The Long Founding (Warhammer 40k)

His stomach had long been empty but if there had been anything in it then Czevak was sure that he would have brought it up on the deck. His centre of gravity seemed to flip and his surroundings assumed a fresh terror. He was no longer in the dank catechorium of an Ordo Hereticus Black Ship.

The unsmiling Inquisitorial serfs were gone and in their place were droves of misshapen cultists, dressed in gaudy robes and afflicted with warped limbs and horrific mutations. They manned consoles and stations on a colossal, labyrinthine bridge, waiting in attendance on larger figures on the huge command deck who were all finished in cobalt and gold.

The vessel interior had a flowing architecture with features and equipment rolling fluidly into one another, as though dissolved by some unnatural force that seemed to hang in the crackling air. Even the gigantic viewports appeared melted into irregularity and revealed the dusty, red surface of Etiamnum III gently spinning below them. The Hexenguard were no longer hulking figures in blessed plate but Traitor Space Marines in ancient power armour, helmeted Thousand Sons in blistering azure, clutching bolters and waiting obediently for orders. The only armoured figures without helmets were the cloaked sorcerers who acted like lieutenants on the bridge, their unhealthy features glowing with dark power and minds in constant congress with the warp.

Chief among these was an androgynous tyrant standing where Sister Archangela Voightdecker had been. With the traitor Space Marinesand sorcerers standing about him, Czevak could only reason that he had never been an Ordo Hereticus prisoner aboard the Divine Thunder at all. His present predicament was far worse than that. His prison was in fact a Chaos Marine battle-barge belonging to the Thousand Sons traitor legion, masked through the duration of his confinement using Tzeentchian illusory magic.

'Yes,' Xarchos hissed his insistence.

'Bolt pistol jammed and exploded,' Czevak gagged. 'Thought I was dead.'

'Another?'

'Mind is sharp,' Czevak said, 'but lived beyond my years. I am a tired soul waiting in a cadaver's body.'

'You have repugnance for this body?'

'Long time…'

'And repugnance for yourself,' Xarchos insisted. 'For you have not the courage to take your life, hoping that another may do it for you. The infamous Bronislaw Czevak – who fears no one – but himself.'

'Yes,' Czevak coughed, spitting blood and phlegm.

'One more,' Xarchos said. 'A deep disgrace.'

'I ache for a girl I cannot have,' Czevak admitted, tears streaming down the sides of his battered face. The androgynous giant savoured Czevak's cruel honesties.

'You think to tell me what I will and will not do, apprentice?'

'I live to serve you. But you are not yourself, my master,' Korban Xarchos told him, his face now remaining that of the androgynous giant.