This is, essentially, making a big pocket dimension battery for purified and safe psychic powers. Attached to Kesar specifically in terms of 'location' in the Warp, so no risk of the Chaos Gods sending an agent to breach into it and taint it somehow or whatever while Kesar is 'away', due to being 'away' from this being physically impossible. Like a well of chi within a person than a separate realm.
Except, later on, we can also turn this shit into a separate realm with just a little more work. A full on pocket dimension realm of pure psychic power, owned and metaphysically tied to Kesar Dorlin. Does that not sound kickass?
Well, it'd take more time to use this, train with this and of course later 'renovate' with this. We'd also have a finite amount of power we could use before we're out, leaving us untrained with using psychic powers the 'normal' way. Still, one hell of a great choice.
Leman Russ suggests to fight the Warp head-on, and I approve. It fits with Kesar's mindset, he's not bowed to the Warp before and even as a psyker he ain't gonna start doing that shit now. Still, despite learning psychic powers 'normally', this also invites the chance for miscasts. Even at a 1% chance, or less than that after training, that is not on.
Explosions and who knows what else are possible if psychic powers fuck up, and despite all of Kesar's powers we know the Chaos Gods would love to jump on that if they could. There's a lot of ways to mitigate this, but still it's reasonable to take it carefully and focus more on control than raw power, as rad as it is.
Let me dispel what doubts or uncertainty you may have with this. This is NOT something that will be rolled for what it will end up being. What we pick here is a certainty already thought up by Daemon Hunter, albeit one unknown to us. It's a wildcard, but not a random one.
Let me also say this, we did not end up here by playing with the Warp the ways others would suggest we should. Kesar Dorlin did this his way, by his understanding, by his deeds, by his will, by his mind and by his elemental audacity.
What can this be? We don't know. It's mentioned on the Discord server that it being something like the Winds of Magic from Warhammer Fantasy is possible, by channelling the 'river' that is mentioned here and split it, shift it, use it as something better than the raw madness that is the Warp as it is normally now. It could be something else. It could be anything else, maybe worse than either two option admittedly.
But whatever it would be, it would be Kesar Dorlin's way.
Through his mind will he design a way to utilise the Warp to suit him, through his will can he match the roiling expanse of this psychic reality, through his power shall he be able to make it a reality. Whether it is filtering the Warp, splitting it into winds, calming it to utter tranquillity, he will fight that fucking river and show the Warp who's the boss because that's how he's been fighting it since he first took up arms at Valhalla.
He has become an Anathema, and the Warp around him is already forced into a calm stability. He helped banish the Maelstrom, and all Warp Storms in the galaxy have been weakened in inherent capability and power. He has awakened his psychic abilities, and his will is so ironclad it is impossible for Chaos to corrupt him unless he willingly allows it.
We've come so far by looking at the wider situation, at grand battles and events, and deciding to do it Kesar's way for better or worse. It is why he's here, how is powers came to be unlocked at all, so with all of this in mind and coming to alignment I have to suggest that we take the path of Kesar's own making.
(Also, that awesome pocket dimension idea Magnus suggested? Apparently, we can still attempt that later. Depending on what the wildcard is, it might even end up being better due to being 'built' to suit Kesar specifically than being just a general 'well' of power to tap into.)
Except, later on, we can also turn this shit into a separate realm with just a little more work. A full on pocket dimension realm of pure psychic power, owned and metaphysically tied to Kesar Dorlin. Does that not sound kickass?
At least Magnus could now bragged that he is not the only reckless one among his brothers when it comes to the warp. Joke aside, I really like the bonding between the three of them. Kesar is really the glue between them all and u am glad to see it. However, I am surprised how mellowed out Leman has become. I would except him to be more forceful regarding Kesar actions and those of Magnus. I presume Magnus' alliances with Eldar is well known but what sort of censure and punishment would be levied upon him remained to be seen. I don't think he would be ousted publicly but it would make the situation awkward especially with Vulcan and Mortarion....yup as Leman said. I am not envied Magnus at all. Corax should be on a relatively secure but he can't let his guard down or his ass whopping would be legendary with even Magnus punishment would pale in comparison to the wrath of Malcodor and the Emperor. I wonder what is Alpharius and Omegon is up to now. Last I check, they are in Sol?
We've become a psyker in order to hunt and murderblend daemons better, right?
Random thought: Using the river and fortress analogue, couldn't we divert small streams from the river (thin enough that only smaller fish can follow it) so that they pass through us, with a fish blending hydroelectric dam/water wheel/whatever the thing is called at the entrance. IRL, IIRC there's a type of hydroelectric dam that has the water rush through these spinning blade turbines to generate power - and to protect the fish going up or down the river, the entrance is grated and dam is built with a smaller detour river for the fish to travel. In this case, we'd instead put the spinning blades in the diverted stream and without any grates. If our fortress has to be in the river itself, have an open tunnel entrance that leads to the turbine. Except instead of turbines and spinning blades (unless we can exploit the Warp working on metaphor to make this actually true), its the soul of a psychic daemonsbane anathema. Thus: constant passive murderblending/truekilling of whichever daemons are unfortunate enough to follow the stream/approach the fortress. Maybe even ask one of the Hydra heads to dress up as a smartass rabbit and put up a "ACME Secret Shortcut" or "Free Souls" sign at the entrance to the path. Alternatively, we can look at it metaphorically as using our psychic connection as a bug zapper or bait on a fishing rod being thrown into the sea.
We're uncorruptable and IIRC we passively banish (truekill?) lesser daemons that get near us. We shouldn't be approaching this as 'force the warp to do as we wish to keep daemons away from us.'/"No, you move" - we should be approaching this as 'Can we draw on the warp in a way that also baits our prey into coming to us?'/'The harder we act on the warp, the farther away (in the warp) our influence will probably be noticed and felt - and thus the larger the radius within which lesser daemons may flee from our presence if they realize we're the source. Inversely, smaller nudges ("no sudden movements!") means they'll let their guards down closer to us/may mistake us our warp presence for some other psyker'
[X] "I'm unsure of it, but I'll trust you on this Magnus." - Adds 2 years to basic psyker training time.
Im just going to trust magnus jugment as the better psyker and psyker primarch.
The Leman thing is more risky and have the potencial to misscast and magnus method doesn't have it.
I also not voting by the mystery box because is a mistery box and the result is already set there is no garante that what we got will be the river or winds stuff since it was only brough up yesterday on discord when this is being writtent and I doudt daemon would change the result just for that.
With magnus we have a clear, safe and good path foward with no downsides even if it takes a bit more time and still allow us to do all the cool stuff like the winds or rivers later since it doesn't block any of that stuff.
