?” Magnus spun and started pacing, “I might have had a hand in the removal of certain daemonic influences yes...but I didn’t do it alone. I have someone I want you to meet.” As he said this a ball of light floated down from the ceiling of Magnus’ study. It stopped its descent next to Magnus, hovering a meter off the floor. “Hello, son.” “Son….father?” Fulgrim managed to stutter out. He snapped to Magnus and glared at him, “MAGNUS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY HAVE YOU NOT DESTROYED THIS THING?” “Father has died more than you or I together. And I no longer am aligned against Father,” Magnus responded matter of factly, “Besides haven’t you felt it? Surely on your way over here you felt the occasional pinprick of light and purity? Of course you have, and do you know what those were?” Magnus leaned in toward his brother. “Father?”, Fulgrim faintly asked. “Well bits of me actually. Now that you are no longer completely steeped in Chaos, I can actually touch you with my presence again.” the Emperor-ball said. “I still don’t care. You are still the Emperor, false as ever,” Fulgrim spat out. The room was still, no one moved. Fulgrim was just about to lay into his Father and Magnus, when the voice of his Father began, “You...are right, my son. You went to Chaos for perfection, even if at times it wasn’t your choice. You had it forced upon you at times. And...and I’m sorry,” the Emperor-ball sputtered out, “I...I...was the one who forced it upon you. When I made you and your brothers I too...I….I went… to Chaos….for perfection. I tainted you. And that will never be gone.” The Emperor-ball was now dripping tiny globules of light and energy.

Fulgrims shoulders sagged. The revelation socked him in the gut, which normally would have made him shout in ecstasy but now it hurt, not a physical hurt but a wet, cold hurt. His Father, the greatest human ever to exist had lain his greatest shame bare. And he could swear that the glob of light was...crying. “Father, I...had no idea,” Fulgrim apologized. “I thought I had truly lost you,” the Emperor-ball said, “When Magnus and I appeared in your palace and released that psychic wave, we really didn’t have any idea if it would work. And then...then I felt your soul touch one of my fragments.” the Emperor-ball blubbered out, “At first I was sure that it was a trick. And then, I felt another and another! I was so overjoyed that I accidentally lit Magnus’ hair on fire!” Magnus stared down at his Father’s form, “Remind me to thank you for that later.” Fulgrim laughed and commented back, “Your hair was always wiry, you never listened to me when I gave you tips.” “Stow it pretty boy,” Magnus retorted, “Oh! I said I had somebody I wanted you to meet.” Fulrim furrowed his brow, “Did Tzeentch really screw with you that much? I already met Father.” Magnus smiled a truly compassionate smile, “No, someone else.” As he said that, the semi-visible form of Ferrus Manus stepped out from behind his red brother.

“F-F-Ferrus...Is that really you?” Fulgrim stuttered, nearly driven to silence at the appearance of his brother. “Yes, Fulgrim. I am here. Our brother here happened to snag me in one of his psychic nets. Never would have thought the bookworm to be a fisherman,” Ferrus explained. Magnus huffed and stepped off to the side. It was not his place to be in this meeting. “I-I...I don’t want you to see me like this,” Fulgrim lowered his head in shame and slumped down. Ferrus walked over and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “I don’t see anything. What I see is the same brother who showed such deep remorse for cutting me down that it cleared the taint instantaneously. That’s the brother I see. And that’s the brother I choose to forgive.” Ferrus told the forlorn primarch. “You...forgive me? B-but…” Fulgrim sobbed out. “You...h-have...no...n-no reason..to.” “You are my brother and that is all the reason I need,” Ferrus said as he embraced his broken brother in a hug. Fulgrim sagged into his arms, “hup, you’re a bit heavier than I remember.”

It took quite a while for the emotions to die down. Ferrus backed off as Magnus and the dollop of Emperor came closer, forming a semicircle. “As for your current appearance and form,” the Emperor-ball began, “we might have a solution for that...?” Magnus spoke up, “It would seem that a Slaaneshi cult on the world of Lesser Hadryion is preparing a ritual to summon you to them.” The Emperor-ball finished, “and with some tweaking, we could have you pop out in a more human form.” Fulgrim looked at them with streaks down his cheeks and a smile upon his face, “I would love that. But what of Ferrus?” Ferrus crossed his arms, “Sadly, I cannot come back into the Materium yet. We have discussed it but have not come up with anything yet, although I told them to drop it when Father told me that he could feel your presence once more.” Fulgrim raised his shoulders and stood much more confidently, “Thank you Ferrus. For everything. Now let’s do this. The sooner I get back to the Materium, the sooner we can get you back as well.”

Victory on Lesser Hadryion

4 617 789.M42

The spots in his eyes cleared quickly as Fulgrim got his first look at the Materium, Hive Siberni, and Lesser Hadryion. He could see the ash choked sky and flashes of ordnance explosions. As he turned around, he could see a crown of hive spires and columns of oily smoke. Behind them he could see Thunderhawks skittering around the hive, dotted lines of ack-ack tracers lancing out. Fulgrim’s ears finally cleared out, that clogged cottony feeling subsiding.

The true scope of the battle for the hive became apparent as the sounds overlayed what Fulgrim was seeing. Now he could hear and feel the dull thumps of anti-aircraft guns firing. The occasional downward whine of a Predator firing its lascannon. The ever present staccato bursts of Bolters and the tinkling of thousands lasguns. The screams and shouts echoed off the maze of walls some louder than others. In fact the screams were the loudest things he heard. As Fulgrim continued to get his bearings, he finally connected the super loud screams to hundreds of screaming cultists still standing amongst a plaza of dead bodies.

The court was a bloodbath. For every one standing cultist, there were a hundred bodies lying in odd, contorted positions. There were pools of blood in between bodies that formed improvised biological levees. The drains gurgled as they struggled to keep up with the red tide. All the while, Fulgrim’s face relayed the growing horror of what he was witnessing. Inside, he knew that this is how he was to summoned to the Materium, but nothing prepared him for this wanton loss of life. “This...this is what I was?” Fulgrim choked out as he swivelled his head, taking in more and more of the visceral scene. He looked down, his neck no longer had the strength to hold his head up. “Lord Fulgrim! With you leading our forces we will surely take the hive from the Corpse-Emperor’s forces,” he heard from behind him. He turned and came face to face with a Noise Marine.

“Master, we are steadily losing ground in the middle levels of the hive but we still hold the upper levels. We also have a foothold in the bottom tier. This battle is...a blessing of new experiences. I figure you wish to indulge as well?” Fulgrim stared at the mutated Astartes, a look of disgust coming over his face. Horror, sadness, anger, disgust all swept over him as he took in what used to be one of his beloved Legionnaires. A guttural, primal scream sounded, “GAAAAAHHHHH,” as Fulgrim snapped. A fist of the Primarch shot out pulping the head of the Noise Marine in a wet crunch. Fulgrim noticed that his fist was covered in a gauntlet. He looked down and noticed that he no longer bore the gift of Slaanesh; he was back in a comfortable suit of royal purple Power Armor. A final gift of Ferrus no doubt. A pair of tears rolled down his cheeks, he didn’t deserve any of this: the new life, the gift of old armor, the forgiveness. He snapped back to reality as the lifeless Astartes fell to the ground, blood, bone, and bits of ceramite adding to the gore already there. “Is this my punishment?!? I accept it,” Fulgrim shouted to the sky. He looked back around, his face now stone. “I know what I must do...I know my penance...my punishment...all of you...ALL OF YOU WILL BE PURGED!” Fulgrim shouted at the now gawking crowd of cultists and traitorous Chaos forces. He reached down and grabbed an errant Chainsword and hefted it. “COME AND DIE WITH AT LEAST SOME HONOR!” Fulgrim shouted as he issued his challenge. Moments later the crowd surged in, screeching and chittering in the excitement of taking on a turned Primarch.

Alvon and what remained of the two squads crept into what appeared to be a foyer. What was once a rather decadent room was now covered in heretical symbols and smears of blood and gore. There were bullet pockmarks and crushed rubble everywhere. Even as, it was still nicer than anything the lower levels had, even before the war. Up ahead was the main courtyard of the hive, the main objective of his regiment and location of the heinous ritual they were told was taking place. They could hear screams and shouts. Their imaginations ran wild with the terrifying possibilities. The commissar entered, took stock of the location, and bellowed the order to move forward. They began to advance. Several steps later, a daemonette ran out of a side room toward the courtyard, eager to join the convolution out there. It skidded to a halt as it sensed the squads near it. “Oh ho my, what have we here? Some brave guardsmen I think. Hmhm!”, it chortled as it started walking toward them.

