The Empty Crusade (Horus Heresy)

The storm king, a name that not quite fit the man who it was attached to, but that somehow made it more appropriate. For few things fit the scholarly lord of Fenris, that he ruled the planet wasn't in question to those who knew to look, from all corners of the world Jarls would come to seek his aid or try and tempt one of the Shaman Scholars to their court. Magnus made no laws, but when he spoke the world listened. That was the striking part, the world listened but not just the world of man. His island had become one of the only unchanging parts of Fenris alongside the continent, the legendary mountains which Magnus had plumbed the depths of. Few spoke of what came from those depths, few even knew. But his way with the spirits of the world is said to have come from their hidden depths.

Whispers abound about the nature of the storm touched, the scholars and ritual bound warriors who learned from the Red Giant. Of the Restless who with honor are eternal bound to their duties. Wyrdmake moved through the hallowed halls of the fortress library. The islanders below providing mead and food to those under Magnus' watch but only a fool would think of those of the keep as softmen no while one didn't need to worry of food, or storms they had to always be on guard. Fenris would never leave a man no matter how many tomes one reads or pens, the feasts from hunts the cut throat competition for every advantage every scrap of knowledge.

Wyrdmake was still young not one of the full shaman who were drawn to this island in hope to find some trick to improve their tribe or impress some Jarl, he always wondered what drew Magnus to him to speak at length about his studies in calling when the Storm Born already knew more of spirits than all of the others. The red man would laugh and retort that no man knows all and each man sees a different world. Runes lit up as he passed a restless, slumbering in one of the strange stones Magnus had found in the depth of the world, more rare than any gold or silver, but so precious that the man had allowed few to even see them before he worked them over. Even among the closest the nature of them beyond binding souls of those who died in battle was but a rumor.

The young scholar sat down to take notes on a balcony, the cold winds harsh and helped him clear his mind. Feasts were nice and helped the blood get pumping but one needed to cool themselves as well to stay aware.

He knew of runes of the old arts, but he found a calling in Magnus' spirit calling the art of speaking with the things of the world of coxing them forward and contracting them always careful of other malevolent forces. His own sword, a work of slow labor, lacked the power of Magnus' own blade said to be forged from in part the spirit of a Leviathan he slew.

How much was myth and how much was reality was unclear his own efforts had only coaxed the spirit of small creatures, but Magnus was far more powerful than a mortal man.

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Fenris spoke, Fenris fought a living world of something now dead ruined lines that ran through the planet, impossible materials. Magnus drank his mead as the scholars around him feasted on the latest catch from Hagufn the beast was resting its massive size meaning it would deplete the seas around it if not put into Psychic slumber. Magnus still wondered about it but he had other things to busy his mind with such as the drops of Aether he had remaining. He could not draw more for each line that was part of Fenris had some purpose that he could not see yet that they bound the currents in the sea of souls and protected the spirits of the world from the greater flows. His Restless, were small echos of that pattern using a monolith of Aether stone he had found shattered. That material itself still held questions the power to bind and control the sea of souls that was power beyond his grasp for now.

He felt destiny drawing near to him the strange star that was born in the sea, a feeling of omens though not yet ill. He watched the sky for something was coming his companions toiled in their studies and revealed in their small successes. Each pushing back the boundaries. Hopefully between his work and those of his companions the world would be ready for what was coming.

Ahriman watched the Venusian Auxiliaries as the Psykers went about their assault on the enemy encampment, he let the pain of his body keep his mind clear. Then with a shifting of will the feet of his suit stepped forward, shaking the earth as the dreadnought walked alongside the Lithogolems his twin linked Volkite Culverin echoing as it killed those that stood against them enemy armor was left broken. A shot hits his side, the shield of his sarcophagus lighting up like a spiderweb to catch the enemy shell. He turned, raising his force claw and bisecting the next projectile that tried to hit him. The enemy walker a knight of an unknown pattern raised it's chainsword even as the gun released another shell that went wide and destroyed one of the plant monstrosities at his side.

