Echoes of Creation (30k/Exalted)
- Thread starter Yzarc
- Start date
- Crossover
An odd thought occurs to me. If the End Times happened in this continuity, that should I think mean that so did Age of Sigmar which means that somewhere out there the Mortal Realms are turning, in what state we cannot say, but just as an idea, there is a place with Eight realms and living gods out there, some of them even (gasp!) not assholes like the Emperor.
The other implication to Malus existing is a lot more shaky, and I would not blame the GM if he never wants to poke it, but here it is just to get it out of my head: Humans on that world were made by the Old Ones, Setra comes from a line of people made by the Old Ones, he might even be close enough to the pre-dynastic period of Nehekara to have some knowledge of them. That has implications for the seemingly godlike human who just emerged on Earth.
He could just be as @Alratan said before the luckiest of the techno-barbarians or he could be a rogue experiment of the Old Oness
The other implication to Malus existing is a lot more shaky, and I would not blame the GM if he never wants to poke it, but here it is just to get it out of my head: Humans on that world were made by the Old Ones, Setra comes from a line of people made by the Old Ones, he might even be close enough to the pre-dynastic period of Nehekara to have some knowledge of them. That has implications for the seemingly godlike human who just emerged on Earth.
He could just be as @Alratan said before the luckiest of the techno-barbarians or he could be a rogue experiment of the Old Oness
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
Out of curiosity, what roll was that that came up Settra?
BigE won't be happy at all when he meet Settra.
- Location
- Pee Pee Poo Poo
[X] Plan: It's Nagash in a fake mustache!
Yzarc
The Spark of Madness
Encounter roll. It ranged from daemons left trapped to powerful ghosts and undead. Settra was the only Fantasy character in the table and you rolled him without fail.
Changed the Machine God's Toolbox for Double Extra speed, just in case we get into a fight with Setra, it would be far from ideal but it could happen and those two extra actions with heavy weapons might be very important.
Interlude: Unification of Terra
Yzarc
The Spark of Madness
Terra - 712.M30
You stand amidst the icy desolation of the Arctic Circle, a lone figure clad in the black armor of the XVIIth Legion, the Imperial Heralds. Your face is hidden behind a skull helm, an emblem of death and the relentless truth of the Emperor. In your hand, you grip the eagle-winged mace, a symbol of the Emperor's will and justice. Before you lies the last fortress city of demagogues and the final enclave of cults that defy the Imperial Truth on Terra. This place is their last refuge, a bastion of superstition and false gods amidst the endless cold and ice.
The howling wind and biting cold are nothing to you. You stride forward with purpose, your steps measured and resolute. As you approach the fortress city, the massive gates creak open, revealing a crowd of fearful and defiant faces. They have heard of you, the lone herald who delivers the Emperor's ultimatum: recant or be destroyed.
You raise your mace, its golden wings glinting in the pale light, and your voice booms out, amplified by the vox-casters in your helm. "I am the Herald of the Emperor. I bring you the truth. Your false gods and superstitions have no place in His vision for humanity. Recant your beliefs, embrace the Imperial Truth, or face annihilation."
Your words echo through the fortress, a chilling proclamation that sends shivers down the spines of those who listen. Some waver, their faith in their false gods crumbling in the face of your unwavering conviction. But others, the most fanatical, rally their strength and resolve to defy you. They raise their weapons, crude firearms, and improvised explosives, and a cry of defiance rises from their ranks.
"Death to the heretic!" a demagogue shouts, his voice a rallying point for the others. They surge forward, a tide of desperation and fury. You stand your ground, unmoved by their numbers or their zeal. As they reach you, you swing your mace, and the first ranks fall, their bodies broken and lifeless.
But you know that your mission is not just to kill but to deliver the Emperor's ultimatum. You charge forward, allowing your momentum to carry you into the heart of the fortress, your every move calculated and precise. The demagogues and cultists try to surround you, to overwhelm you with sheer numbers, but you are a Space Marine, an Astartes, and their efforts are futile.
