Sterbelicht - One Sacrifice At A Time Against The Galaxy (40K)

When the Great Divide fell with a Decree of the Star Child mending the wound in reality that had so long divided the galaxy, more than a few changes erupted from each side.

On the side where the Imperium had stood and fought and crumbled and withered and been reborn a hundred times, the millions of micro-states that had bloomed like maggots from their festering corpse by the multitudes of humanity claiming their own destinies once more and the multitudes of xenos that rose from the shadows and the hidden stars and the broken shelters around and within they had hidden themselves from the wrath of old foes and allies gone mad...they all found the silence in the Warp a boon and a curse, with wars of system-shattering proportions erupting and raging without seeming end, with nobody but the Orks and Daemons the winners as trillions of sentients were reduced to corpses and souls in the Warp.

But as that part of the galaxy had its slaughter and laughter ring eternal to the glee of Khorne, so too did the other side of the galaxy suddenly find itself no longer shielded from the madness that spilled from the most bottomless, most abyssal pits that intelligent minds could conjure, and the nations that had painstakingly etched out their own existence soon found themselves under siege from within and without, a last raging effort by the Four to gather what power they could to combat a resurging Asuryani Pantheon, Mother, Death, and Clown joining hands as one, and the Pantheon of the Star, nascent as it was with but one Child standing against the Four as Eleven Spirits were their subjects.

And still...let it never be said that mortals are prey to the Divine, for they are their creators and creations alike, and the Fates trembled before the march of trillions that set out into the bellies of ships of power and might unseen since the days of yore, species of shapes and forms uncountable rising again, alliances formed and wars declared, with faith in spirit and logic alike setting fire to kindling and the ash of ages past.

The Age that came after the Age of Ending was one of Corpses...and Heroes. Nations and Individuals alike.

Four of these Heroic Nations were those spawned by the Cults of the Star Child, for the Pathfinding Fleet did not wait to see who would win, who would emerge from the struggle to come as the winner and victor, the one who would decide the fabric of the Age to come. No, they were reached by the scouts of the Stargrove Federation, and from that contact came the refit of a billion ships, all amassed into the greatest armada that the Milky Way had ever seen, though not all ships were capable of FTL travel. But all angled their noses against the inky-black void between the galaxies...and activated the Bubble Drives that had replaced their Warp Engines. The journey would be long and arduous, filled with ever-dwindling resources along the path, but it would be a journey worth the pain as seventy-six races and four-hundred-ninety-two sub-species set out into the unknown to another galaxy.

In contrast, the Benevolencia Cults roared into the heavens and the Warp, bearing splayed open chests and inked decrees with zealous faith and fanatic zeal, knowing that the time for hiding had ended...and Sectors fell. Sectors rose. Sectors roiled with war. War unending. War unceasing. War righteous beyond a mere mortal soul. They sing, oh, how they sing, of the Coming Of The Dawn. The Cults had hidden deep; they had hidden long. And now a hundred thousand systems bore their banners, chanted their hymns, and bled their blood. They rose from the death of nations old and young...and they rose with Hope. For they knew they were not alone as they struggled and fought and died and suffered. Tyrants marched for their cries, Consecration pledged duty to their Crusades, and, though rare enough to occur barely once every fifty years, an automated fleet would find anchor and haven at their docks, the bellies and holds of the ships that offered themselves to the worlds that had cried into the void their need for aid filled to bursting with food, machinery, weaponry, psykana, and more, bearing crests of Duchy and Grove and Temple. And each time one of their siblings came, the bells would ring on their worlds for an entire day, for help had come. The galaxy had not forgotten them. And neither would they.

The Chainbreaker Tyrants stood. They no longer retreat; their might and forces were no longer forced to labor to conquer another system and evacuate those planets, stations, moons, and habitats no longer capable of being held against the coming dark of Imperium, Chaos, Xenos, and Worse. They declared unto the galaxy seven words sacred and blessed, given unto them by the Star Child as it had raged against the lies that had tainted the galaxy for so long: "Glory To The Last Sophont To Die." And there was glory aplenty, for it was ever found in the gore of the slain and the dead. But the Chainbreakers had long known that to be free was to fight until you were, and then to fight on, for freedom was a privilege granted by dripping blood and spilled guts. And so, they fought, knowing that there was an end in sight for their fight. And end where they may lay down their weaponry, lay down their tools, and lay down their struggle. All to, finally, savor the fruits of the labors and sacrifice of generations fed to war.