The daemonette slinked forward. It's laughter was like the gentle tinkling of glass in the wind and grating fingernails on a chalk board. The two squads had frozen unsure of whether to run away or toward the daemon. The commissar was not so entranced and set about attacking the daemon, shouting litanies and ‘heresy’. The commissar and daemonette closed the distance between each other. Despite his fervor and fury, the daemonettes unnatural strength prevailed. The commissar soon drooped lifelessly in the daemonettes claws. It laughed as it pulled dripping strings of his intestines out and rubbed them on its body. The grindhouse act was cut short as the upper torso of a cultist crashed through a chunk of the doorway and slammed into the daemonette, knocking it and its plaything over. The far off look on everyone's faces cleared and they all started firing at the daemon. One commissar may have not been enough, but the bulk of two whole Guardsman squad firing simultaneously slagged the feminine daemon in seconds. Past another daemonic hurdle courtesy of Slaanesh, the squads moved to their objective. When they entered the courtyard, they once again were brought into reverie.

In the rough center of the courtyard was the most massive human they had ever seen. They had seen Angels of Death before, but this figure was so much more. His armor gleamed while every swipe of his sword was followed by beautiful white hair. This was no mere Astartes. This was something more. The Space Marine moved with such grace and poise that it seemed out of place amongst the carnage. Eventually the sounds of Bolter fire across the courtyard alerted them to the presence of more Guardsman. In a matter of minutes six more squads of Guardsmen appeared at various entrances around the plaza. The Chaos forces were not prepared to face a Primarch in the middle and the chokehold press of the Imperial Guard on the outside. They withered and joined the floor of the dead. Fulgrim finally looked around, no longer concentrating on fight since it had ended. He noticed another crowd had formed, this one composed of Guardsman. Looking around, Fulgrim was worried that the guard would launch into an attack. He braced himself, not desiring to kill the soldiers of the Imperium. As he lowered his head he once again noticed the familiar gauntlets of his armor. He looked back up and smiled, “I...I am Fulgrim, Primarch of the.... of the fallen Emperor's Children. It’s n-nice to meet you all!”

Alvon’s jaw dropped. He never had expected to ever meet an Angel of Death and he’d seen one in action on his last campaign. But to meet a Primarch? He’d never dream of the idea on the off chance that such lofty dreams were heresy or something. He heard the purple-clad Primarch speak. It took him a long time to realize that the Lord was talking to him. “Guardsman, what is your name?” “M-m-me sir? It’s A-A-Alvon, uhhhhh, Sarge-Sargeant Alvon...Sir.” The Primarch laughed, it was a beautiful soft laugh, “Just as I remember, always nervous.” Fulgrim motioned the stunned Guardsman over. “Get over here boy. I’m not going to bite, not anymore at least. I’d like to meet a Guardsman, I haven’t shaken hands with the real men of the Imperium for a long, long time.” Alvon overcame his initial shock, he started picking his way through the rough terrain toward the Primarch. When he got there, the Primarch reached out a large gauntlet. The two shook. “Nice to meet you Alvon.”

The Savior of the Imperium Wakes

Stasis Deactivation

3 054 799.M42

Stasis fields are an interesting thing. In its essence, it’s a bubble that is impervious to the flow of time, thusly everything stops inside it. Truly marvelous technology….unless you are dying when put inside, in which case, it sucks. Theoretically, there is no way to affect anything in a stasis field. If one were able to affect the contents of the stasis field before it entered the bubble. Unfortunately, time travel is not possible. At least in the materium. But in the Warp, time folds in upon itself. As the thousands of bits of the Emperor’s soul floated around the Immaterium and attached themselves to the closest representation of the emperor they could find, it is inevitable that they were attracted to beings like primarchs. Since time has no meaning in the Immaterium, bits and pieces cobble themselves together at all times of the universe. Finally, amongst the incessant chanting and worshipping, someone noticed that the great Guilliman no longer had a wound in his neck. So the stasis was deactivated and Roboute revived.

The Debriefing of Tolm Esh

5 828 800.M42

“I was scared. I’ll say it. Everyone was scared. Anyone who says they aren’t scared is a liar. The key is being more scared of the Commissar than the enemy. That’s pretty easy when you're fighting cultist and Chaos-y shit. I guess even them greenskins are pretty human looking too. But the bugs, Emperor, they are fucking scary. They give the Commissariat a run for their money.We had barely finished diggin’ the second trench line in our static defense plan. Good plan, much better than stand, point, and shoot. I guess the idea was to fight a cascading defense, lead the bugs into strong points and then fall back as needed. Good idea if we had finished digging all 5 layers. But we only got 2. We started shooting at them like any good guardsman would. Veary took one of them slug bullets to the face and went down. We lost a couple more guys by the time it showed up. It wasn’t as big as the gigantic ones but it walked like it was in charge. I mean, anything with 4 arms has got to be in charge right?”

“It smashed into the line and started dicing men left and right. Warmison got her legs cut off right after the big bug decapitated the Commissar. Then I was scared. The Commissar was gone so the bugs were the scariest thing there. The bug stomps over to me and I’m praying to the emperor for all I'm worth. Couldn’t remember the bug litany but that didn’t weigh on me too heavy. So the thing raises the arm with the huge sword and I just kinda commit my soul to the emperor. Closed my eyes and all that. Then I hear a roar, a human roar. Louder than the bugs noise, whatever they make. I got my eyes open just in time to see a huge blue mass charge into the big bug and take it to the ground. Then another blue mass walked up to me and offered me a huge hand. Told me not to fear anymore. Then he stomped off toward the bug. I realized they were Ultramarines, and they look like really important ones. The two danced around the bug, one always was behind it. They tore through it like it was just another bug. The one thing I really remember from that was how it seemed to stink after they got there. It wasn’t sweat or dirt, but an animal smell. Kinda weird and hard to explain. It just sorta smelled like fear.”

No Laughing Matter

9 ??? ?802.M42?'

Even Tzeentch isn’t completely privy to the ways of the Webway. Such is the god of change that he has just decided to accept and embrace the lump of spaghetti that is the ancient Webway. Only Cegorach, the laughing god of the Eldar can tell you where you are in that convoluted mess. And it was in the year 802M42 that Cegorach made a call for the benefit of all Eldar.The god decided that the Imperium could perhaps be treated like the Old Ones, apathetic respect, and so he appeared to the lost Khan, They had a very interesting conversation that is only known to the Black Library.

An amorphous blob rises out of the floor? of the Webway in front of a weary Jaghatai

Human primarch known as Khan, I have a...proposal of sorts

Jaghatai assumes a fighting stance, almost itching for combat after such along time in the Webway

Who are y...you’re the laughing god of the eldar. I have no reason to listen to you at all.

I'm well aware of your displeasure of my darkened children, and I share it, albeit not as fiercely as you I must say.

That doesn’t change anything. Nothing you could offer me would be worth consorting with a bloody fucking Eldar, and a god at that.

Cegorach squats down and crosses his long legs

What if it got you out of the Webway

Jaghatai eases up a bit and cocks his head

Get me...out of...the Webway? Hold the fuck up, what's the catch? The Eldar are always thinking of themselves. Ask where the bathroom is and, oh, they’ll tell you but just so that they can take a shit in a nicer bathroom by themselves. And you’re one of their gods, so can you understand my trepidation?

Cegorach sighs and then chuckles

I cannot deny that my children are rather self serving. And in all honesty this proposal aids me and my children just as much as it does your Imperium. Laughable as it may be, the Eldar must finally admit that the only way that the two of our races can survive is to stop fighting each other.

So you think that freeing me from this maze will… will...ripple through the galaxy and help the Eldar?

The two parties are silent for a rather long time and then Khan speaks up

Can I still kill the spiky ones?

Hahahahahaha, yes, I’ll even give you the keys.

AHAAHAHA, then I believe we have an accord. But, before we go, how good is that teleport-y blob shit you do? I have an idea…

I’m listening

9 763 802.M42

Several days later, the leader of the Dark Eldar, unconvincingly tried to tell people that Jaghatai Khan punched him in the face after Cegorach and the primarch appeared in his bedchambers. The story started to become a bit more believable after reports of Dark Eldar being killed in a new Great Hunt started by the White Scars under their returned primarch.

The Final Deception

7 ??? 833.M42

A cloaked figure leaned back on a mundane stool, the darkened face beneath the hood starring intently. “Run that back again, I didn’t quite get that, the Golden Throne is going to fail? It already failed. The Emperor is dead,” the figure stated. A non-descript xeno gave something equivalent to a sigh, “Yes and yes. While the Golden Throne is no longer supporting the Emperor of Mankind, it still seals the failed Human Webway. In this century, it will fail completely and the Warp will spill over Terra.” The figure dropped his feet and placed his elbows on the table, “You Cabal guys are always sooo informed, no wonder Alpharius likes you guys.” “Information is our game and the destruction of the Ruinous Powers is our aim...Do you agree that this is enough to bring your lord to the main ship to meet with the Inner Circle?” the xeno thoughtfully responded as if he was selling the shady organization to the other figure. “Maybe….”