In the midst of the chaos, you suddenly vanish, a phantom in the storm. One moment you are there, a reaper among the fallen, and the next, you are gone. Panic spreads among the defenders as they realize they cannot track you, cannot predict your movements. You are the Emperor's shadow, a ghost in the icy wasteland.
You reappear where the leaders of this last rebellion have gathered, thinking themselves safe behind their walls and guards. They gasp in shock as you materialize before them, the skull helm and eagle-winged mace a terrifying vision. "Recant," you say again, your voice low and menacing, "or be destroyed."
Desperation and fear grip the guards, and they lash out with everything they have. Bolts of energy, crude projectiles, and knives are all aimed at you, but you move with the grace and speed of one blessed by the Emperor. Each attack is parried, each blow avoided or deflected. You are untouchable, a specter of judgment.
One by one, the guards fall, their resistance futile. As the last of them collapses at your feet, you turn and disappear, exiting the fortress city. The remaining cultists and demagogues, though gripped by fear, charge behind you into icy wilderness. They attempt to track you, to find some trace of your passage, but they find nothing. You are a wraith, a harbinger of the Emperor's will, and you leave no trail.
As you disappear into the icy plains, the howling wind and biting cold serve as your companions. The Arctic Circle is a desolate wasteland, a place where only the strong and the desperate dare to tread. Yet, for you, it is a fitting battleground, a stage upon which the Emperor's will can be enacted with relentless precision.
You traverse the frozen expanse, your mind focused on regrouping with your battle brothers. The icy landscape is treacherous, but your enhanced senses and Astartes training allow you to navigate it with ease. The silence is eerie, broken only by the occasional gust of wind that sends flurries of snow dancing through the air.
Suddenly, a disturbance in the Warp sends a chill down your spine, different from the cold of the Arctic. You stop, scanning the surroundings with keen eyes. Out of the swirling snow, dark shapes begin to materialize. Warp Xenos. Their forms are twisted and grotesque, manifestations of malevolent energy that seethe with hatred and hunger.
But they were weak. The Fortress City had few, if any, sacrifices to offer Warp Xenos and all that were before you were the dregs. Dregs that you did not need to run from.
As they advanced, their eyes glowed with unholy light, their claws and fangs gleaming in the dim light. They hiss and snarl, the air around them crackling with dark energy. You stand your ground, your faith unwavering. You are a Herald of the Emperor, and you will not falter in the face of such abominations.
As the Warp Xenos close in, you channel your faith through the Aquila on your chest plate. The symbol of the Emperor, it is a beacon of purity and righteousness. You focus your will, drawing upon the strength that comes from your unwavering belief in the Emperor's will.
"By the light of Humanity," you intone, your voice steady and filled with conviction. The Aquila begins to glow, a brilliant light that cuts through the darkness. The Warp Xeno recoil, screeching in pain and fury as the holy light sears their unholy forms.
You raise your eagle-winged mace, the weapon also glowing with righteous energy. With a swift, powerful strike, you send the first Warp Xeno reeling, its body disintegrating into nothingness. The others hesitate, but you press the attack, each swing of your mace driving them back, each word of your prayer amplifying the power of the light.
The Warp Xenos are relentless, their dark energy swirling around you like a storm. But you remain steadfast, your faith an unbreakable shield. With each passing moment, the light of the Aquila grows stronger, pushing the Warp Xenos further back.
Finally, with a last, desperate howl, the Warp Xenos vanish, banished back to the Warp from whence they came. The Arctic silence returns, the only sound of your own heavy breathing and the distant howl of the wind.
Exhausted but victorious, you continue your journey. The encounter with the Warp Xenos has only strengthened your resolve. You are a vessel of the Emperor's will, and no force, whether mortal or Warp Xenos, can stand in your way.
After what feels like hours of navigating the frozen wasteland, you finally see them: your battle brothers, the Imperial Heralds. They stand like sentinels in the snow, their black armor a stark contrast to the white landscape. As you approach, they turn to greet you, their expressions hidden behind their helms, but their respect and camaraderie evident in their stance.