Also the magnus method is proven and has more institucional knowlogue behind.
(Also, that awesome pocket dimension idea Magnus suggested? Apparently, we can still attempt that later. Depending on what the wildcard is, it might even end up being better due to being 'built' to suit Kesar specifically than being just a general 'well' of power to tap into.)
[X] "Maybe we can find a better method." - Keeps searching for another method
I would be fine with Magnus' method but this feels more Kesar and also likely to be possibly something our legion psykers could actually use due to blood ties.
I lead them to the stars, conquering worlds, restoring civilization, and bringing hope to every corner of the galaxy we touched.
A few among our number scoffed at my unwillingness to sacrifice my soul to slaughter my enemies, but unlike them, I never forgot the purpose the Emperor gave us.
Yet as our journey took us across the stars, more and more blood was spilled and as time went on, the seeds of division were sown.
Those who felt our duty was to the warriors around us and the people behind us, and those who felt our duty was to slaughter our enemies and all who stood in front of us.
It was a careful balance I had maintained, but slowly, our band of brotherhood shifted into an uneasy peace.
In His name, we conquered the stars and brought peace to worlds that had never known safety.
But one day, it all went wrong.
On a world long since lost to this ancient memory of mine, I fell.
Too injured to return to the front line, yet too valuable to be simply left behind, I was entombed within a case of adamantite.
Until the day my mind gives in, or when the shell protecting my feeble remains wither and die, I am damned to fight until I meet my ignoble end, a task I am happy to oblige.
Yet with my fall, corruption began to stir.
Thoughts of blood and slaughter became whispers, whispers became conversation, and conversation became roars. In time, our legion was transformed into those who slaughtered and killed without regard for life or duty.
Yet for a time, there were those who remembered the ancient vows of brotherhood, the grace of the Emperor, and the decree for mankind's glory.
As great a shadow our legion began to cast, our light remained firm in its strength.
That is, before the Dark Times.
Before my Father, Angron of Nuceria.
Oh, my father. How can one feel such intense hatred, and such hopeful love for one man without bursting into flame? My soul alights with fear and despair to even utter his name in my mind, let alone to the ears of others.
To see a hopeful future stretched out before us, even entombed within this prison of steel, the name of my father brought hope that our legion would be saved from darkness.
I never could have thought he would fall to it before we did.
In those few moments I was awake, I sought to undo the damage that was brought about by our brothers, but to believe in my brothers who fought for the light was to believe in a passing shadow.
And now, as our legion stands in an hour yet darker than the one that passed before, I am now left to reconcile with what remains.
We have lost so many of our numbers, so many I struggle to even remember their names.
I remember him, I don't remember his name anymore, for the accursed dreadnaught gives as much as it takes, but I remember him.
A hero of our legion, someone who signaled strength to our brothers, someone others could count on.
It pains me so to not remember a single one of his deeds or even a single one of his titles, but I suppose my father gave this to me, for he did not care when a hero fell either.
At least I can say that my shriveled and decrepit heart still beats with sorrow and regret, while both of my fathers can't even muster a tear.
At least there is still one hero I can still remember, one martyr to our slaughter whose heart cannot beat anymore.
His death in recent days still occurs to my mind in this place of emptiness, a place of nightmares and illusions, of a brother who always laughed, of a brother who could still cry, of a brother who could drive even the Butchers Nail from the depths of his brothers' minds.
Kargos was his name.
One of the few souls left in the World Eaters who knew how to laugh and cry in equal measure.
One of the few souls left who could teach others how to laugh and cry.
One of the few souls left that even my most depraved brothers now weep for.
The death of Kargos was the death of the last shining beacon in this legion, and now the darkness grows yet further.
Even the mortals in our ranks suffer.
That admiral, Hawkwood, has gone now. A man with morals too bright and a will too weak to bear the weight of the galaxy we placed on his shoulders.
In another time, in another life, he could have been someone strong enough to save my brothers, but like my father, he too was merely a broken husk, sent to us to extract whatever worth the galaxy could and toss him out when he no longer proved useful.
The evening bell has tolled for far too many of our heroes, and as our ranks grow ever shorter, these halls ever emptier, is there any way for me to save my brothers?
Now, with the tolling of the midnight bell, with our father bound in chains, our legion placed under an iron boot by an uncaring demi-god, torn apart by the Butchers within, weakened and isolated, forever alone and forsaken, who remains to save the dream I once had?
The so-called greatest of our legion, Kharn?
The fool, the liar, the arrogant, the strong, the butcher, the world eater, the damned, and a slave to his own darkness.
The one arrogant enough to believe he could lead the World Eaters whilst our father languished in agony and suffering, the one who slaughtered billions with reckless pride, and the one who enocuraged madness and wrath to overtake so many of my brothers.
It was he who enabled our fathers' greatest depravities, and before our legion falls into shadow, I would see him brought to judgment even if it would cost me my life.
And when Kharn is brought down in chains to answer for his crimes, my greatest regret will be that I could not save the initiate who came to us so long ago, the one who was forced to butcher and slaughter for his masters while I focused my eyes on the stars.
Who else stands then to lead the World Eaters? Some of my most foolish brothers whisper of the admiral Lotarra Sarrin.
Hah!
If any of those amongst our legion could have halted the fall, it would have been her.
The one human my father respected, the one human universally respected by the World Eaters legion, the one human who never failed to bring victory.
She could have stopped our fall long ago, but in my eyes, she is the greatest coward of all.
When she had power and saw the failures of my brothers, failures I no longer had the strength to stop, she embraced it. Reveled in it.
And when the time finally came for my father's suffering to come to light, she may have faced him down out of anger for her own ruined wars, but she does nothing to help us now, nor has she ever tried to.
Perhaps she does care about the legion, in some sick, twisted way, but her soul calls for unrelenting strength, and she will crush the innocent under her heel to satsify her lust for war.
She is the one human who will never save us.
My mind grows weary now.
The darkness that gnaws at me is ever stifling in its persistence.
For all that I lament and rage in the abyss of my mind, I know there are at least a few embers of flame that yet remain to guide my lost brothers.
Vorias, the psyker, the one most hated by the butchers of Kharn, and yet one of the few who never crossed the line in the sand.
They despised his courage and his will, his ability to face his trusted brothers making a terrible mistake and tell them they are wrong. As time passed and the wheel turned to crush us underfoot, Vorias was finally proven right in his strength, not that those demented beasts could ever admit it.
I envy him for that.
He has a strength that I have long since lost. Clad in this tower of steel, I am glad, and yet, fearful that his resilience has come to outgrow my own.
Vorias was hated and spurned by the masses of hate-filled lunatics, but at least I know he still had those he could call allies.
