On Barbarus, Mortarion the Pale King completes his war of liberation, slaying the last of the Overlords and bringing freedom to his world. When the Emperor comes, he will find a Primarch quite different to the bitter monster he could have become, and the galaxy will feel the echoes of that change.
Son of Death (30k Mortarion Quest)
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I - The Last Overlord
- Location
- London, England
Son of Death
A 30k Mortarion Quest
A 30k Mortarion Quest
The sun was warm, once. That is what the elders say, when they repeat the tales they heard at their parents' knee, the latest link in an unbroken chain that stretches beyond memory and sight. The sun was warm, once, and brighter than the fiercest fire, and beneath its blessed radiance stretched an age of growth and plenty, a paradise long since lost. You don't know if you believe them, for the tales have an air of wistful dreaming to them and you know better than most how easy it is for a man to fool himself into overlooking the truth of the world, but you agree with what they mean.
The Overlords brought ruin to Barbarus, and until that sin is expunged nothing on this pitiful ball of suffering and gloom will ever truly change.
Rock crumbles to chalk beneath your hand, a full half of the outcropping dropping away into the void before you reach something sturdy enough to bear your weight. You test it for a moment, making sure the reprieve is more than temporary, then haul yourself up another armlength and reach for the next handhold. At this altitude even the mountains rot, the hardness of stone scoured away to nothing by the caustic air. Overhead the sun glares down, a sullen jaundiced ball that bears slim resemblance to the life-giving furnace of the stories. Go back, it seems to say. Crawl back to your burrows, cower in your valleys, shun the heights and all who dwell upon them. Only death awaits you here, swift and painful and utterly without merit. Go back.
Behind you, one of the Death Guard makes a mistake. You don't see it happen, but there is no disguising the muffled shout, the dull clang of impact and the gurgling scream. He is tied to your back by rope, as are all who follow him, but that is not enough – the fall smashes him against the cliffside, and ill fortune or dark magic sees him twist in such a way as to tear the lengths of waxen cloth wrapped around his torso. It is only a small gap, but it only needs to be. The poison gets in, and he dies, strangling the urge to thrash and scream with the last embers of his dying will. The only thing worse than dying here would be taking another of your warriors with him due to an errant spasm. You close your eyes for a moment, bowing your head in recognition, then haul the corpse onto a nearby escarpment and sever the rope tying him in place. One less warrior to stand at your side. One less hero to see the fruits of all your labours.
This is the last of them. The last battle, the last mountain, the last Overlord squatting at its peak. You've killed all the rest, one by one over the course of years, one victory after another in a campaign that has spanned the length and depths of Barbarus. The first few you slew alone, for your body is a weapon and the toxic clouds of the lower reaches scarce sanctuary from your wrath, but most you killed with aid. Your Death Guard, hardiest and boldest of the villagers beneath your protection, garbed in armour you designed and bearing weapons plundered from your over-eager foes – heroes, one and all. The man who just died was far from the first to fall in your service, but he chose to stand with you anyway. Perhaps none who trail behind you now will live to see their homes again, but there is not a single trace of fear in any of them, and your pride is a thing beyond the reach of words.
It is noon when you reach the summit, the sickly yellow eye directly overhead when at last you pull yourself over the final lip of stone and drag yourself onto the highest plateau. Behind you come your warriors, borrowing your strength for the last stage of this most arduous climb, and after a moment spent checking your surroundings you turn to help each of them up and to their feet. There are forty eight of them in the end, enough to form seven cohorts of seven each when you are counted amid their ranks – an auspicious number, one to steel the heart and bring stillness to trembling limbs. You move among them now, clasping each by the hand or around the shoulder, sharing what camaraderie you can in these final precious moments. You cannot speak, not with the air so toxic as to melt even untreated iron to slag, but the way they stand and the way they move tells you everything you need to know. They are ready.
Ahead lies your target; the grim manse inhabited by the last of the Overlords, the greatest and most wicked of their kind. The creature that once you thought to call your father, before you learned what the word truly meant. You have never been here before, the climb beyond you prior to the development of the latest iteration of your Death Guard and their equipment, but even so the place seems familiar to you. The foreboding walls, the imperious towers, the squat menace with which it lies in wait like a predator beneath the bog… the master's hand can be seen in every one of his creations, and this is no exception. Shaking your head, you set forth on your march, your comrades in arms falling into step behind you.
Necare comes forth to meet you.
This, you were not expecting. You had thought your once-father would remain in his fortress to the end, or that he would open the assault with wave after wave of his own terrifying creations. That he would seek to forestall his doom and drag you down beneath horrors out of nightmare. Yet now the doors to his manse open and he comes forth alone, garbed in tattered remnants of ancient splendour and bearing the great blade Silence in his withered hands. Your skin crawls at his approach, your hearts beat like drums within your chest, and with a grunt you tear the scythe you bear from its position across your back.
"Mortarion," he says in that ghastly, rattling voice of his, each word forced out through rotten lungs and blackened teeth. Mortarion, Child of Death. The name he bestowed upon you, the only part of what he gave you that you did not discard. "My child. You come before me at last. Good."
Behind your mask, you scowl. You cannot speak, for the air here would sooner choke the life from your body than bear your words to another's ears, but the Overlord does not need to hear your voice. Your thoughts are enough, and you make sure he has nothing to hear save the cold intent and murderous rage that have been your steadfast companions for well over a year now. Behind you, the Death Guard fan out, drawing their own weapons and eying this last monster with calm, implacable intent.
"Must we fight? Have you truly mistaken my intent so badly?" Necare asks, setting the haft of his great scythe against the ground and leaning on it like an old man with his cane. What little you can see of his flesh is grey and pallid, stretched thin to create the lanky build that towers over even your impressive frame. "Look around you. Recognise the significance of where you are. You have won, boy. We have won."
He dares? After all he said, after everything he has done, he dares to imagine that this is his work? You grip your weapon tighter, feeling it creak in your hands, but you do not charge. Necare is dangerous, and you will not squander your opportunity by giving in to impulsive rage. Slowly, carefully, the ring of your comrades closes. The firearms you forged cannot withstand the air here and so they wield nothing more than axes and scythes and sharpened metal spears, but that will be enough. Necare and his kind always looked down upon the people of the valleys, seeing them as little more than livestock to be harvested, raw material to fuel their work, but you will show him otherwise. You will prove him wrong.
"You already have," Necare proclaims, laughing in phlegmy mirth, the air growing cold and stagnant around him. "Mortals, upon the very peaks of Barbarus! Centuries of scheming, of cold calculation and inventive experimentation by an entire brotherhood of warlocks, and you exceed our efforts in the span of a single year."
"We are not the same," you growl, the first words that this beast of a man has drawn from your lips. The words are muffled by your hood and stolen away by the poisoned air, but they need to be said. You did not create the Death Guard to prove a point, nor lead them into battle for the sake of hegemony among the mountain lords, and you will not suffer to hear this creature compare them to his own abominations even by implication. They are better than that.
"No? Tell me, Mortarion, who taught you? Who raised you? Who made you into what you are?" The Overlord asks, slick poison in his words, cruel mirth in his yellow eyes. "Though your path may differ, you are my heir in every way that matters. What more could a father hope for?"
No. Enough of this. You did not come here to bandy words or thoughts with a monster, nor to reckon with your heritage and the philosophy of a madman. You came here to slay the last Overlord of Barbarus, to bring justice and a reckoning long overdue, and you will not be dissuaded now. You step forwards, lifting your scythe in silent defiance, and at the sight Necare lets out a rough cackle of exhilaration.
"Ah, the reckoning!" He croons, lifting his weapon and taking his stance, "Come, Mortarion! Show me what you have created!"
The first cohort close to melee and die in the span of a single heartbeat, caught within the sweep of Silence and too heavily laden to dodge. The twisted blade tears them clean in two, your finest works of artifice no match for the dark scythe backed by an Overlord's terrible strength, but their lives are well spent. A weapon here cannot be a weapon there, and the second cohort do not hesitate. They fling themselves at Necare's exposed flanks, hooks and cleavers digging deep into diseased flesh, and when the Overlord moves to fling them aside you are there to meet him. Your scythe is a pitiful thing next to his, but you need no ornamentation to serve your purpose, only strength and leverage. You hook your weapon beneath the head of his, and with brute strength wrestle it down and into the ground, drawing Necare with you into a kind of stooping bow.
"You wretched little…" the Overlord growls, his curse broken by a sudden bark of pain as two of your men dig slaughterhouse hooks into the back of his knee joint and pull in opposite directions. This was always the first lesson you taught them – no matter how horrid the enemy might seem, there was always a sense to them, always a mechanism. Study it, learn it, destroy it.
Snarling now, his lofty demeanour stolen away by pain and brute trauma, Necare takes one hand off his scythe and seizes you by the neck. No, not the neck – the mask, tearing through the bundle of rigid tubes that make up the bulk of your filtration system. You grunt in pain, feeling the frozen flame of poison lapping at your chin, and a moment later you are sent flying back across the ground to land roughly upon the mountain stone. Three men take your place, one quite literally impaling himself upon the scythe's blade to keep it lodged and neutered, but they are only buying time. The third and fourth cohorts are doing the real butcher's work, hacking and sawing at Necare's inhuman frame, but you cannot afford to watch.
Muttering a swift incantation, you check the seals and the bulky core of your respirator, seeking to assess the damage. The unit is ruined, too badly damaged by Necare's errant strength, but that is fine. You have a spare upon your belt, and with brisk motions you strip away the ruined unit and bare your face to the mountain air. Your skin burns, your eyes water, your ears ring with the echoes of battle, but you are hardier than most, able to endure this living hell long enough to ward against its touch once more. With swift motions you pull the replacement hood into place and tighten the seals, humming your incantation all the while. There's nothing magical about it, only a tired mnemonic to help you guarantee the correct order of operations, but in such times as these you cannot afford anything less than certainty.
The air grows thick as you stand, Necare's patience expended, and with a series of grisly cracks the Death Guard swarming over his kneeling body simply come apart. You've seen the Overlord use this spell before, peeling apart raw material to better prepare for the coming work, but it seems it has a combat application as well. Blood-soaked bones and wetly gleaming organs orbit the witch in a shifting halo, but he cannot command life and death at once, and when one of your dwindling comrades flings a pilum the soft-headed javelin passes through his defence and bites deep into undying flesh.
Necare cries out, in pain and frustration both, and letting the grisly debris fall plucks up a salvo of broken rock to hurl at you like rain. Ordinarily such projectiles would be no threat, but here even a single errant pebble could shred your survival suit and condemn you to a swift death. Frowning in concentration, you step between the Overlord and your comrades, raising your scythe in a two-handed grip and swatting the salvo aside. First one, then five and then a score you deflect, but your comrades are pinned behind you and sooner or later you are going to fail. You need something to change the calculus, to disrupt Necare's focus and resume the attack, but what?
As if in answer, the air grows cold and stagnant, thick like bog-water and just as foul. The rancid energy gathers before you like a shield, sending the incoming salvo flying off in all directions, and in an eyeblink rushes forward to batter against the Overlord's already reeling form. You take full advantage – three long strides brings you within reach, a single motion lifts the scythe high, and before Necare can rally you bring it crashing down like a bolt of lightning from the poisoned sky.
Patricide, as it turns out, is not so different from any other murder.
"Well, well…" Necare coughs wetly, your scythe buried to the hilt in his shoulder, the tip of the curved blade protruding from his navel, "Not such a fool after all. Congratulations, my son. Your Grandfather… will be proud…"
You lean in, pressing your full weight upon the blade, and then with a single pull you tear it free and open Necare's torso to the elements. Not even an Overlord can endure such trauma – with a rattling gasp the old monster falls, slowly as if through water, his flesh dissolving into dust and smoke as you watch. When at last the ragged remnants of his robes hit the ground, there is nothing within them but bad memories and a monster's weapon. Breathing hard, you look down at the evidence of your victory, and then you turn to find the one who won it for you.
Seven of your comrades survived that final battle, but it might soon be only six, for one among them stands apart surrounded by a ring of readied blades. Slowly he lowers his outstretched arm, the last flickering echoes of witch-light fading into nothing, and turns to meet your gaze. He trembles as you approach, but he does not flee, and though he cannot speak you can see the bleak resignation in his eyes.
"Calas…" you murmur, your voice stolen away by the tools of your survival, considering your oldest and dearest comrade at length. Calas Typhon, the first among the lowlanders to welcome you, to open his arms and call you as a brother… that he could be a witch, kin to those you hunt, seems impossible. Yet the evidence of your eyes is clear, and his choice to exploit his curse to end the wretched curse of your father is perhaps the least vile of many foul ends. And… you are tired of death.
You clasp your comrade on the shoulder, sharing a look through the fogged visors of your masks that needs no words to describe, and pass judgement upon the matter. The others lower their blades and turn their eyes away, taking in the bleak expanse of the battlefield and the ruined remains of their comrades. Over two score Death Guard marched with you upon his final precipice, and less than a quarter of them will be returning home. A heavy tally… but one worth paying. The last of the Overlords has fallen. Barbarus is free.
You cannot bury the dead, nor can you return their bodies to the valleys, but you gather what remains you can and collect from each the small tokens they wear around their necks. A whimsical tradition, that one, a bit of playful folly that caught on swifter than you had expected – each token bears with it the name of a friend or relative or loved one, and beneath it a message or poem of some kind. A final testament, to be carried back to one's kin by those warriors who survive the battle. You take them all, wrapping each one in turn around the straps and buckles of your survival suit, feeling them jingle as you walk.
