How many more epilogues are there?
Sterbelicht - One Sacrifice At A Time Against The Galaxy (40K)
- Thread starter HeroCooky
- Start date
- Mature Sci-Fi
got to say i bet the primarchs are coming here so they can be lead by their Father once more
Starfather would probably be the boy who died alone
wait oh shit Starfather was if the emperor embrace his chaos self
Epilogue - The Primarchs React
New
HeroCooky
Unverified Monstergirl
The Birth was like a bell tolled in the soul of every human being, those many billions of variants of the Homo Sapiens large and small across the galaxy, from the lowest of the baselines laboring in manufactories and waste disposal sorting centers to the highest of the abhuman strains, from a Salvus headbutting their father in joy and love to the Ogryn marching to war in full uniform and righteous purpose, the Nightsider cradling their family in their burrows to the Piscarian praying in a temple.
The Birth resounded in the minds and hearts of all who held close to the Star Child and their Five-Fold Creeds, praying and laboring for a better galaxy that may yet see peace as a norm rather than a curse uttered by the foul tongues of Ruin, from the somber halls of the Dirut to the massive machinery enclaves of the Naraths turning fates by labor, the manifold waveforms of the Crashing Ocean to the chittering preachings of the Kxcriks.
The Birth was a vessel of change for the beings who had long labored and championed the cause of the Emperor back when he still walked and the God-And-Corpse-Emperor's end and path when he sat immobile upon the Golden Throne.
For Leman Russ, it was an end to a journey long walked. It was to finally, finally, kneel before what he had hoped to find. What he had hoped to bring to his father, to make him hale and hearty again after he had failed him so much in all aspects that a son could fail a father. And so he knelt and wept before the fruit, for he knew his father had died and there was nothing to save anymore. But he had a wife, brave and bold Tadmusthun, and she wept with him in his hour of grief, and she dried her tears for what would never be with him, and she still plucked the fruit and smiled her grand smile at him as she told him that he may have been too late for this father...but not his sons. And he smiled and agreed, and they both set out unto that long and short road back home, old for him and new for her, with storms whipping snow already around them and the howl of wolves in the distance. Russ wondered if Bjorn was still alive and well, for he could only tell that he was still...enduring, which said it all and said little in truth...and if so, what titles he had earned. Leeman chuckled to himself, for he could well remember that he had given him the title of "Fell-Handed" in uproarious laughter when he had stumbled upon the man masturbating. Good times. The best of times. The worst of times. Their times. "Who goes th-Allfather, that's a big lass." One of his sons shout-stumbled, and Russ grinned as he heard, after so long, the sounds of his people once again.
The Snake was dead. The Clone yet lived. They were not the same, even if they came from the same stock. They had fought and lived in different eras, different worlds, and different causes, their wars long and difficult and harrowing in their own, unique, ways. The Clone of Fulgrim could not lay claim to such a name. And yet he did, for there was nothing else to lay claim to when he had breathed that first breath of free air, when he had challenged the Gods of Ruin and made them flinch, when he had found solace in the arms of those who called him brother and gene-father freely. The road was long for the one who took up the name of Fulgrim, and, in truth of all naked truths, it was not a road that would lead to glories or triumphs to be shouted into eternity and etched into worlds and stars, remembered for untold generations. But it was a road that led to worlds saved, even as he bent a knee to the one who was his nephew for a cause most worthy of being fought for; peace. After so long...peace.
Vulkan stood. Sweat dripped down his brow, surrounded by molten stone as he was, and heard the cry of the child of his Father. In truth...it mattered little to him. There was war to be done. Armor to be made. Weapons to be distributed. Hosts to raise and hosts to train. The road was still as rocky and dangerous as before, if not more, for the lack of protection his father had extended to all who prayed honestly and earnestly. But, he thought with another strike meeting white-hot blade, mayhaps there may now be an end in sight to it all. It would be a good thing after a long line of bad things.