Macer Varren too stands firm against the darkness. He is perhaps the one brother I could truly count on to face Kharn once the butcher falls.
Perhaps he could even look our father in the eye and tell him no.
The greatest injustice the galaxy has ever known is that it was Kharn who was recognized by father for his strength and not him. Oh, how much of our virtue would remain if the greatest and most honorable of us was made our leader instead of that wrathful husk of a man?
Vorias is certainly of greater will than I, and Macer is a greater warrior than I ever was.
Hah.
How far I have fallen.
From the hero they placed their absolute faith in, to a mere relic of a bygone age, forced to watch as they struggle in vain to save our legion from our fall.
But against the will of the Death Lord and the screeches of the dying and lost, who amongst us can truly save our legion from darkness and despair?
Is there no one left?
…
…
No.
I still remain.
While I still draw breath, my fallen brothers yet live.
While I still draw breath, hope yet remains.
While I still draw breath, our mistakes can still be fixed.
Even in a thousand years, ten thousand, or a hundred thousand more, the World Eaters will reclaim their honor, as heroes of mankind, and saviors of the lost.
While I still draw breath, while Vorias still leads our librarius, while Macer still fights the good fight, we have not fallen.
The shadow over my mind begins to fade and my heart begins to beat as servos whir to life once more.
I swear this, on the accursed Emperor and to the long-gone dreams of a father who never was, I will save this legion.
I am Lhorke, former legion master of the War Hounds, a proud warrior of mankind, and even though the stars fall, and though the darkness tears my mind in twain, I shall know no fear.
I am awakened.
My eyes open taking in the familiar halls once more, and the blood that yet remains in my body freezes.
The shadow of death gently caresses my shoulder as it tears open my veins.
Hooded eyes look down from me in the shadows as I look deep into the eyes of a man who could kill me with ease.
My legs begin to quake in fear and the steel floor on which I rest begins to rattle in response.
The grim reaper looks down at me, eyes crinkled in disgust, and my soul reverberates in terror as it opens its mouth to speak.
"Son of Angron, I have come here to judge you." A demi-god looks down on me, radiating apathy and condescension with every slow and careful blink of its eyes.
Instincts honed under father's rage-filled eyes flare up, and my tongue moves in turn. "Lord Primarch Mortarion, I welcome you to my grave."
Mortarion, the 14th Primarch, the Pale King, Lord of Barbarus, Master of Two Legions, and so much more, stares down at me. His eyes look over me, searching for something, perhaps some weakness I was subconsciously hiding, or perhaps looking for some hidden strength.
I can do nothing, trapped helplessly beneath his wandering gaze as the weight of a world seems to force my head down in a bow.
After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Mortarion speaks.
"Follow me, son of Angron." Mortarion turns away in a snap and walks away.
For a moment too long, I sit in complete awe and trepidation of the Death Lord before I snap into action. The floor beneath me echoes thunder as I quickly move forward to reach the primarch's side. Mortarion gives not even a glance at my presence as we exit my vault.
The halls of the battle barge were teeming with life. Thousands of workers hurried across the ship, racing to fulfill their tasks before the watchful officers could turn their cruel gaze towards them. Officers of many different ranks moved about at a leisurely pace, assured that while the Primarch was near, no harm would come to them, while just as many began barking orders, eager to receive the praise of a demi-god for their diligence.
Yet Mortarion did not care, for the slow approach of death cared little for the petty wishes and glories of the many ants beneath it, only that they did not bar its way.
An honor guard of Death Guard, each member a veteran and champion of a hundred wars, kept a watchful eye over us. A single shove to a careless mortal was all it took to send the rest scurrying like rats, and in mere moments, an eternity to myself let alone my younger cousins, the halls began to empty.
Yet as full as the halls of the battle barge were before, it didn't feel any less empty than it is now with both me and Mortarion no longer hindered by the masses.
The oppressive tension of the Death Guard did nothing to hinder his memories of the halls filled with proud battle brothers, each one a proud and noble hero of mankind.
Their deaths at the hands of Angron's fury was a cold comfort, knowing they would not have to see what would happen under Mortarion's tyranny. Their deaths were a mercy compared to watching their brothers atrophy under the watch of a cruel legion master, an absentee father, and an uncaring primarch.
Even still, how desperately I wish that a single one of those I called friends could be here now. If I could hear their voices filled with pride just one more time, I could die happily.
Mortarion stops suddenly and I am jolted out of my thoughts as I stare at his back, wondering when he had managed to outpace me.
We stand now in the monument to Father's failure. The greatest symbol of our legion's bloodlust and excess.
A steel arena, large enough that it would take even veteran astartes nearly half a minute to cross the full length, covered in blood and viscera. Even now, the practices of the World Eater's under Kharn's rulership continue, officially banned as they were by the fourteenth primarch.
Those few World Eaters that still remain with Butchers Nail still implanted in their skull come here, bringing terrified servants and voidsmen, willingly or with bodies broken, to sate the unending desire for carnage and slaughter that possesses their every waking moment.
In the center of the arena, Mortarion's scythe stands, blade piercing the ground and dripping in blood. The bodies of humans lie across the arena, savagely ripped and torn, limb by limb, splattering the arena in a sea of gore and blood, a sight that was supposed to have been banned by Kharn's own words.
An astartes of the Death Guard covered in viscera drops his load, stepping forward and kneeling in acknowledgment of his gene sire before continuing in his assigned task, hauling a bloodied pulp of metal and flesh towards the door they had just entered through.
As the Death Guard moves past his father, a quick voice barks out. "Leave it." Mortarion's words are precise and deliberate, leaving no room for doubt. The Death Guard nodded and bowed towards his father, leaving the bloody mess at his father's feet.
For a long moment, Mortarion allowed the silence of the arena to reign as he focused his attention on me. I hesitate, instincts calling for me to kneel in subservience to a son of the Emperor, yet fury of his handling of my brothers demanding I glare at him and prepare to charge.
I awkwardly settle into a standing position, breathing in and out to combat the dread growing in my heart. Mortarion seems to care little for my own uncertainty.
"Leave us." The honor guard of astartes that stands behind me nods and promptly exits the room. The hundred or so astartes that had filled the room exited in the snap of a finger, abandoning me and Mortarion to an oppressive silence.
"Son of Angron." After yet another long pause, Mortarion finally speaks. "Do you know why I am here?"
I take a moment to collect my thoughts before responding. "... No, I do not."
"I am here because your father failed you L." Mortarion turns around to face me, eyes shrouded by the hood of his cape.
"I am here because your brother failed you, I am here because my brothers failed you, and I am here because you failed your brothers." Within the tomb of my cage, my heart begins to beat furiously.