A huge hulking figure walked into a massive circular room. All manner of eyes, antennae, sensors, and mechanical visualizers were on him. A figure, an Eldar, stood as the visitor reached a dais in the middle of the room. “Primarch, are you aware of why we called you here?”

“Yes,” a deep voice emanated forth. Another xeno stood up, “We have a great opportunity before us. Or rather you do. With the visions from the Acuity, there is a future where you take advantage of the Golden Throne’s portal and destroy Terra, and by default humanity. As you should have millennia ago.” The figure started pacing, “This is indeed a boon. A chance to destroy the Imperium from the inside out. Once again. But I might have some concerns…”

“For one, why would you task me with this? Assuredly, the other Traitor legions will invade, and they are a much better group for war, don’t you think?” the figure posited. “It is possible, but that would require us actually trusting the Ruinous Powers. While we are not above manipulating them, we only use them when we are in complete control. I.E. you,” a seated xeno responded. “I see, second, are you aware of how spread out my operatives are? Even before putting down plans, I can tell you all that this is bigger than a couple of people sitting down over recaf. We’d need at least half of my remaining legion, not to mention their retinues and cells. Are you willing to coordinate that logistical nightmare. Or FUND it?” the figure cocked his head to add emphasis. “We are aware of that. We also have several decades to prepare. Not to mention that money has never been a problem,” the Eldar member answered him. The figure resumed pacing, shaking his hand and mumbling, clearly planning and thinking. He stopped and turned toward them again. “One last concern: Why? Just...why?”

“Why what?” a xeno squawked. “Why humanity? What does eradicating them actually achieve?” the figure quickly retorted. “You know full well why. Without out humanity, the Ruinous powers will starve and the taint will eventually disappear,” the Eldar member answered with contempt. “Yeeeaaaahhhh….NO. See here’s the thing: The Chaos Gods feed on other species as well. I mean, the galaxy is one giant buffet. The loss of humanity would be bad yeah, but not death. AND,” the figure quickly cut off the Eldar member before he could speak, “when you think about it, humanity isn’t the worst thing to happen. The Eldar are responsible for the CREATION of one of the gods. Doesn’t seem like you guys really tried to stop that one, I mean you were around ‘before the Eldar’ right’,” the figure had paced his way over to one of the decorations in the room, a large glowing orb, and was leaning on it. “WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” one of the members shouted.

The figure pulled down his shroud revealing he wasn’t wearing a helmet. It was Alpharius, the Primarch of the XXth Legion. “The meaning? Well, I’ve been beginning to think that the Cabal might have ulterior motives. Now hear me out boys...and girl, I think.” The room was seething, several of the xeno member were bearing teeth at the primarch. “So the Cabal is all about fighting the Ruinous Powers. But you just orchestrate moves and countermoves. Everything you do, literally everything, merely extends Chaos. You’ve been around for tens of billions of years and you haven’t done shit. A new fucking god showed up on your watch. Pretty shitty track record. So why? What if it was a double cross, get people to fight Chaos, so Chaos can perpetuate itself? Reeks of Undivided taint. And then your ‘Acuity’? You know who else deals with crazy farseeing? Eh? Tzeentch,” All of the members stood and glared knives at him. “What you are proposing is ludicrous! We would never consort with Chaos!” the Eldar, apparently the de-facto speaker for this session spat at the man, “Alpharius, if you wish to continue such raucous accusations, we will kill you here and now!”

“First off, I’m Omegon…. secondly, I have pretty good evidence. Wanna hear? No? Too bad. More war and death?. Khorne is happy. Extended time for entropy and decay? Just heard Nurgle shit himself. Crazy plans and souped up psychic fortune-telling? Checkmark for Tzeentch. And a we’re-better-than-you-and-know-best attitude. Winner winner Slaaneshi dinner!” Omegon looked at the crowd expectantly. “YOU WILL DIE, TRAITOR!” a xeno screamed. A blade erupted from his chest, purple blood fountaining outward, “Don’t be so sure…”

The owner of the blade vaulted over the dieing xeno and landed next to Omegon. “I’m Alpharius,” he said as he dropped his hood, “And I don’t make ‘raucous accusations’” The tension in the room built to a silent crescendo. “So what, humans? We kill you here and this coup dies here as well. Even if you told others, we will hunt them down and eliminate them. You know full well we can.” the xeno who’d been sitting next to the dead one ground out from clenched teeth. “We never told anyone,” Omegon started and Alpharius finished, “actually we did tell someone.” The two strode forward to the center dais and dropped a tetra-archal pyramid. It was a dark gray metal and hovered a few centimeters above the floor. “You know that psychic powers cannot pierce this ship’s exterior shields...What is your game?” “This isn’t Warp-tech, its actually a Necron teleporting focus, no psychics needed.” Alpharius returned. “The Necrontyr have always been opposed to the Ruinous Powers, you think they will actually aid you?” one of the members, the female, screeched. “Nope, you are right. We made friends with something a bit better than some salty piles of metal,” Omegon proudly smiled. The piece of Necron tech began spinning and glowing brighter. Motes of sickly green light bloomed into a full on patchwork of various shades of green in a roughly spherical shape above it. The portal flashed and then snapped off. Standing in the middle of the twin primarchs was an amphibian xeno. The entire room stared in shock. The Eldar member finally spoke out, “An Old One? Impossible….”

The two primarchs had the biggest shit eating grins plastered on their faces. The room was chaos. Flashes of purple and red bloomed every other second. Screams of pain and anger reverberated off the round walls. Members scrambled for doors or weapons before being ripped apart at a cellular level or taking huge blobs of high frequency energy to the body. The Eldar member stretch out his hand and fired a lance of pink Warp fire at the Old One. It merely curled around the area in front and melted the wall 10 meters back behind. The floor beneath the Eldar glowed pink before erupting in a huge pillar of Warp fire. As much as they wanted to stand and watch, the twins also wreaked their particular brand of carnage upon the room. Any member who made it even remotely close to a door, met with a grisly end. One xeno was pasted against the wall by a Power Armor gauntlet just a meter from the door. Just as abruptly as it started, the room sank back down into silence.

“Wooh boy, I love your work T’vrok,” Omegon said as he walked toward the center of the room. “Without their heads, the Cabal will crumble. Especially without this ship too” Alpharius quipped. “good...very good im...glad that i could be useful...after so long” the Old One turned to the two Primarchs. With another green glow, the ancient guardian disappeared. “I’d love to stand around be we do have some stuff to get ready for...like invading Terra.” Omegon stretched back and cracked his spine and Power Armor. “I wouldn’t put it like that, but yeah, we’re going back to Terra brother.” The two laughed as they walked out of the room.

Council at Tembor

4 --- 877.M42

Contact: WAAGH! Tygahfang

The empire of the Overfiend Tygahfang had been brewing and growing in the flickering darkness of the 42nd millennium. Encompassing an entire sector, it soon became more than a thorn in the side of the galaxy. When the twin Imperial worlds of Addiglan Prime and Secundus fell, the Imperium was alerted to its existence. And when the agri-world of Maristellen cried out in astropathic despair as the green tide descended upon them, the Imperium moved. By the time any significant forces were nearing the beleaguered world, it was gone, swept away by the Orks. Their incessant desire to fight, kill, and conquer led them to another world in the system, Tembor, a once dead, rocky world, terraformed long ago so that mining operations could proceed without suffocation. It was about to be terraformed once again, by the fires and machines of war.

On the fields of Tembor, a Cadian Regiment had just finished digging in when the outer elements of a fighta group slammed into them. Hundreds of tiny gretchin broke against the walls of Guardsmen. The flashing lasguns burned down the tiny orkoids. What meager few managed to make it through the searing firing line were put down by hand. The endless waves of gretchin didn’t seem to slow. Soon nobs filtered into the green. The bigger orks were not going down as easy. Soon the two forces impacted wholeheartedly. Guardsmen would exhaust a powerpack taking down a nob and then be overrun by a group of gretchins; their comrades not having the time to worry or dare to shoot the tiny enemies for fear of hitting their friends. Later, when blood was flowing freely, the Meganobs, although few, waded into the fray. Commisars were shooting at their fleeing men one second and then sawing through an ork the next. It was complete chaos. A lieutenant squared off against one of the Meganobs. Valiant though his efforts were, he too fell, being caught by a Power Klaw. The Meganob was down an arm and missing its lower jaw. All across the battlefields of Tembor, this scene was repeating itself, outcomes as various as the combatants.