For a moment you consider the bleak manse, the refuge that your father built that he imagined would be beyond your reach. What treasures might lie within its walls, what secrets might it contain? You consider the matter for a moment, then shake your head and turn away. If tomorrow demands you return then you will face the nightmares then, but until that day you will be glad to leave this place and all who dwelled within firmly in the vaults of your darkest memories.
It takes you most of a day to return to the lowlands, clambering down cliffs and navigating thick scree slopes, descending with care so as not to soil the aftermath of this victory with a senseless death. You walk in companionable silence with your surviving warriors, and when at last the air becomes sweet enough for them to breathe unhindered, you remove your masks all at once.
"Hm. Sky's still dark," Skorvall grumbles, turning his craggy face up to glare at the clouds overhead. "Hm. Shit."
"Eloquent as always, Skor," Lhorgath chuckles weakly, taking a seat on a nearby rock and awkwardly fishing a small flask of water from his belt. "Maybe we just have to wait? Without them around to poison the air, maybe it will return to what the old stories claim."
"Or maybe the old stories were always a pile of shit," Mhorgax grins, baring bloodstained teeth at his comrades. You're not sure when he took the blow that split his lip, but he must have been fortunate indeed not to suffer an armour breach as well. Then again, Mhorgax is always lucky. "Me, I call this a win either way. No more Overlords, no more monsters, no more fucking culls. We did it. We fucking won!"
The shout echoes across the bleak mountain lowlands, reverberating from rough stone and disturbing birds nesting in the boughs of black trees. As silence falls in its wake, all present turn to look at you, expectant looks upon their faces.
"What?" you grunt, when at last the silence grows uncomfortable.
"That's what we should be asking you," Calas says quietly, his dark eyes intent and all but burning with devotion. "You led us to victory, Mortarion. You did what nobody else here could. The future of Barbarus is ours to choose for the first time in a hundred generations, but so too is it yours. What are you going to do now?"
Article: You are Mortarion, and until this moment your life was consumed by a singular purpose – to destroy the Overlords of Barbarus, and set free the mortals who toiled in their shadow. This, you have achieved. What will you do now?
What kind of man is Mortarion, given no greater cause to call his own?
[ ] A Farmer
The scythe was never meant as a weapon of war. You tilled the land once, seeking to earn the trust and acceptance of the people, and found a certain pleasure in the humble simplicity of the labours. Perhaps you might return to that life now, and greet your neighbours not as commander or herald of war, but simply as a friend.
[ ] A Lawgiver
It is said that in days of old, the Lawgivers walked the lowlands of Barbarus, witnessing contracts and mediating disputes wherever they went, binding the world of men together. You rather like the sound of that. Let men smile when they see you coming down the road, knowing that here is someone they can rely on. Someone they can trust.
[ ] A Philosopher
Your greatest triumphs were ever those of others. The armour you forged, the tactics you taught, the lessons you shared that bound men together. Let that be your legacy – a great school where men might learn of philosophy in all its forms, from the sciences of the natural world to the codes of conduct that bind righteous souls together.
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Intro and Quest Lore: The God-Emperor
- Location
- London, England
Welcome, welcome, to my latest quest. Those of you who read my previous quests, both Eater of Worlds and Breaker of Chains (winner of the User's Choice Award, as if my head wasn't big enough already) will be familiar with what I'm going for here – specifically, taking an existing Primarch from the Warhammer 40k universe, and seeing how things would turn out if a single, relatively small change was made to their personal backstory.
For my previous two quests, the Primarch in question was Angron Thal'kyr, the point of divergence being the arrival of the Twelfth Legion at Nuceria in time to save him and his comrades during their final battle. This time around, it's Mortarion, with the initial divergence point being the Emperor's late arrival at Barbarus, giving him the time he needed to complete his ongoing campaign against the monstrous Overlords.
I say initial point, because one of the things I learned from Angron Quest(s) was that the setting of 30k is, well, a bit of a mess, and that basically any story told within that setting is going to have to decide which of the many different perspectives, interpretations and even pieces of conflicting canon to prioritise. More than that, if you want to tell a particular story or believe that light ought to be shed on a particular part of the setting, its probably a good idea to make certain changes to aid in that undertaking, and make sure that everyone who reads your work is on the same page.
Therefore, any changes I make to the lore, or personal spins I am putting on particular setting elements, will go in threadmarked posts like this one. Starting with perhaps the biggest.
The Emperor of Mankind
For the purposes of this Quest, the Emperor is not a Perpetual. He is not an ancient gestalt being from prehistorical earth, nor is he some quasi-divine Anathema bent on a mission to destroy the Chaos Gods. He is, instead, exactly as he appears to be – a genius scientist specialising in genetic manipulation and bioengineering, a conquering warlord who unified the fractured nations of Old Terra through force and guile, and a psyker of immense power and unshakeable will. No more, and no less. He is at most three hundred years old, and even that is down to biomancy and cutting-edge medical treatments.
This change will obviously have a bunch of different knock-on effects, particularly in regards to the policies and conduct of the Great Crusade, which will get their own threadmarked lore posts when they become relevant. For now, I will focus on the two primary reasons I made this change.
The first is that I honestly believe the setting works better this way. If the Emperor is young, you no longer have to talk about what he was doing in the pre-Strife era, nor why he chose to become a galactic tyrant now and not earlier. If he has no special knowledge or relationship to Chaos, you don't need to explain away his reason to not tell the Primarchs about it (and you need to explain it, because otherwise the Heresy looks very different). If his entire life experience is of Terra during the Age of Strife, it becomes a lot easier to see why he conducts himself as an authoritarian strongman and conquering warlord rather than a politician, diplomat or statesman – it's literally all he has ever known.
This ties into the second reason for making the change, which is that I already spent most of AngronQuest writing from the perspective of "The Emperor is Literally The Worst", and I want to try something different this time around. I want the Emperor to be someone that a character could follow and remain reasonably sympathetic, which means I need to change the Emperor. So, I am.
He's not a good man. A great man, certainly, in every sense of the word… but good? No. His sins are many and the blood on his hands could drown a legion. But neither is he Uber Nazi, Space-Hitler Version Gold.
For my previous two quests, the Primarch in question was Angron Thal'kyr, the point of divergence being the arrival of the Twelfth Legion at Nuceria in time to save him and his comrades during their final battle. This time around, it's Mortarion, with the initial divergence point being the Emperor's late arrival at Barbarus, giving him the time he needed to complete his ongoing campaign against the monstrous Overlords.
I say initial point, because one of the things I learned from Angron Quest(s) was that the setting of 30k is, well, a bit of a mess, and that basically any story told within that setting is going to have to decide which of the many different perspectives, interpretations and even pieces of conflicting canon to prioritise. More than that, if you want to tell a particular story or believe that light ought to be shed on a particular part of the setting, its probably a good idea to make certain changes to aid in that undertaking, and make sure that everyone who reads your work is on the same page.
Therefore, any changes I make to the lore, or personal spins I am putting on particular setting elements, will go in threadmarked posts like this one. Starting with perhaps the biggest.
The Emperor of Mankind
For the purposes of this Quest, the Emperor is not a Perpetual. He is not an ancient gestalt being from prehistorical earth, nor is he some quasi-divine Anathema bent on a mission to destroy the Chaos Gods. He is, instead, exactly as he appears to be – a genius scientist specialising in genetic manipulation and bioengineering, a conquering warlord who unified the fractured nations of Old Terra through force and guile, and a psyker of immense power and unshakeable will. No more, and no less. He is at most three hundred years old, and even that is down to biomancy and cutting-edge medical treatments.
This change will obviously have a bunch of different knock-on effects, particularly in regards to the policies and conduct of the Great Crusade, which will get their own threadmarked lore posts when they become relevant. For now, I will focus on the two primary reasons I made this change.
The first is that I honestly believe the setting works better this way. If the Emperor is young, you no longer have to talk about what he was doing in the pre-Strife era, nor why he chose to become a galactic tyrant now and not earlier. If he has no special knowledge or relationship to Chaos, you don't need to explain away his reason to not tell the Primarchs about it (and you need to explain it, because otherwise the Heresy looks very different). If his entire life experience is of Terra during the Age of Strife, it becomes a lot easier to see why he conducts himself as an authoritarian strongman and conquering warlord rather than a politician, diplomat or statesman – it's literally all he has ever known.
This ties into the second reason for making the change, which is that I already spent most of AngronQuest writing from the perspective of "The Emperor is Literally The Worst", and I want to try something different this time around. I want the Emperor to be someone that a character could follow and remain reasonably sympathetic, which means I need to change the Emperor. So, I am.
He's not a good man. A great man, certainly, in every sense of the word… but good? No. His sins are many and the blood on his hands could drown a legion. But neither is he Uber Nazi, Space-Hitler Version Gold.
II - A Hero's Reward
- Location
- London, England
Three Years Later
Of the seven seedbeds you laid on this terrace at the start of the year, only one still survives, and the plants that grow from the blackened earth are stunted and pale. In isolation you would call this a devastating failure, yet you find yourself smiling at the sight like a proud father before his sons. Half this mountain is terraced farms by now, the majority planted and run by you, but none are even close to this altitude. Only you could survive up here without protective equipment, you and now these tiny, stunted shrubs. It took you half a year of wandering Barbarus to find the right progenitors, and as much time again to get the splice to properly take, but this humble little sight is the vindication of all your efforts.
Nodding in respect to their warrior spirit, you kneel by the side of the plot and dip your fingers into the irrigation channel running along one side, tasting the water there with a brief flick of the tongue. As you had hoped, it is purer by far than the water just a few metres up slope, the majority of the toxins leeched away and stored within the leaves and stems of your cultivated shrubbery. It makes the plants themselves completely inedible, of course, and entirely reliant on human intervention to survive and spread their seeds, but you don't care. Enough greenery like this, planted in enough locations across the planet with the right amount of oversight, and the groundwater of Barbarus will be something approaching potable.
"Perhaps I will call you Necare," you murmur to the seedlings, allowing yourself a dark chuckle, "He would have hated that."
You do not think of your father often, these days. Sometimes whole weeks pass without you considering the shadow of the old monster at all, and when your thoughts do return to those bleak heights and the beast at their summit, you smile at what he would say to see you now. Victorious Mortarion, Conqueror of Barbarus, mightiest warrior beneath the poisoned skies… crouched next to a pile of earth, fussing over a handful of shrubs. It would enrage him, and you are spiteful enough that even the act of spitting on the old wretch's memory warms you like nothing else. With exquisite care you pluck a handful of seeds free from the most mature of the plants, tucking them safely away in a pouch. Then you rise and look upon your kingdom.
There are forty-nine terraces in the side of this mountain, each one carved by your own hand, steps that ascend into the hell you would make a heaven. On the lower levels you grow hardy the roots and cereals that serve Barbarus as a staple crop, just enough to meet your needs and provide enough of a surplus to take into town come market day, while the others play host to your true work. The trees that will purify the air, the flowers that will support insectoid pollinators, the water-grass that feeds the amphibians that produce some of the best anti-venoms… so many of them have fallen short, but from each setback you have risen again stronger and better prepared, and piece by piece you put together the world of tomorrow. Barbarus will be clean again. It will take generations, but you will have your victory in the end.
Still, for today the work is done – you have learned to leave checking on the upper levels to last, lest your obsession with their success ruin all hope of scheduling. Satisfied, you make your way back over to the long flight of stairs leading back down the mountain, poisonous mist coiling around you like a lover as you contemplate what to do with the now-empty plots that held the failed crops. Perhaps you can see about transplanting some of the wiregrass up here? You've had some success at convincing it to spread already, and if you can find a way to see it survive the more toxic altitudes then you might be able to make headway on the mudslide problem that those traders from Grint Gulch spoke of last time you crossed paths with them in town. You are so caught up in these thoughts that you almost don't notice the danger in time.
A Daemon has come to your home.
It wears the shape of a man, just another visitor waiting for you at the gateway to your farm, but the details are all wrong. The build is too tall, the skin too dark, the eyes too bright. In a world of poisoned air and tainted ground it stands proud and unafraid, without scar or blemish, and though it stands on the very threshold of your domain it shows no fear or deference. You scowl at the sight, the cold calculus of war filtering back into your thoughts like an unwelcome neighbour come around again. Someone has summoned this thing, has breached the fallen temples of the murdered Overlords and drawn upon their twisted lore, and if they have grown so bold as to send a servant for you already their plans must have advanced to a perilous stage indeed.
Muttering a curse, you alter course to pass by the tooling workshop, snatching up a heavy corn-scythe from where it leans against the wall. Your actual weapons are inside, but you dare not take your eyes off the daemon for a second, and with a scowl on your face you move to confront it.
"When they told me you had become a farmer, I was surprised," the daemon says, smiling as if you might somehow be fooled by the genial attitude. You can feel the creature's power now, the way the fact of its existence seems to press like a weight against the thin skein of the air. The Overlords were always careful to only summon lesser sprites and minor daemons, fearing the consequences of calling up what they could not easily put down. Their successors, it seems, are not so wise. "It seemed such a waste of your talents."
You come to a halt on just the other side of your gate, feeling the subtle barrier of the threshold that keeps the daemon from stepping closer. This land is yours, wrought and claimed by your own two hands, and that matters to such beings more than it might to mere men.