"Lhorke, former legion master of the World Eaters, a long time ago, you swore an oath to my father that you would lead your brothers to the stars, that you would be his sword to wield against the darkness and shield of mankind, and yet obviously, you have failed the opportunity you were granted," Mortarion all but sneers.
I can barely muster the most imperceptible of nods before Mortarion continues. "Angron, slave of Nuceria, breaker of worlds, a century ago, he had dedicated his entire existence to breaking the chains of others with what little sanity he had that remained. Now he wanders, a ghost of his former self, and binding down others with chains tighter than his own, he too has failed the opportunity he was granted."
Mortarion looks right into his eyes as the shadow of a smile crosses his face, "And now, Kharn, current legion master of the World Eaters, a little over ten years ago, he swore to me to reform his broken legion, that his nails would not hinder him, that his legion would be the noblest and greatest of all, a legion to match the Custodes I believe was the words he used back then." A sickly laugh fills the air. "A false promise of course, one made to retain whatever fleeting grasp of power he had that remained with his father in chains to another."
The grips of my arms begin to clench tightly in rage before I force myself to release it with a deep and long breath. "What is the meaning of this Lord Primarch." I cringe as my voice cracks and wavers, but I refuse to move from where I stand lest he both hear and see my fear.
"What I mean is this, yours is a legion of failures." Mortarion's smile falls, and a grim stare pierces my defenses, and I am forced to physically step back. "Where other legions have only received one chance, yours has been granted three to become something greater, and every single time, your legion has failed."
Before I can say anything in our defense, Mortarion cuts me off. "Now I am forced to manage the deployments of two separate legions across vast distances with extremely differing threats forming challenges and trials that would tax even the staunchest of legions with my only forces here being a legion that is challenged by the Thousand Sons for size." Mortarion laughs at his own joke, and I slowly begin to see red.
"Perhaps then Son of Angron, it would be better if I were merely to end this farce here. It will only take a few years if that to press the remains of your brothers into my own legion, or perhaps even the Ultramarines." My blood freezes as I take in the words he is saying.
"What?" The question comes, short and unbidden. "But the loss of the World Eaters, an entire section of Imperial space without the support of asta_"
"The loss of the World Eaters pales in comparison to what will continue to be lost if your legion remains under my command, and if I leave your legion to its fate, a second Desolation will destroy it entirely." Mortarion gives me an unimpressed look as he states the plain truth. "Are you aware of what has happened in my legion Lhorke?"
"What?" The question throws me off balance once more. Something had occurred within his legion? To the point of making him disband another legion entirely?
"The World Eaters are not the only astartes in the galaxy to suffer assassination attempts. Due to the overextension of my sons, your fool of a legion master has forced upon them, not only were there two attempted assassinations of the World Eaters heroes, but there were also three separate attempts on the lives of my sons as well." Mortarion's stare turns into a frown as if noticing an annoying fly near his face.
"Were I not forced to babysit your legion, I would have been able to prevent these assassination attempts altogether, and I would be investigating my suspects instead of worrying about the mewling and pathetic cries of deranged soldiers." Mortarion sneers. The Pale King looks down at the astartes corpse at his side.
"I have given your legion everything it needs to succeed. I have given them time to grow and evolve, I have granted your legion master the path to reform, and I have even sent my sons to assist you in battle when needed, and what do I receive in return?" He placed his foot atop the corpse of my brother, eyes still wide in agony from his death at the hands of the Death Guard and, he begins to press down. "Lies from your leader, and spite from your brothers."
The metal screeches for a brief moment before it parts like butter, giving way to the soft flesh, and then the metal floor beneath to the primarch's boot. "And now, even your most noble heroes have begun to fall. Kargos and Hawkwood's deaths have signaled an unstoppable death spiral for your legion. From the viewpoint of the wider Imperium, it is only a matter of time before the galaxy claims you. All that is left is to extract what little worth can be salvaged from this mistake."
The fear that clouds my mind begins to fall away, giving room for purpose. The rants and ravings of Mortarion are based upon truth, but to insult my brothers and my father so openly makes my blood boil with fury.
They were fools and they were mad, but they are my brothers, now and forever, and no one will take that from me. Especially not the tyrant whose boot is choking their lives out.
My instincts cultivated by my father's own genes slowly overtake me as my breathing deepens, willing me forward, to wring the life out of the pathetic excuse for a man before me.
"We are surrounded on all sides by madmen and monsters and now, with your heroes dying one by one, mortal and astartes, you are little more than dead weight." Mortarion's grin shrinks, but embers of a smirk still remain as he casts his judgment upon me. "Tell me, Son of Angron, were you in my position, in command of a failing and deceptively self-sabotaging legion, overcommitted and without support, what would you do?"
The primarch finally pauses, giving me a long moment to think. My rage abates for a moment as I begin to seriously ponder the words of the fourteenth. His words were true, my legion was falling in numbers, and our veterans were dying one by one, consumed both by the madness of the nails and the horrors of an uncaring galaxy, yet in the depths of my mind, some strange instinct was whispering that there was some motive had not yet perceived.
Ultimately, Mortarion was not an entirely irrational being, and his time was a valuable currency, one infinitely more valuable than that of a lonely dreadnaught, former status notwithstanding.
What purpose was there in dragging me all the way across a ship to this disgusting arena? To crushing the body of my fallen brother? It would have been far simpler and easier to simply hold a private conversation within the hall housing me, so what did he gain from this journey?
Anger gives way to confusion as I begin to replay the events of the last hour in my mind. This must be a test of some sort. It is the only reasonable explanation for us to be here. But then, what of his analysis of the World Eaters? Was that truly his honest opinion?
No, it was almost certainly his opinion, for it was very close to my own. But the spite and anger with which he spat those words didn't need to be put as such. Was the fourteenth trying to test his anger? To see if I would follow in the same footsteps as my father and recklessly strike him?
If I attacked him, Mortarion would almost certainly win. My father, for all his strength and power, could do nothing but wail against an unbreakable wall until he collapsed from exhaustion. To attempt to strike him without assistance would be a death sentence.
How then do I answer his question? I cannot speak falsely as Kharn could so shamelessly. I am not fearless in the face of demigods as he is, and Mortarion would almost certainly sense my lack of resolve if I did.
But to speak honestly, to reverberate the primarch's own thoughts, would that not be the same as allowing him to do as he pleases with my brothers? To let him work them to the bone until they die?
There is no path to satisfy his wrath. Brothers, Father, please, tell me what I must do to save my legion!
Anguish and sorrow slowly creep in as the weight of the future hangs in the balance.
No.
I will not give in.