Above the planet, the Imperial Navy was embroiled in a similar fight above the planet. Brilliant, tight lines of destruction from lance batteries criss crossed the dirty plumes of the shells from gunz. Tiny Thunderhawks twisted and turned in time with Fightas and Bombas. The engines of a Cruiser, the Resolute Aggression, flared and it lurched toward a humongous Kill Kroozer. The mekboss, second to the Overfiend Tygahfang, commanding ork of the space fighta group, and captain of the Sun Shatterah, roared as the Imperial ship embedded its prow into his capital ship.

A massive salvo of asteroid chunks issued from the starboard side of the Sun Shatterah. The rocks with a smattering of repurposed engines flew into the Imperial formations. A destroyer, Breakpoint, attempted to maneuver out of the way and caught one abreast. The mass weapon and destroyer shattered. The Imperials were in disarray from the attack. The smaller Kroozers and Destroyas surged into the gaps and it no longer was organized fighting, just close brawling. Ships no longer had time to maneuver their way through the fray. A Kroozer couldn’t decelerate and turn in time; it plowed and scraped along the side of a Battle Barge and took a salvo literally point blank which cracked its keel and left it a blasted wreck. A pair of Destroyers collided, one running from the guns of the Sun Shatterah, the other plying in to rake a Kroozer with a broadside. They cracked and groaned as the impact fused them together and they began to drift lazily on the resultant vector. The orks still shot at it. It seemed that the one-off attack from the Sun Shatterah turned the tide of battle to the orks favor. Should the Orks claim victory in the skies above Tembor, it wouldn’t be long for the same to occur on the ground.

The mekboss, Funderhorn, roared at his crew to call in the other Fighta Groups from around the sector. Having detected signatures approaching in the Warp, Funderhorn wanted all the possible Orks fighting in space because he knew that he hadn’t won yet. Also, he didn’t want to deny his orks the chance to fight. Huge blooms of twirling Warp energy appeared on the edge of the battlespace. The Fighta Group, VoidBreaka flew into the upper port region of the Ork lines. At the same time, the small fleet of the Ultramarines, containing a smattering of Cruisers, Destroyers and even a pair of Battleships, came up underneath the area. Behind the fleet, a massive rift opened and the battleship, Alabaster Gleaming, slid out. The mekboss cursed at his luck that an equivalent Imperial ship would show up. Now he actually had to put his noggin to use to fight. But then he remembered that he liked to fight.

The captain of the Alabaster Gleaming listened to an attendee rattle off current battle reports. “Our comrades, the 9th Expeditionary Fleet, are currently reforming their lines. Thermal scans show the a moderate amount of the Ork vessels have only been here a short time. Perhaps our arrival has been more fortuitous than we thought.” As if to confirm the report, a voice came up on the vox, “This is acting admiral Lund Cythos! I am so glad to see you. The orks have a good commander. We thought we were through when that fresh group showed up. I hope your admiral has a good head on his shoulders.” The captain voxed back, “Strengthen your starboard flank, we will hold and attack from port.” “For the Emperor! Out” As the vox crackled out, a massive figure stepped from the shadows of a bulkhead. “Have the battleship, Cradle of Destruction, and her escorts slingshot around the planet,” the hulk commanded as he reached a raised dais in the middle of the bridge. “You heard Lord Guilliman! Let us purge these xenos for the Emperor!”

Roboute stood, regal, in gleaming blue armor. “My lord, if I may, that warboss has been reported to be very clever. No doubt he will deduce that the Cradle and her group will come up from beneath the planet.” The primarch raised an eyebrow, “I’m counting on it. Tell the Cradle to adjust 120 degrees to port and begin ten percent rotation. I intend for them to slingshot down, out of view and scanners and then slam into the newer ork battlegroup near the 9th’s starboard

flank.” The plan sank in at about the same time as the Alabaster began to fire her giant prow cannons. The Cradle of Destruction dropped down and headed towards the planet.

The steel-white void ship screamed toward the planet. Her prow and crenellations flared, casting off burning waves of atmosphere. As she gained velocity, her antennae and proud extrusions began casting off sonic booms if they had dipped into the upper sphere. As she twisted about, orienting to the planet, her entire underside grabbed the air. The south pole of the world bathed in white borealis as a massive amount of atmosphere burned in an instant. No sooner the ship had reached the zenith of her burn and lifted out of the outer limits. The engine cones of her escort ships flared as they tried to keep pace. They began to crest the equatorial line.

Funderhorn roared at his talkie-nob warning the captain of the Voidbreaka group to guard his rear. The humie ships had dropped down and were sure to come up beneath. Rather quickly, a triplet of Destroyas and two Kroozers had begun to swing around and twist downward. Funderhorn rose from his throne/command chair and walked toward the ramshackle viewing window to watch the counter to the pincer move. The humies were flying right into his Power Klaw. To his left he saw a glint, the sun of the system refracting off the polished prow of the Cradle of Destruction. Her escorts gleamed in the sunlight. Seconds later, tiny puffs of venting propellent and the actinic flash of lance batteries firing appeared. All of Voidbreaka was completely broadside, and Funderhorn had been out maneuvered for the first time. As the spear of Imperial naval might crashed into the Voidbreaka battlegroup, it ceased to be a fighting unit. A Destroya was gutted from stem to stern from a lance shot. The Kill Kroozer, Deca-Dent, was ripped in half as her keel shattered when the Cradle of Destruction punched through. With that Funderhorn was now on the defensive. He rampaged about his bridge smashing anything that wasn’t smart enough to get out of the way. The tides of battle were about to change again. Ships on both sides began to ping more contacts approaching from the Warp. From everywhere.

Four full Fighta groups decelerated from Warp travel around the rear quadrants of the Funderhorns main force. Fighta Groups Klank-en-Krank and Black Dredge exited the aether side by side, to Funderhorn’s rear. The Morkifactors trawled out of the rifts to Funderhorn’s lower starboard, the massive Battle Hulk in the middle of the formation. Finally, the surprisingly organized Green Leejun fly into battle near to the now defunct Voidbreaka group. The bridge of the Alabaster Gleamin held its breath while the mekboss on Sun Shatterah was laughing like a maniac. Guilliman broke the silence, “Oh good. I was beginning to think I might look a fool if they hadn’t shown up.” The personnel on the bridge stared at him as though he was mad. The captain stuttered out something resembling a ‘we can’t hope to win now” Robout cocked his head and calmly asked if they were still pinging Warp contacts. “Uhhh….um, y-y-yes.”

Indeed, there were still contacts pinging in the Warp. Within seconds, a fleet of Salamanders slid out of un-reality. Vulkan had come to Tembor. To the back of Guilliman’s fleet a cornucopia of rifts opened up and the large fleet of Khan’s White Scars zipped out. The tiny Corvettes and Fast Frigates spun and twisted, eager to get into the fight. The larger Light Cruisers lumbered forward, looking to reinforce the battered 9th Fleet. Above the Cradle of Destruction’s detachment, a Crimson Fist detachment materialized. Finally, the small fleet of the Red Scorpions stormed in underneath Guilliman’s Fleet. The stage was set, hundreds of ships facing off in a bloodbath unseen for some time.

“Brothers! I’m glad to see you get here. I didn’t want to take all the glory for myself.” “Heh, you move so slow, I could’ve stopped for tea on a pleasure world.” “I’m just glad you aren’t dead.” “Glad we got that out of the way. Jaghatai, I want you to take care of that massive Kill Kroozer. And Vulkan, I want you to hit Tembor and take command. The Crimson Fists and Red Scorpions will accompany you down. I will retain command of the forces above the planet,” commanded Roboute. Granted, all three primarchs were equal but Guilliman had been there first and they tended to defer to his tactical decisions. The tiny exhaust trails of drop pods and the twin, spiraling lines of Thunderhawks rushed towards the surface of Tembor. The mass of Imperial ships undulated as they rearranged into a new cohesive force and began firing into the greenskins. Jaghatai’s small but fast ships scythed into action, twisting around blazing ork roundz and glowing wreckage, heading toward the Sun Shatterah. For the Emperor.

The Hunt

Jaghatai’s command ship, the Energa Sonica, groaned as her hull strained against the powerful whims of her main engines and maneuvering thrusters. “Men,” the Khan began, “on that Kill Kroozer is an ork. A strong ork. Let the hunt begin.” A raucous cheer went up and then a silence came down to accompany the grim focus. “Bring us along that Kroozer, keep us out of the Sun Shatterah’s gun sights for as long as possible,” the primarch ordered. As they neared their target, the battlegroup split, a group heading for the embedded Resolute Aggression, Khan’s group headed for the top decks, the other headed for smaller point on the bottom and rear of the massive ork ship. The Energa Sonica screeched in torment as she twisted suddenly, the piloting Naval men and the Machine Spirits throwing her barely out of the way of a sickly streamer of plasma that had lanced out from the Kill Kroozer. A corvette behind her wasn’t so lucky and a hole boiled down her length. “Fire at the Kroozer! She may not be our target but why give my brother one more kill!?!” Jaghatai shouted. In seconds, thumps vibrated in from the port side of the ship as she fired. As the ships in his group flashed past, they pumped the Kroozer full of death. One of the shots must have hit a cooling conduit because she exploded outward as the reactors went supernova. Jaghatai left the bridge and met up with his men as they prepared to assault the ork capital ship.

