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An Extra Primarch
- Thread starter ilbgar123
- Start date
- Location
- Peterborough, NH, USA
- Location
- Peterborough, NH, USA
Not with the Astronomicon up he can't.
Regular extraminatus then. Because unleashing the void dragon is a thing that should never be done. Like if he does that, he doesn't get to fucking call us out on taking risks. Because fuck his hypocrisy.
We made a minor goddes. He unleashes a fucking ctan to take a fucking planet.
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- Location
- Florida
He very likely only released a Shard of the Void Dragon and even then when all other options failed.
Plus the Rangdan Xenocides consumed/took place in the whole of Segmentum Obscurus, so not just a single planet.
Plus the Emperor is (rightfully & deservedly) prideful of his abilities. So no surprises there.
See thays fine with me. But after shit like that he doesn't get to give us shit for creating at best a minor goddess who is at least loyal.
- Location
- Florida
He's 'Human'...since when were we not hypocrital and irrational about things?
When we are super genius god psykers.
- Location
- Peterborough, NH, USA
You ever see someone in an anime use electricity to take over the nervous system and puppet someone? Imagine that, but with Ork spore analogues, which can persist in the face of Exterminatus in some cases. This is initially used to turn the locals against each other, and then for more... thorough conversion into Rangdan grunts reminiscent of Homeworld's Beast. Any of their capitals can singlehandedly do this to your average planet, and OTL Imperial ships would lose a one-on-one with them. Their Titan analogues were direct inspiration for the Psi-Titans.
The Astartes fought these things for decades before Emps decided to use his doomsday device on them. The third Xenocide alone cost 50000 Astartes to preserve the northern Imperium. The Death Guard are stated to have needed emergency intake to recover in a timely fashion. The Dark Angles losing their largest Legion position to the Ultramarines was directly the result of these things. Entire Titan Legions were annihilated and expeditionary fleets wiped out to the last. The Space Wolves received their Emperor's Executioner's nickname via this series of events, as they and the Dark Angels had to go full Inquisition on the sectors the Rangdan had touched to be certain their taint had been excised. Given the Slaugth are still around, that still wasn't enough to completely purge them.
I am not going to argue since you are the author, but seriously that stuff is peanuts compared to what the void dragon would do. Like its trying to kill a dog by unleashing a fucking dragon.
Jordisk
<Unverified N00B>
- Location
- Blind Eternities
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
The Void Dragon was never shattered. There ARE NO SHARDS of the Void Dragon, or, phrased differently, there is a single shard that is all of the Void Dragon.
Emps is justifiably worried about Warp Entities and Artificial Intelligence. He is less worried about beings he has already defeated at least once before. Emps and the Void Dragon were the inspiration for Saint George and the Dragon, after all.
That is rather terrifying. Though I will point out that the Ultramarines thing is at least partially wrong. The Ultramarines only became the largest legion after the received the remaining members of the Second and Eleventh Legions, after they were excommunicated.
...You call a biological version of the Reach Scarabs, that are able to survive all, or at least most, of the various Exterminatus types (from bioweapons to Rod-From-God on the cities to literally glassing the planet) and have taken over a whole quarter of the galaxy, small potatoes compared to a single C'Tan that Emps has already shown he can beat and restrain for literal millennia? I hate to see what you imagine is equal to the C'Tan then. It would probably give the Chaos Gods nightmares.
The ctans can turn that quarter of the galaxy into a graveyard. He literally invented all of the necron tech or atleast he know how to make it. Seriously the dude can recreate stuff like the celestial orry or the massive time travel the necrons can perform. He could destroy humanity before its born. The emporio may have defeated him in a straight fight but he snowballs hard with tech. You know that scarabs that can absorb and recreate matter. Those that can do exponential growth shenanigans. He could have a dead galaxy in months.
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Jordisk
<Unverified N00B>
- Location
- Blind Eternities
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
Each of the C'Tan was a "master of the physical world" and could influence it in various ways. The Void Dragon has an instinctive understand of the physical laws of the universe, and specializes in developing tech that manipulates those laws. However, the Void Dragon is...well, a massive dragon mecha. Additionally, the Void Dragon does need to "tech up" to reach that point. The fancy tech the Necrons have, like the stuff you mentioned, is from the height of their empire and the War in Heaven. The Void Dragon would need a servant caste of more reasonable size, and considerable time, in order to get to the level of that tech. Spending a century dealing with a biological threat is not going to be enough time. If the Void Dragon started teching up, the Emperor would smack him down again before anything bad happened.
Granted, that doesn't work NOW, since Emps is on the throne, but the Void Dragon is also asleep and chained in the depths of Mars, only able to be released by the Emperor himself.
No he doesn't. He can literally reshape matter with his mind and as i said scarabs can literally do whatever he needs them to do it.he doesn't need anyone.
Hell the time travel thing isn't that big. Its something a tech necrons can carry on their person. Once he gets loss the only one who can stop him is the necron.
Because if some uppity orc can threaten the emperor he is not stopping a time traveling tech savant.
Serras Into Canon Part 6: Serras Interlude.(AU)(+10 to roll of your choice)
Serras into Canon 6: The distracted musings of a failure
This void station is ancient, predating even the Age of Strife by several thousand years. Similar to the Imperium, its designers emphasized durability and long service over comfort and technology. Most of its systems are functional, while those that aren't have been forced to work by using Warp energy as a substitute. The hideous amalgamation of machine spirit and neverborn mutates constantly as I enter it.
Its location inside the Warp, close to the Eye of Terror and near the intersection of points between the domains of the Ruinous Powers, means that it is an attractive place to gather. All manner of beings, from Traitor Warbands to daemons so old their names have been forgotten to even the occasional Drukhari or other alien, come here from time to time.
Anything and everything is purchasable here. In some cases, an entire planet's worth of souls is traded for some trinkets. I move through the crowd despite my disability.
What is that, you ask? Simple. I am blind.
My right eye sees through the lies and bluffs of the merchants and sellers here, revealing their bare souls in a sea of black. The souls or their equivalents are the tiniest motes of light, close by but far away from each other. A pleasing smell emanates from them; I know their souls would be delicious even though I have never consumed such a thing.
In my left eye, snippets of the past and future appear and disappear faster than light travels in the Materium. The barrage of different perspectives no longer confounds my brain as it used to, though even my mind cannot comprehend all of them. I simply trust in my unconscious mind to choose the most important visions.
Still, my blindness does not make me stumble; a mix of biomancy and superhuman senses allow me to walk as if my sight were mostly normal. It is not a skill-set I had believed I would ever need, but my current enslavement was not planned either.
Oh, come now. I made you strong, didn't I? You should be thankful.
Valdor falls to the ground, finally killed due to age and the Luna Rebellion of M33. An explosion nearby shrouds his body in smoke.
My last vision is triggered by Valdor's spear itself, somehow having wound up in this alien merchant's wares. Even slapped with profane symbols, the spear knows its true purpose and master, angry at its state.
I reach out and disperse the merchant's soul before taking the weapon and soothing its bloodthirst. The merchant's cyborg guards attempt to kill me only to find their weapons dysfunctional. No matter the wielder, a machine will never harm me.
I move on as a small globe of light descends on the store to rob it of all valuables, heading to the area where the rich and powerful reside. The station itself is organized in the paradoxical order only the servants of Chaos can create. There are no neat lines between sections, only the increasing presence of soldiers and mercenaries indicating that I am traveling in the correct direction.
My entry into the more elite section is simple as I change my presence to part the souls of the crowd being held back and occasionally shot by Obliterators. A short daemon with wrinkled pink scales, 8 misshapen, spider-like eyes, and leather clothing made of a species rendered extinct by a variant of the Cult of Kurnous, approaches, asking me for payment if I wish to enter.
Such stalwart allies of yours once, weren't they?
It is a vastly overpriced entry, but I do not spend my own currency, nor would I do so. The souls of the Thousand Sons flow like water through my hands to grant me access. Three Obliterators shoot further into the crowd to clear them back as I am allowed to continue further.
The atmosphere here is entirely unique. Suffocating to the mind like anything in the Warp is, but beautiful in its own way. It is a visual cacophony of different building styles, time periods, and even aspects of the same god(s). A daemonette of Slaanesh lays with those who fall into her trap right there on the street, devouring their soul. Immediately across from her is the equivalent of a clinic, run by a man who will never care that he inserts souls into the bodies of her victims in his pursuit to perfect his craft.
A being could spend an eternity here and never see it all. Given that its owner is a servant of Tzeentch, that is exactly the point. The arrogant neverborn has tried to replicate his master's Crystal Labyrinth.
At the center of this section of the station, where all the notables go to socialize in the obscene ways only they can, is the Pavilion of the Deal. It is a stolen building, taken from Terra in the late fourth millennium under the guise of an earthquake. A primitive skyscraper, from when the engineering knowledge to build to space did not exist.
Entering the Pavilion has a cost. Without invitation, a staggering number of souls must be offered, enough to empty three Hive Worlds in their entirety. I am in possession of a standing invitation, taken from the remains of Magnus' mind before he passed on. It is entirely acceptable to possess a forcefully taken invitation, for daemons worship strength in their own ways, and triumphing over an invitation holder is to be stronger than them.
The conversation doesn't stop when I enter, but the slightest shift in cadence is too obvious and unsurprising. Betrayal is synonymous with existence here for those who matter. All they see, however, is an Astartes bearing the heraldry of the Second Legion.
I approach the bar and wait to be recognized by the servitor, held in place with countless pipes connected to its stomach from where it is collected into a cup and served. It stops for a second to consider my request before complying, the ancient and twisted pipes mixing caustic lemons and liquid bones to create the Girl Scout's Secret.
The nurse rears back as all monitoring equipment explodes simultaneously, killing several with shrapnel in the first microseconds of the Rebellion of the Men of Iron.
The drink isn't important, nor do I plan to consume it. But it does waste enough time for a messenger to arrive. The bloated fly/dog hybrid with two dozen legs requests quietly that I follow it towards the VIP section, something that has many reassessing my importance.
I pay them no mind, but I am surprised minutely that the Black Legion, of all traitors, would be willing to serve as soldiers for this daemon. Two of their number stand with lightning claws ready to shred whomever they are told to.
The VIP area is just as large as the previous area, but with fewer inhabitants. At the center is a massive table where the owner sits, almost hidden by the sheer girth of the daemon next to him, one who serves Chaos Undivided. I take the seat I am gestured to, sitting across from the owner.
It is small, almost tiny, and made of green and white feathers. No larger than a standard canine. Close to 100 eyes dot its body. It possesses two shriveled up arms and one tail.
I nod my head slightly to show acknowledgment to M'kar'ithin, ruler of the Confluence. It is immensely frustrating to make any deals with a daemon of Tzeentch, for they always look to gain some advantage by utilizing any loopholes that exist. M'kar'ithin is slightly easier to deal with, taking on the role of a merchant or service provider who can be haggled with.
It takes longer than I wish to admit (my skills at haggling with merchants, especially Tzeentchian merchants, have grown weaker with unuse), but we settle a deal that I know he will not break. I have paid far too much too allow that.
The Empress of Mankind making deals with neverborn? How scandalous.
Be silent.