I will not give in like I did before, to my reckless brothers and the father I loved, and allow an emotionless demi-god to do as he so desires.
My indecisiveness destroyed our happiness and ruined our pride.
This day, if no other day, I must stand as a War Hound of old, and face the darkness with a dauntless soul.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, in and out, as I rise to my full height and speak.
"Lord Mortarion..." I hesitate for a moment as the full weight of his attention rests on me, yet before I know I will start to waver, I force myself to speak. "Were I to stand in your position, there would be no doubt to what I must do." I look the tyrant straight in the eyes. "I would leave this legion immediately and allow them to do as they please."
Silence overtakes us. All traces of a smile have abandoned Mortarion's face. My breaths slowly become more labored and painful as the air around me seems to boil beneath his gaze.
"...Explain." Mortarion leaves no room for apologies or distraction, and I oblige him in full.
"When you beat my father to a pulp in front of the entire legion, many within our ranks, veteran, and green, believed your strong leadership would guide our legion onto a better path, but they were wrong." Unnatural strength flows through me. Guided by some invisible force, I begin to slowly walk forward, each step slamming into the ground and kicking up dust.
"My brothers, Macer, Vorias, and myself thought you could teach us to fight for justice, to save the innocent, to protect the weak, but what we failed to see then, is that you never cared about us." Mortarion doesn't react as I continue. "Control of the legion, control of our armies and heroes, control of my father, control over our strength and numbers is the only value we have ever had to you, no matter how tortured and hurt we are."
My anger begins to rise once more as bile starts to fill my lungs, begging me to stop marching forward. But I shall not yield, not again. "You claim that your reforms would fix us, that it is my brother Kharn who is the true obstacle to our salvation, but you already knew he would never try to fix us, you just never cared," I accused. My resolve wavers as Mortarion remains completely still, but a moment's focus restores it.
Only a few paces remain between us, and my voice reaches a fever pitch. "Our purpose to you was never that of a trusted ally or even a feral dog that needed to be trained. All my brothers ever could be to you was a mere puppet, another pawn in your schemes of grand self-delusion." Mortarion shifts, the faintest hint of annoyance present in his eyes. A warning to stop and reconsider my words.
But Mortarion never cared for the anger and hate he caused in us, so why should I care for what I say to him? "You put a boot to our neck, stifling our growth, suffocating our leaders, preventing us from making the changes we truly need, all to demand we pull out the blade stuck in our chest and openly mock us for trying to push back against your iron boot."
For a moment, it appears as though Mortarion wishes to speak, but I immediately cut him off. "And after you delight in our suffering when our body finally begins to wither and die, you prepare to cast us off, a pawn that failed to fulfill its purpose, all because you no longer think you can use us to harm your own father." Mortarion clenches a fist, and the air turns to toxic sludge, burning and slowing the metal of my dreadnaught in its unstoppable approach. My tongue dries and the shadows around me begin to lengthen as the primarch all but wills reality to stop me.
"For some, inescapable reason that eludes the greatest wisdom of my legion's oldest veterans, you think yourself greater than the Emperor, more just than him, more virtuous than him, but all I see is some egotistical child who refuses to fix the problems he created. Instead, you use all your toys and gifts without mercy and without even a hint of a soul, until they no longer have any value and are disposed of." I slow to a stop with one last thunderous step and look the fourteenth primarch in the eyes with a furious heart.
"In the end, no matter how much you trick yourself into believing yourself better than him, you and the Emperor of Mankind are one and the same."
The shadows darken, and the world falls away.
Sheer unbridled terror fills my heart as the Pale King's eyes radiate murder.
Phantom limbs begin to clam up and sweat and all thought of fighting leaves my mind.
A terror infinitely greater than Angron's most guttural roars grips me as the grim reaper comes to claim my soul, and all I can do is lay down and accept my death.
And just as quickly as the world leaves, the world returns.
My heartbeat pounds against my tomb with fury as I desperately heave for breath.
The fog over my mind slowly clears, and I realize that I have fallen to the ground, creaking limbs just barely holding me aloft from the ground.
"I see." I slowly raise my head to look at the source of the voice. The Primarch of the Death Guard has turned and walked away, a bloody trail left by his boot. "Your rage at me is not entirely misplaced Son of Angron, and I am impressed by your restraint, even in the depths of your rage."
"In truth though, I must admit, I have not lied to you in my assessment of your brothers, but I have not told you the truth of why I am here." Mortarion reaches the center of the room where his scythe is implanted into the ground. He reaches out, gently caressing the handle. "The reason I came here was to test you, to see if you had the strength and will to do what Kharn has failed to do. A man who could admit his own flaws and hold back his rage at my slights."
The primarch pulls the scythe out of the ground and turns to face me. "Instead, I find a man with the will to stand up to me at his own peril and with the mental fortitude to not fall to his own wrath." Mortarion's hood lifts for a brief moment granting a clear view of the soulless, emotionless void within the pits of his eyes.
"But remember this Son of Angron, those trials, and tribulations I have forced upon your legion? They are but a pale fragment of the judgment the humans of the Imperium have called out for. Were it not for my intervention, you and your brothers would likely be dead." The Dread King of Barbarus points the blade of his scythe at me with a single hand.
"You want to prove you can stand up to this galaxy? To the judgment of humanity? To my own rule of your legion?" Mortarion's scythe falls back into a combat stance.
"Then show me."
I rise to my feet. The invisible pressure of the primarch's grip over reality vanishes, and I rise to my feet, to face a challenge greater than any I have before. To face the aspect of death itself and try desperately to survive.
Battle-honed instincts from glories of days long gone finally kick in, and my dreadnaught roars. "Father, if there is any heart left in you, please give me strength," I silently whisper.
And then, I charge.
To face a Primarch in an open area like this, all alone and with no hope of reinforcements, was suicide. But as I unleash a hail of projectiles with my assault canon, I desperately hope that Mortarion might yet make a mistake.
Mortarion doesn't even flinch as a wave of bullets powerful enough to pierce Olympia tanks hurtles his way. The Lord of Death simply moves his scythe, cutting through the waves of bullets with ease and sidestepping the ones he can't.
The few bolt rounds which make it through his defenses explode on contact with his skin, leaving nothing but a hint of dust on Mortarion's empty face.
With a roar, I close the distance toward the defending primarch, power clear striking out to claim the primarch's neck. With a simple backstep, Mortarion exits my striking range, allowing my fist to sail past him.
With his superior reach, Mortarion lunges forward with impossible speed, a flash of light my only warning for the blade racing towards my neck. My eyes widen, and I lurch backward, throwing myself off balance to prevent the scythe from penetrating my armor. With mere fractions of a centimeter of clearance, I manage to throw back my head just enough to avoid a killing blow.