His boots clicked as they magnetically gripped the wrought floor. What ever passed for a gravity generator in ork culture must have taken a hit. Khan marched forward. The first green skin he saw came howling out of a side passage. He flicked out his power spear and dissected the ork as it was no more than an afterthought. It was just the beginning of the green tide; he could hear their shouts and growls from deeper in the ship. Suddenly, he felt a weight hit his shoulders. The gravity was back. The primarch flexed his legs and took off in a dead sprint, his men right on his heels. The hunt was on. A party of orks appeared at the end of a hall, ready to stop the intruders. The gretchins were pasted on the ceramite armor and the nobs quickly fell to flickering power weapons. No momentum was lost. All across the ship, fast moving boarding parties sped through, killing all in their path.

“My lord, the bridge is near. Surely the greenskins have reinforced it,” one of Khan’s personal guard voxed out. “It won’t be easy for sure. The mekboss won’t give us any breaks either. Have as many squads as possible mass around the bridge, we are going to need as many Astartes as possible,” Jaghatai ordered. Several dead orks later, they were at the gate to the bridge. The voxes started to crackle as squads started reporting, “Sergeant Oroko checking in, at a door on the port side. This is Captain Bayobani. We are at a gate on the stern side of the bridge. Sergeant Aruna and his squad are ready at a service entrance not far from us.” The Khan gritted his teeth, it wasn’t as many as he’d hoped. “We can’t waste time. Four squads is going to have to be enough…..breach on my mark, krak grenades in after. When they blow, we rush and hit hard. As soon as the mekboss is open, take him.” The air was palpable, waiting for the right time. “MARK! BREACHING!” blared through voxes. All four points of ingress exploded.

Clusters of nobs were annihilated wholesale by grouped krak grenades. A pair of meganobs had their Mega Armor fused to their bodies as the pressure liquified their ramshackle exosuits. Amidst the dust, White Scars rushed in. Oroko had stalled against a large group of boyz by the mekanickle stations. Bayobani and Aruna had linked back up and were pressing inward. Jaghatai’s group had made it the farthest, having the bulk of the opposition die in the initial explosions. Pinning the mekboss and the orks near him with bolter fire, several of the Khan’s squad spread off to flank the orks holding off Oroko and his squad. The once smoky and greasy bridge of the Sun Shatterah had become clogged with smoke. Every station was a mess of sparking electronics and fires. Several vents had failed or been punctured by stray fire and were twisting the smoke into choking whorls. Due to the krak grenades the floor actually had several large holes leading to lower decks. Soon all that was left was the mekboss. But reinforcements could be heard shouting as they neared the bridge.

“Guard the doors! Keep those greenskins out of here! The mekboss is mine!” roared Jaghatai. The living White Scars took up defensive positions as the orks started their attempts to retake the bridge. Bolter round echoed off the corridor walls and parts of the room flashed as a melta round was fired or a flamer started spitting fire.

“Ya ‘umies gotz pr’etty big ballz fer comin’ ‘ere! Ah hope ya knowz I ain’t kuhmander uh dis fleet fer nothin’. Da mekboss, Funderhorn iz gonna krump ya an’ den da boss iz gonna gimme uh r’ward,” the ork roared as he trundled forward, Power Klaw swinging. Funderhorn adjusted his stance and his huge shoota began to spit out rounds. Jaghatai dodged and roll forward though several did hit him. Being simple rounds they spattered off his armor like it was nothing. The primarch started a light footed attack, bounding around the mekboss, making quick stabs with his power spear. The ork was getting haggard… and frustrated.

The mekboss was freely bleeding from half a dozen punctures. His mega armor was leaking fluids from several more. Funderhorn swung his Power Klaw haphazardly and stumbled forward. Jaghatai took the opening with practiced ease. His armor groaned as he lept up and drove his power spear down into the open chest of the ork. The mekboss cried out, “Uhhhhh….Gork un Mork, dat ‘urt. Luckee fer me, I’z got me... uh seckend ‘eart I made me self.” The ork rose from what would have been a fatal blow. His Klaw reached up and bisected the power spear in several pieces. The ork roared forward and slammed his power klaw down towards the primarch. Khan caught it with his gauntlets, pressing it overhead as the orky mechanics strained to get the upper hand. The shoota swung around towards Khan. He dropped one hand from the Klaw to grab the gun. The shoota wobbled as the primarch and the mekboss fought for control of the shoota. Meanwhile the rounds went wild, many embedding themselves in the walls and deck. Several shattered harmlessly against the Klaw and the humans pauldron. The primarch smirked hearing the shoota click empty. The ork’s smirk was larger. Funderhorn tossed the gun aside and slugged the Khan, knocking him out from under his Klaw and sending him airborne.

Jaghatai got to one knee and looked at the ork, “hmmmm, for a second there, I thought this fight was going to be too easy.” “You’s pretty cocky fer uh ‘umie wearin’ wight.” Jaghatai chuckled to himself. The Khan looked around the carnage and found a pair of choppas, not the same of course. The mekboss hefted a massive hammer. “You ready for round two, ork?” Khan asked. “Roun two? Whoz countin’ roun’s ya git? Wez gonna fight til I krumpa right good,” Funderhorn responded while lightly swinging his hammer in mock. “Alright, alright. But I don’t think it’s terribly fair. These ‘ork choppas’ aren’t balanced at all. They’re complete junk.” Jaghatai quipped, not to anyone in particular. “Junk? Ain’t balanst? Dems da best choppas ya eva gonna see! Now ahma krumpa real ‘ard!” The primarch smiled on the inside at the sleight of hand, “Well maybe I was mistaken.” He sprung forward re-engaging the mekboss.

All around the duel the White Scars were holding the doors like classic choke points. The orks gladly threw themselves at the defenders. The angry shouts coming from the port side suddenly changed to confused grunts. The hallways light up with tiny flashes of lasfire and bolter explosions. Captain Terantsu, a squad of veterans and a good two dozen Guardsman converged in the intersection from the door Oroko was holding. The orks in between were killed swiftly, caught between the Imperial pincers. Oroko was stunned, “Where did you come from esteemed Captain?” The captain lifted his storm bolter up vertical and responded, “We had the Tengukaze drop us on the embedded Resolute Aggression. We went through and cleared the orks and rounded up these guys. Heard the voxes say something about converging on the bridge so we headed here.” The two leaders quickly ran down the sitreps for each other. Both turned, along with their battle-brothers toward the corridors having heard the shouts and yells of orks getting close. Then everyone in the congregation twitched back toward the bridge as a severed Power Klaw whizzed through the air and lodged in the bulkhead.

The Primarch of the White Scars had gained the upperhand over the mekboss. Rolling and twirling with his now excellently crafted Choppas, he started to bleed the ork. Funderhorn swung and drove his hammer down trying to crush the primarch. He rolled out and grabbed the Power Klaw that the mekboss was using as a counterweight. With a powerful swing, the primarch removed the limb. Bring the weapon down and carrying the momentum, he threw the Power Klaw out to the side. The mekboss roared in pain, flailing his hammer in spastic swings. Deftly avoiding the drunken blows, Jaghatai lept up, once again, and planted a choppa in the ork’s head. The greenskin stumbled, and sagged down to the deck. The mekboss fought to stay alive, to stay in the fight. The primarch tossed away the other choppa, glad to be rid of the xeno tech. As the ork kneeled on the floor attempting to get his bearings and reconcile what had happened, Jaghatai walked up and punched the mekboss in the chest. His gauntlet plunged deep into the body of the ork. With a splattering of ork blood and flesh, the primarch ripped out the secondary mechanical heart. The ork was dead.

Soon the Sun Shatterah was taken, the bulk of the orks purged. Jaghatai relayed his victory to his brother. Roboute ordered him to have his men overload the reactors and get out of there, back to the main fleet. Jaghatai was the last to leave, stepping on to a Thunderhawk on a short jaunt back to the Energa Sonica. He was holding a gore covered mechanical sphere that seemed to pulse every so often.

Purifying Fire, Unyielding Steel

The Thunderhawk’s skin glowed as the air bubble around it boiled and sloughed off. The thick atmosphere buffeted the transport. Behind it, a pair of escorting Stormhawks dropped back and away as the wash threatened to pull them out of the sky. The group of flyers were flung back and forth as drop pods flashed past. The high pressure cones of air in front of the drop pods created whorls and pockets of vacuum. As the vessels dropped lower and lower, the orks on the ground took notice of, not just them, but all the incoming Imperial forces. Frak bursts began to dot the sky. Burning streams of plasma traced arcs through the air, evaporating clouds and metal.