"The Emperor's ultimatum has been delivered," you say, your voice steady and resolute. "Now we bring His judgment."
You recount the battle with the Warp Xenos and your brothers nod in understanding. They too have faced such threats, and they know the power of faith and unity. Together, you regroup and prepare for the next phase of your mission.
Thalric raises a small device, an ancient piece of archeotech recovered from the ruins of Old Night. It is a weather manipulator, capable of summoning storms and bending the very elements to your will. With a solemn incantation, he activates the device, and the skies above begin to darken. Clouds gather, thick and heavy, and the wind picks up, howling through the frozen wasteland.
Within moments, a massive blizzard descends upon the fortress city. Snow falls in blinding sheets, and the wind roars with a fury that drowns out all other sound. To the defenders, it is as if the world itself has turned against them. But to you and your brothers, it is the perfect cover.
Unaffected by the cold, you move through the storm like wraiths, unseen and unstoppable. The blizzard cloaks your approach, hiding your forms in the swirling snow. You spread out, each of you a phantom in the storm, and begin the methodical task of eliminating the enemy.
The first targets are the priests, the heart of the cults that have taken refuge here. They are the leaders, the ones who keep the false beliefs alive. You find them in their places of worship, huddled around altars and icons, praying desperately for deliverance. They do not see you until it is too late. One by one, they fall, your eagle-winged maces delivering the Emperor's final judgment.
Next, you turn your attention to the places of worship themselves. These temples and shrines, filled with idols and symbols of false gods, must be destroyed. You plant charges, powerful explosives that will reduce these blasphemous structures to rubble. The detonations are muffled by the storm, but the results are devastating. Stone and metal are torn apart, and flames consume what remains.
Throughout the fortress city, your brothers engage the enemy with precision and ruthlessness. The blizzard, far from hindering you, is an ally, concealing your movements and disorienting your foes. The cultists and demagogues, already demoralized and leaderless, stand no chance. They are cut down in the blinding snow, unable to mount any effective resistance.
Advanced tactics and strategies guide your every move. You use the environment to your advantage, setting ambushes and traps, luring the enemy into kill zones where they are swiftly annihilated. Your thermal sensors and advanced optics pierce the storm, allowing you to see and target your foes with deadly accuracy.
In the chaos of the blizzard, the defenders are slaughtered, their bodies lost in the drifts of snow. By the time the storm begins to abate, the fortress city is silent, its defenders dead or fled into the frozen wilderness. The structures lie in ruins, the places of worship destroyed, and the last remnants of opposition wiped out.
You regroup with your battle brothers, the mission complete. Thalric deactivates the archeotech device, and the blizzard begins to dissipate. The skies clear, revealing the devastation wrought by your hands. You stand amidst the ruins, a testament to the Emperor's will and the futility of defiance.
The Arctic Circle, once a refuge for the enemies of the Imperium, is now a graveyard, a stark reminder of the power of the Imperial Heralds. You and your brothers turn and vanish into the white expanse, ready to bring the Emperor's truth to the next stronghold of superstition and falsehood, wherever it may be.
The halls of the Imperial Palace on Terra are a place of awe and grandeur, and today they are filled with an air of anticipation and reverence. The Triumph is a rare and magnificent event, a celebration of victory and unity, and this one is in your honor. As a Herald of the XVIIth Legion, you have brought the Emperor's light to the darkest corners of Terra, and today, you stand before the greatest of all audiences.
You march through the grand corridors, your black armor gleaming in the torchlight, the skull helm under your arm. Your brothers flank you, their presence a silent testament to your shared purpose and achievements. The path is lined with banners bearing the newly made Imperial Aquila, and the air is thick with the scent of incense and the hum of hymns.
As you enter the grand chamber, the sight before you is overwhelming. Thousands of dignitaries, soldiers, and citizens fill the vast space, their eyes upon you. The golden light of the chandeliers illuminates the scene, casting a radiant glow upon the assembled masses. At the far end of the chamber, upon a dais of marble and gold, stands the Emperor Himself.