It tasted like ash upon his tongue, that cry. That cry of liberation and that cry of a babe ripping free of womb long sealed. It tasted like all his efforts had been for naught, all his work to keep billions from being massacred by Xenos, Chaos, and even themselves, as much as he hated to acknowledge that state of things, had been for naught. After all, why bother laboring for the betterment of humanity when all you had to do was wait a millennium or two until the solution to all his woes came along and snapped all of it out of existence. ...he was being untruthful, hurt and wounded, the burden of keeping even what little remained of the Imperium, that Great Work, running along and fighting against the ending of all things had chafed on him, ground him down, and made a miser of his mind when he had once stood, sword held high, and had cried vengeance and fury into the stars in the name of shining justice and righteous duty. The Avenging Son breathed deeply of the silence in his chambers, knowing all too well that he would be needed to quell the riots breaking out across the fleet he was leading from stopping them to give aid to a world attacked by Orks; even this would change nothing in truth. There will still be war for millennia to co-his armor hissed. Eyes widened as the armor that had kept him alive for so long came undone, great plates falling away and falling apart, setting themselves down gently like they were aided by unseen hands, leaving him standing in naught but skin, his armor set around himself...and very much not dying due to the lack of aid it rendered unto him. Tensely...he moved muscles, felt the air upon his skin, and marveled how it all felt after so long...a stray thought stopped his joy. Then, dread dawned upon him. Yvraine must not know of this.
Magnus was no more. Whatever had been there when Horus slew the Emperor...it had all since died and been replaced. Part by part, all with strings so the Deceiver could dance his puppet as he desired. Magnus was no more. It only took his corpse till 567.M47 to be cracked upon the rock of truth to be slain for the final time.
Sanguinius was no more. Only Duty remained. Their master did not matter. Only that they knew the Duty they had to do. For the Fallen. For those they Cherished. "UNTO THAT FIELD ONCE MORE!" The Angel Cried! "TO HOPE AND RUINS END!" The Damned Legion returned the cry! And So They Went! Glory And Ruin, Gore And Hope, Shining Beacon In Bitter Defeat And Triumphant Bugle Upon Ashen Fields Of Loss And Martyrs! For the Fallen! For Those They Cherished!
The Lion was dead. He had breathed his last standing against the Devourer, triggering a trap of desperation lain by lesser men when their greaters had refused to stand and die for them. The Lion was dead. Slain by chitin and the fires of cyclonic torpedoes. The Lion was dead...and yet he walked the forests and the dark places, sword in hand, shield held tight, and path clear: against the horrors that lay ahead. So he swore, so his sons recalled oaths long forgotten. Long Live The Lion!
Perturabo was no more. Like Magnus, only a hollow shell puppeted by Vashtorr remained, all guns and machine and hatred and logic. All burnished steel and wounded pride, cackling and rattling wheezing coughs of belching munitions, stamping clamping thunder of great armored feet and hatred's hand grasping unto levers of power to further an ascension that seemed ever more distant with every battle fought in the name of its creation. Perturabo was no more. Only a shell of hate remained that was to be slain on that distant world of Rudalus Triariius, a woman of no renown grinning madly, deadman's trigger to a bomb lifted...and a world obliterated.
Mortarion was no more. Only a festering boil of rotting offal and maggots fecund in plentiful labors and laughing pain remained. His was the most pitiful of deaths. The others had deaths for lives that they had either chosen or been unaware of. He knew. In the end, the cruel end, he knew. He hated. And he was no more. Only a puppet to be slain. And slain he would be, slowly. Piece by piece, reeking intestine by falling away maggot. He would die, though he would die the last and least of the Puppet-Primarchs.
"I was right," Lorgar whispered. He was happy. Content. At peace. "I was right," he said, hammer in hand and war panoply upon his back. "I. Was. Right." He grinned...and declared service to the Child, His Deity, His Divine, His Eternal Sovereign. He felt his body burn as runes were eradicated across his body, new ones carved, a contract of servitude he rejoiced at clad in his soul and etched into the Warp itself. Lorgar laughed, hefting his hammer, devotee to the Child of Ruthlessness, Brutality, Creativity, Fire, and Justice. "I WAS RIGHT!" He screamed, and the Tower shattered and reformed, a holdfast against endless tides of daemons descending upon the traitor of traitors with the hatred of the Four upon his Legion of Faith. He laughed. He was right. And how he laughed and cried at that.