The "air" around the Plague Planet, to the extent that it exists, is dense and choking to the extent of feeling solid. Toxins that can dissolve adamantium float freely among diseases to corrupt every cell in the body instantly. Bacteria and viruses wait like sharks for something uncorrupted by Nurgle to reduce whoever or whatever they infect into nothing more than a bloated incubator.
I move past them unharmed, disguising my presence in the Warp to appear as ambient ebbs and flows. Like all daemons, the toxins and diseases have a mind. They are slow and dumb, however, only latching onto those who appear different.
Khorne and Nurgle rally their forces to strike at the realms of their counterparts in this time of weakness, hoping a combined assault will give them a powerful advantage in the coming millennia as the Men of Iron burn the galaxy as the Necrons tried so many millions of years ago.
Hiding from the five senses is still necessary, however. The 19th legion would try to hide with their tactics and stealth technology and fail; I instead wrap myself in the Concept of Nothing. I break through the dense, roiling clouds without disturbing them, finally letting me see the surface of the planet itself.
It is almost impossible to make out the difference between land and sea, for both are the same shades of green. Tall mountains, easily larger than Mount Everest before its destruction in the 17th millennium by the Gothilde, rise towards the northernmost point, while large migrations of unnatural rotting beasts roam with their semi-detached appendages, hungry for relatively untainted flesh.
I level out my descent, moving towards the nearest town. It is as repulsive as I expect, with rotting and cancerous flesh growths along all buildings, sometimes being the building material itself. Rot flies move in swarms, feasting where they can on the Nurglite essence. Worms, beetles, centipedes, and other insects crawl everywhere. Trees grow haphazardly, reaching heights close to half that of a hive city while their wood is rotten and porous, letting out viscous black liquid that traps and dissolves whatever cannot move away in time.
A world of pre-spaceflight aliens calling themselves Gruls fight a desperate battle against the invading forces of Khorne long after the Imperium is dead.
The people themselves look uncorrupted initially. Upon closer inspection, however, one can see their pale and rotting skin. The clothing they wear is rag-like in color and texture, always close to falling apart. They do not walk, not anymore. They stumble or drag themselves forward if their bones cannot hold their decaying and bloated bodies. When that happens, their stomachs, often swollen as if they were carrying several children inside, bursts, spilling stomach acid and wriggling Rot Fly larvae. The words coming out of their mouths as they endlessly stumble in circles are all prayers to Nurgle, begging their beloved Grandfather to end their suffering.
They are not as important, however, as those who stand in the town's center. A circle of people faces inward, and I see two rotting carcasses wrestling each other and trying to slay the other. No doubt, the Death Guard Astartes watching this are looking for possible recruits. This must be the final test for the human boy, boasting a large belly and wiry muscles, facing off against one of the world's beastmen.
With a savage cry, the boy slams a crumbling rock into the beastman's skull, shattering it. The corpse is instantly set upon by the jubilant crowd and whatever insects can devour its flesh, while the Astartes, his armor rusted and broken but no less effective, grabs the boy and throws him onto a Rhino, its outside desecrated by Nurgle's symbol.
I follow them towards the strongest Death Guard keep on this accursed world, the Black Manse, home of Mortarion.
Dante falls in combat with the Swarmlord, his reign over the Blood Angels coming to an end along with the chapter itself.
The Keep is, in some ways, a copy of the town. Rot Flies, fleshy and tumorous growths, and toxin-laden clouds are omnipresent, though here they are marshalled or controlled by the Death Guard Sorcerers and Plaguebearers.
I walk the halls inside, ignoring the wailing bodies grown into the walls and ceilings and avoiding the pained existences of servants who desire beyond anything to end their suffering. The laboratories and cells where the Death Guard keep prisoners and experimentation subjects make my blood boil. I see mostly normal humans along with the occasional Astartes, alien, and even an Eldar or two.
What was it your brothers used to say to you? "Harden your heart?" A shame you never heeded such advice.
Their words were never meant to come out of your mouth.
Lorgar ponders the lessons I give on the Warp, struggling to reconcile his human understanding of what a god is with the objective definition of one.
I stop moving as I make it to my destination, one of the landing pads for Thunderhawks. Though time moves in all directions in the Warp, I know my target will be arriving soon.
The Thunderhawk lifts off and flies through the atmosphere, bearing powerful Death Guard terminators, their armor fused to their bodies and bolters emblazoned with Nurgle's symbol. 10 of them act as the putrid honor guard for the Traveler. Typhus.
Typhus is a true Champion of Nurgle. He strives in every way to spread the "blessings" of his Grandfather, to enlighten everyone possible. I see his future if I didn't intervene in the 13th Black Crusade. Countless tired and unprepared worlds corrupted by the Zombie Plague in the wake of Cadia's destruction. Worlds beyond salvation that would require quarantine or Exterminatus.
Guilliman frowns as he sends out countless orders and calculates the number of worlds that will be lost as disease and pestilence spread across the stars.
The Grul leaders nervously confer on how to deal with the Khornate invasion as they have no exposure to the Warp.
What matters to the Imperium, however, is what I do now. I follow Typhus into the Terminus Est unseen.
This vessel is a perfect example of how far one of humanity's proudest defenders. Its floors are covered in sickly-looking flesh that totally hides the original adamantium and plasteel. Like the Black Manse, the souls of the dead scream for an end to their pain, the walls themselves taking on the visage of the damned. I can feel the changes to the outside of the ship as well. It holds itself together not by fused metal, but by the power of Nurgle. I am impressed at the fact that it can somehow open into an asymmetric and mind-melting mouth that spews out corrupting acid. Rot Flies move in choking numbers, massive in size and all wielding the Destroyer Plague, that which began the final step in the Death Guard's corruption and service to Nurgle.
Typhus enters the bridge, taking a seat on the commanding throne. The pipes and tubes connected to it snap up and connect to his armor, feeding directly on his mutated flesh as he lies immobile. The honor guard takes it place guarding him, though it is mostly performative. No one has successfully attacked Typhus or the Terminus Est.
Attacking Typhus now would be detrimental. Instead, I move around the ship itself, leaving markers for myself. Something for the future.
You never cease to amuse me.
The feeling of suffocation sets in as the ship approaches the Garden of Nurgle. The domain of the Plague Lord puts tremendous pressure on all psychic abilities not drawing from his power. A servant of Tzeentch would flee as soon as possible, for this place is entirely opposed to their very existence.
Typhus' Thunderhawk departs once more, this time bringing him, his honor guard, and me near the Garden. As we land, he prays for entrance into the Garden itself.
The outer realm of the Garden is the Vibrant Grounds. It teems with life, as far as one can call Nurgle's daemons alive. It is a horrific parody of Man's garden-worlds that existed before the Age of Strife when humanity would dedicate entire worlds to showing natural and synthesized organic beauty. Unlike those worlds, where things are created to draw the eye naturally and enhance the visual experience, the Garden is overgrown and constantly moving. Daemonic trees build-up and bloat with parasites and viruses until they can hold no more, exploding and showering their neighbors. Stagnant water looks pure and clean, a trap to catch any unwary traveler. Every breath here feels like it draws air away from you until all one can do is gasp and die without grace or honor.
The Farseer burns the Flies attacking him, but it is futile. There is no end to their numbers and he eventually succumbs.
Typhus approaches the Blighted Mansion, and I hold myself perfectly still. Nurgle has no reason to suspect my presence, but I cannot take any chances. Fighting off the infinite Rot Flies would be time-consuming, and every second matters here.
With a rough push, Typhus opens the door to the Mansion, entering the perpetually rotting building. It teems with mutated insects whose legs are human fingers and bodies of rotting leaves and feces. Some of the trees that line the perimeter have the audacity to grow through the open windows, their branches akin to bones with fruit that seems liable to explode at any moment.
Nurgle's form starts to coalesce. Rot and pestilence spread quickly, forming the basis for the eventual Garden. From the ground sprout the first Nurglites.
Typhus moves past all of this, moving through the Mansion unchecked by anyone or anything. I hear the moans of the souls trapped above us in the attic. Their suffering is unacceptable, but I must endure the call of justice. The few libraries we pass are filled with possessed tomes, offering forbidden lore of Nurgle at the cost of one's health and sanity. Typhus' destination, however, is the Kitchen. It is here where my plan carries the most risk, for all the coalesced power of Nurgle is here, making it one of the few places a being could speak directly to a Ruinous Power.
Every time I see him, I'm offended anyone thinks he is just a different part of my body. Really, what a silly idea.
Is one of the others not there for you to bother?
Nurgle's form in his Mansion is not that much different than one of his Greater Unclean Ones. The Plague Lord's image is influenced by how soul-bearing beings perceive him. Those followers are overwhelming humans, and the human mind cannot comprehend anything worse than a combination of rot, death, disease, pestilence, and the insects who are associated with these things. The only difference between the Power and his greater daemons is scale. Nurgle constantly emits billions of Rot Flies from orifices in his body, and his breaths and saliva carry toxins so virulent that they could disintegrate adamantium at the atomic level instantly. His body is vast, forcing all who come here to look up if they wish to see their patron's maggot-infested face. His eyes are pupil-less, instead covered by an opaque yellow film. Rotting and moss-covered horns stretch out far, numbering seven in total to signify his sacred number.
In the center of the room lies the massive Cauldron of Nurgle. It perpetually boils and bubbles as countless souls and cursed ingredients melt into a homogenous soup. From above, massive streams of sludge and green water flow into the Cauldron, somehow never overfilling it. Nurgle's most powerful diseases, poisons, and plagues are concocted in it, with a massive ladle to taste them before they are unleashed.
Suspended in the air near the Cauldron's mouth is a rusty iron cage holding my target.
Typhus kneels before his Grandfather, offering his supplications and prayers. He speaks of Tzeentch's weakness at this time, of the hole left by Magnus the Red's death. He asks to lead the Plague Legions, all of them, in one concerted effort to destroy the forces of Change. He even begs to be allowed to once more dip his scythe into the Cauldron.
A whole company's worth of Harmonicist gene-seed is corrupted as Typhus culls their ranks with his empowered scythe.
Whatever the answer is, Typhus will never know. I shed the Concept of Nothing and throw a scattering grenade into the air as I race towards the cage.
The scattering grenade is an invention of my own. Intended to be a non-lethal option in fighting Warp-infused beings, the grenade dissolves anything cohesive in the Warp equivalent of the space it explodes in. Daemons are immensely injured in the process, and any material being is staggered by the effect as it plays havoc with their soul.
This grenade is not non-lethal; I have boosted its potency by thirty orders of magnitude. Even containing it at this point takes conscious effort on my part. As it flies up, the timer counts down. When it reaches 2.73 seconds, it detonates, and the Immaterium goes white.
The grenade destroys everything it meets, though its power is suppressed immensely in the domain of a Ruinous Power. Thus, it is not the nuclear explosion equivalent it normally would be. But as the Warp itself burns and turns white, Nurgle is hurt the most. In absolute terms, it does nothing; no mere explosion would harm a Dark God. But the surprise prevents him from defending himself, and the collected power of Nurgle weakens slightly in this area.
As for Typhus, his soul's resilience stems from Nurgle's power, but it is not constantly active; such power would require that Typhus become a full Warp spawn. With Nurgle's distraction, he cannot defend himself either. His form burns as his soul is irretrievably dissolved.