He is a figure of unmatched majesty, clad in radiant armor that seems to shimmer with an inner light. His eyes, piercing and wise, meet yours as you approach. You kneel before Him, feeling the weight of His gaze and the honor of His recognition.
"Rise, Nameless Herald of the XVIIth Legion, rise, Marines of the XVIIth." the Emperor commands, His voice resonant and powerful. "Today, we celebrate not just your deeds, but the unity and strength of our Imperium."
You stand, the weight of His words filling you with pride and resolve. The Emperor steps forward, raising His arms to address the vast assembly.
"Citizens of the Imperium," He begins, His voice carrying through the chamber with a strength that demands attention. "Today, we gather to honor those who have brought light to the darkest corners of Terra. The XVIIth Legion, the Imperial Heralds, have shown unparalleled devotion and courage in their mission to eradicate the remnants of Old Night from Terra."
The crowd erupts in applause, a thunderous roar of approval and admiration. The Emperor waits, allowing the sound to wash over Him, before continuing.
"Unity," He says, "is the foundation upon which our Imperium is built. In unity, there is strength. In unity, there is hope. The Imperial Heralds have embodied this principle, bringing the truth of the Imperium to those who would resist it. They have torn down the false idols and silenced the demagogues, ensuring that the light of the Imperial Truth shines brightly upon all."
You feel a swell of pride at His words, knowing that you and your brothers have played a vital role in this grand vision.
"The future of the Imperium is bright," the Emperor continues, His voice filled with conviction. "We stand on the brink of a new age, an age of enlightenment and progress. The sacrifices made by the Imperial Heralds and all our warriors are the foundation upon which we will build this future. Together, we will conquer the stars and bring the light of reason to every corner of the galaxy."
The crowd erupts once more, their cheers echoing through the grand chamber. The Emperor raises His hand for silence, and the assembly immediately obeys, hanging on His every word.
"But this triumph is not just a celebration of victory," He says, His tone becoming more solemn. "It is a reminder of the ongoing struggle, the work that still lies ahead. The forces of darkness and ignorance will not be easily vanquished. We must remain vigilant, united in purpose and unwavering in our resolve."
He turns His gaze upon you, His eyes filled with a mixture of pride and determination.
"You, the Heralds of the XVIIth Legion, have shown the way. Your dedication and sacrifice are an example to all. Continue to serve with honor, continue to bring the light of the Imperial Truth to those who need it most." There was a pause and the Emperor spoke one final time. "With this I declare the Unification Wars……over."
You bow your head, deeply moved by His words. The Emperor steps back, allowing the applause of the assembly to fill the chamber once more. As the cheers echo around you, you feel a deep sense of purpose and determination. The path ahead is clear, and you are ready to continue your mission.
After the speech, you and your brothers are honored with medals and accolades, a testament to your deeds and sacrifices. The celebrations continue long into the night, a joyous occasion that brings together people from all walks of life, united in their reverence for the Emperor and the future He promises.
As the festivities draw to a close, you stand with your brothers, looking out over the hive city from the grand balconies of the Imperial Palace. The lights twinkle below, a sea of hope and aspiration. You know that the road ahead will be long and arduous, but with the Emperor's words ringing in your ears, you are ready to face whatever challenges may come.
United in purpose, unwavering in resolve, you and your brothers will continue to bring the light of the Emperor to the darkest corners of the galaxy, ensuring that the future of the Imperium remains bright and glorious.
You stand amidst the icy desolation of the Arctic Circle, a lone figure clad in the black armor of the XVIIth Legion, the Imperial Heralds. Your face is hidden behind a skull helm, an emblem of death and the relentless truth of the Emperor. In your hand, you grip the eagle-winged mace, a symbol of the Emperor's will and justice. Before you lies the last fortress city of demagogues and the final enclave of cults that defy the Imperial Truth on Terra. This place is their last refuge, a bastion of superstition and false gods amidst the endless cold and ice.