"Touch but one of my people and I will scare the crows with your flayed hide," you say bluntly, stabbing the scythe into the ground blade up and leaning slightly against the haft. "Harm them, and it will be worse."
The daemon blinks, and you'll give it credit for being a good actor. If it were not for all the other ways in which its disguise is fundamentally flawed, you might even believe it was genuinely surprised.
"Harm them? Mortarion, why would I.."
"Do not say my name," you grind out, scythe groaning beneath the force of your grip. It seems you have loose lips to deal with as well, for the way the daemon speaks your name implies familiarity, a connection you do not wish to deal with. Who has betrayed you? Who would dare? "I know what your kind can do with a name, and I refuse you."
For a moment there is only silence, tense and unbroken. A faint gust of wind stirs up dust around your feet, but you do not take your eye off the intruder. His form is perfect in a way that cannot be real, his features shaped into something sharp and imperious, like it was designed to throw your every flaw and shortcoming into clear relief. He – it – is mocking you.
"I am no daemon," says the intruder, raising his hands and showing you his palms, as if you would believe him harmless for lack of a sword or burning fire, "nor do I mean you any harm."
"Prove it," you snort, keeping your eye on him, wondering if you will be able to catch him if you swing your scythe now.
"…Tribune. A low pass over the residence, if you would," the intruder says, sounding more bemused than anything, "As nonhostile as possible."
You frown, taking a step back and to the side. The residence can only be your house, a squat structure built of wood and stone and filled with furnishings donated by grateful friends and relatives of the fallen, but… a low pass? Has the intruder brought some manner of winged fiend with it, to outflank and bedevil you? As it turns out, the answer is stranger by far.
It is a machine that comes roaring over the hillside, not a living thing. You can smell the chemical propellant that burns in those mighty furnaces, feel the way the air bends and twists around its hawk-like wings, see the lesser humanoids in shining gold seated behind the windows at the prow. You have never laid eyes on anything of its like before this day, but you know flesh and you know artifice, and this is too clearly the latter. It circles your domain once, roaring like a hunting beast and scattering dust and dirt in its wake, dips its wings in what might almost be a gesture of respect and then vanishes back into the poisoned fog once more.
"…who are you?" you ask, for 'what' no longer seems relevant. The whole world is shifting beneath your feet, but you will be damned if you stumble now.
"I am the Emperor," the stranger says simply, as if it were a name and not a title. He is not dressed like a lord, you think. There is no mantle of fur or cloak of monster hide, no crown of beaten gold upon his brow… and yet the word does not seem wrong. It is something about the eyes, perhaps. They look upon the world with the confidence of one who knows it might all be bent to his will. "I am your father."
"I killed my father," you say sharply, cutting the air with your spare hand, "And you are not Necare come again. I would know."
"You killed the man who claimed you, but he did not make you," the Emperor says, looking you over from head to toe with an artisan's pride in his eyes, "You know this already. I have heard the stories of the things you fought, the shambling beasts and twisted horrors that the so-called Overlords unleashed upon this world. You are as different from such wretched creations as night is from day."
You blink, shifting your weight from one foot to another. Your form is different from other men, this you know, and to learn that you were created is no great shock. The reaction, though… your pale skin, your yellow eyes, the sheer height and presence of your form, these things always marked you apart, set the people you approached stepping back in fear. The Emperor evinces none of those reactions. He looks truly and honestly pleased to see you.
"What do you want?" you frown, pushing the unwelcome and confusing feelings aside for now. "You have travelled far to be here, to seek me out. I would know why."
Part of you wants to know where he has been, these last decades. Why you grew up alone, save for the company of an undying monster and his pets. The rest of you disregards the thought as unworthy. Perhaps the Emperor cast you out, to make your own way in this world, to be a man of your own devising? If so, let him look upon you and feel pride. Raised in darkness, nursed on poison, you have become a man worth knowing.
"You were made to be champions, Mortarion. You and all of your brothers," the Emperor says, smiling at the way you flinch, at the sudden shock that steals your breath away. "I made you to fight at my side, to wage war against this galaxy and all the dark and loathsome things that dwell between the stars. I came here to ask you to join me – to fulfil the purpose for which you were made, and repeat the triumph of Barbarus across the stars."
You are silent. What do you say to that? What does he mean brothers? There are others like you. Of course there are, there have to be, if he could make one like you then it stands to reason he would make others. None of your kin stand on Barbarus, but perhaps they had trials of their own, crucibles to forge their bodies and temper their wills. What must they be like? How much of you is inherent, and how much the product of this land that taught you all you cared to learn?
"You call yourself Emperor," you say at last, "ruler of men, forger of monsters. How am I to know you are not an Overlord, kin to those I slaughtered?"
"I seek unification, not control. Liberation, not subjugation." The Emperor says these words with sincerity, but you do not feel they are as opposed as he presents them. "You might come with me and speak to those who have already sworn to my service… or perhaps you might devise some other means. How do men on Barbarus prove their worth?"
Of the seven seedbeds you laid on this terrace at the start of the year, only one still survives, and the plants that grow from the blackened earth are stunted and pale. In isolation you would call this a devastating failure, yet you find yourself smiling at the sight like a proud father before his sons. Half this mountain is terraced farms by now, the majority planted and run by you, but none are even close to this altitude. Only you could survive up here without protective equipment, you and now these tiny, stunted shrubs. It took you half a year of wandering Barbarus to find the right progenitors, and as much time again to get the splice to properly take, but this humble little sight is the vindication of all your efforts.
Nodding in respect to their warrior spirit, you kneel by the side of the plot and dip your fingers into the irrigation channel running along one side, tasting the water there with a brief flick of the tongue. As you had hoped, it is purer by far than the water just a few metres up slope, the majority of the toxins leeched away and stored within the leaves and stems of your cultivated shrubbery. It makes the plants themselves completely inedible, of course, and entirely reliant on human intervention to survive and spread their seeds, but you don't care. Enough greenery like this, planted in enough locations across the planet with the right amount of oversight, and the groundwater of Barbarus will be something approaching potable.
"Perhaps I will call you Necare," you murmur to the seedlings, allowing yourself a dark chuckle, "He would have hated that."
You do not think of your father often, these days. Sometimes whole weeks pass without you considering the shadow of the old monster at all, and when your thoughts do return to those bleak heights and the beast at their summit, you smile at what he would say to see you now. Victorious Mortarion, Conqueror of Barbarus, mightiest warrior beneath the poisoned skies… crouched next to a pile of earth, fussing over a handful of shrubs. It would enrage him, and you are spiteful enough that even the act of spitting on the old wretch's memory warms you like nothing else. With exquisite care you pluck a handful of seeds free from the most mature of the plants, tucking them safely away in a pouch. Then you rise and look upon your kingdom.
There are forty-nine terraces in the side of this mountain, each one carved by your own hand, steps that ascend into the hell you would make a heaven. On the lower levels you grow hardy the roots and cereals that serve Barbarus as a staple crop, just enough to meet your needs and provide enough of a surplus to take into town come market day, while the others play host to your true work. The trees that will purify the air, the flowers that will support insectoid pollinators, the water-grass that feeds the amphibians that produce some of the best anti-venoms… so many of them have fallen short, but from each setback you have risen again stronger and better prepared, and piece by piece you put together the world of tomorrow. Barbarus will be clean again. It will take generations, but you will have your victory in the end.
Still, for today the work is done – you have learned to leave checking on the upper levels to last, lest your obsession with their success ruin all hope of scheduling. Satisfied, you make your way back over to the long flight of stairs leading back down the mountain, poisonous mist coiling around you like a lover as you contemplate what to do with the now-empty plots that held the failed crops. Perhaps you can see about transplanting some of the wiregrass up here? You've had some success at convincing it to spread already, and if you can find a way to see it survive the more toxic altitudes then you might be able to make headway on the mudslide problem that those traders from Grint Gulch spoke of last time you crossed paths with them in town. You are so caught up in these thoughts that you almost don't notice the danger in time.
A Daemon has come to your home.
It wears the shape of a man, just another visitor waiting for you at the gateway to your farm, but the details are all wrong. The build is too tall, the skin too dark, the eyes too bright. In a world of poisoned air and tainted ground it stands proud and unafraid, without scar or blemish, and though it stands on the very threshold of your domain it shows no fear or deference. You scowl at the sight, the cold calculus of war filtering back into your thoughts like an unwelcome neighbour come around again. Someone has summoned this thing, has breached the fallen temples of the murdered Overlords and drawn upon their twisted lore, and if they have grown so bold as to send a servant for you already their plans must have advanced to a perilous stage indeed.
Muttering a curse, you alter course to pass by the tooling workshop, snatching up a heavy corn-scythe from where it leans against the wall. Your actual weapons are inside, but you dare not take your eyes off the daemon for a second, and with a scowl on your face you move to confront it.
"When they told me you had become a farmer, I was surprised," the daemon says, smiling as if you might somehow be fooled by the genial attitude. You can feel the creature's power now, the way the fact of its existence seems to press like a weight against the thin skein of the air. The Overlords were always careful to only summon lesser sprites and minor daemons, fearing the consequences of calling up what they could not easily put down. Their successors, it seems, are not so wise. "It seemed such a waste of your talents."
You come to a halt on just the other side of your gate, feeling the subtle barrier of the threshold that keeps the daemon from stepping closer. This land is yours, wrought and claimed by your own two hands, and that matters to such beings more than it might to mere men.
"Touch but one of my people and I will scare the crows with your flayed hide," you say bluntly, stabbing the scythe into the ground blade up and leaning slightly against the haft. "Harm them, and it will be worse."
The daemon blinks, and you'll give it credit for being a good actor. If it were not for all the other ways in which its disguise is fundamentally flawed, you might even believe it was genuinely surprised.
"Harm them? Mortarion, why would I.."
"Do not say my name," you grind out, scythe groaning beneath the force of your grip. It seems you have loose lips to deal with as well, for the way the daemon speaks your name implies familiarity, a connection you do not wish to deal with. Who has betrayed you? Who would dare? "I know what your kind can do with a name, and I refuse you."
For a moment there is only silence, tense and unbroken. A faint gust of wind stirs up dust around your feet, but you do not take your eye off the intruder. His form is perfect in a way that cannot be real, his features shaped into something sharp and imperious, like it was designed to throw your every flaw and shortcoming into clear relief. He – it – is mocking you.
"I am no daemon," says the intruder, raising his hands and showing you his palms, as if you would believe him harmless for lack of a sword or burning fire, "nor do I mean you any harm."
"Prove it," you snort, keeping your eye on him, wondering if you will be able to catch him if you swing your scythe now.
"…Tribune. A low pass over the residence, if you would," the intruder says, sounding more bemused than anything, "As nonhostile as possible."
You frown, taking a step back and to the side. The residence can only be your house, a squat structure built of wood and stone and filled with furnishings donated by grateful friends and relatives of the fallen, but… a low pass? Has the intruder brought some manner of winged fiend with it, to outflank and bedevil you? As it turns out, the answer is stranger by far.
It is a machine that comes roaring over the hillside, not a living thing. You can smell the chemical propellant that burns in those mighty furnaces, feel the way the air bends and twists around its hawk-like wings, see the lesser humanoids in shining gold seated behind the windows at the prow. You have never laid eyes on anything of its like before this day, but you know flesh and you know artifice, and this is too clearly the latter. It circles your domain once, roaring like a hunting beast and scattering dust and dirt in its wake, dips its wings in what might almost be a gesture of respect and then vanishes back into the poisoned fog once more.
"…who are you?" you ask, for 'what' no longer seems relevant. The whole world is shifting beneath your feet, but you will be damned if you stumble now.
"I am the Emperor," the stranger says simply, as if it were a name and not a title. He is not dressed like a lord, you think. There is no mantle of fur or cloak of monster hide, no crown of beaten gold upon his brow… and yet the word does not seem wrong. It is something about the eyes, perhaps. They look upon the world with the confidence of one who knows it might all be bent to his will. "I am your father."
"I killed my father," you say sharply, cutting the air with your spare hand, "And you are not Necare come again. I would know."
"You killed the man who claimed you, but he did not make you," the Emperor says, looking you over from head to toe with an artisan's pride in his eyes, "You know this already. I have heard the stories of the things you fought, the shambling beasts and twisted horrors that the so-called Overlords unleashed upon this world. You are as different from such wretched creations as night is from day."
You blink, shifting your weight from one foot to another. Your form is different from other men, this you know, and to learn that you were created is no great shock. The reaction, though… your pale skin, your yellow eyes, the sheer height and presence of your form, these things always marked you apart, set the people you approached stepping back in fear. The Emperor evinces none of those reactions. He looks truly and honestly pleased to see you.
"What do you want?" you frown, pushing the unwelcome and confusing feelings aside for now. "You have travelled far to be here, to seek me out. I would know why."
Part of you wants to know where he has been, these last decades. Why you grew up alone, save for the company of an undying monster and his pets. The rest of you disregards the thought as unworthy. Perhaps the Emperor cast you out, to make your own way in this world, to be a man of your own devising? If so, let him look upon you and feel pride. Raised in darkness, nursed on poison, you have become a man worth knowing.
"You were made to be champions, Mortarion. You and all of your brothers," the Emperor says, smiling at the way you flinch, at the sudden shock that steals your breath away. "I made you to fight at my side, to wage war against this galaxy and all the dark and loathsome things that dwell between the stars. I came here to ask you to join me – to fulfil the purpose for which you were made, and repeat the triumph of Barbarus across the stars."