I know this from experience, not because I can see it. My focus is taken in severing the bars that surround the suspended cage, a simple enough task with a hastily constructed sword, but complicated by needing to protect the cage's inhabitant from the grenade. The metal sizzles where I touch it and the droplets attempt to flee their death. With a large enough hole, I grab the inhabitant and dump her unceremoniously over my shoulder before charging out of the kitchen, the explosion licking at my heels.
There is no subtlety in my escape; I am a silver blur that anyone would feel if they were nearby. But I am not harassed by the countless Rot Flies, daemons, or the environment itself immediately. The explosion has hurt Nurgle, at the very least stung him, and his followers share in his sudden confusion. It does not last long, however, and I can hear the angered droning of the swarms behind me as I float above the ground which now grows roots to ensnare me.
The goddess runs and runs, life blooming with every step, but the servants of Nurgle chase after, infecting that life as it wilts and dies. Close behind are the servants of the Prince.
With one swift movement, I spin and leave another scattering grenade behind me before turning back and flying faster away from the Garden. My flying pursuers are no longer an issue.
Unfortunately, I cannot fly like this to my next destination. I must hide for now from Nurgle's followers.
Right on cue, a ship appears close by, far enough from the Terminus Est to not be destroyed by the ship itself. I teleport on board when I get close enough. Before I do, however, I make sure to put myself and my target under a guise. Together, we appear to be a very large Astartes of the Second Legion.
One of the crew, her tongue hanging out while she holds six swords in six arms, swings her blades at me, but I simply burn her out of existence. The others wisely hold back.
I inform them that I am the person they were to pick up at this time and that the ship can leave. I can feel it turn hard to avoid the power of the cannons and mouth aboard the Terminus Est.
In my quarters, once I have swept for any spying attempts, I drop the disguise and let my target down, though not before placing a binding on her while she is weak. Already, her strength is recovering, and I cannot let her escape at this time.
I take a step back and sag down slightly, focusing on gathering my strength once more for the next stage of my plan.
As the ship approaches our destination, I disguise my soul once more, masking my presence to appear like that of an Astartes from the II Legion. I render Isha's avatar unconscious and bind her tongue for good measure. She would unnecessarily panic if she were awake.
A high-pitched scratching occurs outside on the room's door, and I grab the goddess to hold her over my shoulder like a woman taken as a spoil of war. I will the door slam open, revealing the mouthless human with pink skin and eyes larger than his palms. The man jumps back slightly at the abrupt door slam but beckons me to follow him.
We eventually come to the hangar from before. The captain, an insect from a world scoured during this Imperium's Great Crusade and a servant of Khorne, impatiently gestures to the opening. I do not give him any response, merely walking out into the swirling colors that were tinged with just slightly more purple than normal.
This is as close as the captain was willing to go. I cannot blame the daemon; to venture further is to risk enslavement.
The Palace of Slaanesh looms in the distance as I walk forward towards the outer perimeter of the Prince's domain.
The Eldar dance and dance, enjoying the slow feeling of their bodies devouring them to stave off death for a few moments longer.
It is odd that Slaanesh, an Eldar goddess by all rights, layers her domain by the human notions of the sins of old. The reason is but another contradiction on the part of the Dark Gods.
I begin walking the path through Slaanesh's realm towards the Palace of Pleasure. There are no winding sections, nor any confusing instructions, nor any defenders. As long as one walks forward, they will reach the Palace unmolested.
The issue, of course, is what lies beyond the path on either side. The circles surrounding the Palace entice any unwary or weak-minded with extravagant fruits of labor.
The first circle appeals to those who desire wealth. Plants of gold grow rampantly as precious stones lie just out of reach near the path in such number to devalue their meaning universally. But the power of wealth is not something I need. I walk over the remains of those who have died at this step, surrounded by gems that devour life itself as they shine brightly.
'The fruits of labor are not to be-uh…' The priest stops as his discipline is defeated by the greed filling his mind.
The second circle is for those who love to gorge themselves. A powerful aroma fills the nostrils to draw in those looking to drink the enticing wine that fills the pristine-appearing lake. Obscured by a slight mist on the other side of it, a seemingly limitless table is filled with food fit for a king. Temptation has no claws on me here, however; my stomach has left me long ago. The smells attempt to assault my mind with cravings, but I shrug off the weak compulsion.
The scenery shifts as I enter the third circle and a new scent fills the air. The sound of pleasure permeates the environment and supernaturally attractive humans can be seen fornicating and reveling in the ecstasies of carnal pleasure. Some of them approach, their forms slightly inhuman in appearance as a disguise to lure in any traveler who has made it thus far. They hiss and reveal their crab-like appendages when I annihilate one who attempts to touch me but do not approach any further.
I have lost my maidenhood; carnal sensations are anathema to me now.
Truly? Was I that bad?
As bad as your taste in humor.
Applause fills my ears as I enter the fourth circle. The images of infinite mortals clapping, screaming, shouting in my favor is an unbeatable roar as flowers are thrown near the path. It is good, I suppose, to prove that my control over myself is strong enough to avoid being read.
'Good work. I'm proud of you.' I preen at this praise but cannot help notice the jealousy on his face.
The fifth circle is likewise meaningless. A comfortable glade to dream of conquering the stars, of ruling galaxies. But I have dueled the Nightbringer to a standstill, slain Krork warmasters into the ground, played a million games of regicide simultaneously with the Omnissiah, and commanded fleets of hundreds of thousands of ships. I have no dreams, not anymore.
The last circle, Repose-
Don't even think about it.
The Palace of Slaanesh looms up over me. Its walls, while founded on stone, are curved to create a partial dome. The material is red-purple-pink flesh that seems to breathe. Tall spires curl around each other and grow upwards, creating an asymmetric architecture. The doors are already open as I walk unannounced, but no doubt expected by now.
As I enter, I see a familiar courtyard. Its shallow walls are made of smooth, white stone. Statues of the same material are interspersed between straight trees. Not an atom out of place here. Even the air does not blow, replaced by a steady feeling of pressure from the surroundings themselves. In front of me is a large wooden door, easily capable of letting a Baneblade through. It is the entrance to the Palace itself.
A step. Then another. At an even pace, the vibrations can be felt, until the door opens slowly, revealing a tall figure, easily at the same height as Vulkan. Their presence would make the size disparity seem much larger to someone with less strength in their soul.
The first thing that draws the eye is the shining white hair, partially silhouetting her neck and torso. She has pink skin on the front that quickly turns to purple scales on her sides and back. A large crown made of the same scales sits on her head, with one large horn at the top and curls around it. Her form is unclothed, with breasts bared for all to see. Where her belly button would have been, a single vertical eye watches me.
Once more, I stand in the presence of the Prince of Pleasure.
Ah, I remember your blush when it first tried seducing you.
"Greetings, mortal," it lustily voices. "Have you come to serve me? I see you bring me a great offering. Pray to me and dedicate it so, and I shall give you everything you desire." it adds, emphasizing the last word.
I shake my head, explaining that I have come for a reward, showing Isha to it.
It laughs. "Truly ambitious, marine, to ask to barter with one such as myself! But I admire such traits. Tell me, why should I speak at all? Would you not rather come inside and enjoy eternal pleasure at my side? An endless existence of the greatest sensations to be had."
I repeat that I am only here to bargain, not find a new master.
"Is that so? Well then, what desires burns in your soul, mortal? Power? Fame? Something carnal?"
I explain what I want.
"Oh? Such a paltry reward for such the offering you give. Turn the goddess over now."
I throw the limp avatar's body which is deftly and greedily snatched before it can hit the ground. The Prince smiles too widely to ever by remotely acceptable and throws a ball of dark-purple essence, thick and syrupy, towards me. I catch it in a specially made container. Bowing and leaving, I hear the footsteps behind me retreat as the doors close.
It is time for the next passage aboard the ship I paid for.
As soon as my cabin is secured, I begin looking to the future once more as I wait for the journey to end.
Most psykers, even veteran farseers or librarians, do not understand why their attempts at reading the future do not give precise details. They look at the threads like I do and realize there are too many to ever be counted. They exert their will, directing their vision to see the future they want to see.
But that is dangerous. Few psykers ever consider whether the future they wish to see is not filtered for the future they would prefer to happen. For many, their first incorrect vision is usually their last, their arrogance sending them and others to their doom. I am reminded of the gambler's mantra 'The house always wins.'
There is another danger in using power to forcefully see the future you wish to observe. It can never be done perfectly, leaving the finer details in a fog. Such was the mistake of Magnus when he fought me; he missed the small signs that something was out of place as he looked eagerly to see how he could orchestrate my demise. Even the Emperors I have met are like that, unable to see the near future owing to the immense aura they exude coupled with an inability to control themselves.
Humans who cannot control themselves? What a novel idea.
As with all things Warp related, it is easier to act if you do not fight or force the Immaterium's tides. With patience, it will provide. I let the waves push and pull me in all directions as I sink further down until a portal spawns beneath me and I fall through it.
A group of stone spears is arrayed against me instantly, the Grul suspicious of my sudden appearance. But I calm them by explaining my purpose here. Though they are suspicious, I leave them with several weapons imbued with the power to kill neverborn permanently, along with knowledge on fighting the forces of Khorne.
Time shifts around me suddenly as I stand in the middle of a charnel house. Grul and Khornate bodies lie around me, and the heavily wounded Grul female who killed a Bloodthirster eyes me suspiciously. I heal the wounds of the living, offering words of praise mixed with a warning that they are now a target for future incursions. I find myself having nothing else to offer that these primitive 14-eyed insect-like aliens could use.
No, I do have one thing. They will need a protector for the future.
I connect and draw on the power of the Domains of Life, Protection, and Fire. The process is tedious and painstaking, but as the golden fire merges around me into its receptacle, I shape what this race's protector shall be. A being that looks somewhat similar, but with the power to purge neverborn from the Materium.
With a searing flame, the protector's body is created, its form visible to the awed Grul who see one of their gods born into reality. It possesses 14 bright-blue eyes and floats in the air with vermillion wings that sprout from its back that have dark dots on them. Its face is regal in appearance as if it were wearing a noble headdress. Heat can be felt like a pleasant warmth around it.
My time here is done. I disappear, leaving the Grul to learn from their new protector.
I nod to the captain as I leave, the only acknowledgment he will get from me. Stepping out, I feel the ship leave. Expensive, but worth every soul spent.
Ahead lies one of the most heavily guarded gateways from the Warp to another dimension. It is surrounded by infinite daemons, all looking to break in and devour or corrupt whatever they can. The shapes of these daemons are different, even for daemons. This far from the realm of any Ruinous Power, the daemons of Chaos Undivided thrive, relatively speaking.
The Gate's emergence in the Warp as it first comes online is met by curious neverborn who smell the souls on the other side. Within moments, the horde forms, growing continuously as more hear of this barrier to a feast.
I fly above them, incinerating those who decide to attack me instead of the gateway below. It is nearly impossible to see the structure itself as daemons attack ineffectually at every exposed bit. Countless weapons and bodies are thrown against it, but they cannot even scratch it.
Khaine's Gate is strong. The Eldar would have no real reason to ever worry about it breaking.
Without warning, I dive towards the gateway, gathering as much power as I can. Where my presence was tightly contained and impossible to detect, it now burns brightly in the Warp.