The howling wind and biting cold are nothing to you. You stride forward with purpose, your steps measured and resolute. As you approach the fortress city, the massive gates creak open, revealing a crowd of fearful and defiant faces. They have heard of you, the lone herald who delivers the Emperor's ultimatum: recant or be destroyed.
You raise your mace, its golden wings glinting in the pale light, and your voice booms out, amplified by the vox-casters in your helm. "I am the Herald of the Emperor. I bring you the truth. Your false gods and superstitions have no place in His vision for humanity. Recant your beliefs, embrace the Imperial Truth, or face annihilation."
Your words echo through the fortress, a chilling proclamation that sends shivers down the spines of those who listen. Some waver, their faith in their false gods crumbling in the face of your unwavering conviction. But others, the most fanatical, rally their strength and resolve to defy you. They raise their weapons, crude firearms, and improvised explosives, and a cry of defiance rises from their ranks.
"Death to the heretic!" a demagogue shouts, his voice a rallying point for the others. They surge forward, a tide of desperation and fury. You stand your ground, unmoved by their numbers or their zeal. As they reach you, you swing your mace, and the first ranks fall, their bodies broken and lifeless.
But you know that your mission is not just to kill but to deliver the Emperor's ultimatum. You charge forward, allowing your momentum to carry you into the heart of the fortress, your every move calculated and precise. The demagogues and cultists try to surround you, to overwhelm you with sheer numbers, but you are a Space Marine, an Astartes, and their efforts are futile.
In the midst of the chaos, you suddenly vanish, a phantom in the storm. One moment you are there, a reaper among the fallen, and the next, you are gone. Panic spreads among the defenders as they realize they cannot track you, cannot predict your movements. You are the Emperor's shadow, a ghost in the icy wasteland.
You reappear where the leaders of this last rebellion have gathered, thinking themselves safe behind their walls and guards. They gasp in shock as you materialize before them, the skull helm and eagle-winged mace a terrifying vision. "Recant," you say again, your voice low and menacing, "or be destroyed."
Desperation and fear grip the guards, and they lash out with everything they have. Bolts of energy, crude projectiles, and knives are all aimed at you, but you move with the grace and speed of one blessed by the Emperor. Each attack is parried, each blow avoided or deflected. You are untouchable, a specter of judgment.
One by one, the guards fall, their resistance futile. As the last of them collapses at your feet, you turn and disappear, exiting the fortress city. The remaining cultists and demagogues, though gripped by fear, charge behind you into icy wilderness. They attempt to track you, to find some trace of your passage, but they find nothing. You are a wraith, a harbinger of the Emperor's will, and you leave no trail.
As you disappear into the icy plains, the howling wind and biting cold serve as your companions. The Arctic Circle is a desolate wasteland, a place where only the strong and the desperate dare to tread. Yet, for you, it is a fitting battleground, a stage upon which the Emperor's will can be enacted with relentless precision.
You traverse the frozen expanse, your mind focused on regrouping with your battle brothers. The icy landscape is treacherous, but your enhanced senses and Astartes training allow you to navigate it with ease. The silence is eerie, broken only by the occasional gust of wind that sends flurries of snow dancing through the air.
Suddenly, a disturbance in the Warp sends a chill down your spine, different from the cold of the Arctic. You stop, scanning the surroundings with keen eyes. Out of the swirling snow, dark shapes begin to materialize. Warp Xenos. Their forms are twisted and grotesque, manifestations of malevolent energy that seethe with hatred and hunger.
But they were weak. The Fortress City had few, if any, sacrifices to offer Warp Xenos and all that were before you were the dregs. Dregs that you did not need to run from.
As they advanced, their eyes glowed with unholy light, their claws and fangs gleaming in the dim light. They hiss and snarl, the air around them crackling with dark energy. You stand your ground, your faith unwavering. You are a Herald of the Emperor, and you will not falter in the face of such abominations.
As the Warp Xenos close in, you channel your faith through the Aquila on your chest plate. The symbol of the Emperor, it is a beacon of purity and righteousness. You focus your will, drawing upon the strength that comes from your unwavering belief in the Emperor's will.