Caw. Caw caw. Caw? Caw caw caw! Caw.
In a room somewhere, two figures stared at each other, a table with two goblets filled with a drink before them and thrones behind them. The Hydra was on their shoulders and a smirk on their lips. "I..." one declared, lifting his goblet into the air, "...am Alpharius," he lied. "I..." the other replied, "...am Omegon," lifting his goblet along the lie. "To your victory, brother," Alpharius spoke jovially. "No, to yours!" Omegon returned. Then both drank deep of the drink in their goblets and sat upon their thrones, smirking all the way. They were dead within four heartbeats, and their bodies obliterated by the Cyclonic torpedos installed under each other's throne within fifty-five.
The Birth resounded in the minds and hearts of all who held close to the Star Child and their Five-Fold Creeds, praying and laboring for a better galaxy that may yet see peace as a norm rather than a curse uttered by the foul tongues of Ruin, from the somber halls of the Dirut to the massive machinery enclaves of the Naraths turning fates by labor, the manifold waveforms of the Crashing Ocean to the chittering preachings of the Kxcriks.
The Birth was a vessel of change for the beings who had long labored and championed the cause of the Emperor back when he still walked and the God-And-Corpse-Emperor's end and path when he sat immobile upon the Golden Throne.
For Leman Russ, it was an end to a journey long walked. It was to finally, finally, kneel before what he had hoped to find. What he had hoped to bring to his father, to make him hale and hearty again after he had failed him so much in all aspects that a son could fail a father. And so he knelt and wept before the fruit, for he knew his father had died and there was nothing to save anymore. But he had a wife, brave and bold Tadmusthun, and she wept with him in his hour of grief, and she dried her tears for what would never be with him, and she still plucked the fruit and smiled her grand smile at him as she told him that he may have been too late for this father...but not his sons. And he smiled and agreed, and they both set out unto that long and short road back home, old for him and new for her, with storms whipping snow already around them and the howl of wolves in the distance. Russ wondered if Bjorn was still alive and well, for he could only tell that he was still...enduring, which said it all and said little in truth...and if so, what titles he had earned. Leeman chuckled to himself, for he could well remember that he had given him the title of "Fell-Handed" in uproarious laughter when he had stumbled upon the man masturbating. Good times. The best of times. The worst of times. Their times. "Who goes th-Allfather, that's a big lass." One of his sons shout-stumbled, and Russ grinned as he heard, after so long, the sounds of his people once again.
The Snake was dead. The Clone yet lived. They were not the same, even if they came from the same stock. They had fought and lived in different eras, different worlds, and different causes, their wars long and difficult and harrowing in their own, unique, ways. The Clone of Fulgrim could not lay claim to such a name. And yet he did, for there was nothing else to lay claim to when he had breathed that first breath of free air, when he had challenged the Gods of Ruin and made them flinch, when he had found solace in the arms of those who called him brother and gene-father freely. The road was long for the one who took up the name of Fulgrim, and, in truth of all naked truths, it was not a road that would lead to glories or triumphs to be shouted into eternity and etched into worlds and stars, remembered for untold generations. But it was a road that led to worlds saved, even as he bent a knee to the one who was his nephew for a cause most worthy of being fought for; peace. After so long...peace.
Vulkan stood. Sweat dripped down his brow, surrounded by molten stone as he was, and heard the cry of the child of his Father. In truth...it mattered little to him. There was war to be done. Armor to be made. Weapons to be distributed. Hosts to raise and hosts to train. The road was still as rocky and dangerous as before, if not more, for the lack of protection his father had extended to all who prayed honestly and earnestly. But, he thought with another strike meeting white-hot blade, mayhaps there may now be an end in sight to it all. It would be a good thing after a long line of bad things.