You are silent. What do you say to that? What does he mean brothers? There are others like you. Of course there are, there have to be, if he could make one like you then it stands to reason he would make others. None of your kin stand on Barbarus, but perhaps they had trials of their own, crucibles to forge their bodies and temper their wills. What must they be like? How much of you is inherent, and how much the product of this land that taught you all you cared to learn?
"You call yourself Emperor," you say at last, "ruler of men, forger of monsters. How am I to know you are not an Overlord, kin to those I slaughtered?"
"I seek unification, not control. Liberation, not subjugation." The Emperor says these words with sincerity, but you do not feel they are as opposed as he presents them. "You might come with me and speak to those who have already sworn to my service… or perhaps you might devise some other means. How do men on Barbarus prove their worth?"
Article: How shall you test the Emperor's character? What qualities will you look for, that tell you if he is worthy?
[ ] Resilience. Together, Father and Son climb the highest peaks of Barbarus, testing themselves and each other in the purest expression of body and will.
[ ] Humility. The Emperor may wage war on the stars and rule over billions, but has he ever laboured for his bread?
[ ] Camaraderie. It was mortal men that scaled the peaks of Barbarus and followed Mortarion into battle. What manner of men have followed the Emperor to this star?
Vote closed
- Location
- London, England
III. A Father's Pride
- Location
- London, England
[ ] Humility. The Emperor may wage war on the stars and rule over billions, but has he ever laboured for his bread?
How do men on Barbarus prove their worth?
Such a simple sentence, and yet already the world seems bigger, the wonders and terrors within its bounds so much greater than anything you had thought to grasp. There are other worlds out there, populated by men and women you have never met and who cleave to entirely different systems of judgement, so many that the emperor comes here and is speaks with the ease of practice about conforming to merely "local" values. And yet the question is a fair one. When you came down from the mountain and looked upon the people that your father had deemed little more than livestock, you too acted in this way, watching and studying them to see how you might best prove your good intent. There, then, is your answer.
"Follow me," you say bluntly, picking your scythe back up in one hand and turning away. You do not give any further direction or invitation than that, but when the Emperor steps across the threshold of your property it is as if it means nothing at all.
"I have heard the stories the locals tell of you, Mortarion," he says, falling into step beside and half a pace behind you, "Of your campaign against the Overlords. Yet the people here know them only as grim and terrifying legends, grim spectres who used to cull their ranks like cattle. I would hear the tale from your own lips, if you would permit it."
"No," you grunt, and say nothing more. The Overlords are dead and gone, and if you have your way they will remain so, ground away by the turning of years until at last a man might live and die upon Barbarus without ever hearing their name. You'll not compromise that work by boasting of it to this outsider, no matter who he claims to be.
"I see," the Emperor replies, and if he is offended by your blunt dismissal he does not allow it to show in his voice. "It may interest you to know that my world once had a similar tradition. Damnatio Memoriae – the death of memory. A fate reserved for the most despised enemies and vile of traitors. Personally, I find it better to remember one's enemies, lest they return to haunt your steps in years to come."
"If they come back, you failed," you reply, shaking your head at the thought, "Never leave a job half-done."
On the third terrace grows a small orchard of heartfruit trees, the dark branches already bending low beneath the weight of their rust-red fruit. You drag over wagon from the nearby road, stacking it high with empty barrels and measuring the required volume with a practiced eye. Originally you had planned to do this the day after tomorrow, but now will do just as well.
"This is not a native plant," the stranger says, sounding intrigued as he studies the trees and their rich bounty of fruit, "you brought them here from a warmer clime, I think, and not for the aesthetic. A dietary supplement, then?"
"Iron," you nod, impressed that he was able to pick that up. Nobody else who has laid eyes upon your orchards has understood why you grow what you do. "Not many other ways to get it near here. Idea is that I grow a variant that doesn't need to be boiled and rendered down to not kill you."
Your work is a gem with a thousand facets, each equally important to the whole. Adversity may temper a man and good leadership bring out the strength he does not know he possesses, but a good diet and proper exercise will strengthen his body and remove impediments to his will, allowing him to rise higher with the same degree of effort. The triumphs of a lifetime are born in the efforts of a single day, and you'll tolerate no slacking from the people who you fought to save. They must not allow themselves to forget the greatness of which they are capable.
You work alone for a time, methodically checking each fruit on the first of the trees in your orchard and plucking those ripe enough to be taken, save for the few you leave behind for their seeds. The Emperor watches in silence, observing the meticulous care with which you inspect and then harvest each fruit, and then when you are about to move on to the second tree he lifts one hand as if in greeting. The air trembles, and with eerie precision every fruit upon the next tree twists itself free of the branch and floats through the air to settle in the barrel.
"Witchcraft," you growl, a fleck of your spittle hissing on the ground as you brandish a sickle at the creature who dares to mock you so, "I should kill you now for such twisted arts!"
"Oh? And what of Calas Typhon?" The stranger speaks the name of your friend and brother with a sly smile, seemingly unconcerned by the threat, "I have heard he holds similar gifts, yet you did not slaughter him."
"He earned the right!" You step forward, seizing the traveller from the stars by the front of his shirt. It looks like the sort of garment you might wear, but beneath your hand the fabric is clearly some strange and foreign craft, slick and smooth in a way no natural material could ever be. "He was tested and found worthy, but you stand here and use your tricks to defy the very test itself!"
"He was tested, was he?" the Emperor says, as if tasting the words, and though he does not move your fingers release their grip all the same, your flesh betraying you at an outsider's whim. "And who would stand as judge for such a test, you? I came here to prove my character and argue for the sake of my vision, not to submit myself to the ego of a farmer demanding that I justify my very existence."
"Your character, your worth," you scowl, flexing your hand as you try to understand how it was made to betray you, "Two words for one thing. If you define yourself by those twisted gifts, how are you different from the Overlords?"
"They used their powers to create twisted monstrosities of undying flesh," the Emperor says dryly, still amused, still not taking you seriously, "I used mine to pick fruit. Do not pretend that you cannot see the gulf between one and the other, or that the distinction is meaningless. What would it have proved, had I refrained?"
"That you could understand the common man," you growl, the words coming out in a rasp now, the fruit trees all but forgotten. "I am not like them, but I understand what their life is like. I know the ache of tired muscles, the burn of poisoned air, the satisfaction of a day's work well done. The details change, but the experience remains the same. What do you know of such things?"
"Less than you, it seems," the Emperor inclines his head, conceding the point, "I am not, nor have I ever been, a common man. Nor will I limit myself so that I might pretend to be so. It would be insincere at best, and anyone who truly knows what such a life entails would know the truth of the matter at a glance. False humility is nothing but an insult to anyone but the ignorant."
"Pfagh," you scoff, shaking your head, "And yet you wish me to come with you? To fight some war across the stars, when you proudly boast you do not and never will understand where I came from?"
The Emperor shakes his head, his expression suddenly serious.
"I am neither common nor humble, Mortarion, but I am still a man," he says, holding out one hand with the palm up, as if to offer his heart for judgement like the ripe fruits all around you. "I have raged against my enemies and wept at the grave of worthy foes. I have feasted with my warriors and wiled away the quiet hours with naught but a friend by my side. I have loved, once, grandly, and terribly, and known the agony of heartbreak. This much I share with all men, from the highest lord in his castle to the lowliest farmer in his field. What more would you ask of me?"
You hesitate then, gritting your teeth and looking aside. The quiet camaraderie of fellow warriors preparing for battle, this you know, but the rest? Who would laugh with Mortarion, so grim and terrible? Who would invite you into their hearth save out of harshest obligation? And as for love… you have never seen it. Only those who had already known and lost such a thing joined your Death Guard, and those who yet had it held it close for fear of the world that might yet take it away. Is this man, this Emperor, this stranger from the stars… is he better than you?
"Just gather the fruit," you say at last, turning away from your visitor and back to the work at hand. The Emperor says nothing in return, merely nodding and moving it to your side, and in what must be a gesture of reconciliation uses his hands for at least some of the fruits. It is enough for you to overlook the speed with which he gathers the rest, the unnatural means employed, but not enough for you to speak. There is nothing companionable about this silence, only a kind of grudging admission of fair points made, and soon you have the wagon filled and the harness strapped across your shoulders. Barbarus is unkind to beasts of burden, especially so near the fog, but you are strong enough to suffice.
It is only when you are out beyond the borders of your farm that the Emperor speaks again, keeping easy pace alongside you.
"They have accepted you, it seems," he says, his voice filled with a soft and quiet compassion, "but you will never be one of them. You know this better than I. Why else are you all the way out here, so far from the town?"
"I needed space to work," you grunt, not looking at him. He talks a great game about love and loss and the warmth of a comrade's laughter, but such things are meaningless without proof. When you reach the town, you will see the truth of his claims.
"I am no farmer, but on every world I have visited those who are approach it as a community," your supposed father says, painfully reasonable, offensively gentle. As if your heart will bleed from simple words like these. "You may do the work of ten men, but why do you limit yourself to just ten? Why do you not live with friends and family, to share the honest work in the day and a warm meal at night?"
"If I only wished to farm, I would," you growl, casting through your memories for comrades who might be content to serve as a farmhand and keep you company if you asked. Calas would, surely, or perhaps Skorvall. That you think they deserve their own lives rather than existing as shadows of yours means nothing. "The true work cannot be shared. To clean the air, purify the ground, create the food for tomorrow… only I can see the path."
"We call it Terraforming," the outsider says with a nod, like a parent indulging a clever child, "the art of changing ecosystems and biosphere to better suit our purposes. The Imperial Geoengineering Corps consists of millions of scientists, technicians, and frontline specialists, drawing on knowledge and resources from across the galaxy. They will doubtless be fascinated to see what you have accomplished with such limited means, and only too happy to assist."
The straps to the harness creak in your hands. You say nothing. What is there to say? This is your life's work he speaks of, the gift that only you could bestow upon the people, the challenge only you could overcome… or it was yesterday. Today a man calling himself Emperor descends from the heavens and offers to do all you were working for in your place, and not even personally. He would delegate the work to a thousand-thousand others, and they would exceed your work in a fraction of the time. He does not say this, and yet it is clear from implication, and in your breast fury curdles like stagnant water. How dare he. How dare he do this to you.
And yet… how dare he not? Would you truly be happy, if he had the means to help and did not offer it, if he condescended to allow you to fumble your way to progress for the sake of your fragile ego? Would you truly reject such a gift out of spite and self-centred pride, leave children to gasp for breath and their parents to die with bloody lungs because it is better than admitting you are not unique? Are you truly so weak?
You say nothing, walking in silence and hauling the wagon full of heartfruit along behind you, and your father knows better than to press. Less than an hour later you reach your destination, and not a single word is spoken the entire time.
Once, every town and settlement on Barbarus had thick stone walls and watchful guards, and none built outside their sheltering confines save the mad and those who chose to offer themselves as sacrifice to the mists. Now the town – Gard's Reach by name, though nobody here really thinks of it as anything more than the town, not with travel between the valleys so challenging – boasts a number of fresh constructions outside the perimeter, and the people who dwell and labour on the open ground look curiously in your direction but do not flee for shelter at the sight of someone new by your side. Much has changed over the three years since you vanquished the last of the overlords, but some things remain constant, and the man standing sentinel over the gates is one among them.
"Hail, Mortarion!" calls Lhorgath with a grin, leaning against the battlement and setting down his rifle when he sees who you are. The Death Guardsman still wears the armour you forged for him, heavy and tarnished but unbroken in its pride, and when you look you see the sealed box with his respirator hanging from one hip. "We weren't expecting you for another two days!"
"Plans change," you call back, allowing yourself a brief smile. It is good to see Lhorgath again, better still to see that he remembers the lessons you drilled into his head. "Is the market running?"
"Started yesterday," your comrade says with a nod, and then his eyes stray to your unwanted companion, "Who is the new guy?"
"My father," you grunt, and take some small pleasure as Lhorgath almost falls off the wall in shock, "Let us in."
You pass through the gates and make your way through the narrow streets, black wooden spires built atop bunkers of heavy stone everywhere you go, and as you walk the whispers start up. It is always like this, whenever you come to town. People murmur to their neighbours, children hide behind their mothers' skirts, and everywhere there is the sound of your name. Spoken with respect, of course, sometimes reverence, but…
No. Something has changed.
They aren't looking at you. It is the man at your side who draws the gaze of the people, his broad shoulders and dark skin so unlike the normal build of a son of Barbarus, his easy smile and open expression like a torch brought forth against the cloying darkness of night. There is no fear in those whispers, no grim acknowledgement or grudging respect, not like there was for you. There is only wonder and admiration, as if all suspicion or doubt has simply become unthinkable. When you arrive at the market, the crowds thronging between the stalls and the shops turn towards your father like iron filings drawn to the magnet, and you grit your teeth at the sudden surge of envy that gnaws at your guts.
"Good people of Barbarus!" Your father calls, warm and honest joy in his voice as he addresses the crowd, both the shoppers at the market and the growing mass of bystanders seemingly compelled to follow you through the streets, "I am the Emperor of Mankind, and I salute you!"
He claims dominion with a title and the people smile to hear it, whispering shyly to their neighbours or leaning in eagerly, and for a moment you are all but forgotten. Then the Emperor reaches back and takes you by the arm, drawing you forward to stand at his side, and lays a proud arm on your shoulder.