Vulkan was jostled about as the Thunderhawk jinked and yawed, avoiding the frak rounds. A pair of plasma globs blazed through the space the transport had previously occupied. Frak rounds started to cluster about the group of airships. It was apparent that a greenskin had some sort of dakka-hardon for downing these particular ships. “This is going to get rough, my Lord,” the pilot morbidly reported. Vulkan’s gaze narrowed, but he said nothing. Seconds later the pilot killed the power and the ship dropped like a rock. The ship powered back on to avoid reaching speeds that couldn’t be recovered from. “Ignis Wing, prepare for the arrival of our Lord,” the pilot called out to the escorting Stormhawks. The pair of escorts pulled ahead of their charge as they burned down towards the surface. Far below, ribbons of smoke stretched out from the gunships as they pounded the designated landing area with rockets and autogun fire.

A cluster of drop pods pounded down into the small mining settlement of Orfin’s Respite. Orfin’s Respite hadn’t been too much before the orks came to Tembor. Roughly two-thirds of the border had a retaining wall that also served as a barely passable defensive position. Inside the ring were several buildings devoted to daily mining operations, a tall comm building, a couple of equipment vaults, and the rest was smattered with multi-tiered hab blocks. This was a fairly standard setup for smaller mining settlements. The bigger, more populated settlements just had a couple more tiers and more space, buildings, and emplacements for mining.

Right now, there were several large pillars of smoke rising from Orfin’s Respite along with the still wavering heat trails of the drop pods. The few squads of Imperial Guard, the local PDF and those local defenders assumed the massive explosions were some new ork weapon and that a greenskin assault was nigh. While they were correct that a horde of orks was on its way, they were surprised to see the blue-red armor of the Crimson Fist chapter stride out of the smoky craters. The helmetless sergeant looked at the motley group assembled before his drop pod, “Men and women of the Imperium, we are here to purge this world of the green xeno scum. That you are alive is proof of the resilience of mankind. Now prepare to defend yourselves and your home once again.” The other Astartes marched towards predetermined positions and began reinforcing and digging in with the nearby defenders. It was solemn work, but had to be done. The Marines, for the most part, weren’t silent golems. They talked, instructed, gave advice, corrected, or just asked about the human’s daily life. “If you take the time to mark out ranges, your accuracy will be much better in battle.” “Do you have a family?” “If you kill the bigger greenskins, usually the little ones will panick.” “Have you tried using any of your mining equipment in an offensive manner?” “Why did you join the Imperial Guard?” Through long lectures, the men of the Crimson Fists had learned that no matter the strength of a defensive position, it meant nothing if those manning it were not at their best. Soon, shouts of the WAAAGH! were heard in the distance.

Unlike the Crimson Fists, the Salamanders were not hunkering down. They were on the move. Smaller squads and groups were on their way to intercept break-off greenskin hordes or flank the main horde. Vulkan was at the front of the advance. The two forces finally met in combat on the fields outside the capital city of Lomardia. The fields were already filled with the dead and decaying bodies of humans, orks and machinery. The old fires of ammo dumps and vehicle fuel cells were still burning weakly when new flames began to crop up. The outer lines of the orks folded under the withering assault of the Imperial forces.

Having gotten an idea of the general strength of the various sections of orks, Vulkan ordered around his various divisions to complement their strengths. The renewed vigor of the Cadian survivors was directed at a sector purportedly controlled by a simple warboss. The PDF and shoddy conscripts were aimed at the hills that temporarily housed the gretchin supplements. The nastier sectors of the ork horde would be taken on by the Salamanders and the other attached groups of Astartes. As the assault neared the city, ork resistance amped up. It was clear to all that the Overfiend was somewhere in Lomardia.

Vulkan shrugged as a few errant shoota rounds spattered against his pauldrons. “Lucky hits, as usual,” the primarch grumbled to himself. They were nearing one of the main entrances to the city. Once inside, the possibility of taking stray rounds was reduced to practically nil, but the orks would be even more gleeful, putting their choppas to great use. “Men! One final push! The greenskins fall beneath the might of the Emperor!” Vulkan shouted. No sooner than his battle cry had ended, a warboss in Mega Armor plodded out with a guard of heavily armed nobs. The ork’s voice rumbled out through the battlefield, “Dese humies tink dey got da snot ta git ta da Ova’fiend! Da gits! An’ lookit ‘em, deys not true green.” The orks roared in agreement, some firing their shootas into the air, others waving their choppas about. Vulkan responded by starting the Salamander’s battlecry, “INTO THE FIRES!” His men responded, “UNTO THE ANVILS OF WAR!” The two sides surged together, swords and choppas clashing, bolters and shootas firing like wild.

In hushed but harsh tones, Vulkan spoke into his vox, “Burn all to ash. Activate Recta Rubrum.” From the back of the pack of Astartes, a bulky servo-skull hovered up to Vulkan’s location. The weapons package snapped on and started expanding along his backside. The pair of twin-linked lascannons settled down on his shoulders as he leaned forward, clamping into the ground. A downward hum gathered around the primarch as the massive cannons powered up and prepared to fire. Vulkan roared out amongst the din, “BURN ALL TO ASH!” Twin lances of heat and light lit up the battlefield. The warboss instantly burned down to a green-gray slag. A meganob and other orks unlucky enough to be standing near the warboss caught fire. With their leader gone, the surrounding orks panicked and were easily routed. Imperial forces had breached the city.

Snork was running as fast as his squat legs would take him. He wished he had some aug’menics to give him some help. Suddenly, his shoulder started to burn, like he dropped a piece of cooked grot on it. He looked out and saw the source was a shaking, dirty humie. It wasn’t even wearing the rocky bits that he saw the others wearing. As another ork ran past him, he realized he might not get to fight. Snork sped up as much as he could. More of the boyz appeared next to him. Now he was close enough to see the puny humie really well. Its eyes were wide with fear, as were the other few humies that he could now see as well. His toothy grin grew. Snork and the boyz began to mount the earth and rock embankment. Over the shouts and growls and WAAAGH!s, a new sound appeared, “PURGE THE XENOS” Snork looked up.

A squad of red and blue Space Marines were rocketing down on pillars of fire and smoke. The huge baskets on their backs lit up with tight flames as they pulsed to decelerate to survivable speeds. Three of the them crushed the orks they were fortunate enough to land on, including Snork. The others landed, brandishing power weapons, and generated large impact bubbles that pushed and threw dirt, rocks, metal and orks out away from them. The squad stood upon that embankment, not moving or giving any ground. Orfin’s Respite would not be taken this day or any other. All the while the small humans of the PDF and local defenders looked up in awe at the bastions of the Emperor. The pasted form of Snork was a grim monument of the ork highwater mark.

Back in Tembor’s capital of Lomardia, the battle was raging and growing in fervor and blood loss as the minutes ticked by. Whole levels of the city were inundated with war, dotted with firefights and mass shootouts. On the fourth level, a desperate scene was playing out. Rubble spat out from the back of the trukk. The dirty fountain landed on the trukk following it. The truk fell back, to see and to get to a better firing position. Now, one would think that a truk would be fairly useless in a hive city, but in a wide open courtyard they could function as intended. The orks roared in glee as they hammered the firing studs on their big shootas as hard as they could. The truks circled the edge of the courtyard, shelling the unfortunates in the middle of the circular court. It so happened that a group of Salamanders were the unfortunate ones, including their primarch.

Vulkan was in a crouched stance, ready to spring into action the instant an opening present itself. Around him was his squad: three of his remaining guard, several veterans, and half a dozen men from 3rd Company. Above him four odd bulbous servo-skulls rotated, projecting void shields whilst drawing arcing power streams from a generator hastily set into the rockcrete. The oscillating void shields were providing cover from all but a paltry few strays and ricochets that made it through. But they were pinned down none the less. The constant fusillade of bullets was beginning to take its toll on the shields; two of the skull were starting to spark and overload. Vulkan keyed his vox, “This is Vulkan. My squad and I are pinned down in the main courtyard.... courtyard on the fourth level. If you could come give us a hand, that would be great.” One of the servo-skulls blew apart, it machine spirit finished, and one of the orks on the truk took immediate advantage. Vulkan’s back was to the truk. A 1st Company marine lept into the gap and began to fire at the truk. The bolter couldn’t compare to the much larger truk mounted shoota. The marine fell, full of smoking holes. Vulkan rose, his arms spreading out 180 degrees. The storm bolter spat round after round at the truk, leaving pockmarks and twisted holes but not doing much other than pissing off the orks. A second servo-skull exploded showering the Astartes with smoking metal bits. A pair of marines were taken off their feet by the rounds no longer spattering against the void shields. Things were about to get much worse. But, the sound in the courtyard began to doppler and distort from one side as a dull whine began to grow.

