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The Long Night Part One: Embers in the Dusk: A Planetary Governor Quest (43k) Complete Sequel Up
- Thread starter Durin
- Start date
- Location
- Australia
@Durin, from 1d4chan:
Psyker - 1d4chan
Psyker - 1d4chan
What you're supposed to get from this is that even though Chaos psykers get a Power boost, they should also have a Control penalty. That means less chance of blowing up just by using your powers. This makes sense as rogue psykers are untrained and their attachment to Chaos makes psychic powers even more unreliable and unstable. Honestly, a lot of the Chaos psykers we end up getting should be dying from their own powers. The potential for carnage a Chaos Alpha can cause should be tempered by the fact that they're very likely to die just by existing. Most of them shouldn't even have the capacity for thought.
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Pest Control.
ArchAIngel
Sorcerer Supreme.
- Location
- Right behind you.
Well, it is Avernus.
Pest Control.
WAAAGHlock Snotskull grinned, or at least grinned as much as you could as an Ork with half their jaw ripped off by a fing.
What fing... hard to remember. This bluddy world wuz ded 'ard.
Ah well. He ate it anyway. 'less it's a 'umie. Those were ded 'ard.
Bluddy shootas of em. Killed lotz uv boyz. Lotz and lotz and lotz uv boyz.
Damn good fight, which was why he stayed here 'stead of aving da boyz make a spacey fingy.
"Oi, Warp'ead! Stop zoggin rubbin dat coppa stikk and do sumfin about dis wud! It'z stinky, and I wantz to roast this fing!" the Warboss roared.
'e was a runty Warboss compared to ol Garkill, but e's da best Snotskull 'ad since dat git wuz a grot and got ded fur it.
"I'ze a WAAAGHlock, not a Warp'ead, ya bloody runt!" he shouted, but slammed down his staff, sending a lash of raw WAAAGHHH!!! at the lump of wood.
It wuz enuff to blow up a 'umie tank, but the bluddy wood uv this wurld wuz ded 'ard. Just like errything else.
Still. There wuz sumfing nice. Like a gud mug'a grog. Only fur hiz 'ead.
'e 'adn't felt like a 'eadbang fur... sumfing. Time wuz funny here in dis sandy place. Like wen it spat out a dedboy.
Dat wuz fun, even if 'e wuz shiner dan most. 'ad a nize gun, but 'e shot da Mek first, which wuz a bluddy nuisance. Da Warboss wuz real grumpy wen 'iz Power Klaw shorted out and set 'iz Hair Squig on fire.
Well, da sekund wuzn't da Power Klaw's fault, entirely... But Snotskull wuzn't gonna tell 'im dat.
Now, tho, dere wuz a nu fing. And oh boy, wuz it a goodun!
Wuzn't da fuzzies uf a birb, or da scratchies uv a kaktus, or da hummies uv da plantz, but sumfing good.
Pulse and pulse and pulse dat 'ummed into 'iz 'ead, and it wuz green.
A green 'e adn't felt for a long, long time, a WAAAGH green.
A Gorky AND Morky green!
He raised his arms to the sky, and opened his mouth to let a great and jubilant howl to the sky, hands grasping at the stars as if to rip them from the sky and tear them into his palms, to rip up da ded'ard 'umies dat lived on dis ded'ard wurld.
Then a Phase Tiger popped out of the ground and bit both his legs off while the Warboss wasn't looking.
The distraction plus the exhilaration of the awakening of Gork and Mork combined into a quite common Wierdboy phenomon, the 'eadbang.
If anything resembling mortal emotion could be said to resonate through the planetmind of Avernus, it would have felt satisfied. Rogue Aetherium phenoma were not to be tolerated.
It was in The Plan.
----
Do not experiment with new psychic powers when you're directly connected to a god!
It looks like Chaos.
Pest Control.
WAAAGHlock Snotskull grinned, or at least grinned as much as you could as an Ork with half their jaw ripped off by a fing.
What fing... hard to remember. This bluddy world wuz ded 'ard.
Ah well. He ate it anyway. 'less it's a 'umie. Those were ded 'ard.
Bluddy shootas of em. Killed lotz uv boyz. Lotz and lotz and lotz uv boyz.
Damn good fight, which was why he stayed here 'stead of aving da boyz make a spacey fingy.
"Oi, Warp'ead! Stop zoggin rubbin dat coppa stikk and do sumfin about dis wud! It'z stinky, and I wantz to roast this fing!" the Warboss roared.
'e was a runty Warboss compared to ol Garkill, but e's da best Snotskull 'ad since dat git wuz a grot and got ded fur it.
"I'ze a WAAAGHlock, not a Warp'ead, ya bloody runt!" he shouted, but slammed down his staff, sending a lash of raw WAAAGHHH!!! at the lump of wood.