"My son, Mortarion, has spoken to me of your valour and your determination," he says, and there is none of the confusion you expected, none of the doubt or denial about your paternity, he speaks the words and the people accept it as truth, "He has spoken to me of how you welcomed him, how you listened to him, how he came to think of you as family! Well, I tell you now, that any who was a friend to my son is a friend to me! In days to come I shall bring the treasures of the galaxy here to reward you, but here and now I can give you only this – my thanks, and my respect!"
He bows, then. This man, this Emperor of the stars, stands before the common people of Barbarus and bows, one hand laid over his heart, and for this show of humility he is rewarded with cheers and chants and thundering applause that echoes from the stone of the mountains. They salute you both, respect and admiration for father and son alike in their eyes, but he is the one they cheer, he is the one they laugh and smile and rejoice to see. You, who had to labour for years to earn even a fraction of this high regard, are all but forgotten in the span of a moment.
You're not sure how much time passes before Lhorgath finds you, or how you found yourself standing on the edge of the market square, watching your father hold impromptu court at the base of the statue they raised to your triumph. He is answering questions and spinning tales, and you are left in silence and doubt, your hands balled into fists and your mood dark enough that only the man who stood with you against Necare dares to approach.
"Well," Lhorgath says, a speculative look on his face as he settles in next to you, setting his rifle down and rubbing his stubbled jaw with one hand, "That's a pile of shit, that is. Where was he, when the real war was happening?"
"Ha!" You bark the sound, bitter humour and sincere gratitude in your voice. Lhorgath is right – he may take all that you ever wished to have with no greater effort than it takes to stretch forth a hand and ask, but he cannot take the victories already won. "Fighting another one, apparently. A war across the stars. He wants me to join him. Apparently, there's other things like the Overlords out there."
"Huh," Lhorgath says, almost as eloquent as Skorvall in that moment, "You'll be going, then."
You look at him sharply, but there is no heat in your gaze and he meets it without fear. Of course you will be going. How can you go back to your farm, knowing what else might be out there? How can you keep striving for the love of your people, when you've seen how easily they grant it to anyone but you?
"I will," you admit, for though the Emperor did not pass your test of humility you cannot find it within yourself to claim that his way is worse. How can it be, when it achieves everything you wanted with such ease? "I haven't told him yet, but… what of the others?"
"Mortarion," Lhorgath frowns at you, before allowing himself a grim chuckle. "Do you even have to ask? We stand together. Unyielding and unbroken."
"Immortal," you say, and your comrade laughs, accepting the oldest joke of your brotherhood with a wry smile and a fond shake of the head. "Thank you, Lhorgath."
"Don't thank me yet," your Death Guard grins, "I'm going to make you regret not leaving me on this shithole to die, just you wait and see."
Article: Mortarion has made the, somewhat prejudiced, decision to accept the Emperor's offer and depart Barbarus to join the Imperium and its Great Crusade. Who does he take with him?
[ ] The Unbroken Few. The seven comrades who stood with him against Necare, last survivors of a brotherhood chosen for their lack of remaining ties as much as their quality.
[ ] The Dauntless Host. Every man and woman who called themselves Death Guard will have a place by his side, if they wish to claim it.
[ ]Friends Without Number. No. Mortarion's trust is not without limit.
The Emperor does not wish to linger overlong on Barbarus, but he will not begrudge Mortarion the chance to bid his people farewell in a matter that seems fitting to him. How does the Son of Death choose to leave his birthplace behind?
[ ] A Thief in the Night. There will be no grand ceremony, no pointless festivities or flowery speeches. Let his deeds be his legacy, nothing more or less.
[ ] A Grim Reprise. Mortarion shall hold his own funeral, and that of all who follow him. Barbarus shall mourn the deaths of those who go to the stars, but they shall also be proud, for it will be a worthy end indeed.
[ ] Write in. He cannot fathom another way, but perhaps… perhaps that is the problem.
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Vote closed
- Location
- London, England
IV. A Seed of Hope
- Location
- London, England
[X] Let the Past Bear Fruit: No ceremonies, no. No grand speeches. But before each warrior leaves, they plant a tree as a memory, and take a seed of the same to bring with them. Lest they forget their past.
[ ] The Dauntless Host
[ ] The Dauntless Host
The seed seems a humble thing when resting in the ground, almost beneath notice, but you know better than most how deceptive appearances can be. As you cover the tiny brown nugget with a layer of soil you are not just planting a tree that will bloom long after you have left this world, but laying the foundations of a new and better Barbarus to come. Smiling despite yourself, you pat the last of the dirt into place and then retreat from the site, making sure to go nowhere near the other small plots and the precious treasure that rests within.
"Be sure to tend to them," you say, addressing the old man waiting patiently nearby. You've not met him before, but by the grey in his hair you know him to be one of the town's elders and thus worthy of respect; none but the strong and canny live to old age upon Barbarus. "We will not be returning, but I would know our legacy is well cared for."
"You have my word, Mortarion," the old man says gravely, touching one hand to his heart in salute, "and that of my children and theirs to come. We will not squander the gift you have given us."
"Wasn't a gift," you mutter, shaking your head and turning away. There's no point in going into it now, though. Not when your comrades await, and with them the vessel that will take you all to the stars. It seems a crude and boxy thing, compared to the golden splendour of the ship with which the Emperor proved his nature, but you think you might prefer that. It feels more honest, somehow, and you know that even now hundreds of such honest creations are landing at sites across Barbarus, ready to ferry your Death Guard to the new campaign.
You suppose you probably ought to have held some kind of ceremony, something to commemorate the occasion or honour the host that has elected to accompany you. It was a whim that saw you send out the word, that sent you on your pilgrimage from one town to the next, meeting old friends and bearing word of new foes, but the meagre gesture has raised a crop of outstanding worth. Perhaps three in every ten of your old comrades turned you down, choosing to remain here with their farms and families, but the others? Many of them did not even wait for you to finish speaking before pledging themselves to your cause once more, and you are honoured beyond words by their courage. Thousands now wait to take to the stars and meet you in the heavens above, but it is the sight of the seven before you that puts a true smile upon your face. The Unbroken Few, the companions with which you stood against Necare – every last one of them has come at your call, and they greet you now with brief smiles and solemn nods.
"You've started a tradition here, you know," says Typhon, oldest and truest of your brothers, idly fingering a small metal shell that hangs from around his neck on a woven cord. Within you know he carries another seed from your orchard, much as you do in a pouch upon your belt. It seemed fitting, and it seems many others agree. "Men did not travel much on Barbarus before you came, but now I expect any who so much as venture to the next valley over will plant a seed for luck before they go."
"Why, should they not?" asks Caipha, a sardonic smirk on his face that does not quite hide the zeal in his dark eyes, "I think it a fine thing, that we remember Mortarion thus. Better that than some words on a slate, in any case."
You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak of it. Typhon isn't wrong, but he could claim the sky was blue and Caipha would agree if he thought you made it so. He's no fawning sycophant, for such would never have earned his place in the march against Necare, but none of your clumsy words have ever served to dissuade him from his fervent belief. Truth be told, you think the others might hold similar thoughts in their hearts, even if they are not so obvious about them.
"Let's go," you say instead, passing through the group and letting them fall into step alongside you as you head for the transport and your escort. There are eight of them, mortal men in neatly pressed uniforms of blue and black that seem far too clean for the air of Barbarus, and as you approach, they form a double line before the transport ramp and lift their hands in salute.
"Eight of them," Murnau murmurs, furrowing his brow in thought and then stepping to one side so as not to pass between the double file, "That's not right. Seven and one, sure, but… there's no leader here, is there?"
"Hah!" Morghax scoffs, stopping midway to make a show of looking the nearest of the soldiers over from head to foot. The offworlder – and how strange a thought that is – stiffens slightly at the attention, but neither speaks nor moves, only meeting your comrade's gaze with a touch of steel in his pale eyes. "Maybe that explains why they're all so pretty! Look at those guns – you think any of them ever fired them at something they meant to kill?"
"You can't shoot for shit either, Morghax," you grunt, stopping with one foot on the ramp that leads into the cramped and welcoming interior of the transport. There's no flicker of recognition or understanding in the eyes of your escort, but language barrier or not you doubt they've missed the contemptuous look on your comrade's face. Some things are universal. "Stop prancing around and get aboard."
The transport holds two dozen seats, each of them made from tough animal hide and oiled metal, and though it takes you a moment to work out how the buckles are meant to work soon you have everyone properly in place and ready to go. The escort file aboard after you, carrying themselves with a clean sense of pride and confidence as they take their seats nearer the hatch.
"I wonder what they did to earn the honour," Lhorgath muses, rubbing his jaw and trying not to let on how awkward he feels in the seat. Knowing him he'll make a point of learning whatever strange language the offworlders speak as soon as possible, that he might better have an outlet for all the questions buzzing around in his brain. "And what it says about this Emperor that he would send such soldiers in such a craft to collect us. I saw his personal guard earlier – you could see them from a mile away, their armour was so polished."
"I'm more interested in the weapons," Vioss notes, lanky and languid in his seat, nodding at the strange rifles that your escorts carry, "Look, see? There's no cartridges. I don't think they fire solid rounds at all. I wonder what these ones do that makes them better…"
"Gun is a gun," Skorvall grunts, closing his eyes and gripping the handles attached to his seat with a white-knuckled grip, "Now shut it. We're moving."
Flying may be the single most unpleasant experience in your life. The machine howls, your stomach drops, and as the world wheels by outside the small window it feels like a steady hand is pressing down across every square inch of your body. This alone you could tolerate, but when the view outside the portal grows thick and oily even you have to look away, gritting your teeth and trying not to dwell on the thought. In moments you are higher than you have ever been before, surrounded by air more toxic than even you could likely survive, and in what seems now a fit of vainglorious bravado you elected not to wear your mask. Death itself holds your little box of metal in its ragged arms, and it is only stubborn pride that prevents you from slamming your eyes shut and crawling into the depths of your own mind like a child.
Then the sound changes, and the world goes away entirely.
"Are those… stars?" Lhorgath murmurs, naked wonder in his voice, and at the sound of his question you turn your head at last to look, "Ancestors be kind, I think they are. The stories were true after all."
Outside the window the world is black as night. No, darker still, lightless and shapeless and deep in a way that your mind struggles to accept. Perhaps you would break there, all sanity stripped away by something so far beyond your experience as to seem impossible, were it not for the stars. Tiny pinpricks of light, white and blue and yellow and a thousand other hues besides, scattered in their millions across the endless night. There are patterns there, systems and clusters and great flows of light amid the black, and you… you think they might be waiting for you.
"They're… beautiful," you say, you voice hushed, your eyes fixed without blinking upon the endless expanse. The soldiers sent as your escort seem bemused to your awe, indifferent to the beauty beyond the window, and you must wonder if they have souls at all. Or perhaps once they did, and their war ground out any part of them that might be able to recognise beauty when they saw it.
"We need to send word back," Murnau murmurs from the seat next to you, his eyes wide and his hands shaking, "Mortarion, I know we said we would not be returning, but this – they have to know. They must be told what is up here. To leave them without this meaning, this… this revelation, it would…"
His voice trails off there and you cannot find it in yourself to fault him. Murnau has always been the most aware of your comrades, his grasp of the codes and patterns that wind through the world the keenest of any you have met, but this is beyond you both. Are the numbers of your home as auspicious here as they are upon Barbarus, or are there new codes to learn, new patterns to apply? You think perhaps the first makes more sense, at least for you who was born and raised upon Barbarus and takes it with you to walk among the stars, but what of those born on other worlds, beneath other suns? What shape do their lives take? You must know.
"Ha! Look there," Morghax interjects with an amused scoff, pointing out one of the other windows as your transport curves and changes course, "It looks like your father fancies outdoing the stars with his boat!"
It takes you a moment to locate what he is indicating, but when you do you cannot help but scoff. The vessel (you feel like boat is the wrong word, though you cannot say why) is big as a mountain, if a cruel lord took such a thing in hand and compressed it down into the rough shape and form of a spear. The whole thing is gold from end to end, and even at this distance you can see what must be statues standing proud along the flanks and great banners held stiffly in the void, a gilt parade that entirely fails to equal the magnificence of the starry void at its back.
"Pretty enough, but see those tubes, those openings?" Vioss observes, his tone almost detached even as his pale eyes gleam with interest, "That is a warship. One that feels confident sitting out there alone, without close escort."
Now that you look you can see other vessels in the night, great slabs of drifting metal and something that looks a bit like stone, but Vioss is right – none of them are straying too close to the golden juggernaut that you now approach. Is that casual ease, you wonder, or fear? Perhaps you will ask Voiss to speak with the warriors aboard this ship, once the language matter is resolved, and learn how heavy the armament is compared to those of other ships. Such a thing would tell you a great deal about how the Emperor conducts himself.
"Why is it gold, though?" Mhorgax grumbles, crossing his arms and looking as if he might spit, "That'll just get knocked off in a proper fight, won't it?"
"It's a symbol," you say quietly, understanding it now, "Something big and obvious to put at the head of an army, different enough that everyone can see it. A weapon for hearts and minds, not just bodies."
There is silence in the cabin at that, a long moment spent in contemplation as your team mulls over the idea. Then Skorvall snorts, breaking the silence with characteristic aplomb.
"You'd look shit in gold," he says, working his jaw as though chewing on the words, "He tries it, kill him."