"By the light of Humanity," you intone, your voice steady and filled with conviction. The Aquila begins to glow, a brilliant light that cuts through the darkness. The Warp Xeno recoil, screeching in pain and fury as the holy light sears their unholy forms.
You raise your eagle-winged mace, the weapon also glowing with righteous energy. With a swift, powerful strike, you send the first Warp Xeno reeling, its body disintegrating into nothingness. The others hesitate, but you press the attack, each swing of your mace driving them back, each word of your prayer amplifying the power of the light.
The Warp Xenos are relentless, their dark energy swirling around you like a storm. But you remain steadfast, your faith an unbreakable shield. With each passing moment, the light of the Aquila grows stronger, pushing the Warp Xenos further back.
Finally, with a last, desperate howl, the Warp Xenos vanish, banished back to the Warp from whence they came. The Arctic silence returns, the only sound of your own heavy breathing and the distant howl of the wind.
Exhausted but victorious, you continue your journey. The encounter with the Warp Xenos has only strengthened your resolve. You are a vessel of the Emperor's will, and no force, whether mortal or Warp Xenos, can stand in your way.
After what feels like hours of navigating the frozen wasteland, you finally see them: your battle brothers, the Imperial Heralds. They stand like sentinels in the snow, their black armor a stark contrast to the white landscape. As you approach, they turn to greet you, their expressions hidden behind their helms, but their respect and camaraderie evident in their stance.
"The Emperor's ultimatum has been delivered," you say, your voice steady and resolute. "Now we bring His judgment."
You recount the battle with the Warp Xenos and your brothers nod in understanding. They too have faced such threats, and they know the power of faith and unity. Together, you regroup and prepare for the next phase of your mission.
Thalric raises a small device, an ancient piece of archeotech recovered from the ruins of Old Night. It is a weather manipulator, capable of summoning storms and bending the very elements to your will. With a solemn incantation, he activates the device, and the skies above begin to darken. Clouds gather, thick and heavy, and the wind picks up, howling through the frozen wasteland.
Within moments, a massive blizzard descends upon the fortress city. Snow falls in blinding sheets, and the wind roars with a fury that drowns out all other sound. To the defenders, it is as if the world itself has turned against them. But to you and your brothers, it is the perfect cover.
Unaffected by the cold, you move through the storm like wraiths, unseen and unstoppable. The blizzard cloaks your approach, hiding your forms in the swirling snow. You spread out, each of you a phantom in the storm, and begin the methodical task of eliminating the enemy.
The first targets are the priests, the heart of the cults that have taken refuge here. They are the leaders, the ones who keep the false beliefs alive. You find them in their places of worship, huddled around altars and icons, praying desperately for deliverance. They do not see you until it is too late. One by one, they fall, your eagle-winged maces delivering the Emperor's final judgment.
Next, you turn your attention to the places of worship themselves. These temples and shrines, filled with idols and symbols of false gods, must be destroyed. You plant charges, powerful explosives that will reduce these blasphemous structures to rubble. The detonations are muffled by the storm, but the results are devastating. Stone and metal are torn apart, and flames consume what remains.
Throughout the fortress city, your brothers engage the enemy with precision and ruthlessness. The blizzard, far from hindering you, is an ally, concealing your movements and disorienting your foes. The cultists and demagogues, already demoralized and leaderless, stand no chance. They are cut down in the blinding snow, unable to mount any effective resistance.
Advanced tactics and strategies guide your every move. You use the environment to your advantage, setting ambushes and traps, luring the enemy into kill zones where they are swiftly annihilated. Your thermal sensors and advanced optics pierce the storm, allowing you to see and target your foes with deadly accuracy.
In the chaos of the blizzard, the defenders are slaughtered, their bodies lost in the drifts of snow. By the time the storm begins to abate, the fortress city is silent, its defenders dead or fled into the frozen wilderness. The structures lie in ruins, the places of worship destroyed, and the last remnants of opposition wiped out.