But the Primarch remains relentless. Carrying his momentum through the strike, the scythe snakes around in the blink of an eye, coming down in a vertical strike to pierce my skull. I have no time to recover my balance and so I hastily bring up my power claw and block the scythe just below the blade.
The servos of my metal arm whine and creak as it strains against a demi-god's arm. The point of the scythe just barely digs into my helmet. I feel my heart beating as it furiously pulses blood to my brain, and I just barely manage to avoid completely collapsing to the ground as it begins to break around me.
With a titanic effort, I just barely manage to push the blade to the side as I step backward, giving distance between the two of us as I lash out with my autocannon once more. Mortarion seemingly grows bored of my actions, contemptuously flicking his scythe out to stop my ranged assault once more, before charging in.
Again and again, the same story plays out. In close range, I cannot match his strength, at a distance I cannot match his speed. My power claw strikes with power sufficient to threaten smaller titans, but Mortarion's scythe is a masterwork far exceeding my own.
My autocannon thunders, unleashing a hail of death that has destroyed entire regiments with its sweeping volleys, and yet the primarch barely notices as even the mere handful of rounds that do slip through fail to leave even a single scratch.
It is only sheer experience and the power of a dreadnaught that allows me to match his strikes, but soon, sooner than I can allow, time will turn against me. My strength will weaken, and my ammunition will run dry.
If I am to claim victory against the most enduring of primarch's I must defeat him now.
A very, very desperate idea occurs to me. If it works, I could deliver untold devastation on the primarch, but if I fail, it would leave me open to a killing strike. For a moment I hesitate, wondering if the idea is simply too dangerous.
No.
Now is the time to strike.
If I continue to wait, I will only be setting myself up for failure when the primarch's inexhaustible strength comes into play.
With yet another roar I charge into close quarters once more, carefully controlling my bursts with my autocannon to maintain precision. The Primarch easily handles the shortened bursts and races forward to match my speed.
Instead of matching his blow, I wait, for just a fraction of a second. The scythe races forward, eager to spill my blood, and at the last possible moment, my power claw darts forward and catches the scythe just before it penetrates my armor.
Mortarion pushes against me, his two arms pushing the scythe against my one into my chest, only being stopped by the adamantite core protecting my tomb and just centimeters away from piercing my vital organs. With only a fraction of a second left before Mortarion readjusts, I move.
My autocannon swings around, unobstructed by the defensive strikes of the scythe, unable to dodge without leaving his scythe stuck in me and himself defenseless, and at point-blank range, the barrels on my autocannon begin to spin, signaling the wounding of a demi-god.
I just barely miss the Primarch's cruel smile.
Mortarion readjusts the direction of the scythe but a few millimeters off center and pushes. Mortarion's blade deflects away from my adamantite tomb and digs deep into my body, gutting the innards of my metal shell and he smirks as his blade reaches my arm. With a flick of his wrist, the scythe bursts out of the arm holding my autocannon, sending hunks of metal flying and pain receptors bursting in my head.
I barely have time to grunt in pain before the primarch strikes again, swinging the butt end of the scythe around and smashing the head of my dreadnaught in. Shards of glass and delicate electronics are smashed and disintegrate into a cloud of fine dust on the ground from sheer force. I lash out with my power claw out of blind desperation, and by sheer luck, manage to grab the scythe before Mortarion can score a telling blow.
My relief, however, is short-lived, as Mortarion drags the scythe up, my only functional arm holding on for dear life, and pummels me with a rapid series of knee strikes straight to the chest. I keel over, grip slackening as the primarch pulls one hand away and backhands me, sending my broken form flying to the ground.
Half blind and with only one functional arm, my power claw grips the ground, steel flooring melting in my hand, and try to get back up. A swift kick slams me back into the ground and my chest throbs in pain as the tomb around my desiccated body begins to crack.
Through the splintered glass of my shattered eyes, I can just make out the primarch looming overhead, scythe raised to deliver a killing blow.
"How disappointing," his voice is garbled and muffled, barely more than static to my damaged audio sensors. His scythe falls, and my body erupts in pain.
Without any way to protect myself, the scythe cleaves through my tomb, adamantite plates buckling and melting like butter beneath a single swing of that dreadful blade. The primarch strikes true, as the power core that distributes energy to my body collapses, and the outside world falls silent.
The world darkens, only the faint hissing of my battered lungs and the groaning and creaking of metal my sign that I am awake at all. My body lurches as the pressure on the tomb relaxes from the release of Mortarion's boot. The primarch is walking away, no doubt, unimpressed by my pitiful showing.
My heartbeat begins to slow down, no longer taxed by running the war machine and also in defeat as my battered mind and body slowly give in to the release of death. I have failed, and soon, my brothers will be nothing more than the slaves of a new primarch.
Disappointing, the Tyrant said. Our battle was barely even a warmup for him, one who has endured infinitely more suffering than I have would barely flinch at my mightiest blows. What possible hope could there have ever been for me?
After all the years I have fought, my years of leading the legion, the centuries of experience I have accrued, and all my hard work to fight and remain amongst the sane of my legion, it was all for nothing. Against a cruel and spiteful demigod, what hope is there for my brothers of survival and prosperity?
No.
No!
This is not how our story ends!
I am a proud son of Angron!
I am the leader of the War Hounds!
And until the stars fall, and humanity at last knows peace, I will not give in!
MY BATTLE IS NOT YET OVER!
EVEN SHOULD THE EMPEROR DEMAND MY FALL, I WILL NOT YIELD UNTIL MY DUTY IS FINALLY DONE!
My heartbeat rises, as I struggle against the husk of shattered metal around me. The machine spirit whines and groans in protest to my demands. The spirit I have worked with and battled with for so long has given in to the inevitability of death.
But I will not.
I begin to remember everything. My first victory as a space marine, the first battle brother to ever congratulate me, the first time I ever felt joy, my pride as a legion master, my fall and internment into this machine.
But above all, I remember the cries of mercy. The friendly jests and jokes of Kargos, the honor and valor of Macer, and even the cold laughs of Vorias. To fall here is an insult to their memory, the ones who endured so much when I fell silent. We cannot let them down now.
The machine spirit stirs at my words, and once more, life flows through the machine. Bleary and cracked sensors filter through the haze and mire to sharpen my vision and hearing, the power claw in my hand ignites once more, and the shattered leg and head of my dreadnaught moan and buckle under extreme pressure.
No matter what, we refuse to give in to the pain of the end, Mortarion.
I will defeat you, even if it costs me my life.
