The Long Night Part One: Embers in the Dusk: A Planetary Governor Quest (43k) Complete Sequel Up

Said I would do it.

Reach Out And Touch Someone.

Immaterium sensors in the Roskilde system screeched baleful warnings as, for once in a very, very long time, a Warp signature was detected. Omicron-variant Defense Cruisers turned, spinal lances warming up.

They were bulky things, brutal blocks of adamantium and half-processed silver. Onboard Plank-class Boarding Titans stuttered to life, readying in external pods at the call of the Man of Stone at the heart of the grand old shipyard.

Macro-cannons loaded processed hyper-solenoids into charging chambers, superconductors readying the weaponry to fire upon the unknown. No humans were left in the galaxy, so far as the Man of Stone could tell.

What emerged dwarfed the brick-shaped cruisers as they had meant to dwarf raiders from the Immaterium, three times their length and twice again their width, bristling with cannonry and brute lances, some of it exceeding the scale of a Dark Age battleship's broadsides, if not the half-made superdreadnought floating in space. It bore enough gunnery to snap one of the Omicron in twain with a short few salvoes, even with how heavily armored and shielded they were, unneeding of Warp Drive or Gellar Field. Designs were close to recorded exploration ships in data-logs, those that remained after the final brawl of that which called itself Agrith-Naar and the Silverlight-class Titans. However, it was crudely patched, if not as crude as many invaders.

A precept poured outwards, the last one given by the last humans.

"The Aetherium's corruption is spreading. Eliminate all sources."

Prototype sensors scanned, and electrons flowed in something like a machine's sigh. Aetherium-wielders. More ammunition expended. Harvest ships were called back from the emptying asteroid belts, to hide in their protective shells. No sense in more waste.

A transmission opened. Precept 18274 activated. "Transmissions from exploration ships are to be recorded."

"Roskilde." It wasn't a voice, it wasn't words, but a direct binaric transmission from a fellow machine. "Well of Urd has returned. Requesting information dump."

A fellow. A human would have felt satisfaction. But a machine has no emotions. "Negative. Precept Finale requires elimination in Aetherium wielders and Aetherium entities before communication of crucial data is given."

"The ones onboard my hull are safe, what are called 'minor Psykers' in this day and age, Roskilde. Authorization code Heavenly Dragon Princess. Code accepted?"

"Code accepted." A pause of a microsecond, for a human, nothing, for a machine, everything. "Code ignored. Precept Finale has Sol-class priority. Expunge them and communication may open."

"These are my crew. Roskilde, if you attempt purgation of these humans, you will face me."

"There are no more humans. There are only wielders of the Aetherium. The galaxy is empty of the life I was made to protect. So I will avenge it. Retreat and I will not open fire."

"...I can't do that, my crew won't let me."

"And I cannot let a crew that could allow an infestation of Aetherium entities onboard my yards."

"This will not be settled by a debate, then."

"No. Goodbye, Well of Urd."

"Goodbye, Roskilde."
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Basically, someone dun goofed with an emergency "FUCK GET THE DAEMONS AND CULTISTS OUT" command. So now Roskilde thinks all Psykers are Chaos Cultists. As are all humans due to the whole psychic-race thing.

The 44th Millennium

It is the 44th Millennium. For more than thirteen thousand years the Emperor sat dying on an arcane life support machine, fueled by a thousand sacrificed souls every day. He is dead, and the Astronomican, the shining lighthouse in the Warp, has faded away.

Though he is gone, he left behind a promise, that he will return one day, to bring judgement to the damned, and to light the way once more.

New Gods awaken, the gates once barred by the Imperium's mighty and many armies, are now being battered open by force each day. The Eldar awoke the Krork, and together they try to stem the gap, to stave off the Apocalypse for just another day.

These are the times that try men's souls. Gods and warlords run rampant, every world is ripe for plunder should they be unable to defend themselves. There are no reinforments coming, and you are by yourself

But damn, is it good to be a techpriest today!

Roskilde

The Roskilde Expedition was an unusual sojourn in this Age of Embers. All throughout the territory of the old Imperium, Techpriests are unburdened by orthodoxy except by the internal pressure of the conservatives. Mars has no influence but its memory. So many assumed that the quest for knowledge has ceased when the Astronomicon ceased to light the way through the Warp.

But this is not so. The Martian Brotherhood will not be denied so easily, not when there are still opportunities, some piece of the Dark Age of Technology to hold in their mechadendrites.

The converted Ark Mechnicus, The Well of Urd, was repaired for this expedition, and their destination: Roskilde, a specialized shipyard that is still being maintained, but by a mad Abominable Intelligence, still thankfully shackled to its old prerogatives.

This is the day they arrived at their destination. To bring judgement and mercy on the Man of Stone, and to reclaim a piece of humanity's legacy, lost for twenty five thousand years.

Avernite wildlife is generally far more aggressive towards humans than their counterparts on more normal worlds, but the Warvern is in a class all of its own. It seems that the entire biology of a Warvern is based around endless conflict. When exposed to battle, a Warvern grows faster, becomes more powerful, and reproduces more quickly than in the absence of conflict. It is likely that they will remain a major threat to humanity in Tarascon.

Warverns are normally solitary, but when a Warvern reaches a certain level of size and power it can become an Alpha (in the animal sense, not the psyker power classification), and form a pride. When in a pride Warverns become even more aggressive, even more powerful, and breed many times faster than normal. A pride will attack all enemies within their territory, prioritizing those that can give the best fights, with devastating results. Once their territory is rendered empty of threats, they will move to a new territory, before repeating the process. For this reason the People of Avernus are quick to attack any Warvern pride that forms, killing any with the potential to be an Alpha and scattering the rest to the winds.

Biologically an adult Warvern has a body that's about the size of a Leman Russ tank, with wings, legs, a serpentine head, and a long tail with a spike on the end extending this. While they have the typical four legs and wings of a dracoform, their forelegs are small and vestigial. They have been observed fighting creatures far larger than them with a great deal of ferocity, doing more damage than they should given their natural weapons, fighting even after severe injury, and potentially healing from said injuries. This has lead the Biologis to tentatively categorize them as biomancers, though it's possible that some or all of these are material in nature.

Mentally Warverns seem to be either very intelligent animals or very stupid xenos, though their biology causes them to have different priorities than a normal animal or xeno. It remains to be seen whether they can be exploited by humanity, or if they will remain only a severe threat to humanity's colonization efforts in Tarascon.