All that energy does not stay in my control for long. I condense it into one palm-sized ball before throwing it down. It falls faster-than-light towards the gate before hitting one of the daemons.
The detonation is nothing like the grenade I threw in Nurgle's presence. That one was fundamentally non-lethal in its implementation. This time, there is no time to react, not even for me. The Warp instantly turns white, and a powerful ringing drowns out all sound. I know where I must go, however, and approach Khaine's Gate. The ancient portal is unaffected by the explosion; I created the grenade to annihilate any tainted Warp energy, not destroy everything in existence. A second away from the Gate, I connect with the psychic mind that governs it.
Something few Eldar know is that all portals to the Webway have a secondary equivalent of a password. I give it, a 40,000-character string written with Aeldari characters along with a few borrowed from the Necron lexicon, created just to confuse any invader. As the tip of my crown touches the Gate, the code is accepted. I emerge on the other side, the sticky feeling of the Warp replaced with the unnaturally cold atmosphere of Commorragh.
Vect's guards are quick to react from their initial surprise, but their speed is nothing compared to mine. I craft a powerful ring of shields around me, their dark matter weapons ineffectual against it.
They do not continue. I create portals, dozens of them behind the aliens. Through the golden rings step the Emperor's Finest. The Drukhari are slaughtered by the Custodes in a matter of seconds as I disable their weapons telekinetically.
A minute later, the 3000 Custodes who I brought forth kneel to me, asking for my orders. I bless and send them to shield me from the inevitable counterattack.
I start warding the area around us, preventing heavy weaponry from pulverizing the positions the Emperor's bodyguards take up. As I do so, another golden presence appears next to me, this one distinctly unwelcome. She floats at my eye height, but I do not give her time to ask me questions, ordering her to defend me like the Custodes do. She obeys, thankfully. Killing her would be irritating.
She always does that cute pout whenever someone tells her no. Adorable.
Indeed. Saint Celestine is a zealot and a fool, sent here to spy on me. There will be time to discuss things with her later.
For now, I sit and reinforce the shields further as the first vehicles start firing upon us.
It is now a question of time.
A.N: The next chapter will be from the perspective of others like normal.
This void station is ancient, predating even the Age of Strife by several thousand years. Similar to the Imperium, its designers emphasized durability and long service over comfort and technology. Most of its systems are functional, while those that aren't have been forced to work by using Warp energy as a substitute. The hideous amalgamation of machine spirit and neverborn mutates constantly as I enter it.
Its location inside the Warp, close to the Eye of Terror and near the intersection of points between the domains of the Ruinous Powers, means that it is an attractive place to gather. All manner of beings, from Traitor Warbands to daemons so old their names have been forgotten to even the occasional Drukhari or other alien, come here from time to time.
Anything and everything is purchasable here. In some cases, an entire planet's worth of souls is traded for some trinkets. I move through the crowd despite my disability.
What is that, you ask? Simple. I am blind.
My right eye sees through the lies and bluffs of the merchants and sellers here, revealing their bare souls in a sea of black. The souls or their equivalents are the tiniest motes of light, close by but far away from each other. A pleasing smell emanates from them; I know their souls would be delicious even though I have never consumed such a thing.
In my left eye, snippets of the past and future appear and disappear faster than light travels in the Materium. The barrage of different perspectives no longer confounds my brain as it used to, though even my mind cannot comprehend all of them. I simply trust in my unconscious mind to choose the most important visions.
Still, my blindness does not make me stumble; a mix of biomancy and superhuman senses allow me to walk as if my sight were mostly normal. It is not a skill-set I had believed I would ever need, but my current enslavement was not planned either.
Oh, come now. I made you strong, didn't I? You should be thankful.
Valdor falls to the ground, finally killed due to age and the Luna Rebellion of M33. An explosion nearby shrouds his body in smoke.
My last vision is triggered by Valdor's spear itself, somehow having wound up in this alien merchant's wares. Even slapped with profane symbols, the spear knows its true purpose and master, angry at its state.
I reach out and disperse the merchant's soul before taking the weapon and soothing its bloodthirst. The merchant's cyborg guards attempt to kill me only to find their weapons dysfunctional. No matter the wielder, a machine will never harm me.
I move on as a small globe of light descends on the store to rob it of all valuables, heading to the area where the rich and powerful reside. The station itself is organized in the paradoxical order only the servants of Chaos can create. There are no neat lines between sections, only the increasing presence of soldiers and mercenaries indicating that I am traveling in the correct direction.
My entry into the more elite section is simple as I change my presence to part the souls of the crowd being held back and occasionally shot by Obliterators. A short daemon with wrinkled pink scales, 8 misshapen, spider-like eyes, and leather clothing made of a species rendered extinct by a variant of the Cult of Kurnous, approaches, asking me for payment if I wish to enter.
Such stalwart allies of yours once, weren't they?
It is a vastly overpriced entry, but I do not spend my own currency, nor would I do so. The souls of the Thousand Sons flow like water through my hands to grant me access. Three Obliterators shoot further into the crowd to clear them back as I am allowed to continue further.
The atmosphere here is entirely unique. Suffocating to the mind like anything in the Warp is, but beautiful in its own way. It is a visual cacophony of different building styles, time periods, and even aspects of the same god(s). A daemonette of Slaanesh lays with those who fall into her trap right there on the street, devouring their soul. Immediately across from her is the equivalent of a clinic, run by a man who will never care that he inserts souls into the bodies of her victims in his pursuit to perfect his craft.
A being could spend an eternity here and never see it all. Given that its owner is a servant of Tzeentch, that is exactly the point. The arrogant neverborn has tried to replicate his master's Crystal Labyrinth.
At the center of this section of the station, where all the notables go to socialize in the obscene ways only they can, is the Pavilion of the Deal. It is a stolen building, taken from Terra in the late fourth millennium under the guise of an earthquake. A primitive skyscraper, from when the engineering knowledge to build to space did not exist.
Entering the Pavilion has a cost. Without invitation, a staggering number of souls must be offered, enough to empty three Hive Worlds in their entirety. I am in possession of a standing invitation, taken from the remains of Magnus' mind before he passed on. It is entirely acceptable to possess a forcefully taken invitation, for daemons worship strength in their own ways, and triumphing over an invitation holder is to be stronger than them.
The conversation doesn't stop when I enter, but the slightest shift in cadence is too obvious and unsurprising. Betrayal is synonymous with existence here for those who matter. All they see, however, is an Astartes bearing the heraldry of the Second Legion.
I approach the bar and wait to be recognized by the servitor, held in place with countless pipes connected to its stomach from where it is collected into a cup and served. It stops for a second to consider my request before complying, the ancient and twisted pipes mixing caustic lemons and liquid bones to create the Girl Scout's Secret.
The nurse rears back as all monitoring equipment explodes simultaneously, killing several with shrapnel in the first microseconds of the Rebellion of the Men of Iron.
The drink isn't important, nor do I plan to consume it. But it does waste enough time for a messenger to arrive. The bloated fly/dog hybrid with two dozen legs requests quietly that I follow it towards the VIP section, something that has many reassessing my importance.
I pay them no mind, but I am surprised minutely that the Black Legion, of all traitors, would be willing to serve as soldiers for this daemon. Two of their number stand with lightning claws ready to shred whomever they are told to.
The VIP area is just as large as the previous area, but with fewer inhabitants. At the center is a massive table where the owner sits, almost hidden by the sheer girth of the daemon next to him, one who serves Chaos Undivided. I take the seat I am gestured to, sitting across from the owner.
It is small, almost tiny, and made of green and white feathers. No larger than a standard canine. Close to 100 eyes dot its body. It possesses two shriveled up arms and one tail.
I nod my head slightly to show acknowledgment to M'kar'ithin, ruler of the Confluence. It is immensely frustrating to make any deals with a daemon of Tzeentch, for they always look to gain some advantage by utilizing any loopholes that exist. M'kar'ithin is slightly easier to deal with, taking on the role of a merchant or service provider who can be haggled with.
It takes longer than I wish to admit (my skills at haggling with merchants, especially Tzeentchian merchants, have grown weaker with unuse), but we settle a deal that I know he will not break. I have paid far too much too allow that.
The Empress of Mankind making deals with neverborn? How scandalous.
Be silent.
--Serras into Canon--
The "air" around the Plague Planet, to the extent that it exists, is dense and choking to the extent of feeling solid. Toxins that can dissolve adamantium float freely among diseases to corrupt every cell in the body instantly. Bacteria and viruses wait like sharks for something uncorrupted by Nurgle to reduce whoever or whatever they infect into nothing more than a bloated incubator.
I move past them unharmed, disguising my presence in the Warp to appear as ambient ebbs and flows. Like all daemons, the toxins and diseases have a mind. They are slow and dumb, however, only latching onto those who appear different.
Khorne and Nurgle rally their forces to strike at the realms of their counterparts in this time of weakness, hoping a combined assault will give them a powerful advantage in the coming millennia as the Men of Iron burn the galaxy as the Necrons tried so many millions of years ago.
Hiding from the five senses is still necessary, however. The 19th legion would try to hide with their tactics and stealth technology and fail; I instead wrap myself in the Concept of Nothing. I break through the dense, roiling clouds without disturbing them, finally letting me see the surface of the planet itself.
It is almost impossible to make out the difference between land and sea, for both are the same shades of green. Tall mountains, easily larger than Mount Everest before its destruction in the 17th millennium by the Gothilde, rise towards the northernmost point, while large migrations of unnatural rotting beasts roam with their semi-detached appendages, hungry for relatively untainted flesh.
I level out my descent, moving towards the nearest town. It is as repulsive as I expect, with rotting and cancerous flesh growths along all buildings, sometimes being the building material itself. Rot flies move in swarms, feasting where they can on the Nurglite essence. Worms, beetles, centipedes, and other insects crawl everywhere. Trees grow haphazardly, reaching heights close to half that of a hive city while their wood is rotten and porous, letting out viscous black liquid that traps and dissolves whatever cannot move away in time.
A world of pre-spaceflight aliens calling themselves Gruls fight a desperate battle against the invading forces of Khorne long after the Imperium is dead.
The people themselves look uncorrupted initially. Upon closer inspection, however, one can see their pale and rotting skin. The clothing they wear is rag-like in color and texture, always close to falling apart. They do not walk, not anymore. They stumble or drag themselves forward if their bones cannot hold their decaying and bloated bodies. When that happens, their stomachs, often swollen as if they were carrying several children inside, bursts, spilling stomach acid and wriggling Rot Fly larvae. The words coming out of their mouths as they endlessly stumble in circles are all prayers to Nurgle, begging their beloved Grandfather to end their suffering.
They are not as important, however, as those who stand in the town's center. A circle of people faces inward, and I see two rotting carcasses wrestling each other and trying to slay the other. No doubt, the Death Guard Astartes watching this are looking for possible recruits. This must be the final test for the human boy, boasting a large belly and wiry muscles, facing off against one of the world's beastmen.
With a savage cry, the boy slams a crumbling rock into the beastman's skull, shattering it. The corpse is instantly set upon by the jubilant crowd and whatever insects can devour its flesh, while the Astartes, his armor rusted and broken but no less effective, grabs the boy and throws him onto a Rhino, its outside desecrated by Nurgle's symbol.
I follow them towards the strongest Death Guard keep on this accursed world, the Black Manse, home of Mortarion.