It wuz enuff to blow up a 'umie tank, but the bluddy wood uv this wurld wuz ded 'ard. Just like errything else.
Still. There wuz sumfing nice. Like a gud mug'a grog. Only fur hiz 'ead.
'e 'adn't felt like a 'eadbang fur... sumfing. Time wuz funny here in dis sandy place. Like wen it spat out a dedboy.
Dat wuz fun, even if 'e wuz shiner dan most. 'ad a nize gun, but 'e shot da Mek first, which wuz a bluddy nuisance. Da Warboss wuz real grumpy wen 'iz Power Klaw shorted out and set 'iz Hair Squig on fire.
Well, da sekund wuzn't da Power Klaw's fault, entirely... But Snotskull wuzn't gonna tell 'im dat.
Now, tho, dere wuz a nu fing. And oh boy, wuz it a goodun!
Wuzn't da fuzzies uf a birb, or da scratchies uv a kaktus, or da hummies uv da plantz, but sumfing good.
Pulse and pulse and pulse dat 'ummed into 'iz 'ead, and it wuz green.
A green 'e adn't felt for a long, long time, a WAAAGH green.
A Gorky AND Morky green!
He raised his arms to the sky, and opened his mouth to let a great and jubilant howl to the sky, hands grasping at the stars as if to rip them from the sky and tear them into his palms, to rip up da ded'ard 'umies dat lived on dis ded'ard wurld.
Then a Phase Tiger popped out of the ground and bit both his legs off while the Warboss wasn't looking.
The distraction plus the exhilaration of the awakening of Gork and Mork combined into a quite common Wierdboy phenomon, the 'eadbang.
If anything resembling mortal emotion could be said to resonate through the planetmind of Avernus, it would have felt satisfied. Rogue Aetherium phenoma were not to be tolerated.
It was in The Plan.
----
Do not experiment with new psychic powers when you're directly connected to a god!
It looks like Chaos.
- Location
- Brazil
Could you show more of the guts of the system? How each armour and weapon type modifies what? Are Elite PAs really 500x better than equivalent Trooper types?
Also, what's that cost discrepancy on maintenance? If they see heavy combat, it's 10x higher than normal use? Or is it something else, like maintenance cycles?
But man, each Elite PA is like a warship.
- Location
- Alice Springs, Australia
another +1, up to +20
The Days Of Our Lives:
- Location
- A Place Miserably Bereft of Cats
Well! It's not perfect. I wanted to make the trip through history a little more... indepth. But here, @Durin. An anniversary present. For 100 turns, and hopefully many more to come.
I might follow this up! But I need to spend the day writing actual work-stuff, so that might be difficult. Hopefully I can make a few edits and improve things somewhat, or continue on from where this leaves off. Or just, you know, do a bit about a crotchety old man in a young man's body learning how to recover from his exposure to Gork and/or Mork.
-----
The Days Of Our Lives:
It felt like aeons. This singular moment felt as though it were stitched together from the cloth of aeons. In the aftermath of the cataclysmic awakening of the Ork Gods, it seemed that even time itself—or perhaps simply Ridcully's perception of time—was torn asunder. It was as if the fabric of the warp itself were lensing around the event, putting an enormous magnifying glass on the sheer importance of what he bore witness to.
It was maddening. The feeling was indescribable. The mental construct of his mind seemed to be travelling an infinite parabola, further and further outwards from the hateful, terrified eye of the Fateweaver. Further still from the epicenter of that disastrous, miraculous coming-to-life. Even here he could feel the very fabric of the immaterium pulse with power that, at the back of his mind, he recognized had been there for as long as he could truly See, but only now was it obvious. Only now did that terrible green shockwave reverberating endlessly through the wor—
"Oh, what is this? I thought you would have been snuffed out by now. Fascinating."
Ridcully opens his eyes. There, reclining languidly like some particularly viscous feline amidst the inexplicably solid outflows of orkish energy, a silvery figure. Its features are perfect and symmetrical, beautiful in a way. A crystalline construct which—
"There's no need for that, now. Though I'm quite flattered."
"I'm sorry?" Ridcully asks, his inner monologue so rudely interrupted. "Hold on a moment, I think I know you."
"Do you really?" The figure seems to grin, shifting ever so slightly to rest its cheek thoughtfully in one hand. "And who do you think I am?"
In the millennia that were moments, Ridcully glances towards the place he had been. His eyes flicker up towards the figure again. "Weren't you, you know—back there?"
"Oh. Was I? It's so hard to tell, isn't it?" The crystalline figure laughs. It sounded like the tinkling of glass, except, somehow, infinitely more obnoxious. Like it were simultaneously the sound of nails on a chalkboard, except coming from inside the hollow of his skull and thus, inescapable. "Well, it's either that I am indeed that dashingly handsome and triumphantly puissant farseer who so kindly shielded you from the prying eyes of the—shall we say—less hospitable powers… Or!"