For the Calculated Consecration, this new Age, this Age of Heroes and Corpses, was their Age, for they were the ones that brought about the greatest heroes and the most terrible corpses that could be found and wept for, the monuments to Martyrs of faith-shaking piety littering their worlds like stones cast by an uncaring hand upon planets of industry and labor. Where the Benevolencia Cults rose as trillions upon trillions and the Chainbreaker Tyrants fought as a military worthy of oceans of ink spilled in their honors, the Consecration marched as Heroes of Song and Legend, Titans bearing banners that dragged across planets with the deeds of their Legions and Pilots if not held aloft by specialized machinery making them flutter in non-existent winds. Though the Magi of many a Forge-World, Mars included, prided themselves on being the pinnacle of technological creation, though the T'au Empire fought with hoof, plasma, and battlesuit of ever-increasing sophistication beyond anything the Imperium could have produced, though the Stargrove Federation and Van Zandt Free Duchy thought of themselves masters of their respective fields in Song and Math...they all paled before the Consecration. Just one of their ships was enough to shift the tide of battles, a fleet the tide of wars. Just one of their Titans brought tears to the eyes of the most battle-hardened veterans, and just one Legion made them kneel in supplication before Gods of War that towered even above those wrought by the Federation of old.

An Age of Heroes and Corpse had begun. And the Star Child bid their Heroes to fight and die.

Trillions answered the call.

Chaos flinched.

Lying on the towel on the white-sandy beach of Ulsa Octalia, Thule-6969 HRMHVR languidly stretched in the sun's heat shining down to warm her just right without burning her to a crisp. It was a delicate balance to maintain when choosing a beach and world to relax on, just warm enough to enjoy the time sleeping and dozing off near the crashing waves, but not too warm so that she would get sunburnt and turned from a healthy brown to a complexion more at home on old leather. She still shuddered in her sleep at the ill-timed vacation in the Ultima Sector.

Regardless, 6969 did her best to viciously, and, with great gusto, do her best to tackle her three weeks of being away from any and all responsibility to its utmost. Even if Fren was of the opinion that she was "lazy" during their vacations by not doing everything that could be crammed into their stay here. She, quite evidently and with some smugness in her form as she rolled over to her stomach in the warm sun and with the lapping edges of quite slumber pawing at her mind, thought otherwise. She was not being lazy but energy-efficient when on vacation. They were there to relax from everything and not get stressed out by taking on more than they do when on a literal campaign.

Thankfully, she had chosen the planet very well this time, as it offered far less of Fren's idea of relaxation and far more of hers. Sunny days, open beaches, cool drinks, and light entertainment you passively absorbed with good company. Speaking of good company...

A shadow was cast over her, plunging her quite comfy spot on the beach into...well, a less comfy temperature and more of a ~kinda-warm area thanks to it. Cracking open one eye, 6969 stared at metallic toes belonging to a metallic foot within sandals. Her eye lazily wandered up as much as it could as she rolled herself back onto her back again, staring up at the (upside-down) form of Fren, the hulking man looking down at her with a decidedly unamused mug (he was still salty about the most action-laced amusement on the planet being spear-fishing), all shining in the sun happily shining down upon them.

Though the technology to give him a new body has existed for literal millennia, he (and many others of his ilk) had often refused any attempt to bring him out of his Dreadnought until 6969 had managed to win a game of Paradox-Billiards-Vostroyan-Roulette-Fourth Dimensional-Hypercube-Chess-Strip Poker...she at least thinks so...possibly. That was right after 6 back-to-back campaigns eradicating 6 Slaaneshian Daemon Worlds, so things were a bit funky in her memory during that century. It could also have been her needling him just long enough to break down his walls and make getting a new body the more palatable option than having to continue to listen to her badgering.

The result was the man now towering over her, clad head to toe in shifting metal that shimmered in the sun, the man too stubborn to altogether remove himself from the Dreadnought, using a dozen different excuses to keep the form and shifting metal over his body instead of simply having it regenerated or outright entirely replaced and his soul punted into a blank-soul'd clone. Not that 6969 was precisely complaining; after all, Fren had also refused to have his body be anything but sculpted perfection, chiseled from his hands into a body worthy of a son of Sanguinius, face, chest, arms, legs, and all.

"Woman, cease your staring and eat the ice cream you forced me to buy," he said after a solid twenty seconds passed between the two, 6969 cackling like a hyena as he cracked first, sitting up in full as Fren sat down crosslegged with a heavy 'thump' where he had stood, two cones of ice cream with three scoops in his hands, one extended to her as the other held onto the second cone with the kind of grip that a man walking to the execution chamber had while holding a prayer-bead.

"Not so fast," 6969 smugly said, grinning up at his still looming form, looking entirely too pleased with herself and her current power over Fren. "You know what you must do."

Heavy metallic eyes looked at her, the judgment of a veteran of ten thousand wars and hundreds of campaigns into the worst that the Chaos Gods had to offer before they were slain three hundred years ago.

He sighed when 69's grin became unbearably smug and laced with the knowledge that he would do it, he just didn't want to give her the satisfaction of faltering right away.

And so...he smushed the ice cream cone into his grave mask.

Thule-6969 HRMHVR would not stop laughing for ten minutes.

It is the 55th Millennium.

And there is peace amongst the stars.