The Lost Primarch Quest

Hiya! Decided to make an omake on Kesar's interesting struggles with his current battle, as he's on The World Of Tormented Martyrs and engaging with an absolutely insane disguise as a servant of Chaos, because he both needs all the help he can get and it's just fun to see. Swallowing a hellish gateway of daemonic energy is certainly one way to disguise who you are, huh? Also, uh, happy new years!
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The Rune of Chaos Within. Or: 'Kesar Dorlin Faces The Worst Case Of Stomach Ache Any Human Has Ever Suffered'.

Screaming within the skull of your keeper. Thorns winding into flesh and soul. Crushing bone and nerve with your teeth. Destruction, defiance, defilement is your nature.

You are the Eightfold Path. You are the Primordial Truth. You are the Symbol of Ruin.

You are the Rune of Chaos, foulest creation of mankind's First Daemonsbane and Second Anathema, and you burn within the body of your own creator. By his own hand did you exist, by his own hand did he use you to delve into the secrets of your nature without accepting their blessings and curses, and now by his own hand did he turn you into an instrument of torture against himself.

'The World of Tormented Martyrs', the paradise of sacrifice, a celestial rock under the dominion of the Dark Prince. The current target of your composer, where he decided he would abandon the way of bloodshed to follow the path of a trickster. Going alone, without any of his warrior-progeny, donning a mask that hid almost all of his overwhelming power and its specific nature.

He had assumed that you would be something he could handle. Able to steal the mythical flame of Chaos itself and to wield it without dying or falling under its will. He was, and you would howl and deny and scream and rake your claws at this answer, correct. He was not, however, immune to being burned by this flame.

No scars would last by your grace, at least not alone. You were scorching his soul but not able to actually destroy any part of it, slicing into flesh and bone but not deep or strong enough to do more than hurt. A mind darkened by agony yet not influenced by your mindless, hateful will. The primal frustration you felt caused you to burn brighter, fuelling yourself as you tried to taste blood and bone, and never bright enough.

If you had a mind to be annoyed and were not feeling and whim made manifest, you would have felt despair at your own structure. The flame of ruin that coursed from your being onto his was intention, if not to this agonising degree, and thus covered his existence with a shroud of Chaos. It would be better to not burn at all, to deny him concealment within your radiance, but you could not deny your nature.

Even the pain you brought could become more boon than malediction, a tantalising thing for the Neverborn of Slaanesh to desire once they had but a glimpse or a taste of such a thing. Perhaps a clue towards the identity of your creator, for to be able to endure and feel so much at all without being a truly legendary champion. Perhaps it'd be ignored by the intoxication. You could not truly care about such things, merely feel hatred over them.

His thoughts wormed through your essence. His intentions flicker at a speed that only a daemon could match. His questions that he directed into you, as an instrument of divination in the oldest sense of the word, to find all the answers. Even if you denied him, and you always denied him, you resonated with such things. His other Rune, the Primal Gateway into his mantle as Anathema, would dissect you and reveal the truth hidden underneath.

Armageddon would come in the form of destructive salvation, in the murky depths beyond the scope of light, either by the intent of a divine killer or the curiosity of one seeking a new champion to bring into their will by one way or another. The Dark Master. The Deep Shadow. The One Who Heralds The Conquerors. The Umbral King. The First Prince Of Chaos. Be'lakor.

You cannot help yourself, the echo of countless voices and the way they ripple into the blood and brain of the one who consumed you. You babble about their strength, the belief, the secret that betrays the fact that in a fight it was certain that for all the Second Anathema's terrible strength… it would mean nothing.

This awe-inspiring power would also mean nothing if its intended target, such as your host, had left once they received warning. Warnings that were already given and would continue to be given as you resonated with the will, ripples and intentions of Chaos. The story of damnation was being read ahead by your devourer, able to know his role and the acts.

With this in mind, he goes against his very nature. The warrior-king putting down their crown and blade, shaking off plate and gauntlet, taking off everything that would betray his identity to any being of ruin. Wearing the mask of a long-dead Harlequin, something to hide his power and nature, while doing something almost unthinkable by almost every soul in the galaxy and ate you to hide his purity.

So you two had been joined. Half-mortal flesh woven with the essence of the Primordial Truth. Deific vitality infected without being corrupted. A sickness that would overtake and utterly consume almost anyone that even tried to touch you.

Icy roots to sink into the crimson earth. Sword-branches that pierced the birds that tried to fly freely in the sky. Rotten fruit that tainted the air and left it befouled by the presence. Leaves of infinite colours and endless edges that would flay the mind to see dance in the breathless wind.

To your creator, who would look back against the gaze of the gods and deny them directly, there was barely anything you could do except try to make the pain worse and worse. Hiding him under a razor veil. Smothering him in the depths as he pushed forward by the surface.

Be'lakor, great and terrible ruler of forgotten empires, would still come despite the attempts to hide. Yet their pace would be languid, focused on curiosity over this strange new champion than a hunter's ferocity, slowed by lack of a victim. Perhaps he would realise the deception and come closer. Perhaps he would hunt down the unknown champion to find truth in the remains. Perhaps he found it amusing to see such a desperate attempt and play along for now.

All these answers were forced from your being into your host's mind, letting your accursed wielder to know far too much. Their guesses growing clearer, closer to the mark, as time passed. Able to see the course of fate as it unfolded, but not everything. Oh no, that was a victory you had managed to achieve by the whims of accident.

He had the power, the cunning, the knowledge, the appearance and even the language… but he lacked history. The Anathema had made a perfect shape but couldn't find the time to fill it in. Rumour and assumption took over to finish the , information and intent spreading from the avarice-filled being that your maker had tried to align with. Thus was a true identity formed.

A servant of the Arkifane. The Creator of Ruin. Master of the Soul Forges. Spirit of Malevolent Artifice. The God in the Machine. Vashtorr the Demigod.

The Forge of Souls was one of the greatest powers within Chaos that was unconnected from the direct influence of the Old Four, rivalled only by the likes of Be'lakor's dominion. Mercenaries and contract-workers that were willing to do anything to satisfy the near-endless debt and costs they were bound with, a sudden vizier arriving to steal influence and power was an obvious candidate when the other immediate suspects were dismissed.

Able to buy any service, weapon or daemon with the right price, a true servant of Vashtorr had been summoned that intended to slay your master. Stronger than any other daemon that could arrive so quickly, besides the Dark Master that you knew was still coming forward to this world, the Daemon Prince of the Arkifane was a mighty one indeed. Able to rival an Honoured nightmare with their mechanical frame, power earned by a vast amount of time under the Demigod's machinations.

Against the full strength of your host, of the First Daemonsbane of Mankind, it would mean nothing. Yet if such strength was forced to be wielded… it would be a sign as clear as day towards the true identity of your wielder. Things were aligning for victory against those who stood against ruin.

But once more endless frustration surged across your form. With honeyed words and cold promises, arguments moving back and forth without bloodshed, a new deal was forged between the Arkifane's follower and your accursed creator.

Again leaning on promises to satiate the hunger that was foundational to all beings of Chaos, to work together to try taking this world from its current ruler, forming a contract with betrayal plainly spoken to occur only after conquest was done. All the better to take the world and prefer to stab each other in the back. All the better to weaken this planet and leave it open for decimation when your false master revealed their hand, assuming he was able to do such a thing.

You only hoped that Be'lakor would arrive as quickly as possible, that something would tear the shroud around your host, that resistance here would be strong enough that it would delay your consumer's intentions lest he reveal his true strength.

Only time would tell what would truly happen, until once more would you be forced to share even that to the Second Anathema.