You're still smiling when the transport arrives at its destination, gliding into a small bay aboard the golden monstrosity and setting down with a thump. The soldiers disembark first, taking up a double file on either side of a thick red carpet rolled out to touch the base of the ramp, and the second you descend scurrying figures in scarlet robes approach from all directions to begin fussing over the vehicle like an infant. You feel strangely filthy standing there, your boots still caked in mud and you skin stained by the poisons of the air, but nobody remarks on it and you soon push down the discomfort in favour of moving toward the one waiting here to greet you.
"Welcome to the Bucephalus," the Emperor says, still smiling that same broad smile even as the expression drops from your own face. He's discarded the common clothing you met him in, favouring instead a strange looping robe of purest white fabric that looks soft enough to be only halfway real, while behind him stands an honour guard of soldiers in gleaming golden armour. Each is tall enough to cast your comrades in the shade, but you don't let it get to you. Necare was tall too.
"Our thanks," Typhon says, smoothly stepping forward to take over just as the silence begins to grow uncomfortable, "It seems a fine boat."
"That is… yes, it is," the Emperor replies with a slightly pained expression, "I assume these are your personal retinue, Mortarion? Rooms have been prepared for them alongside your own, while the remainder of your Death Guard are being assigned berths throughout the fleet. I'll have a list of names and locations forwarded to you as soon as one has been compiled."
"Good," you say, thinking it best not to let Typhon do all the talking, strange fellow that he is, "What happens next?"
"The Navigators are charting a course back to Terra, my capital," the Emperor says, turning and gesturing for you all to follow him. The golden armoured bodyguards step smoothly aside as you pass, falling in around the lot of you without a word, and you get the impression that if any of your team so much as breathes incorrectly they will not hesitate to use those fancy looking polearms of theirs. A good thing, too. You'd hate to think the Emperor was bodyguarded by incompetents. "Once there, we will begin your orientation. Basic familiarity with the structures of the Imperium, the capabilities of our forces and our enemies, simple matters for one of your intellect. And, of course, you will have a chance to meet your brothers."
He leads you out of the landing bay and into a corridor beyond, a long passage of polished white stone decorated with marble and torches burning some strange scented oil. The whole place is putting you on edge, the acrid clean and sweet like poison, the sound of engines and thrumming power cables almost drowned out by the soft chorus of some hidden choir.
"After your orientation is complete, I would have you take command of the Dusk Raiders," the Emperor continues after a moment, seemingly bemused by your stoic silence, "the Crusade is presently in a consolidation phase, so there should be no issue with drawing the Fourteenth back together for a muster and shakedown campaign. Doubtless you will have your pick of sectors."
"The Dusk Raiders?" you ask, looking away from what appears to be a giant painting of the Emperor himself displayed on the wall. "You've chosen them as my command for a reason."
"Correct," the Emperor says with a smile, nodding to you in approval. "They are my Space Marines, warriors of unparalleled skill and valour. Each has been granted a measure of your genetic material, akin to the blood that a son shares with his father. It bestows your… essence on them, so to speak, making them stronger and faster and far more resilient than mortal men. Not the equal of a primarch, but closer than any lesser man could hope to come."
You have… children? You let the thought sit there in your mind for a long moment, examining it and the way that it sends your hearts thudding in arrhythmic motion. Children. Warriors who bear your blood and some echo of your nature, created in some surgical theatre rather than sprung from your loins but… children. Do they… do you…
"Can it be repeated?" Caipha asks eagerly, stepping forwards as if to accost the Emperor directly, "Can you make us like them? Like him?"
"In theory, yes," the Emperor says, a sympathetic smile on his face, "And I well understand the drive to take to the field at your Primarch's side. Yet the treatment is typically performed in puberty, to take advantage of the body's own physiological processes. To perform it upon an adult would be more difficult, and there would be considerable chance of complications."
"Do it," you say bluntly, feeling the way your Death Guard nod in confirmation, "All of them. My Death Guard deserve the strength you granted me, or as close to it as can be done."
"It has little to do with what they deserve," the Emperor says, looking at you with a serious expression on his face, "even among the target demographic there is a notable rate of failures and deaths. For older aspirants, especially those bearing injuries or health complications from the nature of your home world, the rate will be higher. Many will die."
"They're stronger than you think," you say with total confidence, barely even having to glance at your comrades to know their resolve. These men fought with you against Necare, and for every one that stands here today six more lie dead and rotting on that mountain peak. They have embraced worse odds and harsher trials than a mere surgical procedure before, and each man knew he would die when he left Barbarus behind for good.
"Well, if you insist," the Emperor shrugs, yielding to the inevitable. "The procedure is best performed upon Terra, given the available facilities. Now, I have duties to perform as master of this fleet, but I would not leave you without guidance."
You've come to a long, sweeping gallery with windows along one wall that look out into the sparkling void and the dull green and brown orb you imagine must be Barbarus. The other wall is studded with wooden doors, each bearing a blank nameplate of polished bronze, and beside the nearest stands a heavyset man in a neatly tailored suit near as black as the void beyond.
"Mortarion, may I introduce Lackland Thorn, my personal historian and advisor," the Emperor says, gesturing to the man, who bows politely to you with a faintly shocked expression on his ruddy face. "Lackland is a historian by trade, but has proven himself well read on a thousand other topics besides. If he does not know something, he can certainly direct you to someone who does."
"A pleasure, Lord Primarch," the strange man says, folding his fingers together into a strange double-handed symbol. There's more fat on him than any man of Barbarus, you think, but what that means or speaks to you are as of yet unsure. "I am flattered to hear his majesty speak so highly of me and will endeavour not to disappoint."
"You're giving me a servant?" you ask, raising an eyebrow, and then a second as Lackland stiffens and frowns openly at you.
"An advisor, Lord Primarch, not a servant," he says, and you realise belatedly he's speaking the tongue of Barbarus. Where could he have possibly learned such a thing? "As a member of the Remembrancer Order, my only master is history herself, in all her glory and ignominy."
You nod, well pleased with the assignment. The Emperor departs then, making some pointless comment about rest and relaxation, but you have far more important pursuits in mind. You're already sick of being weak and ignorant, without the context and perspective to understand half of what you are seeing and the Emperor is saying. By the time you arrive on Terra, Lackland Thorn will have helped you to correct such a failing, and you will never fall so far behind again.
Article: The Emperor intends the coming days to be a period of rest and relaxation for Mortarion and his people, prior to a return to Terra. The Primarch instead spends them interrogating Thorn for everything he knows and consulting the vast archives of the Bucephalus in depth.
The military structure of the Great Crusade and the War Council will be covered automatically, and will likely go into an informational threadmark. Choose TWO other bodys of the nascent Imperium that catches Mortarion's interest.
CHOOSE TWO:
[ ] The Navigators of the Navis Nobilite
Learning of the Nobilite inherently means coming to grasp with the nature of warp travel, the power of a monopoly, and the Imperium's stance on abhumans, mutants and genetic deviation.
[ ] The Iterators of the Adeptus Ministorum
Discussions with and about the Iterators naturally involves an extended study of the Emperor's position on faith, religion and superstition.
[ ] The Adepts of the Imperial Administration
Bureaucrats, diplomats and auditors, the Adepts will teach Mortarion much about the necessities of rule, and how the Imperium seeks to govern that which it conquers.
[ ] The Acolytes of the Adeptus Astra
Mortarion hates and fears witches by nature, and so approaches the matter of Astropaths, Psykers and Librarians with the air of a general examining his foe.
[ ] The Judges of the Adeptus Arbites
Law on Barbarus was a simple thing, administered by the community. Law in the Imperium is a very different beast, yet in learning its secrets, Mortarion may yet tame it.
In addition to matters of the Imperium, Mortarion spends a great deal of time and effort absorbing wider knowledge of the arts, sciences and philosophy, determined not to be seen as weak or foolish upon his arrival on Terra. Choose one topic to snare his attention.
[ ] Geology and Terraforming
How do worlds form in the celestial cauldron, and how might they be remade to better serve humanity's interests? Mortarion dreams of making Barbarus a murderous paradise, one that tempers its inhabitants into living exemplars of all the common man could yet become.
[ ] Biochemistry and Genetic Engineering
How did the Emperor create the Primarchs, and how much of what he did could be replicated? Mortarion seeks the secrets that all life shares in common, be it animal or plant, and how they might be sculpted into a more pleasing form.
[ ] Mathematics and Astronavigation
The myriad applications of numbers and equations, and how one who masters them may master space itself. Barbarus is obsessed with numerology, and Mortarion is no different.
V. The Tools of Empire
- Location
- London, England
[ ] The Adepts of the Imperial Administration
Bureaucrats, diplomats and auditors, the Adepts will teach Mortarion much about the necessities of rule, and how the Imperium seeks to govern that which it conquers.
[ ] The Acolytes of the Adeptus Astra
Mortarion hates and fears witches by nature, and so approaches the matter of Astropaths, Psykers and Librarians with the air of a general examining his foe.
[ ] Geology and Terraforming
How do worlds form in the celestial cauldron, and how might they be remade to better serve humanity's interests? Mortarion dreams of making Barbarus a murderous paradise, one that tempers its inhabitants into living exemplars of all the common man could yet become.
Bureaucrats, diplomats and auditors, the Adepts will teach Mortarion much about the necessities of rule, and how the Imperium seeks to govern that which it conquers.
[ ] The Acolytes of the Adeptus Astra
Mortarion hates and fears witches by nature, and so approaches the matter of Astropaths, Psykers and Librarians with the air of a general examining his foe.
[ ] Geology and Terraforming
How do worlds form in the celestial cauldron, and how might they be remade to better serve humanity's interests? Mortarion dreams of making Barbarus a murderous paradise, one that tempers its inhabitants into living exemplars of all the common man could yet become.
When first you saw the planetarium, you assumed that the Emperor shared your love of the stars. Why else would be build a great glass dome beneath the starry void, where one can paint images of light upon the air to depict any of a hundred thousand worlds and systems? Yet as you grow more familiar with its use, and notice how rarely the Emperor himself comes by to observe and participate, you come to suspect he views the dome in a far more aggressive light. This is not a place of wonder, but a balcony upon which one can stand and look out over his dominion.
"Rulership is two parts diplomacy to one part theatre," Lackland Thorn says confidently, brushing his hands through the twinkling maze of lights that float in the air before you both. His wears rings upon each finger, you notice, each glittering with a different gem. "Already the Imperium shelters several thousand worlds beneath its aegis, and preliminary scouting has located at least ten times as many that might be brought into the fold in future expansions. To imagine naked force alone sufficient to hold them is the greatest kind of folly."
The historian has been your constant companion of late, speaking freely with you upon all he knows, and all he demands in return are accounts of your life and early campaigns upon Barbarus. You were reluctant to speak of the Overlords and their works, but the soft-faced man is remarkably persuasive, and so you provided him with enough of an outline to understand the shape of your life and its deeds.
"A common foe, then," you say, your arms crossed as you study the map of the stars – this 'galaxy' that your father seeks to rule. There is a pattern to it, you think, but not one you understand just yet. "On Barbarus it was fear and hate for the Overlords that bound my army together. The Emperor claimed there were more like them out among the stars."
"Many worlds are threatened by such, yes, and join gladly with our realm in search of protection and mutual aid," Thorn nods, a flick of one finger bringing brief shimmering images of a dozen different lifeforms to life and then dismissing them just as readily. "Yet others are close to peaceful, either able to manage their own defence or some manner of verdant paradise, untouched by foe or peril. To sway such people into joining our cause requires a different approach."
A world without peril? The idea seems absurd upon its face, for everything you have ever known has been shaped by that great external enemy, and you can scarcely comprehend the mind of a man who has not something of a similar kind. Or… ah, of course. This Imperium played the role in such cases, and for lack of unified opposition (and a Primarch to rally them) was victorious in the end. Yes, that makes far more sense.
"Consequently, the commands of our expeditionary fleets and the governors they may appoint are bestowed with considerable autonomy and the expectation of a certain… flexibility in mind and method," Thorn continues after a moment, lifting two hands into the air and dragging them apart to bring a smaller section of the galaxy map into focus. One of the spiralling arms that radiates out from the core, you note, though presently deprived of anything save numbers appended to each star in turn. "Where possible the preference is to sway local elites or other existing figures of influence to our banner, placing the Imperium's weight behind their existing authority. Where this is judged unsuitable, as often the case with worlds and systems pried from the grasp of slave-lords or hostile xenos, governors are chosen from among the most experienced and dedicated officers of the expeditionary fleets, their support staff selected from the same."
Hm. You can see the sense in such an approach, or at least the factors that make it seem an attractive outcome. The valleys of Barbarus were always largely independent, and any attempt to impose unified administration while the Overlords yet stood as a danger would have been doomed to fail. Yet even so, Barbarus is not a galaxy, and what works for one might not work smoothly for another.
"It seems a weak claim," you venture, when you realise that Lackland is waiting for you to speak, "Local governors, each expected to rule in a different way. That's a thousand little kingdoms with the same flag, nothing more."
"Just so! And thus, we have the Adepts," Thorn says, smiling broadly at your insight. He waves his hands again, as if conducting some hidden band of outriders, and in response shining golden lines spread across the map to divide the hundred thousand stars into a hundred smaller pockets. "Presently all are trained upon Terra, though I am aware of proposals for establishing a secondary capital in each Segmentum. They hold to the common culture of the Imperium and retain familiarity with its growing ecosystem of codes and regulations, and are dispatched to advise and liaise with the various governors and multi-system power blocs, both conveying to them the will of the war council and compiling reports for any of that august body that deems it a requirement."