Dante falls in combat with the Swarmlord, his reign over the Blood Angels coming to an end along with the chapter itself.
--Serras into Canon—
The Keep is, in some ways, a copy of the town. Rot Flies, fleshy and tumorous growths, and toxin-laden clouds are omnipresent, though here they are marshalled or controlled by the Death Guard Sorcerers and Plaguebearers.
I walk the halls inside, ignoring the wailing bodies grown into the walls and ceilings and avoiding the pained existences of servants who desire beyond anything to end their suffering. The laboratories and cells where the Death Guard keep prisoners and experimentation subjects make my blood boil. I see mostly normal humans along with the occasional Astartes, alien, and even an Eldar or two.
What was it your brothers used to say to you? "Harden your heart?" A shame you never heeded such advice.
Their words were never meant to come out of your mouth.
Lorgar ponders the lessons I give on the Warp, struggling to reconcile his human understanding of what a god is with the objective definition of one.
I stop moving as I make it to my destination, one of the landing pads for Thunderhawks. Though time moves in all directions in the Warp, I know my target will be arriving soon.
--Serras into Canon--
The Thunderhawk lifts off and flies through the atmosphere, bearing powerful Death Guard terminators, their armor fused to their bodies and bolters emblazoned with Nurgle's symbol. 10 of them act as the putrid honor guard for the Traveler. Typhus.
Typhus is a true Champion of Nurgle. He strives in every way to spread the "blessings" of his Grandfather, to enlighten everyone possible. I see his future if I didn't intervene in the 13th Black Crusade. Countless tired and unprepared worlds corrupted by the Zombie Plague in the wake of Cadia's destruction. Worlds beyond salvation that would require quarantine or Exterminatus.
Guilliman frowns as he sends out countless orders and calculates the number of worlds that will be lost as disease and pestilence spread across the stars.
The Grul leaders nervously confer on how to deal with the Khornate invasion as they have no exposure to the Warp.
What matters to the Imperium, however, is what I do now. I follow Typhus into the Terminus Est unseen.
This vessel is a perfect example of how far one of humanity's proudest defenders. Its floors are covered in sickly-looking flesh that totally hides the original adamantium and plasteel. Like the Black Manse, the souls of the dead scream for an end to their pain, the walls themselves taking on the visage of the damned. I can feel the changes to the outside of the ship as well. It holds itself together not by fused metal, but by the power of Nurgle. I am impressed at the fact that it can somehow open into an asymmetric and mind-melting mouth that spews out corrupting acid. Rot Flies move in choking numbers, massive in size and all wielding the Destroyer Plague, that which began the final step in the Death Guard's corruption and service to Nurgle.
Typhus enters the bridge, taking a seat on the commanding throne. The pipes and tubes connected to it snap up and connect to his armor, feeding directly on his mutated flesh as he lies immobile. The honor guard takes it place guarding him, though it is mostly performative. No one has successfully attacked Typhus or the Terminus Est.
Attacking Typhus now would be detrimental. Instead, I move around the ship itself, leaving markers for myself. Something for the future.
You never cease to amuse me.
--Serras into Canon—
The feeling of suffocation sets in as the ship approaches the Garden of Nurgle. The domain of the Plague Lord puts tremendous pressure on all psychic abilities not drawing from his power. A servant of Tzeentch would flee as soon as possible, for this place is entirely opposed to their very existence.
Typhus' Thunderhawk departs once more, this time bringing him, his honor guard, and me near the Garden. As we land, he prays for entrance into the Garden itself.
The outer realm of the Garden is the Vibrant Grounds. It teems with life, as far as one can call Nurgle's daemons alive. It is a horrific parody of Man's garden-worlds that existed before the Age of Strife when humanity would dedicate entire worlds to showing natural and synthesized organic beauty. Unlike those worlds, where things are created to draw the eye naturally and enhance the visual experience, the Garden is overgrown and constantly moving. Daemonic trees build-up and bloat with parasites and viruses until they can hold no more, exploding and showering their neighbors. Stagnant water looks pure and clean, a trap to catch any unwary traveler. Every breath here feels like it draws air away from you until all one can do is gasp and die without grace or honor.
The Farseer burns the Flies attacking him, but it is futile. There is no end to their numbers and he eventually succumbs.
Typhus approaches the Blighted Mansion, and I hold myself perfectly still. Nurgle has no reason to suspect my presence, but I cannot take any chances. Fighting off the infinite Rot Flies would be time-consuming, and every second matters here.
With a rough push, Typhus opens the door to the Mansion, entering the perpetually rotting building. It teems with mutated insects whose legs are human fingers and bodies of rotting leaves and feces. Some of the trees that line the perimeter have the audacity to grow through the open windows, their branches akin to bones with fruit that seems liable to explode at any moment.
Nurgle's form starts to coalesce. Rot and pestilence spread quickly, forming the basis for the eventual Garden. From the ground sprout the first Nurglites.
Typhus moves past all of this, moving through the Mansion unchecked by anyone or anything. I hear the moans of the souls trapped above us in the attic. Their suffering is unacceptable, but I must endure the call of justice. The few libraries we pass are filled with possessed tomes, offering forbidden lore of Nurgle at the cost of one's health and sanity. Typhus' destination, however, is the Kitchen. It is here where my plan carries the most risk, for all the coalesced power of Nurgle is here, making it one of the few places a being could speak directly to a Ruinous Power.
Every time I see him, I'm offended anyone thinks he is just a different part of my body. Really, what a silly idea.
Is one of the others not there for you to bother?
Nurgle's form in his Mansion is not that much different than one of his Greater Unclean Ones. The Plague Lord's image is influenced by how soul-bearing beings perceive him. Those followers are overwhelming humans, and the human mind cannot comprehend anything worse than a combination of rot, death, disease, pestilence, and the insects who are associated with these things. The only difference between the Power and his greater daemons is scale. Nurgle constantly emits billions of Rot Flies from orifices in his body, and his breaths and saliva carry toxins so virulent that they could disintegrate adamantium at the atomic level instantly. His body is vast, forcing all who come here to look up if they wish to see their patron's maggot-infested face. His eyes are pupil-less, instead covered by an opaque yellow film. Rotting and moss-covered horns stretch out far, numbering seven in total to signify his sacred number.
In the center of the room lies the massive Cauldron of Nurgle. It perpetually boils and bubbles as countless souls and cursed ingredients melt into a homogenous soup. From above, massive streams of sludge and green water flow into the Cauldron, somehow never overfilling it. Nurgle's most powerful diseases, poisons, and plagues are concocted in it, with a massive ladle to taste them before they are unleashed.
Suspended in the air near the Cauldron's mouth is a rusty iron cage holding my target.
Typhus kneels before his Grandfather, offering his supplications and prayers. He speaks of Tzeentch's weakness at this time, of the hole left by Magnus the Red's death. He asks to lead the Plague Legions, all of them, in one concerted effort to destroy the forces of Change. He even begs to be allowed to once more dip his scythe into the Cauldron.
A whole company's worth of Harmonicist gene-seed is corrupted as Typhus culls their ranks with his empowered scythe.
Whatever the answer is, Typhus will never know. I shed the Concept of Nothing and throw a scattering grenade into the air as I race towards the cage.
The scattering grenade is an invention of my own. Intended to be a non-lethal option in fighting Warp-infused beings, the grenade dissolves anything cohesive in the Warp equivalent of the space it explodes in. Daemons are immensely injured in the process, and any material being is staggered by the effect as it plays havoc with their soul.
This grenade is not non-lethal; I have boosted its potency by thirty orders of magnitude. Even containing it at this point takes conscious effort on my part. As it flies up, the timer counts down. When it reaches 2.73 seconds, it detonates, and the Immaterium goes white.
The grenade destroys everything it meets, though its power is suppressed immensely in the domain of a Ruinous Power. Thus, it is not the nuclear explosion equivalent it normally would be. But as the Warp itself burns and turns white, Nurgle is hurt the most. In absolute terms, it does nothing; no mere explosion would harm a Dark God. But the surprise prevents him from defending himself, and the collected power of Nurgle weakens slightly in this area.
As for Typhus, his soul's resilience stems from Nurgle's power, but it is not constantly active; such power would require that Typhus become a full Warp spawn. With Nurgle's distraction, he cannot defend himself either. His form burns as his soul is irretrievably dissolved.
I know this from experience, not because I can see it. My focus is taken in severing the bars that surround the suspended cage, a simple enough task with a hastily constructed sword, but complicated by needing to protect the cage's inhabitant from the grenade. The metal sizzles where I touch it and the droplets attempt to flee their death. With a large enough hole, I grab the inhabitant and dump her unceremoniously over my shoulder before charging out of the kitchen, the explosion licking at my heels.
There is no subtlety in my escape; I am a silver blur that anyone would feel if they were nearby. But I am not harassed by the countless Rot Flies, daemons, or the environment itself immediately. The explosion has hurt Nurgle, at the very least stung him, and his followers share in his sudden confusion. It does not last long, however, and I can hear the angered droning of the swarms behind me as I float above the ground which now grows roots to ensnare me.
The goddess runs and runs, life blooming with every step, but the servants of Nurgle chase after, infecting that life as it wilts and dies. Close behind are the servants of the Prince.
With one swift movement, I spin and leave another scattering grenade behind me before turning back and flying faster away from the Garden. My flying pursuers are no longer an issue.
Unfortunately, I cannot fly like this to my next destination. I must hide for now from Nurgle's followers.
Right on cue, a ship appears close by, far enough from the Terminus Est to not be destroyed by the ship itself. I teleport on board when I get close enough. Before I do, however, I make sure to put myself and my target under a guise. Together, we appear to be a very large Astartes of the Second Legion.
One of the crew, her tongue hanging out while she holds six swords in six arms, swings her blades at me, but I simply burn her out of existence. The others wisely hold back.
I inform them that I am the person they were to pick up at this time and that the ship can leave. I can feel it turn hard to avoid the power of the cannons and mouth aboard the Terminus Est.
In my quarters, once I have swept for any spying attempts, I drop the disguise and let my target down, though not before placing a binding on her while she is weak. Already, her strength is recovering, and I cannot let her escape at this time.
I take a step back and sag down slightly, focusing on gathering my strength once more for the next stage of my plan.
--Serras into Canon—
As the ship approaches our destination, I disguise my soul once more, masking my presence to appear like that of an Astartes from the II Legion. I render Isha's avatar unconscious and bind her tongue for good measure. She would unnecessarily panic if she were awake.
A high-pitched scratching occurs outside on the room's door, and I grab the goddess to hold her over my shoulder like a woman taken as a spoil of war. I will the door slam open, revealing the mouthless human with pink skin and eyes larger than his palms. The man jumps back slightly at the abrupt door slam but beckons me to follow him.
We eventually come to the hangar from before. The captain, an insect from a world scoured during this Imperium's Great Crusade and a servant of Khorne, impatiently gestures to the opening. I do not give him any response, merely walking out into the swirling colors that were tinged with just slightly more purple than normal.
This is as close as the captain was willing to go. I cannot blame the daemon; to venture further is to risk enslavement.
The Palace of Slaanesh looms in the distance as I walk forward towards the outer perimeter of the Prince's domain.
The Eldar dance and dance, enjoying the slow feeling of their bodies devouring them to stave off death for a few moments longer.