"Or?" Ridcully could feel his eyebrows creep up into his hairline.
"Or!" The crystal-man laughs, "Or you are going crazy, and I'm a figment that your imagination put together to help you through what you're going through. Though I suppose here, I could be both at once, couldn't I?"
"Well, whatever you are," the blind seer goes to wave his hand through the empty space between he and his guest. "Why are you here? Leave me to my interior monologue if you have no business. I've no time to waste on frivolous warp-ghosts."
"I disagree! You seem to have all the time in the world."
"I'm…" Ridcully frowns. "I should be awake by now, shouldn't I?"
"Well, perhaps. But 'now' is so abstract. A moment is an infinity, and it seems that you have a bit of a journey ahead of you, don't you?" The entity smiles and sweeps its arm toward the distant horizon, so far away. "See? So much time between you and your destination. See? Look."
Ridcully turns his eyes to where the figure was pointing. An image flashes before his eyes—of a band of bold explorers, confident in the light of their blessed Emperor, terrified at the stories of the place they had been instructed to call home. He sees a face that looks, in hindsight, so uncertain about his own prospects. Young, he thinks. Inexperienced. He knows that face. And the face of so many others. He realizes, that's Frederick. And beside him, there's Henry. Kenneth. Jane. So many people he came to know. So many—
"This is the Founding of Avernus," Ridcully says, breathless. "Why am I seeing this now?"
"Because, my new-found friend," the crystal man clasps his hands together. "Because you must see. To return home, you must tread the time-ways from past to the present. Walk the path of memory, reconstruct your history and you will come home again. Or—" he wiggled his fingers ever so mildly, "Something like that, at least. Now, open your eyes. See it now."
The image shifts, rocketing forward years, decades. He sees the first bloody years of Avernus' history- thousands, millions of brave men falling before an onslaught of flora and fauna that no Imperial save perhaps the Cadians could ever have hoped to survive. Forward. He witnesses the sea-singers and their queen; people of a race he has come to fear and respect in equal measure. He watches as the forces of a burgeoning world are tested by the betrayers—of Chaos—not a few years after the last war.
"This is all before I even arrived on Avernus," Ridcully says to the crystal man. "Why am I seeing this? If I am to retread history, shouldn't I be walking back through my own?"
"Good question!" The crystal man nods, "Certainly. Perhaps you should be. But then, you are not going back to your old life, are you? You're going to your new one. Your present life. You departed from your body on that place you call Avernus—does it not make sense that you would walk back through Avernus' own history to find yourself again? Count yourself lucky. We were only knocked back a few hundred years. Onwards!"
He sees the march of cryptic, necrotic machines and the rising tide of the planet itself push back against them. He witnesses a fanatical priest die in bloody battle, replaced by a living saint. He sees… He sees his own arrival. The establishment of the Telepathica. It goes by in a blur. He watches as the greatest light in the galaxy flickers and fades at long last, only for something infinitely more terrible than anything he had once thought possible to emerge from the darkness. He sees a face of peerless beauty and his old friend smiling like he has never smiled before—and like he will never smile again. His heart aches as she's torn away from a family only so recently made whole. He sees Avernus tear another family apart before it has the chance to truly begin. He sees Henry's heart break. He watches as he struggles forward, crawling toward tomorrow with humanity-on-Avernus on his back. He watches Garkill's first arrival. He watches as Avernus burns. He sees it welcome its newest children even as it kills millions more.
He watches through his own eyes as he walks again through the halls of the fel gods. This was the first time. He sees it again. Then it all goes wrong. The world burns purple. He watches as Drago, honorable, noble Drago, dies in brave combat, saving countless lives. He watches the first and foremeost bulwark of change and hope in the Mechanicus snuff out before the tireless, gyrating hordes. He sees Henry die. Ridcully winces, a spark of hatred and vitriol ignite just briefly in the depths of his heart. The crystal man lays a hand upon his shoulder and shakes his head. "Careful, now. Just watch. There is nothing you can do for these memories. They happened. Let them pass."
Ridcully sucks in a breath. He focuses his mind, the horizon draws closer still. Not long now.
Garkill returns once. Twice. The first time he is shattered only to return. The third time he is killed, never to return again.
Time blurs by. Countless meetings and departures, faces he knows and faces he doesn't fade in and out of the crowd. He sees… students. Students old and new. Xavier, Tamia, Ophelia these are the names he knows. He sees them everyday. But there are others. Francisca, Jordan, William, so many of his students passing in and out of his life. How many has he outlived? How many will he still outlive?