The Death Lord sighs as the dreadnaught collapses beneath him. With a single swift motion, the blade cuts through the metal shell with ease, carving out a section of Lhorke's tomb with it, and exposing the emaciated corpse within.
Mortarion turns and walks away, headed towards the entrance of the arena.
Lhorke had certainly been brave in attacking and deliberately inciting him. Perhaps in his decades worth of sleep and inactivity, the former legion master had received plenty of time to think and stew on the words he wanted to say.
Ironically, rather than Lhorke, the disintegrating husk of a man stuck in a dreadnaught and surrounded by hate, being the one who is angered and attacks, it was him, the primarch, who ended up losing his temper.
In a way, Lhorke's words did impress the Death Lord. He could very well imagine Lhorke being able to outmaneuver Kharn in control over the legion should the most favored of Angron try to subtly undermine his influence.
It is only a shame then, that Lhorke would end up losing in a duel to Kharn. Macer and Vorias would likely join Lhorke's side, but of the two, only Macer was confident of being able to restrain the deceiver, and even he would struggle to fight him off.
Hmm, perhaps it would simply be easier to kill Kharn off now before he gets any rebellious ideas. He has struck at primarchs before. It is possible he may think to strike him too now that his grip on the legion is slowly loosening.
Just as his hand reaches the door, however, a faint stir catches Mortarion's ears. The Death Lord turns around and looks down at the prone dreadnaught. The former legion master writhes, his arm twisting and flexing to find purchase on the ground.
The shattered lenses of the metal eyes flare up in bright lights, desperately shifting settings and variables to find a more accurate visual display. The legs of the metal man, already twisted and torn by the weight of the dreadnaught's collision with the ground, slam into the metal floor, shaking dust up off the ground across the arena.
The fingers of Lhorke's power claw twitch violently as he fights to regain control over his motor functions. With the splaying of his fingers and the crushing of his fist, Lhorke lurches forward, each motion unleashing an ear-piercing shriek, as metal twisted and broke under the strain of its own weight.
With a tremendous heaving gasp, Lhorke sat up, using his severed arm as an improvised crutch, doubtless sending lances of pain back up towards his body, and stood up to his full height.
"Mortarion..." the dying man whispers just low enough for Mortarion's enhanced senses to just barely make out his words. "I will save my brothers. No matter the cost. No one will ever harm them, especially not you!" Mortarion readied his scythe as he noticed the tensing in Lhorke's legs.
The squeal of metal was the only warning he received. Faster than lightning, the dreadnaught moved, closing the distance in the blink of an eye. Mortarion's scythe lashed out, matching the former legion master's charge with a grunt as he slid back from the raw power of a dreadnaught unleashed.
Even in the depths of his desperation and pain, Lhorke still retained the skill and experience of a veteran astartes. Every failed strike effortlessly flowed into defense, every returned strike parried with a flash of his claws, and even Mortarion's mightiest blows were deflected and blown away.
The Death Lord focused in on his opponent, reading into Lhorke's attack patterns, watching the flow of his style, and prepared for a devastating counter blow. The raging dreadnaught roared as he reared his claw back for a mighty blow, and Mortarion watched carefully.
In the fraction of a second that Lhorke's capable hand was reared back, Mortarion raced forward. A single lightning-quick fist rocked Lhorke's head, jerking his head back violently. Mortarion could hear the gasps of pain and rage from the hole in the tomb and began pushing through Lhorke's head.
But just as soon as the force of his blow would throw Lhorke off balance once more, Mortarion's eyes widened. Lhorke pivoted his feet and braced against the primarch's blow. His head snapped back further than Mortarion's hand could reach, and deflected the primarch's fist using his head, sending sparks and chunks of metal flying across the arena. Lhorke roared as he used his closer hand, the amputated limb, and pummeled Mortarion's side.
The Death Lord gasped, more out of surprise than pain, and Lhorke's roar intensified in response. The former legion master brought back his power claw and aimed it square at Mortarion's face, who lifted his scythe with his free hand and just barely deflected the slashing claws.
Now Mortarion stepped back not once, but twice as he was forced to give away to the veteran dreadnaught. The power of a raging World Eater has been known to catch many off guard, but rare was it that even a Primarch would be forced back.
Step by step, Mortarion was hemmed in, giving way to the dreadnaught as his back inched closer to the wall of the arena. Lhorke roars again and again in anger and pain as each strike Mortarion deflected sheared more and more metal off his own body.
Lhorke shouted his rage and continued his merciless charge with Mortarion rearing back his scythe to deliver a killing blow. For the third time that day, Lhorke surprised the primarch as he made no attempt to block the strike, forging all defense in his mad final gambit.
Mortarion's blade bit deep into the dreadnaughts shoulder, piercing straight through the core for a second time, but the blade stopped as Lhorke charged in and barreled directly into the primarch. Mortarion was flung back, slamming into the walls of the arena, unharmed, yet surprised at the persistence of the World Eater.
Mortarion's eyes widen once more as the dreadnaught continues its charge, power claw forward to spear the primarch into the wall. Mortarion moves to the side at the last moment, just barely allowing the serrated edges to clip the shoulder of his armor. With a powerful kick, Mortarion pushes off the dreadnaught's legs, bringing himself back to his feet while Lhorke collapses to the ground.
With not a moment to lose, Mortarion's scythe lashes out in the moment of Lhorke's weakness. But Lhorke does not remain still, he whirls about with ferocity and a wild swing, prepared to take Mortarion's life. And yet ultimately, with a simple redirection of his blade, Mortarions scythe meets the arm holding Lhorke's power claw and severs it in a single blow.
Lhorke barely has time to think as Mortarion carries his momentum through the strike and redirects it towards the ground, cleaving through the dreadnaught's legs in two separate and decisive blows.
At long last, the dreadnaught falls again. This time, it cannot get back up.
Mortarion sighs as the battle reaches its conclusion. He had to admit, he had underestimated the former legion master. Although he didn't quite have the speed or power to contend with the greatest duelists of the legion, his inexorable willpower served him well in this duel.
The last time he had ever felt this threatened in a duel was when he had dueled Angron bare-handed. This fight was certainly less intense, but the sheer weight and power behind his attacks had tested his resiliency.
Were he a lesser primarch, Mortarion might just have been worried. Perhaps then, by combining his strength of will with Macer's skill at arms and Vorias' psychic capabilities, there was a chance, however small, that the World Eaters could yet survive.
The odds of their success were pitiful, but just maybe...
A crackle and shriek catches Mortarion's ear and his head turns again once more to the former legion master. The amputated dreadnaught's tomb collapses inward, trapping Lhorke's feeble body in its shell, and yet, the limbs of the dreadnaught reach forward.