It tasted like ash upon his tongue, that cry. That cry of liberation and that cry of a babe ripping free of womb long sealed. It tasted like all his efforts had been for naught, all his work to keep billions from being massacred by Xenos, Chaos, and even themselves, as much as he hated to acknowledge that state of things, had been for naught. After all, why bother laboring for the betterment of humanity when all you had to do was wait a millennium or two until the solution to all his woes came along and snapped all of it out of existence. ...he was being untruthful, hurt and wounded, the burden of keeping even what little remained of the Imperium, that Great Work, running along and fighting against the ending of all things had chafed on him, ground him down, and made a miser of his mind when he had once stood, sword held high, and had cried vengeance and fury into the stars in the name of shining justice and righteous duty. The Avenging Son breathed deeply of the silence in his chambers, knowing all too well that he would be needed to quell the riots breaking out across the fleet he was leading from stopping them to give aid to a world attacked by Orks; even this would change nothing in truth. There will still be war for millennia to co-his armor hissed. Eyes widened as the armor that had kept him alive for so long came undone, great plates falling away and falling apart, setting themselves down gently like they were aided by unseen hands, leaving him standing in naught but skin, his armor set around himself...and very much not dying due to the lack of aid it rendered unto him. Tensely...he moved muscles, felt the air upon his skin, and marveled how it all felt after so long...a stray thought stopped his joy. Then, dread dawned upon him. Yvraine must not know of this.
Magnus was no more. Whatever had been there when Horus slew the Emperor...it had all since died and been replaced. Part by part, all with strings so the Deceiver could dance his puppet as he desired. Magnus was no more. It only took his corpse till 567.M47 to be cracked upon the rock of truth to be slain for the final time.
Sanguinius was no more. Only Duty remained. Their master did not matter. Only that they knew the Duty they had to do. For the Fallen. For those they Cherished. "UNTO THAT FIELD ONCE MORE!" The Angel Cried! "TO HOPE AND RUINS END!" The Damned Legion returned the cry! And So They Went! Glory And Ruin, Gore And Hope, Shining Beacon In Bitter Defeat And Triumphant Bugle Upon Ashen Fields Of Loss And Martyrs! For the Fallen! For Those They Cherished!
The Lion was dead. He had breathed his last standing against the Devourer, triggering a trap of desperation lain by lesser men when their greaters had refused to stand and die for them. The Lion was dead. Slain by chitin and the fires of cyclonic torpedoes. The Lion was dead...and yet he walked the forests and the dark places, sword in hand, shield held tight, and path clear: against the horrors that lay ahead. So he swore, so his sons recalled oaths long forgotten. Long Live The Lion!
Perturabo was no more. Like Magnus, only a hollow shell puppeted by Vashtorr remained, all guns and machine and hatred and logic. All burnished steel and wounded pride, cackling and rattling wheezing coughs of belching munitions, stamping clamping thunder of great armored feet and hatred's hand grasping unto levers of power to further an ascension that seemed ever more distant with every battle fought in the name of its creation. Perturabo was no more. Only a shell of hate remained that was to be slain on that distant world of Rudalus Triariius, a woman of no renown grinning madly, deadman's trigger to a bomb lifted...and a world obliterated.
Mortarion was no more. Only a festering boil of rotting offal and maggots fecund in plentiful labors and laughing pain remained. His was the most pitiful of deaths. The others had deaths for lives that they had either chosen or been unaware of. He knew. In the end, the cruel end, he knew. He hated. And he was no more. Only a puppet to be slain. And slain he would be, slowly. Piece by piece, reeking intestine by falling away maggot. He would die, though he would die the last and least of the Puppet-Primarchs.
"I was right," Lorgar whispered. He was happy. Content. At peace. "I was right," he said, hammer in hand and war panoply upon his back. "I. Was. Right." He grinned...and declared service to the Child, His Deity, His Divine, His Eternal Sovereign. He felt his body burn as runes were eradicated across his body, new ones carved, a contract of servitude he rejoiced at clad in his soul and etched into the Warp itself. Lorgar laughed, hefting his hammer, devotee to the Child of Ruthlessness, Brutality, Creativity, Fire, and Justice. "I WAS RIGHT!" He screamed, and the Tower shattered and reformed, a holdfast against endless tides of daemons descending upon the traitor of traitors with the hatred of the Four upon his Legion of Faith. He laughed. He was right. And how he laughed and cried at that.
Caw. Caw caw. Caw? Caw caw caw! Caw.