--Serras into Canon--
It is odd that Slaanesh, an Eldar goddess by all rights, layers her domain by the human notions of the sins of old. The reason is but another contradiction on the part of the Dark Gods.
I begin walking the path through Slaanesh's realm towards the Palace of Pleasure. There are no winding sections, nor any confusing instructions, nor any defenders. As long as one walks forward, they will reach the Palace unmolested.
The issue, of course, is what lies beyond the path on either side. The circles surrounding the Palace entice any unwary or weak-minded with extravagant fruits of labor.
The first circle appeals to those who desire wealth. Plants of gold grow rampantly as precious stones lie just out of reach near the path in such number to devalue their meaning universally. But the power of wealth is not something I need. I walk over the remains of those who have died at this step, surrounded by gems that devour life itself as they shine brightly.
'The fruits of labor are not to be-uh…' The priest stops as his discipline is defeated by the greed filling his mind.
The second circle is for those who love to gorge themselves. A powerful aroma fills the nostrils to draw in those looking to drink the enticing wine that fills the pristine-appearing lake. Obscured by a slight mist on the other side of it, a seemingly limitless table is filled with food fit for a king. Temptation has no claws on me here, however; my stomach has left me long ago. The smells attempt to assault my mind with cravings, but I shrug off the weak compulsion.
The scenery shifts as I enter the third circle and a new scent fills the air. The sound of pleasure permeates the environment and supernaturally attractive humans can be seen fornicating and reveling in the ecstasies of carnal pleasure. Some of them approach, their forms slightly inhuman in appearance as a disguise to lure in any traveler who has made it thus far. They hiss and reveal their crab-like appendages when I annihilate one who attempts to touch me but do not approach any further.
I have lost my maidenhood; carnal sensations are anathema to me now.
Truly? Was I that bad?
As bad as your taste in humor.
Applause fills my ears as I enter the fourth circle. The images of infinite mortals clapping, screaming, shouting in my favor is an unbeatable roar as flowers are thrown near the path. It is good, I suppose, to prove that my control over myself is strong enough to avoid being read.
'Good work. I'm proud of you.' I preen at this praise but cannot help notice the jealousy on his face.
The fifth circle is likewise meaningless. A comfortable glade to dream of conquering the stars, of ruling galaxies. But I have dueled the Nightbringer to a standstill, slain Krork warmasters into the ground, played a million games of regicide simultaneously with the Omnissiah, and commanded fleets of hundreds of thousands of ships. I have no dreams, not anymore.
The last circle, Repose-
Don't even think about it.
--Serras into Canon—
The Palace of Slaanesh looms up over me. Its walls, while founded on stone, are curved to create a partial dome. The material is red-purple-pink flesh that seems to breathe. Tall spires curl around each other and grow upwards, creating an asymmetric architecture. The doors are already open as I walk unannounced, but no doubt expected by now.
As I enter, I see a familiar courtyard. Its shallow walls are made of smooth, white stone. Statues of the same material are interspersed between straight trees. Not an atom out of place here. Even the air does not blow, replaced by a steady feeling of pressure from the surroundings themselves. In front of me is a large wooden door, easily capable of letting a Baneblade through. It is the entrance to the Palace itself.
A step. Then another. At an even pace, the vibrations can be felt, until the door opens slowly, revealing a tall figure, easily at the same height as Vulkan. Their presence would make the size disparity seem much larger to someone with less strength in their soul.
The first thing that draws the eye is the shining white hair, partially silhouetting her neck and torso. She has pink skin on the front that quickly turns to purple scales on her sides and back. A large crown made of the same scales sits on her head, with one large horn at the top and curls around it. Her form is unclothed, with breasts bared for all to see. Where her belly button would have been, a single vertical eye watches me.
Once more, I stand in the presence of the Prince of Pleasure.
Ah, I remember your blush when it first tried seducing you.
"Greetings, mortal," it lustily voices. "Have you come to serve me? I see you bring me a great offering. Pray to me and dedicate it so, and I shall give you everything you desire." it adds, emphasizing the last word.
I shake my head, explaining that I have come for a reward, showing Isha to it.
It laughs. "Truly ambitious, marine, to ask to barter with one such as myself! But I admire such traits. Tell me, why should I speak at all? Would you not rather come inside and enjoy eternal pleasure at my side? An endless existence of the greatest sensations to be had."
I repeat that I am only here to bargain, not find a new master.
"Is that so? Well then, what desires burns in your soul, mortal? Power? Fame? Something carnal?"
I explain what I want.
"Oh? Such a paltry reward for such the offering you give. Turn the goddess over now."
I throw the limp avatar's body which is deftly and greedily snatched before it can hit the ground. The Prince smiles too widely to ever by remotely acceptable and throws a ball of dark-purple essence, thick and syrupy, towards me. I catch it in a specially made container. Bowing and leaving, I hear the footsteps behind me retreat as the doors close.
It is time for the next passage aboard the ship I paid for.
--Serras into Canon--
As soon as my cabin is secured, I begin looking to the future once more as I wait for the journey to end.
Most psykers, even veteran farseers or librarians, do not understand why their attempts at reading the future do not give precise details. They look at the threads like I do and realize there are too many to ever be counted. They exert their will, directing their vision to see the future they want to see.
But that is dangerous. Few psykers ever consider whether the future they wish to see is not filtered for the future they would prefer to happen. For many, their first incorrect vision is usually their last, their arrogance sending them and others to their doom. I am reminded of the gambler's mantra 'The house always wins.'
There is another danger in using power to forcefully see the future you wish to observe. It can never be done perfectly, leaving the finer details in a fog. Such was the mistake of Magnus when he fought me; he missed the small signs that something was out of place as he looked eagerly to see how he could orchestrate my demise. Even the Emperors I have met are like that, unable to see the near future owing to the immense aura they exude coupled with an inability to control themselves.
Humans who cannot control themselves? What a novel idea.
As with all things Warp related, it is easier to act if you do not fight or force the Immaterium's tides. With patience, it will provide. I let the waves push and pull me in all directions as I sink further down until a portal spawns beneath me and I fall through it.
A group of stone spears is arrayed against me instantly, the Grul suspicious of my sudden appearance. But I calm them by explaining my purpose here. Though they are suspicious, I leave them with several weapons imbued with the power to kill neverborn permanently, along with knowledge on fighting the forces of Khorne.
Time shifts around me suddenly as I stand in the middle of a charnel house. Grul and Khornate bodies lie around me, and the heavily wounded Grul female who killed a Bloodthirster eyes me suspiciously. I heal the wounds of the living, offering words of praise mixed with a warning that they are now a target for future incursions. I find myself having nothing else to offer that these primitive 14-eyed insect-like aliens could use.
No, I do have one thing. They will need a protector for the future.
I connect and draw on the power of the Domains of Life, Protection, and Fire. The process is tedious and painstaking, but as the golden fire merges around me into its receptacle, I shape what this race's protector shall be. A being that looks somewhat similar, but with the power to purge neverborn from the Materium.
With a searing flame, the protector's body is created, its form visible to the awed Grul who see one of their gods born into reality. It possesses 14 bright-blue eyes and floats in the air with vermillion wings that sprout from its back that have dark dots on them. Its face is regal in appearance as if it were wearing a noble headdress. Heat can be felt like a pleasant warmth around it.
My time here is done. I disappear, leaving the Grul to learn from their new protector.
--Serras into Canon--
I nod to the captain as I leave, the only acknowledgment he will get from me. Stepping out, I feel the ship leave. Expensive, but worth every soul spent.
Ahead lies one of the most heavily guarded gateways from the Warp to another dimension. It is surrounded by infinite daemons, all looking to break in and devour or corrupt whatever they can. The shapes of these daemons are different, even for daemons. This far from the realm of any Ruinous Power, the daemons of Chaos Undivided thrive, relatively speaking.
The Gate's emergence in the Warp as it first comes online is met by curious neverborn who smell the souls on the other side. Within moments, the horde forms, growing continuously as more hear of this barrier to a feast.
I fly above them, incinerating those who decide to attack me instead of the gateway below. It is nearly impossible to see the structure itself as daemons attack ineffectually at every exposed bit. Countless weapons and bodies are thrown against it, but they cannot even scratch it.
Khaine's Gate is strong. The Eldar would have no real reason to ever worry about it breaking.
Without warning, I dive towards the gateway, gathering as much power as I can. Where my presence was tightly contained and impossible to detect, it now burns brightly in the Warp.
All that energy does not stay in my control for long. I condense it into one palm-sized ball before throwing it down. It falls faster-than-light towards the gate before hitting one of the daemons.
The detonation is nothing like the grenade I threw in Nurgle's presence. That one was fundamentally non-lethal in its implementation. This time, there is no time to react, not even for me. The Warp instantly turns white, and a powerful ringing drowns out all sound. I know where I must go, however, and approach Khaine's Gate. The ancient portal is unaffected by the explosion; I created the grenade to annihilate any tainted Warp energy, not destroy everything in existence. A second away from the Gate, I connect with the psychic mind that governs it.
Something few Eldar know is that all portals to the Webway have a secondary equivalent of a password. I give it, a 40,000-character string written with Aeldari characters along with a few borrowed from the Necron lexicon, created just to confuse any invader. As the tip of my crown touches the Gate, the code is accepted. I emerge on the other side, the sticky feeling of the Warp replaced with the unnaturally cold atmosphere of Commorragh.
Vect's guards are quick to react from their initial surprise, but their speed is nothing compared to mine. I craft a powerful ring of shields around me, their dark matter weapons ineffectual against it.
They do not continue. I create portals, dozens of them behind the aliens. Through the golden rings step the Emperor's Finest. The Drukhari are slaughtered by the Custodes in a matter of seconds as I disable their weapons telekinetically.
A minute later, the 3000 Custodes who I brought forth kneel to me, asking for my orders. I bless and send them to shield me from the inevitable counterattack.
I start warding the area around us, preventing heavy weaponry from pulverizing the positions the Emperor's bodyguards take up. As I do so, another golden presence appears next to me, this one distinctly unwelcome. She floats at my eye height, but I do not give her time to ask me questions, ordering her to defend me like the Custodes do. She obeys, thankfully. Killing her would be irritating.
She always does that cute pout whenever someone tells her no. Adorable.
Indeed. Saint Celestine is a zealot and a fool, sent here to spy on me. There will be time to discuss things with her later.
For now, I sit and reinforce the shields further as the first vehicles start firing upon us.
It is now a question of time.
A.N: The next chapter will be from the perspective of others like normal.
- Location
- Peterborough, NH, USA
Void Dragon was one of the oldest C'Tan, around since a little after the Unified Force stopped being unified. He understands the laws of physics because he was there for some of the earliest interactions. Additionally, I have ruled that C'Tan can manipulate quantum fields, allowing them to manipulate local matter and energy like a Daemonworld's master on their home turf, though large-scale stuff needs a major jumpstart, hence them vampirising stars so they can make all the special energy they want from nothing at all. The time travel is risky and has severe restrictions. The Warp means things aren't set in stone properly, so it's possible for soul-bearing entities to kill their past selves before their future selves go to the past, which at best leads to something similar to that Warboss who killed his past self for a copy of his favorite weapon and promptly vanished in a puff of logic, and at worst screws up their timeline and ripples into the past and future, depending on if they were killed via mundane or psychic means. More Chaos gods would make time travel more and more unreliable.