"The war council?" you frown, searching back through your mind for the list of different institutions and their domains that some servant or other provided you with, "I had thought their concerns extended only to this war of conquest."
"They do, and yet when the Crusade is the highest imperative of the Imperium, the distinction between war and statecraft is not so great," Thorn says with a smile, though you think his face looks perhaps slightly fixed. Is there more to this that he is not telling you, or does he just hold less than kind opinions of this Council and its business? Perhaps another could tell, but such subtleties have always been lost on you. "As a Primarch you are entitled to a seat upon the Council, as are any of your brothers, though I am given to understand not all choose to take advantage. The others are filled by representatives from the Imperium's central bodies… and the Emperor, of course."
You will be curious to see how the Emperor conducts himself during one of these councils, should one happen when you are able to attend. Does he lead by consensus or rule by dictate? "He is not present now. Who holds authority when he is away?"
"The Primarch Horus," Thorn says with a nod, having clearly anticipated the question, "Oldest of your brothers, and the one who has served your father the longest. Of course, he consults closely with the others in their area of focus – the Primarch Guilliman had much to do with the structure of the Administrum, while I believe Primarch Dorn was responsible for the creation of the garrison system, whose chain of command runs parallel to that of the wider Crusade."
Horus… it seems there is an heir apparent, in fact if not in name, if the Emperor is content to leave governance of the Imperium to him during periods of absence. You wonder how formalised that role is. Necare intended you to be his heir and legacy, but he always assumed you would go forth and conquer some other land for yourself, not outlive and succeed him. Does the Emperor think likewise? Does Horus?
"My brothers were found and recruited as I was, yes?" you ask, waiting for Lackland to nod before you continue, "Then it seems the structure of this Imperium is one that changes over time, if they had such a significant impact."
"Indeed. The early Imperium was a different beast by all accounts, though I was not alive to witness it," Thorn says with an apologetic shrug, "As for the future, it will likely look different there as well. I understand that there are plans for issuing a common currency, for example, and encouraging its uptake by using it for all imperial wages and taxes. With each new world incorporated and each scrap of our history recovered, we find new ways and means to perfect this grand endeavour."
You wonder what role a historian such as Lackland Thorn might play in such a process. Damnatio Memoriae, the Emperor called that old tradition… yet the study of history surely runs counter to that process of deliberate loss of memory. Does the Emperor keep men like Thorn close so that he might know and remember things lost to another? Or simply to have him within blade's reach should the form of his recollection need to change?
You've answered a hundred questions about this Imperium already, and yet with each one marked off, another rises to take its place.
-/-
The rooms bestowed upon you as guest of honour upon the Bucephalus are impossibly luxurious, so much so that you cannot help but feel uncomfortable residing within their walls. Yet they were granted to you by direct word of the Emperor, and you do not think he will react well to seeing his generosity spurred, so you grit your teeth and endure as you always have. At least Typhon seems as uncomfortable as you, especially in the uniform of soft grey fabric that clings to his muscular arms and seems intent on slowly choking the life from his throat.
"So," you say, running your hands under a tap and grimacing at the faint smell of perfume from the water, "everything is run by one group?"
"The Adeptus Astra," Typhon confirms, stumbling a little over the archaic sounding words. Apparently the Imperium uses one language for its day to day business and another for anything formal, which immediately sounds like pointless frippery. "They have authority over every psyker they find. They track us, train us, employ us… if you break their rules, it's a death sentence."
You nod, satisfied. When first you came to the stars you were worried that the Emperor and his Imperium might take too soft a hand with the threat that witchcraft represents, but it seems that he's got a plan and is appropriately zealous in executing it. Then you pause and look around at Typhon.
"Anyone gives you orders you don't like, come to me," you say bluntly, "anyone tries to kill you, kill them first, then come to me."
Typhon nods slowly, his expression too complicated for you to properly judge. "They all think you own me anyway."
You snort, shaking your head and turning back to the small series of shelves and cupboards running along one wall. You're not sure what kind of world produces the strange orange spheres you find there, but they're next on your list so you intend to take their measure properly. "So, you've started training. What have you learned?"
"Everything we do involves drawing on power from some other world," Typhon says, almost painfully reluctant. You suppose after a life of hiding what he is, it must be strange to speak of it so openly. Well, almost openly. None of the others wanted to be here for this little conversation. "That said, everyone does it differently, so they train us all in the fundamentals and then shuffle us into whatever path they think is right at the end."
"Hm. The Overlords all seemed to do the same thing," you say with a frown, plucking up two of the orange spheres and tossing one to Typhon, who fumbles it briefly before setting it down on the table. "Maybe that was just tradition. When we fought Necare, you cancelled his spell. Is that a path?"
"I didn't really cancel it. I just… did the same thing, but at an angle," Typhon chuckles briefly, bleak amusement standing in stark contrast to the optimistic grandeur of your suite, "Gave the instructors the shits. They thought I might have killed myself by accident."
You laugh at that, revising your opinion of these experts downwards. An Overlord is a terrible threat, and if Typhon went down that path he may well pose a danger to you and all you care for, but to himself? No. Only idiots and incompetents get themselves hurt like that, and your oldest friend is neither.
"Anyway, one of the most common paths is becoming an 'astropath'," Typhon continues after a moment, turning the fruit over in his hands, "Apparently they learn to talk to each other from really far away. From other star systems, in fact. It's the only way they have to communicate that isn't just sending a boat like this one. Well, not exactly like this one, but… anyway, I've seen a few. They're all blind for some reason. Like their eyeballs melted."
Huh. Some form of security measure, perhaps. You dislike the thought of building an entire nation around overlords in waiting, but you suppose that if there are no other options then it becomes the lesser of two evils. In that vein, blinding the astropaths would likely be one of the easiest ways to ensure they couldn't rebel or turn against their masters… but if that was the case, how do they read the messages they are to send? You'll have to dig into these things later. For now, Typhon is looking at you oddly, so you nod to show that you're listening.
"Might have to get one of those," you mutter, thinking it over, "I'm not having them take your eyes, but if it is the only way to communicate long distance…"
"I am fond of my eyes," Typhon says dryly, "in any case, the other big path is something called a Librarian. They're new, apparently – battle psykers who undergo the same treatments as those space marines the big man was so fond of, trained by your brother Magnus. Some Legions use them, some don't."
You hum to yourself, considering the thought, and while you think you bite down on the fruit. The outer rind has a powerfully bitter burn, while the inside is sweet. An interesting combination. "I don't like the idea of relying on witches in battle… but you did well against Necare. Hm. Aim for that path, and we'll use you to measure how useful the idea is. Now then…"
You stop and set the fruit aside, leaning forward to fix Typhon with your most serious expression. "Tell me of the Overlords and their arts. Do any practice them among this Imperium?"
"None, on pain of death," Typhon replies, just as grimly. "When any new path is formed or technique is made, it is taken before the Emperor. He studies it, and judges whether it is acceptable. If it is, they put together a school to research and teach it. If not, it gets classed as 'sorcery' and forbidden."
Hmm. You are… not entirely comfortable with the idea of something like this coming down to personal judgement, nor of allowing a witch to be the one to make the call… but he is the Emperor. The idea that he might accept another's judgement on this is an obvious failure before it begins, and the fact that he bans the study of such abominable arts as practiced by the Overlords is perhaps grounds for some hope. You will watch and reserve judgement for now, but if the result is not ideal, at least it isn't the worst possible outcome either.
You suppose this, like so much else, is a question that hinges on just what kind of man the Emperor is.
-/-
"To think of a world as a static object is a mistake. It is better understood as a system, an ongoing process held in gentle equilibrium. Any singular change will ripple outward, often far beyond what intuition leads us to expect."
You were expecting some manner of scientist or other tutor for this enquiry, but when you arrived at the observation dome it was to find the Emperor himself busy setting up the projector (a hololith, you have been told). Judging by the enthusiasm in his voice, this is as much about him as it is you, a chance to indulge in an area of personal interest while also achieving the productive gain of educating one of his foundling sons.
"I've read the introductory texts," you say, crossing your arms and frowning at being so delicately condescended to. It took you a day to learn the language of the Imperium, and another to navigate the various archives and reference systems of the Bucephalus to find the works you needed. Most of it matches what you already knew, confirming the theories that you had made from your work on Barbarus via examples drawn from a hundred worlds, and where they differ it seems the result of your homeworld's particular oddities. By rights the toxic gasses of the upper atmosphere ought to have been heavier than the air which mortals can breathe, for example, a transgression of natural law that you put down to Overlord sorcery.
"A man might read a thousand tomes and consult a hundred scholars, yet only understand when at last life deigns to grant him first-hand experience," the Emperor replies, indulging your obstinate protest with a smile, "Beyond which, many of the works in my library are known to be incorrect or otherwise incomplete. I keep them for their value as historical artefacts or cultural reference points, not because they match the current scientific consensus."
You frown, struggling to grapple with the wasteful extravagance of such a policy, and say nothing as the Emperor brings the shimmering image of a planet into close focus. A few subtle gestures peel away the outer crust and section out what lies inside, the roiling guts of a world spread out across the air for your perusal.
"Internal geography is perhaps the factor that has the single greatest impact on a planet's habitability and ecosystem," the Emperor says, painting numerical readouts with his fingers, "Volcanism, tectonic movements, and of course the formation of the magnetosphere all play a critical role, and adjusting the internal flow or energy of the planet's core can have a major impact on all of them. Unfortunately, it is not really possible to strengthen just one without impacting the others, and all changes tend to be points along a specific gradient instead of anything more radical. Short of mass injection, at any rate, and that has its own trade-offs."
"You speak of strengthening the magnetic field," you say, if only to prove that you are following along, "yet what of weakening it? To spare the burden on your technology."
"Reducing magnetism is significantly harder – energy cannot easily leave a planet's internal system save through radiation, and in many cases that loss is balanced by the input from the nearest star." The Emperor flicks through a series of different diagrams and schematics, each one displaying some technological marvel designed for the task or some ancient relic suspected to have done similar. "It is easier to adapt our technology or living conditions than to adjust the planet, and wise to do so in any event, for the changes wrought by terraforming are rarely so precise as to escape such demands. Better than we accept outcomes within a specified range and spend our energy fortifying the populace and reacting to unintended consequences of second order."
You lean forwards, your interest sharpening as the geological surveys are replaced by chemical readouts and atmospheric composition. The poisoned air of Barbarus made you strong, but so too was it a product of the Overlords and their malice. You'll remove it if you can, find some other trial through which to sharpen your people and their resolve.
"How do you decide which method to pursue?" you ask, for this was an area in which the books were critically lacking, speaking only of broad generalities and the importance of considering local variables. "People can survive in many climates."
The Emperor chuckles at that, allowing himself a rueful smile. It is striking how relaxed and informal he appears in this moment, for you have glimpsed him upon the bridge of this star-vessel and when speaking to his vassals and subordinates, and in such times he is only ever imperious and commanding. It is as if your mere existence is justification enough for him to treat you with easy familiarity, as if you were a son in truth instead of merely by blood. The presumption rankles, even if you privately concede that you might grow to enjoy it in time.
"You have touched upon an ongoing debate of some significant scope, Mortarion," he says, gesturing to the illusionary planets now orbiting the pair of you around the room. "There is a school of thought which believes we ought to optimise the planets that fall under the Imperial banner, tailoring each for a specific purpose and relying on support from others to compensate for its shortcomings. One world for food production, another for mineral extraction, a third for the production of worked goods and so forth."
"Foolishness," you scoff, shaking your head, "to turn any loss into a crippling wound. A man must be able to survive without support, a planet likewise."
"Yet five worlds which specialise and trade among themselves may grow richer and more populous than a dozen who stand alone," the Emperor counters, smiling as he opposes you, "and in so doing afford a larger army than the latter. It is the paradox of trade. One invites weakness through dependency in pursuit of greater strength."
You snort, ready to counter such self-justifying logic, but before you can speak you are interrupted by the low drone of an alarm call. The lights flicker, and overhead the starry vault is suddenly hidden from view by heavy metal shutters that slide out from hidden recesses. You tense, looking for your weapons, but – no, damn it all, you left them in your quarters. Foolishness. A mere handful of days spent at ease and you are forgetting the hard-won lessons of a lifetime.
"Peace, Mortarion," the Emperor chides, picking up on your clear distress, "It is merely the warp translation alarm. Interstellar travel relies on traveling through the Immaterium, where distance is a more flexible concept. This ship has done so a thousand times or more without incident."
A few moments later your world shakes violently, a rippling shudder running through the deck beneath your feet as the air grows sharp and cold. Then it is done, and you are through the veil.
"This… Immaterium," you say cautiously, looking around and tasting the air in search of hidden peril, "is it the one my comrade Typhon spoke of? The world from which witches draw their power."
"It is the source of a psyker's strength, yes," the Emperor replies, a sharp note as he corrects your choice of words. "The Gellar field imposes enough of our laws upon this place to enable our passage, but the sight of warp space can be distracting for the unprepared mind. The alarms and the shutters are a suitable precaution."
"And the song?" you ask, tilting your head to better localise the strange humming you can now make out, rising and falling in fluid notes. It seems to be coming from everywhere at once, an impossibility that demands an answer.