"Tyrant's hand, Kulvia shall remain free." Ahriman stalked forward the Contemptor crushing terrain as it neared the hostile knight. His own melee weapon glowing as the Volkite shots cause the shields on the knight to flash one layer of them breaking with a grand sound. He let his mind loose the pain helping him remember his name as he danced with fate, the next shot slipped by his mechanical shell as his claws threw a stone that impacted the following shot just as it left the barrel detonating it prematurely and destroying his enemy's range weapon. The autocannons on its back too focused on keeping the air above their duel free of imperial forces. His claw moved up catching the chainsword its own power field lighting up to stop him from shredding it.

With his right arm in the bind the knight couldn't stop him meaningfully from bringing his Volkite Culverin against the flat adamant plating where his cockpit rested and with a shot that followed as the knight tried to move back his form was ended the machine falling backwards with a great crash. Ahriman followed the pain back from the immaterium leaving the tangled mess of futures once again to live in the present. The battle raging around him was quickly turning into the imperial's favor. An imperial army super heavy took out the other enemy knight.

Flexing his power claw and bisecting an piece of enemy armor that never had a chance to catch the impossibly nimble, the first Praetor of the 15th legion kept fighting, directing the army around him like pieces on the board. A lithogolem reached the wall, nearly as large as the imperial super heavies at the back, as it crashed against the defenders without mercy or restraint. Ahriman fell into the Immaterium again browsing the futures to prepare for the enemy's response.

Following back his pain he moved dancing upon the strings of fate as he made small changes to the battlefield kicking up dust and moving rocks in a flurry of impossible mad movements. Then the elite of these people arrived via the teleportation deep in the heart of their fortress city. Ahriman smiled as he watched each man fall without his forces needing to react, the only one to not teleport into a stone or with dust scattered throughout their brain, the leader of these elites, who watched as a thousand men died in an instant. Then he dodged the shot from the Volkite weapon his own strength and reaction just enough to save him, but to the Astares that danced with fate it was a meaningless move as force claw tore through infantry scale armor and shielding like paper shredding the man now that he had enough time to see his failure.

Ahriman knew that taste well, his power reminded him every time he tested or called upon it the taste of failure. The fifteenth was the smallest legion, his failure to stop the Flesh Change soon enough. Their losses went without number, he crushed a small walker of the enemy. Each brother taken was a personal failure, each aspirant that succumbed was a stain on his soul. Other ancients would slumber between battle to stop the pain and madness that came with the sarcophagus. Ahriman did not allow that rest for himself, each day without pain was a brother he was not honoring a sacrifice forgotten. So he directed the legion, he toiled without rest, it was not afforded those luxuries for he deserved none.

The blade sunk into the wall as he and the army around him flowed into the broken city, the last of this world to resist the imperial forces. He knew this day was won, his actions here did not change it only sped up the sands of time. Each one meaning one of his brothers here in command could live another day that the soldiers under him would spend their lives another day. He remembered when the leaders of the legion came to an agreement on the flesh change their efforts to stop it. It had grown beyond any control and other forces would soon learn of it. Their actions that day, and his action as their leader lead to everything that followed. Even as his venerable form walked aboard the battleship he maintained until their Primarch would come he couldn't be free of the guilt. The failure, a century of idleness of waste unable to do anything but rely on others.

His shield broke and he turned force claw gutting the autocannon wielding tank, his Volkite Culverin firing off a pair of shots to obliterate the others near him. The battle was won but the fools dying couldn't see it. He let himself go fate beyond the near was murky too many actors to many directions for one to know. He didn't care about the defenders' desperate last stands happening in the millions around him, he knew it would all come to not the calculus of war offered these people no reprieve once the swords were drawn. No he looked further seeking if a permanent solution to the flesh change could be found looking for the day he could find his gene father and ask of him why they had to go to others, why did he curse his loyal sons.

[]They went to the Selenar
[]They went to the Mechanicum
[]They went to the Sigillite
[]They would never speak of it.