A green-gray blob of energy slammed into one of the truks right behind the cab. As the graviton blast began to take effect, audible crack of metal plates deforming and crushing groans of the rockcrete tearing itself apart became the dominant sounds in the court. Moments later all that was left was a rapidly shrinking pile of metal, rubber and ork. Rounds self-ignited as the debris compressed under the immense gravity. The rubbery paste of greenskin oozed out between the gaps and was forced to flow down. The engine had long since compacted itself and the fuel, oil and grease had pooled and ignited throwing up thick, oily clouds. The graviton field finally exhausted itself and the courtyard returned to its previous ways, sans one truk. The orks on the other truk roared in protest, itching to get revenge for their fellow boyz. The chance presented itself as the smoke parted and whorled as a squad of Red Scorpion lept through. They quickly scrambled as the big shoota loosed rounds their way. The orks on the truk squealed as a Red Scorpion’s Terminator crashed through a hab scant meters ahead of them. The hulking marine braced and grabbed the front of their truk. All the orks were thrown forward as the truk came to a dead stop. The Terminator’s armor protested such abuse, but it relented as he lifted the front end and heaved it to the side. It crashed over and rolled, the ork on top bifurcating as it tumbled over him. The Terminator stuck a gauntlet into a viewing port and activated his flamer. The truk bloomed with geysers of holy fire. Vulkan keyed off the void-skulls, thanked their machine spirits, and walked over to the newly arrived Astartes to thank them as well.

The city was rapidly falling to Imperial hands. The Red Scorpions ran amok, unbound by streets and paths. Their tactical marines lept and vaulted over alleys and gaps, traversing the multi-tiered streets with grace. Assault marines would rocket up to the next level, ambush a group of orks and then drop back down. The few Terminators that accompanied them smashed through orks, habs, and rockcrete walls with impunity. The few Ultramarines that had dropped down had brought along several Land Speeders and were currently racing through the corridors and streets making a mess of the orks lines. Soon it appeared that the green armored Salamanders equaled the amount of greenskins skulking about Lomardia. In reality, the Overfiend Tygahfang was massing his boyz on an upper level. It was no surprise that the two leaders of the green armies would find and fight each other.

The huge mass of orks was a writhing, living sea of green. An angry, smelly, clanky sea of green. Plus, they had spent the better part of a day cooped up on an upper level. Which meant they were extremely pissed off; they could hear all the sounds of battle going on and yet they weren’t in the middle of it. The sounds of battle tapered off and soon the unholy din of the orks died down. All around the level, the outer rings of orks erupted into huge conflagrations of flames and holy promethium. Through the flames, green Terminators silently appeared and began to burn down orks left and right. They were creating lanes into the middle of the orks, slicing the mass up and assaulting them from all sides. The open lines behind the Terminators were quickly filled with marines, bolters firing and power weapons swinging. The assault marines once again used their jump packs to great use. From the spires above, they dropped in squads and would blast apart formations of orks leaving gaping holes in the green expanse, then jump out when the hole threatened to close. The area Vulkan had chosen to punch through is not a mere lane, it was a column. The primarch was a whirling, vortex of Power Hammer and storm bolter. Orks were falling in droves before the mighty Lord of the Salamanders. Determined and burdened with purpose, Vulkan came face to face with the Overfiend himself. As the two squared off, a ring formed around them, no one, ork or human wanted to get close to them.

When the crowds finally parted, Vulkan got his first good look at Tygahfang. The ork was massive, standing at four meters, being able to look down at even the primarch. His left leg was all but gone, sacrificed to the whims of whatever mekboy he trusted enough to fix him up. His right, was supported with a smattering of trusses and hydraulics to compensate for his weight. The upper parts of the Overfiend were downright terrifying. His right hand was huge, not even a Power Klaw, just an over-developed hand with the same ramshackle supports and driving pistons attached as the leg. The left hand was an actual Power Klaw with an auxillary shoota embedded in the palm. His torso was encased in a huge rusted chest plate, with all the orky attachments an ork of his stature could buy. This included a pair of small mechanical arms that grasped at air constantly. His head was half ork, half mek. His jaw had been long been aided by a metal grill that allowed him to chomp through just about anything. The pack on his back was belching hot, wavering steam as the generators chugged, powered by the mere thought of them working. Gears, chains, and pumps could be heard hard at work all across the beast. And Vulkan was going toe to toe with it. “Yous look like ya mite gimme uh good fight! Less yer a grot, like I tink ya mite be!” The ork clomped forward, not even pausing to smash an unlucky nob in front of him with his massive right hand. Vulkan rushed in.

The primarch jaunted in firing his storm bolter. The bolts exploded harmlessly, mostly pockmarking the metal or blowing meaningless chunks of green skin away. The Power Klaw came rushing at him from the right. He tucked and rolled toward and under it, his armor sparking on the ground. As he rose, his hammer lashed out with the momentum he’d had and struck the mek leg. A resounding explosion of disrupting energy and orky metal sounded. The ork buckled but the leg refused to give. A hand slugged him in the back, parts of his pack denting under the impact. Vulkan staggered forward as the ork turned. “Maybe ya’s not uh grot!” Tygahfangs Klaw opened and the shoota in it started spitting bullets. The ground around Vulkan churned and geysered upward as they hit everywhere but him. They circled each other trading swipes, shots and dodging as much as could be expected from two champions. The Overfiend lept forward with a strong right jab, but the primarch weaved around it and went in as the ork stumbled forward. He wasn’t expecting the two arms to grapple him and pull him inward. Tygahfang let out a great bellowing laugh as he prepared to grab the human with his Power Klaw.

Vulkan grimaced. The Klaw was closing in. He wretched his arm upward and emptied the storm bolter into the orks gut. A concentrated barrage of bolter shells easily penetrated the armor began wreaking havoc on the Overfiend’s innards. The ork roared, reeling backwards in pain and anger. The primarch dropped to the ground. Discarding his useless storm bolter, he hefted the Power Hammer in two hands. Vulkan rained blows down upon the ork, not dealing life threatening damage, but clearly having the upperhand. That changed. As he dropped back and then lunged forward, preparing to strike again, Tygahfang reached out with his massive right paw. He caught the head of the hammer in his hand. The disruptive fields arced outward between his fingers as the hammer tore apart his gauntlet at a molecular level. Molten slag and tissue dripped down as the hammer dug deeper. The ork didn’t care, he merely smirked and yanked Vulkan off balance. Stumbling forward, the primarch was caught mid-stride by the Power Klaw. The power fields sparked and crackled as they bit through his Nemean armor. The ork roared again as the shoota in the klaw discharged, wrecking Vulkan’s torso. He coughed and spit up blood; one hand holding stubbornly to his hammer, the other trying to lever the Klaw off. The ork let out another bellowing laugh. To punctuated it, the Overfiend leaned in and bit off the primarch’s left arm.

Vulkan screamed in pain as his arm detached. Acidic blood sprayed everywhere mixing with ork blood. The Overfiend spit out the section of arm and tossed aside the hammer. It hit a nob and the still active disruptive fields exploded it. He shook the primarch like a rag doll. The Power Klaw threatened to cut clean through the slowly failing Nemean armor. He was barely conscious. He had lost a ton of blood from his arm and from his abdomen. Tygahfang let out a mighty WAAAGH! and brought his closed fist down on the head of the captive primarch. The nasty ‘scrunch’ of flesh and bone squeaked out with the groan and crack of the armor giving way. The Overfiend hoisted the lifeless body and roared, “Da big humie iz dead. Ah krumped ‘im good! Iz da greenest and meanest! WAAAAAAGH!” All the orks roared in response and shouted all the louder as their Overfiend tossed the body aside. The fighting turned desperate, the possibility of the orks winning now very clear.

Alabaster Gleaming

This section is currently being written.

Light of the Emperor

This section is currently being written.

The Primarchs Gather

This section is currently being written.

The 2nd Terran Invasion

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Overview

After centuries, of virtual inactivity, all four of the Chaos Gods perked up when they felt a bit of the Warp recede and empty and boil and contract. The Warp is weird. A hole opened up on the great human planet of Terra. Oh what an opportunity. And to put a nasty daemonic looking cherry on top of evil cake, the tear was in the center of the corpse emperor's castle. One would be sane-insane not seize upon such a grand gift. All four of them aligned tomorrow with the intention of betraying the others yesterday. The Warp is weird. Daemonettes poured through the tear alongside Bloodletters. Such an alliance should have rent asunder any force arrayed against it. But it was not to be. While a tear in the Warp and Materium can be the size of a krak grenade and the size of a planet at the same time, a Webway is fairly stable. So it funneled Chaos down. The Imperium, in time, matched Chaos for sheer diversity of forces. By the climactic end of the war, the guards of the palace included Custodes, Companions, Arbites, Mechanicus forces of all kinds, nearly the whole of the Grey Knights Chapter, the resident Imperial Fists, and a myriad of Inquisitors, their retinues, and equally large diversity of other Astartes contingents.