Though, with no stars on hand, VD would be at maybe 1% strength, and he wouldn't have a logistical base necessary for time travel stuff. Additionally, time travel stuff gets harder the longer forward or back you go. A million years would be enough to ensure humanity never existed via Earth/Terra being blown up, but then the version of it that did that would have no reason to go back and do that, as it would never have been sealed away, and the Eldar would likely have gone after it instead, leading to a very different galaxy. Heck, maybe it attempted that and the new version got killed by the Eldar pantheon ganging up on it in the alternate timeline. Though it was able to send a message to the version of itself that ended up coming to be as there was no version of it around to prevent it's sealing resulting in the re-establishment of the original timeline.
Said uppity Ork was post-Astronomicon, which left him greatly weakened.
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So you are saying risking utter destruction was necessary to discipline some upitty legions. The rangdan or the missing legion can in no way way provide more challange than the fucking void dragon. And why would he need them.
Either he can destroy them himself with his awesome might. Or he is stuck on the Astonomican with the void dragon unleashed. You can't have it both ways. Either the god psyker is distracted and thus can't kill the missing primarchs or control the void dragon. Or he can just destroy them normally.
But i digress. It is your quest.
- Location
- Ohio
There is also the fact that even if we "win" thousands of years latter, it is still going to be a dystopia, but more Brave New World and less of 40K canon's Man in the High Castle. That is what made me lose heart.
Though I am eager to diplomance the void dragon into joining us. If we can get a Alcubierre Drive, we can do this.
With the introduction of crystals on Terra, I wonder if Gold Boy convinced Orioc in Antarctica to surrender.
- Location
- Peterborough, NH, USA
The Void Dragon wasn't starved of energy for 25K+ years when he fought it the first time, is my explanation. Sure it's in hibernation right now, but there's a difference between zero energy loss after taking damage and zero energy loss as a default.
- Location
- Titan
People hate on the Leman Russ, but it is nothing compared to the pile of garbage that is the Malcador:
The sponsons are laughably bad, neither giving a wide firing angle or at least acting as ablative armor. The tank next to the burning Warhound Titan wreck is a Malcador Defender, which has a Demolisher Cannon on the hull and five heavy bolters in the turret. That is not a turret. It can't even turn. I hate this thing. It is supposed to be a Light Superheavy Tank (entirely reasonable role for 40k) and it is arguably worse than the Leman Russ on the basis of the latter having a turret. The Malcador was a fossil by the time of the Great Crusade, let alone 40k. It also has massive engine problems canonically. Give it a damn turret, and it will happily become the Tiger to the Russ's Panther.
Oh but wait, there already is one! The Macharius:
It is infinitely superior by virtue of having a damn turret, its sponsons not holing inside the armor and not having engine problems.
On a more amusing note, the Baneblade's various variants (plus some homebrew to fill up the chart) have suprisingly reasonable roles.
Baneblade: Straight superheavy, no frills except the Demolisher cannon in the hull which is a good addittion as there is always something that needs to be blown to pieces in 40k. Very effective, though the turret can be straightened out.
Banehammer: Assault gun combined with troop transport. The Tremor cannon shell burrows into the ground before exploding, burying tanks and infantry.
Banesword: Siege tank quintessential, thought turretless. Can bombard from kilometers away or roll up to the bastion and blow it away.
Doomhammer: Tank destroyer with troop transport, started as field conversion of Banehammer during a 1000 year long Forge World siege. Turretless, doesn't make it ineffective.
Hellhammer: Close support urban fighter. Shorter range than standard Baneblade, but more explosive shots with wider radius. Turretted. Also has Demolisher hull cannon. Built to bully non superheavies, which it admirably succeeds at.
Shadowsword: The actual tank destroyer, works as a Titan killer. Fire and forget, but in the sense that whatever the Volcano Cannon is fired at is gone.
Stormlord: BRRRRRT on wheels. The actual troop transport, with 40 men being able to sit and half of whom are fireported. Nothing says that you can't fill it up with heavy weapons teams, who can fire their mortars, missile launchers, lascannons etc. from the fireports. But most importantly, BRRRRT.
Stormblade: Plasma tank, which means it can kill whatever you point it at, from infantry platoons to other superheavies.
Stormsword: Made from salvaged Stormblades and Shadowswords initially because Volcano Laser Cannons and Plasma Blastguns are not cheap. Given Hellhammer cannons. Mechanicum capitulated on the matter and made them into a dedicated turretless Hellhammer with a newly designed Stormsword cannon, which is strictly superior to the Hellhammer by having same damage on wider radius but at the cost of losing being turretted.
Stormhammer: The weirdo of the bunch with twin-linked hull battle cannon and superfiring solo battle canon turret and three sponsons each side. Parked into an intersection, nothing can pass. Drives better and has better armor against concussive effects.
The Astartes have superior versions in the Fellblade:
Fellblade: Has a double barrel Accelerator Canon turret with either super HE or super AP shots. Can exchange its frontal twin linked heavy bolter for demolisher cannon, and two quad lascannon sponsons for Laser Destroyers.
Fellglaive: Volkite carronade. Ultimate fuck you to infantry. The Volkite beam is so heavy at this size it can penetrate through tank squadrons and damage everything with no loss, and any Gargantuan Monster or Superheavy it hits is slammed with triple power because fuck you, Martian heat ray. Still has the lascannon sponsons which can be switched out for laser destroyers. Can't take the hull Demolisher though.
Falchion, aka Mammoth: Double Volcano Cannon. Not much else needs to be said. Only Fellblade with no turret. Still has the sponsons. No hull Demolisher.
Do check out the homebrew variants. I particularly like the Shadowblade stealth tank, the Hellsword flame tank and the Shadowlord command vehicle.
Oh but wait, there already is one! The Macharius:
On a more amusing note, the Baneblade's various variants (plus some homebrew to fill up the chart) have suprisingly reasonable roles.
Baneblade: Straight superheavy, no frills except the Demolisher cannon in the hull which is a good addittion as there is always something that needs to be blown to pieces in 40k. Very effective, though the turret can be straightened out.
Banehammer: Assault gun combined with troop transport. The Tremor cannon shell burrows into the ground before exploding, burying tanks and infantry.
Banesword: Siege tank quintessential, thought turretless. Can bombard from kilometers away or roll up to the bastion and blow it away.
Doomhammer: Tank destroyer with troop transport, started as field conversion of Banehammer during a 1000 year long Forge World siege. Turretless, doesn't make it ineffective.
Hellhammer: Close support urban fighter. Shorter range than standard Baneblade, but more explosive shots with wider radius. Turretted. Also has Demolisher hull cannon. Built to bully non superheavies, which it admirably succeeds at.
Shadowsword: The actual tank destroyer, works as a Titan killer. Fire and forget, but in the sense that whatever the Volcano Cannon is fired at is gone.
Stormlord: BRRRRRT on wheels. The actual troop transport, with 40 men being able to sit and half of whom are fireported. Nothing says that you can't fill it up with heavy weapons teams, who can fire their mortars, missile launchers, lascannons etc. from the fireports. But most importantly, BRRRRT.
Stormblade: Plasma tank, which means it can kill whatever you point it at, from infantry platoons to other superheavies.
Stormsword: Made from salvaged Stormblades and Shadowswords initially because Volcano Laser Cannons and Plasma Blastguns are not cheap. Given Hellhammer cannons. Mechanicum capitulated on the matter and made them into a dedicated turretless Hellhammer with a newly designed Stormsword cannon, which is strictly superior to the Hellhammer by having same damage on wider radius but at the cost of losing being turretted.
Stormhammer: The weirdo of the bunch with twin-linked hull battle cannon and superfiring solo battle canon turret and three sponsons each side. Parked into an intersection, nothing can pass. Drives better and has better armor against concussive effects.
The Astartes have superior versions in the Fellblade:
Fellblade: Has a double barrel Accelerator Canon turret with either super HE or super AP shots. Can exchange its frontal twin linked heavy bolter for demolisher cannon, and two quad lascannon sponsons for Laser Destroyers.
Fellglaive: Volkite carronade. Ultimate fuck you to infantry. The Volkite beam is so heavy at this size it can penetrate through tank squadrons and damage everything with no loss, and any Gargantuan Monster or Superheavy it hits is slammed with triple power because fuck you, Martian heat ray. Still has the lascannon sponsons which can be switched out for laser destroyers. Can't take the hull Demolisher though.
Falchion, aka Mammoth: Double Volcano Cannon. Not much else needs to be said. Only Fellblade with no turret. Still has the sponsons. No hull Demolisher.
Do check out the homebrew variants. I particularly like the Shadowblade stealth tank, the Hellsword flame tank and the Shadowlord command vehicle.
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so what just happened?
Primarch: N/A (Serras Salnus) - The Forgotten(AU)(+10 to roll of your choice)
Primarch: N/A (Serras Salnus) - The Forgotten
After being carried away in the Warp, unlike her infant brothers, she suffered the brunt of the psychic torment far more then others. Flesh grew and twisted, as did bone, and the delicate psychic construction of her Soul became damaged, some parts of it tainted, others horribly scarred.
After an indeterminate amount of time, her pod, lifeless, crashed out of the Warp and down, ending up on a Feudal World.
Later on, when the Emperor came to take the world into the Imperial Fold, he felt something was amiss. Forbidding anyone from following him, he piloted a Stormbird down to the Planet. Upon arriving to a town where a Carnival was being held he heard a couple of rumors coming from some locals about a 'Circus Freak' being showcased a couple days prior.
The Emperor started having a bad feeling after having heard about it. Following his gut feeling, he went to the Carnival. There, he looked for this 'Freak' that the people spoke of, and after a couple of minutes came upon the sight of a couple of children pointing, laughing and throwing rocks at a creature in cage.
Seeing this, the Emperor, using his psychic prowess subtly nudged them to leave, seeing the deed as a needless act of petty cruelty. Now alone, he heard a moan coming from the very same cage, one that could almost be called a sob if one paid enough attention.
Yet, it is this very cry that made the Emperor feel terrible. A feeling that should not normally be possible for one such he who has witnessed and done many things in his long ancient life. So for him to have felt like this, it can only mean that the answer he had been searching for on this world lied ahead in that very cage.
With some trepidation, the Emperor took a couple of steps, and once in front of the cage, he looked, seeing a sight that left him staggering. For in that very cage, right at the back of it, lied a thing that could only be called a monster. A twisted bestial mass of flesh, arms, feathers and eyes. A poor and pitiful thing that looks to have only experienced a life full of pain and suffering from it's birth. Sulking in sorrow as it's very nature left it unable to even put an end it's own life.
Yet for him it was so much more because he saw it as it truly was with his True Eyes. And what he saw, made him despair, for within that cage did not lie the Soul of a monster, but that of a Primarch. This very thing before him was His Son.
It had lived a long and hard life, one in which it was most certainly no stranger to pain, having been used to it from an early age, be it from the times when it's master got too drunk or angry and used it to vent his anger, or both, in which case it was not too unusual for it to collapse from agony.
Then there were the days where it was forced to put up a performance for the crowd, often as the 'Undying Abomination' that it's master liked to call it. Times and times again, it came within inches of it's death, yet no matter how much it begged for, it never got it.