The dreadnaught falls apart with each and every step, embrittled metal visibly falling apart as Lhorke's will to fight and win pushes his crippled body forward, inch by bloody inch. Mortarion holds his scythe on the ground and studies the Hero of the World Eaters in what he may believe are his final moments.
He can see it more than he can feel it, the desperate scraping of his limbs, the oaths whispered to his brothers, the look of pain and anger in his eyes. Those are not the eyes of his father, the eyes of a beast. These are the eyes of a man who has faced the worst the galaxy has to offer, and still tries his best to save someone else.
For a single moment, Mortarion stands still in respect, a single nod of his head showing one of the few pieces of respect the Death Lord has ever offered.
And as the dreadnaught inches within striking range, raising up his arm to strike at the primarch one last time, a boot slams down, crushing the head of the dreadnaught and destroying it once and for all.
The dreadnaught gasps and wheezes as its damaged power supply finally gives in and dies, now only able to provide the barest of life support measures to the entombed astartes and the dreadnaught finally halts all motion.
Mortarion waits and watches the dying man, thinking for a very long moment, before finally he comes to a decision.
"Astartes." His summons barely above a whisper. The honor guard of the Death Guard rush into the room and kneel before their father, careful to not step on the shattered form of Lhorke.
"Yes Lord Primarch?" The leader of the honor guard asks.
"Take Lhorke's tomb out of his dreadnaught and prepare him for a trip to Terra, I will speak with the captain of this ship to make the necessary preparations." With that, Mortarion turns and leaves the room, not even acknowledging the echoes of "Yes Lord Primarch" that resound across the arena.
The honor guard gets to work, caring for the wounded astartes and sending out requests for apothecaries of the World Eaters and Death Guard legion to come to the veteran's aid. Mortarion passes by the busy voidsmen and rushing astartes, content in the knowledge that no one on this ship could ever even come close to harming him.
The Primarch comes to a stop at a window and looks out into the void, mulling over the finality of his decisions.
I envy you Lhorke, the primarch thinks. In the end, your new position will be one you have always wanted, where you can make the changes you have always desired to make. But even still, both of us will doubtless suffer in our positions for the decades to come.
Hold strong to your dauntless will and courage Lhorke, in the dark times that come, you will be perhaps the only light your legion will be able to count on.
I awaken once more, not to the steady whir of machines and the hiss of electronics, but to the cold silence of the darkness. I cannot feel the limbs I once possessed. The power of the autocannon the cold bite of my power claw no longer registers to my senses in the void I find myself.
For a moment, I fear that I have finally met my end and that my soul has passed on to another plane or that my dreadnaught has well and truly suffered irreversible damage before a voice pierces the darkness.
"You have awakened once more, Lord Lhorke." A cold and uncomforting voice. It reminds me of the callous spite I hated in Mortarion's. This must be one of his sons.
"Son of Mortarion, where am I?" I ask.
"You are in the apothecary of this ship, being transported to Terra, Lord Lhorke." The voice sounds bored, wishing it could be anywhere but here, speaking to me.
I breathe in and out, a painful wheeze even to my own ears before I muster the strength to talk once more. "What purpose is there in going to the throneworld, space marine?" Terra? At a time of civil strife like this? What could Mortarion possibly earn by sending a crippled and dying hero of the World Eaters to the capital of the one he has threatened to rebel against?
"It is because Lord Magnus resides on Terra, Son of Angron, and because it is the Lord Magnus who has promised to restore you once more to your former self," The voice says, boredom echoing in his voice.
What?
To heal me?
"... Son of Mortarion, what purpose would there be in Lord Magnus attempting to restore my body?" Was this some sort of test from the Death Lord? To see if I would be overly excited at receiving a new body or if I could maintain my calm and composure no matter the circumstances? Perhaps even just a cruel jest, a way to poke fun at a dying veteran before his inevitable death.
"Why to take over as legion master of the World Eaters once more of course. Did you not know?" The voice says, almost mockingly. "Ah but of course, you have been sleeping through all the important meetings and speeches, haven't you?"
Stunned, I can hardly speak a word. Just like that? With a wave of his hand and a simple decree, Mortarion could unseat legion masters and appoint new ones?
… of course, he could. Without Angron opposing him as well as the unofficial support of the Emperor in taking over control of the legion, it was well within his right legally, morally, and politically to replace anyone in a position he deemed them inadequate for.
An uncomfortable silence takes over the darkness for several minutes as I ponder the ramifications of this change of leadership.
"Son of Mortarion," I ask the voice, "What will happen to my brother Kharn?"
The voice holds its tongue for a few moments before it finally speaks. "That would depend on the astartes in question Lord Lhorke."
So then, it seemed either Mortarion didn't know what to do with Kharn, or he was simply waiting to see what my most foolish brother would do before he acted. This way he would be able to publicly act as a just executor rather than seeming opportunistic within the legion for preemptively killing one who was still undoubtedly a popular figure amongst the ranks of the World Eaters.
My eyes begin to grow heavy, and the threat of sleep begins to overtake my weary form once more.
"You should save your strength now, Lord Lhorke," the voice says quietly. "You will need all the strength you can muster to change a legion of butchers and monsters into becoming a legion of heroes. I only hope what you can gather is enough for the coming storms."
My eyes fall closed once more, and my consciousness drifts into darkness.
But before I allow the realm of dreams to overtake me for the last time in my life as a dreadnaught, I make a solemn vow to my brothers.
We were heroes once.
We were the soldiers who saved lives, who protected the weak and guided mankind to glory.
Yet the galaxy is cruel and unforgiving.
Our blood slowly began to boil at the injustices we witnessed, and rage soon overtook our senses, and when the father we had come to long for so desperately finally came to us, he too turned our honor and valor to rage and blood.
But on this day, I swear to you, brothers.
The dark days are coming, but soon, they will end.
We will brave the horrors of mankind and the horrors of the galaxy, and we will not be found wanting.
To my brothers in arms who yet live, to the martyrs long forgotten, to the heroes and villains of my legion, to the angry daemons biting at our feet, to the father who never was, to the uncaring tyrant Mortarion, to the cruel horrors above, and to the Emperor himself...
We were heroes once.
And upon my life, if it must be, we shall be heroes once more.
So, Lhorke, former legion master of the World Eaters, is soon going to be removed from his dreadnaught as a favor from Magnus to Mortarion. This is important news as it means that Kharn is being removed from his current position, with his future currently unknown, and now a competent legion master who actually cares about friendly fire will soon be taking over. Truthfully, the chances of Lhorke actually succeeding in reforming the World Eaters are slim to none, but at this point, he has nothing left to lose by trying his hardest.