You regroup with your battle brothers, the mission complete. Thalric deactivates the archeotech device, and the blizzard begins to dissipate. The skies clear, revealing the devastation wrought by your hands. You stand amidst the ruins, a testament to the Emperor's will and the futility of defiance.
The Arctic Circle, once a refuge for the enemies of the Imperium, is now a graveyard, a stark reminder of the power of the Imperial Heralds. You and your brothers turn and vanish into the white expanse, ready to bring the Emperor's truth to the next stronghold of superstition and falsehood, wherever it may be.
The halls of the Imperial Palace on Terra are a place of awe and grandeur, and today they are filled with an air of anticipation and reverence. The Triumph is a rare and magnificent event, a celebration of victory and unity, and this one is in your honor. As a Herald of the XVIIth Legion, you have brought the Emperor's light to the darkest corners of Terra, and today, you stand before the greatest of all audiences.
You march through the grand corridors, your black armor gleaming in the torchlight, the skull helm under your arm. Your brothers flank you, their presence a silent testament to your shared purpose and achievements. The path is lined with banners bearing the newly made Imperial Aquila, and the air is thick with the scent of incense and the hum of hymns.
As you enter the grand chamber, the sight before you is overwhelming. Thousands of dignitaries, soldiers, and citizens fill the vast space, their eyes upon you. The golden light of the chandeliers illuminates the scene, casting a radiant glow upon the assembled masses. At the far end of the chamber, upon a dais of marble and gold, stands the Emperor Himself.
He is a figure of unmatched majesty, clad in radiant armor that seems to shimmer with an inner light. His eyes, piercing and wise, meet yours as you approach. You kneel before Him, feeling the weight of His gaze and the honor of His recognition.
"Rise, Nameless Herald of the XVIIth Legion, rise, Marines of the XVIIth." the Emperor commands, His voice resonant and powerful. "Today, we celebrate not just your deeds, but the unity and strength of our Imperium."
You stand, the weight of His words filling you with pride and resolve. The Emperor steps forward, raising His arms to address the vast assembly.
"Citizens of the Imperium," He begins, His voice carrying through the chamber with a strength that demands attention. "Today, we gather to honor those who have brought light to the darkest corners of Terra. The XVIIth Legion, the Imperial Heralds, have shown unparalleled devotion and courage in their mission to eradicate the remnants of Old Night from Terra."
The crowd erupts in applause, a thunderous roar of approval and admiration. The Emperor waits, allowing the sound to wash over Him, before continuing.
"Unity," He says, "is the foundation upon which our Imperium is built. In unity, there is strength. In unity, there is hope. The Imperial Heralds have embodied this principle, bringing the truth of the Imperium to those who would resist it. They have torn down the false idols and silenced the demagogues, ensuring that the light of the Imperial Truth shines brightly upon all."
You feel a swell of pride at His words, knowing that you and your brothers have played a vital role in this grand vision.
"The future of the Imperium is bright," the Emperor continues, His voice filled with conviction. "We stand on the brink of a new age, an age of enlightenment and progress. The sacrifices made by the Imperial Heralds and all our warriors are the foundation upon which we will build this future. Together, we will conquer the stars and bring the light of reason to every corner of the galaxy."
The crowd erupts once more, their cheers echoing through the grand chamber. The Emperor raises His hand for silence, and the assembly immediately obeys, hanging on His every word.
"But this triumph is not just a celebration of victory," He says, His tone becoming more solemn. "It is a reminder of the ongoing struggle, the work that still lies ahead. The forces of darkness and ignorance will not be easily vanquished. We must remain vigilant, united in purpose and unwavering in our resolve."
He turns His gaze upon you, His eyes filled with a mixture of pride and determination.
"You, the Heralds of the XVIIth Legion, have shown the way. Your dedication and sacrifice are an example to all. Continue to serve with honor, continue to bring the light of the Imperial Truth to those who need it most." There was a pause and the Emperor spoke one final time. "With this I declare the Unification Wars……over."
You bow your head, deeply moved by His words. The Emperor steps back, allowing the applause of the assembly to fill the chamber once more. As the cheers echo around you, you feel a deep sense of purpose and determination. The path ahead is clear, and you are ready to continue your mission.