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Quickly remembering lessons learned in the Golden Rift War, the defenders of Terra reestablished the old defenses. These were quickly overrun by the tide of daemons. This is what the Golden Rift War could’ve been. The Imperial Fists quickly tasked themselves with setting up a defensive system that would hold for a long time. Longer than the one in the previous war had. It was readily apparent that the Golden Rift War was but a minor incursion by Chaos; this was a full blown invasion. The defenses would have to hold out for decades perhaps even centuries. With that in mind they established three lines of defense: the Eternity line, which was the previous defense line, the Annapurna, which was the edge of the Inner Palace, and the Imperator line which was a flexible but highly armored line draw roughly midline between the Inner and Outer Palace walls.

The Shattered

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Tales of amazing happenings only seem to happen during times of great turmoil or despair. In those excited moments, songs are born and deeds recorded for all of time. The tale of an entity known as The Shattered is a rather well documented phenomena, more so than that of the so-called ‘Legion of the Damned’. It was late in the 901st year of the 42 millenium. The daemons had over taken the Eternity line mere months ago. The Imperium had just started a push to retake the defensive line when a massive surge of Khornate daemons had blunted and turned back their advance. An entire order of Adepta Sororitas, the House of the Fallen Lily, had been paired with the resident Custodes regiment to hold sector 28Y, ubiquitously known as the Pillar Zone. The area containing the Column of Glory was a particularly valuable location as it functioned as a hub and was a large but covered area, perfect for staging. Its value made it a tasty target for the daemons and for the Imperial defenders.

Bolter explosions rang out above the cacophony of screeches, roars, shouts, and litanies. The fighting had been particularly brutal this week and no where else was this more evident than the Pillar Zone. It seemed the Battle Sisters and Custodes would hold until a Bloodthirster dropped down from above. The hulking beast of Khorne waded into the fight. The daemons started roaring loader as a swipe of the Bloodthirster’s sword wiped out an entire mission of Sororitas. Then the captain of the Custodes regiment charged in.

“BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD,” the Bloodthirster roared, challenging the lone Custodes that stepped forward. “You dare defile this sacred ground with your taint? I hope that your ‘god’ accepts the blood of his own! FOR THE EMPRAH!” the captain screamed in retort. The daemon swiped downward aiming for the Custodes neck. The captain leaned back and the sword dug itself into the bloodstained floor. The demon stepped into the miss and swung other hand, hoping to gouge his enemy. The Custodes spun his weapon and swung it toward the Khornate. A massive hand pulled back and grabbed the weapon, stopping it before it cut. The daemon grunted in approval, it’s lips curling into a cruel smile.

“I am Markes Pravian, a Captain of the Adeptus Custodes. Do not think our weapons to be paltry pieces of metal!” Markes pulled the trigger of his Guardian Spear. A bolter round entered the Bloodthirster’s neck and exploded in a shower of blood and viscera. The daemon staggered back from the injury as Markes pulled his Spear into a ‘readied’ stance with several pretty twirls. The daemon turned toward the Captain and snarled right before it started to charge. It swung its sword in a horizontal arc hoping to bisect the Custodes. The agile warrior dodged backward but was unprepared for the next assault. The Bloodthirster carried its momentum and spun around, hitting Markes with a vicious backhand.The strike launched him like an armored missile and he impacted against a hard wall, slumping to the ground. The Bloodthirster approached to finish what it started. “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!” the daemon roared as it broad its sword down in a execution. The daemonic battle cry was interrupted, “FOR THE EMPEROR!” The massive sword had stopped mid-swing, gripped by an equally massive gauntlet.

The Bloodthirster looked up, following the hand up. The hand connected to a form that could be described as an amalgamation of an Astartes and an Imperial Knight. It matched the daemon in height but severely outclassed it in shear weight. The newcomer threw the sword up and out of the way. Its other hand shot out and into the Bloodthirster’s still stunned face. Markes had regained consciousness just in time to see the giant form of the daemon rocket back, fully suspended in the air and impact a wall. He realized that an Imperial Knight had shown up; he looked up to identify the house. Instead, he saw an Imperial Fist symbol. And then he noticed a White Scars symbol and a Blood Angels icon as well. This was clearly not a knight, it didn’t even look like the ones he’d seen before. As he was looking back, Markes noticed another thing. More accurately, a lack thereof. All the pauldrons on the Column of Glory had disappeared. His reverie was shattered by the blood curdling cry of the Bloodthirster flying back into the fray.

The avatar lurched forward towards the daemon. Before the Bloodthirster could react, a massive hand reached up and grabbed a leg. No matter the fury of the wings, the daemon was hurled downward. A sickening impact, the sound alone was mushy, with interstitial cracks as bones broke. The daemon struggled to get up and regain the offensive. As it kneeled with one hand on a knee, it smirked, ‘it’s enemy was closing the distance’ It swung its sword in a horizontal arc once more, planning to cut off the legs. There was no tortured screeching of metal, only the whoosh of empty air. Its sword was meters away on the ground. The Bloodthirster located it’s sword, looked back at is foe, then back toward its sword. It turned again to the avatar with a grin. A massive fist gripped his face. The avatar had grappled the head of Bloodthirster and set the other massive gauntlet on the shoulder of the daemon. The grin instantaneously turned to anger. “BE PURGED, DAEMON” the short declaration echoed throughout the area. The avatar twisted the head to the right with a sharp crack. And then it reversed its rotation and spun the head nearly three hundred and sixty degrees the other way. Numerous smaller cracks and wet, sloppy tearing could be heard. The daemon’s body sagged as the avatar pressed down on its shoulder. No longer connected by anything with strength, the avatar ripped its gauntlet upward, carrying the head of the Bloodthirster with it.

By the time of the daemons death, Markes had made it back to his feet. The avatar stomped over to the Captain and looked down at the diminutive Custodes. It dropped the head down next to him. The avatar turned and started walking toward the center of the palace. “FOR THE EMPEROR” sounded through the battlefield as the mysterious giant waded through the daemonic forces. The push of the Khornate forces soon ended and the battle settled back down to its normal self.

The Death of Kaldor Draigo

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Kaldor Draigo, the most famous Grey Knight you’ve never heard of, because let’s face it, if you have seen a Grey Knight, you’re probably dead. Either because they killed you for heresy or they killed you for seeing them. Just like other denizens of the Warp, Draigo heard, felt, tasted the small rift opening in the Imperial Palace. Realizing he could still fight and not violate the stupid curse of never being able to leave the Warp, he packed up and headed toward the hole. In the Imperial Palace, it is confirmed that for exactly 5 days, no daemons came out of The Breach. Inside the Webway, it was for 2 months, if time were to apply, that Kaldor Draigo stood firm in the middle of the tunnel and held. He slew the Keeper of Secrets, Rgion Longw Festariola Grast B’grain Purignaw Nivenwane, 3 times, his Nemesis Pike finding a new weakness in the Slaaneshi Champion every time.

It was Kharn who felled the great Draigo. Understand that this is before the Primarchs travelled to the Breach. The Betrayer had heard of this great fight in the Corpse Hole as it was called. As he marched to face a worthy foe he could see the whirling pike and crackling energy. He could hear the litanies and prayers being screamed. He could taste the blood in the not-air. It got him even more pumped. Kharn shoved aside several daemons and was just about to call out to the loyalist to issue a challenge when he felt a claw on his shoulder. A voice attached to the claw claimed that the Astartes was his and that she was the only one who had the right to fight it. The Keeper of Secrets, Rgion, died a fourth time after Kharn pulped its head against the wall of the failed webway tunnel.

The duel between the two champions was grand. Kharn’s chainaxe ground against the stave of Kaldor’s pike. Each combatant jostled for position as they parried each other's strikes. Kharn swung his axe down at Draigo. The Grey Knight twitched his pike to the left a touch and the heavy axe glanced mere inches from Draigo. A twirl and a twist brought the Nemesis Pike around and then into Kharn’s chest. The Khornate champion halted for several seconds, surprised at the injury. His other massive hand reached up and grabbed the pike and pulled it further into his chest. He could feel the purity and light of the pike burning through his tainted flesh. He brought his axe down into the old Astartes neck. The two sagged to the ground, blood spilling everywhere. “Good fight” Kharn muttered. “Likewise” said the Space Marine. The spectating daemons crept forward, in order to avoid either of the fighters killing them. Neither got up, so the daemons surged through the Breach once more.