"…there is no song," the Emperor says firmly, and a moment later he is right, the air shivering slightly as the distant sound is snuffed out. "Now come, let us return to our studies. I would consult a specific example of an ongoing project, to lend certainty to mere conjecture."
You hesitate for a moment. The Emperor did something, you can tell, exerted himself to quiet the song in some way you do not understand, but it was most assuredly real. Yet now he claims otherwise, and you are not so dense as to miss the likely consequences of demanding answers he does not wish to give, the impact it may have upon your relationship. Is this something he will explain to you later, when he feels you are ready, or something he would forbid outright? What will you do in either case?
Article: Choose One:
[ ] Confront the Emperor. The song was real, brief though it was, and you will not demean yourself by pretending otherwise. You will have answers.
- [ ] Write-in an argument that may persuade the Emperor to share what he knows. (Optional write-in)
[ ] Let it Pass. You heard a handful of notes for a bare dozen heartbeats at best and will not allow yourself to spiral into paranoia and bile for such a meagre prize.
- [ ] Leave it alone. Return to your studies and think no more of the matter.
- [ ] Seek Answers Elsewhere. Perhaps Typhon can point you in the right direction, given his apparent connection to this realm of witches and 'psykers'.
EDIT - For clarity's sake, this vote will be counted via block, which is to say I will not be rolling the various write-in sub-votes together.
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Quest Lore - The Great Crusade
- Location
- London, England
(Full disclosure, this writeup differs in a few places from the original form of update five. This is why we should always do a proper editing pass, especially when working with AU elements.)
For the purposes of this quest, the Great Crusade is proceeding a little differently to how it did in canon, largely stemming from differences in the Emperor's own situation and the need to support the primary change to the AU. Rather than do a full write-up, I will cover each point of major difference in turn and highlight the changes thus made.
Change One - The Crusade is Slower
Since the Emperor is not an ancient immortal, he has no personal knowledge of the galaxy beyond the Solar System, nor of the threats out there. His initial plan was for galactic expansion in the manner of the Mechanicum - near self-sufficient expeditionary fleets that would rush out during those moments the warp storms were quiet and establish their own quasi-independent enclaves, which could be used as the stepping stones for later expansion. The intent was for each fleet to be headed up by a Space Marine Legion and their Primarch, with the variation in their temperaments and capabilities covering as many different possibilities as he could think of.
The end of the warp storms was consequently a surprise, the Great Crusade as it exists somewhat improvised. The Legions went forth to secure and claim the immediate sectors around Terra... and then they stopped, having not been equipped for an extended campaign, while the Emperor and the Mechanicum frantically retooled their supply lines and worked to incorporate the new territories and start more general recruitment efforts. This means the Crusade now operates largely on a staggered tempo, not unlike the Spheres of Expansion that will one day be employed by the T'au. This is also where the incentive for the Rogue Traders come from - during periods of enforced pause, the Emperor commissions independent and self-sufficient starfarers to go forth and explore, make first contact and map the warp and real space both in search of ideal routes of expansion, offering financial and political incentives that see the creation of the first Rogue Trader Dynasties.
This is the main reason for Mortarion's changed origin story. The Crusade was slower, and so did not reach Barbarus until after he was finished with the Overlords.
Change Two - The Imperium is Less (but still kinda) Xenophobic
Having no pre-existing experience with aliens, the Emperor began his expansion with the intended goal of unifying the human diaspora he knew from historical records to be out there. He assumed that the aliens he met were either enemies or would inevitably become so, and being a techno-feudal warlord in command of posthuman killing machines largely defaulted to forcible expulsion or extermination, as in the canon Great Crusade.
The enforced peace at the end of the first phase was where this changed, due to certain enterprising Rogue Traders coming into contact with a number of weird aliens and existing human civilisations that had friendly ties with them. Without the immediate ability to default to extermination, the Emperor saw no harm in at least investigating the possibilities presented by these strange lifeforms.
Current Imperial policy is unashamedly human-supremacist, giving priority to human interests over xenos wherever the two might conflict. Those aliens whose physical needs and habitats are independent of humanity (say, a species of weird flying mantas who live in the upper layers of a gas giant) have their territorial claims recognised and are generally left alone, save for the odd trade delegation. Those capable of living on the same worlds as humanity are generally offered a position as second-class citizens under the rule of human governors, often a condition imposed at the end of a war of conquest, but this can be improved at the discretion of local governors, which leads to the third major change:
Change Three - For Every Rule, a Thousand Exceptions
As mentioned in Chapter Five, the Imperium at this stage is one of a thousand petty kingdoms and appointed governors, all being slowly stitched together by the efforts of the Administratum. As in canon, the Emperor is far more interested in 'painting the map' than he is asserting cultural hegemony or a unified political and economic structure, though efforts towards that end are being made (mostly by the Primarchs with an interest in such things). Consequently, he is entirely willing to grant exceptions, carve-outs and sweetheart deals to the otherwise existing laws and policies of the Imperium if it results in the Imperial Aquila flying proud against another horizon. Primarchs have the authority to negotiate such agreements unilaterally and on virtually any topic, while other officials have freedom within more limited bounds (the right of Rogue Traders to agree to financial and mercantile pacts) or are required to submit their proposals for review by the War Council.
This one is more or less an extension of the canon Emperor's attitude - the Mechanicum being exempt from the religion ban, the Navigators getting a pass on the mutant thing, the Fenrisian world-spirit thing, the existence of Ultramar - and applying it across the board. Alien janissaries who trade military service for greater than average rights? Sure why not. Preexisting multi-solar polities being incorporated wholesale as a unified 'subsector'? Absolutely, go wild. Horus using this freedom of action and political autonomy to build himself an empire within the empire? Look at the boy go, you know his brothers really could learn a thing or two from him.
Will these pacts and exceptions and carve-outs be honoured in a couple of centuries when they become inconvenient or the Emperor gets around to centralising things? Ah, why borrow trouble from tomorrow?
For the purposes of this quest, the Great Crusade is proceeding a little differently to how it did in canon, largely stemming from differences in the Emperor's own situation and the need to support the primary change to the AU. Rather than do a full write-up, I will cover each point of major difference in turn and highlight the changes thus made.
Change One - The Crusade is Slower
Since the Emperor is not an ancient immortal, he has no personal knowledge of the galaxy beyond the Solar System, nor of the threats out there. His initial plan was for galactic expansion in the manner of the Mechanicum - near self-sufficient expeditionary fleets that would rush out during those moments the warp storms were quiet and establish their own quasi-independent enclaves, which could be used as the stepping stones for later expansion. The intent was for each fleet to be headed up by a Space Marine Legion and their Primarch, with the variation in their temperaments and capabilities covering as many different possibilities as he could think of.
The end of the warp storms was consequently a surprise, the Great Crusade as it exists somewhat improvised. The Legions went forth to secure and claim the immediate sectors around Terra... and then they stopped, having not been equipped for an extended campaign, while the Emperor and the Mechanicum frantically retooled their supply lines and worked to incorporate the new territories and start more general recruitment efforts. This means the Crusade now operates largely on a staggered tempo, not unlike the Spheres of Expansion that will one day be employed by the T'au. This is also where the incentive for the Rogue Traders come from - during periods of enforced pause, the Emperor commissions independent and self-sufficient starfarers to go forth and explore, make first contact and map the warp and real space both in search of ideal routes of expansion, offering financial and political incentives that see the creation of the first Rogue Trader Dynasties.
This is the main reason for Mortarion's changed origin story. The Crusade was slower, and so did not reach Barbarus until after he was finished with the Overlords.
Change Two - The Imperium is Less (but still kinda) Xenophobic
Having no pre-existing experience with aliens, the Emperor began his expansion with the intended goal of unifying the human diaspora he knew from historical records to be out there. He assumed that the aliens he met were either enemies or would inevitably become so, and being a techno-feudal warlord in command of posthuman killing machines largely defaulted to forcible expulsion or extermination, as in the canon Great Crusade.
The enforced peace at the end of the first phase was where this changed, due to certain enterprising Rogue Traders coming into contact with a number of weird aliens and existing human civilisations that had friendly ties with them. Without the immediate ability to default to extermination, the Emperor saw no harm in at least investigating the possibilities presented by these strange lifeforms.
Current Imperial policy is unashamedly human-supremacist, giving priority to human interests over xenos wherever the two might conflict. Those aliens whose physical needs and habitats are independent of humanity (say, a species of weird flying mantas who live in the upper layers of a gas giant) have their territorial claims recognised and are generally left alone, save for the odd trade delegation. Those capable of living on the same worlds as humanity are generally offered a position as second-class citizens under the rule of human governors, often a condition imposed at the end of a war of conquest, but this can be improved at the discretion of local governors, which leads to the third major change:
Change Three - For Every Rule, a Thousand Exceptions
As mentioned in Chapter Five, the Imperium at this stage is one of a thousand petty kingdoms and appointed governors, all being slowly stitched together by the efforts of the Administratum. As in canon, the Emperor is far more interested in 'painting the map' than he is asserting cultural hegemony or a unified political and economic structure, though efforts towards that end are being made (mostly by the Primarchs with an interest in such things). Consequently, he is entirely willing to grant exceptions, carve-outs and sweetheart deals to the otherwise existing laws and policies of the Imperium if it results in the Imperial Aquila flying proud against another horizon. Primarchs have the authority to negotiate such agreements unilaterally and on virtually any topic, while other officials have freedom within more limited bounds (the right of Rogue Traders to agree to financial and mercantile pacts) or are required to submit their proposals for review by the War Council.
This one is more or less an extension of the canon Emperor's attitude - the Mechanicum being exempt from the religion ban, the Navigators getting a pass on the mutant thing, the Fenrisian world-spirit thing, the existence of Ultramar - and applying it across the board. Alien janissaries who trade military service for greater than average rights? Sure why not. Preexisting multi-solar polities being incorporated wholesale as a unified 'subsector'? Absolutely, go wild. Horus using this freedom of action and political autonomy to build himself an empire within the empire? Look at the boy go, you know his brothers really could learn a thing or two from him.
Will these pacts and exceptions and carve-outs be honoured in a couple of centuries when they become inconvenient or the Emperor gets around to centralising things? Ah, why borrow trouble from tomorrow?
Musings on the Krork
- Location
- London, England
Since it was brought up, and hey it's at least vaguely related in that it will inform my writings in this quest... my thoughts on the Krork!
Summary: They suck.
OK but seriously the Krork as presented in the setting of 40k are just... bad. They undermine a bunch of existing narratives, contradict existing lore, cheapen the Orks by proximity and for all of that aren't actually very interesting. They're just Necrons in green paint, all the way up to "the series ends on a cliffhanger as the Adeptus Mechanicus does deeply unwise things in pursuit of their technology". Throw them out wholesale. The setting and any given story will be better for it.
Reasons for the above, presented in a handy little list:
So yeah. For the purposes of this quest and basically anything else I write, the Orks cannot become the Krork, because the Krork suck. They're terrible. Maybe they could be ok in some theoretical universe but in the one we have they're just a disappointment.
Summary: They suck.
OK but seriously the Krork as presented in the setting of 40k are just... bad. They undermine a bunch of existing narratives, contradict existing lore, cheapen the Orks by proximity and for all of that aren't actually very interesting. They're just Necrons in green paint, all the way up to "the series ends on a cliffhanger as the Adeptus Mechanicus does deeply unwise things in pursuit of their technology". Throw them out wholesale. The setting and any given story will be better for it.
Reasons for the above, presented in a handy little list:
- Orks can be scary on their own.
- Gazgkhull Thraka didn't need to be a super-special precursor ork to be a terrifying threat to the Imperium, he did that all by himself. It's important to remember that the Orks are more than just the larval form of the Krork, they're a galactic power in their own right, arguably the galactic power.
- Except now they're not. Now everyone talks about Thraka in terms of "how close is he to going Beast". Now his technological innovations and surprising tactical brilliance are worse than some bigger, badder greenskin did a few thousand years ago.
- The Krork contradict the basic idea of how Orks work.
- We know how Ork warlords arise and Waaaghs are formed. They are born through war and a series of early wins that snowballs horrendously. There are entire campaigns and narrative arcs based around Imperial and Aeldari forces intervening to quash the threat of incipient ork warlords before they can get going, and numerous examples of how badly it goes when they fail to do that.
- How do the Krork arise? Well if we judge by the Beast, an Ork sits around on a forgotten planet in some distant corner of the galaxy for a few years, then arbitrarily becomes a Krork and pulls a galaxy-threatening armada out of his fungoid arsehole. It is important to stress this part - the Beast did not arise from a preexisting ork empire left unattended, he was not forged in the fires of war, the Imperium was so dominant before he arose they genuinely considered Ork fighting something akin to pest control. Conquering Ullanor didn't even prevent the Krork arising on that same fucking planet.
- They're just Necrons.
- World-sized battle stations? Check. Strategic mobility via non-warp-based FTL? Check. Diplomats who present offers to surrender and die? Check. Ancient precursor race arising to reclaim its glory? Check. Heavy themes of cosmic horror? Check. Make the AdMech go gaga and possibly doom the galaxy? Check.
- Seriously if you have to include the Krork in the story don't just reskin the Necrons. Have some basic fucking creativity.
So yeah. For the purposes of this quest and basically anything else I write, the Orks cannot become the Krork, because the Krork suck. They're terrible. Maybe they could be ok in some theoretical universe but in the one we have they're just a disappointment.