After the speech, you and your brothers are honored with medals and accolades, a testament to your deeds and sacrifices. The celebrations continue long into the night, a joyous occasion that brings together people from all walks of life, united in their reverence for the Emperor and the future He promises.
As the festivities draw to a close, you stand with your brothers, looking out over the hive city from the grand balconies of the Imperial Palace. The lights twinkle below, a sea of hope and aspiration. You know that the road ahead will be long and arduous, but with the Emperor's words ringing in your ears, you are ready to face whatever challenges may come.
United in purpose, unwavering in resolve, you and your brothers will continue to bring the light of the Emperor to the darkest corners of the galaxy, ensuring that the future of the Imperium remains bright and glorious.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
Warp Xenos, huh?
Man are they going to be surprised when they meet our sorcerous selves... and hopefully our good friend Setra the Imperishable, the Once Dead God.
That is the party line for the Imperial Truth yeah, xenos that live in the warp, barely more than beasts really feeding off psychic emanations, worshiped my superstitious fools.
That is the party line for the Imperial Truth yeah, xenos that live in the warp, barely more than beasts really feeding off psychic emanations, worshiped my superstitious fools.
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Yzarc
The Spark of Madness
Nothing stopping him from teaching it but people get injured just from attempting to speak it. So teaching them is a painful way to kill them.
- Location
- Arcadia
Hm, it will be quite a chore, this, weaning Lorgar's progeny off the wretched Emperor.
Well, one supposes that Settra of the many titles would be preferable to the self-proclaimed Emperor. If this persuasion succeeds, even as a servant of the master, one supposes that there is the silver lining of a son of Nehekhara being present, even if it is not the great master or at least glorious Arkhan the Black, Mortarch of Sacrament.
Well, one supposes that Settra of the many titles would be preferable to the self-proclaimed Emperor. If this persuasion succeeds, even as a servant of the master, one supposes that there is the silver lining of a son of Nehekhara being present, even if it is not the great master or at least glorious Arkhan the Black, Mortarch of Sacrament.
It's not really, the have the same urge to believe he does and Lorgar is their primarch. There is a reason the canon Word Bearers had the fewest Loyalists of any Traitor Legion.
- Location
- Africa
objectively speaking that is completely true but not the complete truth
It is the kind of technical truth a malicious fey, or you know a demon would use. Conceptualizing daemons as beings with relationships and an ecology entirely misses the point of why they are dangerous.
- Location
- Africa
but that is sort of one their biggest problems , demons will fit themselves into whatever narrative you give them, if you perceive a demon as X ,Y and Z he will appear and act as such, for they are kind of like AI they can only act on the information the have been trained on in their database and the more you belive in them , think about them and anthropomorphize them the more data you give them the more complex and dangerous they become
for example, a changer of ways greater demon can carry out great acts of sorcery and carry out conspiracies spanning centuries, but that same greater demon would struggle to beat a child in a spelling bee
And they do that to all sentient life in the galaxy, the only person who would fixate on how they react to them individually when the problem is of that scale is a raging narcissist. Daemons to not stop behaving like daemons because Big E stomps his foot like an angry three year old, not even if he gets his rolling genocide to attempt to stomp their foot in sinc. For one they are bad at it. At the height of the Crusade, in the middle of the actual bloody Crusade Fleet the Space Marines were practicing pseudo-religious rites. His objective was dumb to begin with and then he soaked it in the blood of both his enemies to refused to give up their faith and his servants who were unprepared for Chaos shaped by the belief of others.
I would say it's a good thing we can do better with prayer eating, but that would imply we are somehow special, plenty of civilizations in the galaxy have managed the threat of Chaos, from the Craftworld and Exodite Eldar to the Interex, the Hurd etc...
Yzarc
The Spark of Madness
Not weighting in the main argument but the Interex were a trap for Horus. The moment they were no longer useful, they were killed off screen.
So I do not rate them all to highly as Chaos was not actively trying against them till Horus.