In a room somewhere, two figures stared at each other, a table with two goblets filled with a drink before them and thrones behind them. The Hydra was on their shoulders and a smirk on their lips. "I..." one declared, lifting his goblet into the air, "...am Alpharius," he lied. "I..." the other replied, "...am Omegon," lifting his goblet along the lie. "To your victory, brother," Alpharius spoke jovially. "No, to yours!" Omegon returned. Then both drank deep of the drink in their goblets and sat upon their thrones, smirking all the way. They were dead within four heartbeats, and their bodies obliterated by the Cyclonic torpedos installed under each other's throne within fifty-five.
okay was not expecting lorgar
Always Late
Lacking in coffee, sleep, and brains
- Location
- Ohio
... Well, every family has a black sheep, and pulling a Draigo is a decent start to his 'redemption'.
oh yeah logar i forgot and hes going to help us since hes in our side now um both curse and also fuck you chaos we have your traitor primarch now
- Location
- India
What happened to dorn, manus, konrad, khan and corax?
- Pronouns
- Zack
- Location
- Outside the Box
- Pronouns
- She/Her
They're finally dead, for real this time! (lie)
HeroCooky
Unverified Monstergirl
Dead long before the mid-way point and therefor utterly irrelevant for this slide.
Raven Raven is the cawing raven seen eloquently serenading in the update above.
Night. (For real.)
chaotic-logic
possible impossibility
- Location
- unknown
night and thanks for the mass update
Wait a minute:
Lorgar, russ, vulcan, raven and robutte are only primarch left alive...
Mother fucker
Lorgar, russ, vulcan, raven and robutte are only primarch left alive...
Mother fucker
Looks like Robute Gulliman is having a simp after him.
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and thats good they will be coming to us now
well, at least leman is happily married?
i feel bad for vulkan TBH, to give yourself until nothing is left, and to find out it was all for naught? i can understand being bitter
Gulliman is not going to sleep for the next couple months at least. avoiding Yvraine is going to be a full time job, and my man already works twenty of them.
i feel bad for vulkan TBH, to give yourself until nothing is left, and to find out it was all for naught? i can understand being bitter
Gulliman is not going to sleep for the next couple months at least. avoiding Yvraine is going to be a full time job, and my man already works twenty of them.
Unlikely. The wall of Warpstorms that separates our section of the galaxy from the rest is still there and even with all our advantages we can't cross it. Neither can they.
it'll have to wait until the wall dissipates. In the meantime they will be way too busy trying to keep their people from dying.
I hope to god not. Wouldnt want most of those fuckers anywhere near the Federation other then dragging them in chains to be shot.
Whew
Now these.....good shit.
Also who'd have expected that Heel-turn from Lorgar? Also great that the Sanguinor and the Legion of the Damned made it past Big E's death. And the end with Alphairus and Omegon.....rest well you mad bastards.
Anywho, all we have left now is for Eldar Mommy and for Lamenter and Thule in 55,555.
And why is that? Chances are most of them have changed since the HH, only one who I'd be iffy about letting near the Federation is Corvax on account of him being a giant-ass-bird-daemon now.
Heck, Russ's wife is a friggen Warp Entity, pre-heresy Russ would've drove his ship into the closest Star before so much as think of buddying up with them.
Now these.....good shit.
Also who'd have expected that Heel-turn from Lorgar? Also great that the Sanguinor and the Legion of the Damned made it past Big E's death. And the end with Alphairus and Omegon.....rest well you mad bastards.
Anywho, all we have left now is for Eldar Mommy and for Lamenter and Thule in 55,555.
And why is that? Chances are most of them have changed since the HH, only one who I'd be iffy about letting near the Federation is Corvax on account of him being a giant-ass-bird-daemon now.
Heck, Russ's wife is a friggen Warp Entity, pre-heresy Russ would've drove his ship into the closest Star before so much as think of buddying up with them.
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oh man i wonder the entity that was going to be the star father is feeling being denied his throne and also we all know hes the chaos side of the emperor
You mean vashtorr? probably
Not Vashtorr, he means the Star Father, Big E but Chaos.
Chances are he'd be feeling especially pissed at being denied his birth before Star Child tore him up (according to the Chainbreakers).