Often, just as it was about to, it would start to hallucinate and hear the terrifying cackle of several beings: one of apathy, one of hatred, one of treachery, one of supreme cruelty and even once, almost in a faint whisper, one of terror.
Often they would mock it and sneer at it as they spoke of a different future, a future where it, wasn't just it, but something more. They spoke of it walking on the same ground - just as any other human, of it being able to fight with the mightiest of knights and take on entire armies alone - just like a hero straight out of a fairy tale it overheard once, of great wonders and godly works crafted by it - just as some of the nobles or craftsmen, of people respecting and showing deference to it - just as the man with a crown that it once saw, of it striking terror in the hearts of mean men - just like the winged kin or the gaunt kin it once saw in a dream.
When asked why it had to suffer, they would give all kinds of answers, sometimes the truth, others in jest, yet the most common answer was always the same, revenge. It's entire existence had been condemned to suffer for the crimes committed against them by it's Father, kin and even it's possible alternate future.
No amount of begging or threatening changed anything, only exacerbating it's pain, ranging from getting afflicted with diseases, getting beaten by the other visitors that wanted to earn the prize that came with ending it's life, getting tricked by others that acted nice at first only to eventually reveal their true nature, getting tortured time and time again by it's master who seemed to have taken a liking to it.
In another time, had fate been kinder to it then, maybe it might have cared, been braver, been more hopeful, been unwilling to settle for mediocrity. Unfortunately, it wasn't so lucky. Had it at least been capable of fending for itself, of breaking it's cage and just running away then it would have already done so. But alas, it barely was capable of feeding itself with some help, let alone survive on it's own. Whatever there might have been, is sadly, no more. No matter how much it wishes otherwise.
Those were it's thoughts for a very long time. After a while things started blurring together, the whispers became more prominent but it was too apathetic to care, it's will too broken to ever be mended again, events became harder to recall and it eventually became used to it's lot in life. After all, there was nothing it could do.
Today was just another day where it would either be paraded around and made to put another performance for the masses or, it could stay in it's enclosure and be picked on by the children, and if it was lucky and played dead long enough then maybe, just maybe soon they will grow bored of throwing rocks at it and leave it alone, which they seemed to have just a little while ago.
If it had it's way then it might be getting some peace by crying itself to sleep early. That was when the voices stopped, and it saw Him.
It became aware of his Presence, an alien feeling of paternal affection and comfort washed over the poor creature, stopping it from sulking and making it shamble as fast as it could towards him. For this creature understood, and wished for nothing more than to be reunited.
Yet it was not meant to be, for in the next moment, it was stabbed by a sword, the very same one wielded by it's Father. It is this very act that, for a moment, before the familiar pain settled in, that confused it. Did it's sire not come to save it? Why hurt it when it meant no harm. Did it do something wrong, and if so, what must it do to be forgiven?
The Emperor, seeing that hit was not enough to end the creature, pulled back the sword, took a deep breath, and coated his blade with psychic energy in preparation for the deed that he was about to commit, and with a tear in his eye, to the creature that was meant to be so much more, struck one final time.
The second time Father struck, the pain intensified, it's very Soul screaming in agony. The pain it felt was not like anything it experienced before, this pain was different, familiar yet alien at the same time... It didn't know what it had done wrong but it was Sorry!
Yet the blade did no relent from erasing it's Soul.
That's when the voices started coming back, taunting it now even more now. Living as an outcast, and dying as one. Being rejected by the World, with no one to turn for help, with everyone turning their backs on it and abandoning it, worse yet being betrayed by one's own kin!
It hurts! The pain from being struck, from having one's Soul erased, but what hurts the most is the pain from being rejected by Father! Is this how it's all going to end...?
...I just wanted to be loved, and to love in turn, was that all too much to ask...?
A.N: Well, the only thing we know about the removed Primarchs is that their records were expunged, and those two went by the nickname of: The Forgotten and The Purged.
On a side note, it's quite likely Serras could very well have been passed as one of the two Expunged Primarchs had we gotten a 1 roll Fail on the 'Flaw'. It's just that the nat 100 turned him into a her with the 'Flaw' of desire for interaction.
Rather than turning her into the tentacle horrorfreaks that Slaneesh seems to be so fond of. At least that's my own interpretation.
After being carried away in the Warp, unlike her infant brothers, she suffered the brunt of the psychic torment far more then others. Flesh grew and twisted, as did bone, and the delicate psychic construction of her Soul became damaged, some parts of it tainted, others horribly scarred.
After an indeterminate amount of time, her pod, lifeless, crashed out of the Warp and down, ending up on a Feudal World.
Later on, when the Emperor came to take the world into the Imperial Fold, he felt something was amiss. Forbidding anyone from following him, he piloted a Stormbird down to the Planet. Upon arriving to a town where a Carnival was being held he heard a couple of rumors coming from some locals about a 'Circus Freak' being showcased a couple days prior.
The Emperor started having a bad feeling after having heard about it. Following his gut feeling, he went to the Carnival. There, he looked for this 'Freak' that the people spoke of, and after a couple of minutes came upon the sight of a couple of children pointing, laughing and throwing rocks at a creature in cage.
Seeing this, the Emperor, using his psychic prowess subtly nudged them to leave, seeing the deed as a needless act of petty cruelty. Now alone, he heard a moan coming from the very same cage, one that could almost be called a sob if one paid enough attention.
Yet, it is this very cry that made the Emperor feel terrible. A feeling that should not normally be possible for one such he who has witnessed and done many things in his long ancient life. So for him to have felt like this, it can only mean that the answer he had been searching for on this world lied ahead in that very cage.
With some trepidation, the Emperor took a couple of steps, and once in front of the cage, he looked, seeing a sight that left him staggering. For in that very cage, right at the back of it, lied a thing that could only be called a monster. A twisted bestial mass of flesh, arms, feathers and eyes. A poor and pitiful thing that looks to have only experienced a life full of pain and suffering from it's birth. Sulking in sorrow as it's very nature left it unable to even put an end it's own life.
Yet for him it was so much more because he saw it as it truly was with his True Eyes. And what he saw, made him despair, for within that cage did not lie the Soul of a monster, but that of a Primarch. This very thing before him was His Son.
It had lived a long and hard life, one in which it was most certainly no stranger to pain, having been used to it from an early age, be it from the times when it's master got too drunk or angry and used it to vent his anger, or both, in which case it was not too unusual for it to collapse from agony.
Then there were the days where it was forced to put up a performance for the crowd, often as the 'Undying Abomination' that it's master liked to call it. Times and times again, it came within inches of it's death, yet no matter how much it begged for, it never got it.
Often, just as it was about to, it would start to hallucinate and hear the terrifying cackle of several beings: one of apathy, one of hatred, one of treachery, one of supreme cruelty and even once, almost in a faint whisper, one of terror.
Often they would mock it and sneer at it as they spoke of a different future, a future where it, wasn't just it, but something more. They spoke of it walking on the same ground - just as any other human, of it being able to fight with the mightiest of knights and take on entire armies alone - just like a hero straight out of a fairy tale it overheard once, of great wonders and godly works crafted by it - just as some of the nobles or craftsmen, of people respecting and showing deference to it - just as the man with a crown that it once saw, of it striking terror in the hearts of mean men - just like the winged kin or the gaunt kin it once saw in a dream.
When asked why it had to suffer, they would give all kinds of answers, sometimes the truth, others in jest, yet the most common answer was always the same, revenge. It's entire existence had been condemned to suffer for the crimes committed against them by it's Father, kin and even it's possible alternate future.
No amount of begging or threatening changed anything, only exacerbating it's pain, ranging from getting afflicted with diseases, getting beaten by the other visitors that wanted to earn the prize that came with ending it's life, getting tricked by others that acted nice at first only to eventually reveal their true nature, getting tortured time and time again by it's master who seemed to have taken a liking to it.
In another time, had fate been kinder to it then, maybe it might have cared, been braver, been more hopeful, been unwilling to settle for mediocrity. Unfortunately, it wasn't so lucky. Had it at least been capable of fending for itself, of breaking it's cage and just running away then it would have already done so. But alas, it barely was capable of feeding itself with some help, let alone survive on it's own. Whatever there might have been, is sadly, no more. No matter how much it wishes otherwise.
Those were it's thoughts for a very long time. After a while things started blurring together, the whispers became more prominent but it was too apathetic to care, it's will too broken to ever be mended again, events became harder to recall and it eventually became used to it's lot in life. After all, there was nothing it could do.
Today was just another day where it would either be paraded around and made to put another performance for the masses or, it could stay in it's enclosure and be picked on by the children, and if it was lucky and played dead long enough then maybe, just maybe soon they will grow bored of throwing rocks at it and leave it alone, which they seemed to have just a little while ago.
If it had it's way then it might be getting some peace by crying itself to sleep early. That was when the voices stopped, and it saw Him.
It became aware of his Presence, an alien feeling of paternal affection and comfort washed over the poor creature, stopping it from sulking and making it shamble as fast as it could towards him. For this creature understood, and wished for nothing more than to be reunited.
Yet it was not meant to be, for in the next moment, it was stabbed by a sword, the very same one wielded by it's Father. It is this very act that, for a moment, before the familiar pain settled in, that confused it. Did it's sire not come to save it? Why hurt it when it meant no harm. Did it do something wrong, and if so, what must it do to be forgiven?
The Emperor, seeing that hit was not enough to end the creature, pulled back the sword, took a deep breath, and coated his blade with psychic energy in preparation for the deed that he was about to commit, and with a tear in his eye, to the creature that was meant to be so much more, struck one final time.
The second time Father struck, the pain intensified, it's very Soul screaming in agony. The pain it felt was not like anything it experienced before, this pain was different, familiar yet alien at the same time... It didn't know what it had done wrong but it was Sorry!
Yet the blade did no relent from erasing it's Soul.
That's when the voices started coming back, taunting it now even more now. Living as an outcast, and dying as one. Being rejected by the World, with no one to turn for help, with everyone turning their backs on it and abandoning it, worse yet being betrayed by one's own kin!
It hurts! The pain from being struck, from having one's Soul erased, but what hurts the most is the pain from being rejected by Father! Is this how it's all going to end...?
...I just wanted to be loved, and to love in turn, was that all too much to ask...?
A.N: Well, the only thing we know about the removed Primarchs is that their records were expunged, and those two went by the nickname of: The Forgotten and The Purged.
On a side note, it's quite likely Serras could very well have been passed as one of the two Expunged Primarchs had we gotten a 1 roll Fail on the 'Flaw'. It's just that the nat 100 turned him into a her with the 'Flaw' of desire for interaction.
Rather than turning her into the tentacle horrorfreaks that Slaneesh seems to be so fond of. At least that's my own interpretation.
Travler66
Let her name echo in song!
- Location
- Beyond
Why would you do this? This is sad.
Same reason we have a Chaos Serras Fic, i guess.
That and GW Workshop said the last two unknown Primarchs are placeholders for Players to fill in, creating their own Backstory, Legion etc.
And since we already have an OC Primarch then why not fill in the missing spot.
After all, Serras is not canon, but fanwork, but that doesn't mean one can't make an omake slotting her in canon, while not changing anything at all, thus keeping to canon more or less. Of course that's my own interpretation, you can write your own Omake with your own OC if you want.