"Now," the crystal man says as the horizon approaches, demarcating the end of this period of time, defined and etched into the memory of history, and the beginning of the next, the unbound future, "Get ready. I think you should definitely keep your eyes open for this."
"What—" Ridcully opens his mouth to say as he passes over that threshold.
For a moment, he sees… A terrible, dark woman. Her features are strange. One half is a thing of remarkable beauty—more beautiful even than Lady Freya. The other is hideous, gaunt and skeletal, withered with disease and age. She wears a violet cloak woven of the fabric of night itself. For want of stars, it is decorated with countless, unblinking eyes. She smiles a wicked smile as he draws nearer to her boundary and opens the folds of her mantle to receive her. The crystal man glances up at the woman and frowns. "Well, I probably shouldn't go any further. But if you want one more piece of advice- or two- let me tell you. In about a year-- ten months, eight days and exactly two-hours-and-thirty-five-seconds from now-- you probably want to bombard an area exactly twelve-point-six kilometers due east-north-east from Dis. Terrible cultist uprising led by a diviner hopeful that your convalescence will weaken you in time for her to lead an assault. Best to nip that in the bud."
"The second…" Ridcully sees him smile. "Don't blink."
The world disappears in a flood of light.
He feels breath rush into his lungs. He folds in on himself, suddenly feeling… Heavy. Heavier than he's ever felt in his life. The weight of the ages is, for the first time in his long years, finally something tangible. The weight of history—
Hang on.
What was that about a cultist uprising?
I might follow this up! But I need to spend the day writing actual work-stuff, so that might be difficult. Hopefully I can make a few edits and improve things somewhat, or continue on from where this leaves off. Or just, you know, do a bit about a crotchety old man in a young man's body learning how to recover from his exposure to Gork and/or Mork.
-----
The Days Of Our Lives:
It felt like aeons. This singular moment felt as though it were stitched together from the cloth of aeons. In the aftermath of the cataclysmic awakening of the Ork Gods, it seemed that even time itself—or perhaps simply Ridcully's perception of time—was torn asunder. It was as if the fabric of the warp itself were lensing around the event, putting an enormous magnifying glass on the sheer importance of what he bore witness to.
It was maddening. The feeling was indescribable. The mental construct of his mind seemed to be travelling an infinite parabola, further and further outwards from the hateful, terrified eye of the Fateweaver. Further still from the epicenter of that disastrous, miraculous coming-to-life. Even here he could feel the very fabric of the immaterium pulse with power that, at the back of his mind, he recognized had been there for as long as he could truly See, but only now was it obvious. Only now did that terrible green shockwave reverberating endlessly through the wor—
"Oh, what is this? I thought you would have been snuffed out by now. Fascinating."
Ridcully opens his eyes. There, reclining languidly like some particularly viscous feline amidst the inexplicably solid outflows of orkish energy, a silvery figure. Its features are perfect and symmetrical, beautiful in a way. A crystalline construct which—
"There's no need for that, now. Though I'm quite flattered."
"I'm sorry?" Ridcully asks, his inner monologue so rudely interrupted. "Hold on a moment, I think I know you."
"Do you really?" The figure seems to grin, shifting ever so slightly to rest its cheek thoughtfully in one hand. "And who do you think I am?"
In the millennia that were moments, Ridcully glances towards the place he had been. His eyes flicker up towards the figure again. "Weren't you, you know—back there?"
"Oh. Was I? It's so hard to tell, isn't it?" The crystalline figure laughs. It sounded like the tinkling of glass, except, somehow, infinitely more obnoxious. Like it were simultaneously the sound of nails on a chalkboard, except coming from inside the hollow of his skull and thus, inescapable. "Well, it's either that I am indeed that dashingly handsome and triumphantly puissant farseer who so kindly shielded you from the prying eyes of the—shall we say—less hospitable powers… Or!"
"Or?" Ridcully could feel his eyebrows creep up into his hairline.
"Or!" The crystal-man laughs, "Or you are going crazy, and I'm a figment that your imagination put together to help you through what you're going through. Though I suppose here, I could be both at once, couldn't I?"
"Well, whatever you are," the blind seer goes to wave his hand through the empty space between he and his guest. "Why are you here? Leave me to my interior monologue if you have no business. I've no time to waste on frivolous warp-ghosts."
"I disagree! You seem to have all the time in the world."
"I'm…" Ridcully frowns. "I should be awake by now, shouldn't I?"
"Well, perhaps. But 'now' is so abstract. A moment is an infinity, and it seems that you have a bit of a journey ahead of you, don't you?" The entity smiles and sweeps its arm toward the distant horizon, so far away. "See? So much time between you and your destination. See? Look."
Ridcully turns his eyes to where the figure was pointing. An image flashes before his eyes—of a band of bold explorers, confident in the light of their blessed Emperor, terrified at the stories of the place they had been instructed to call home. He sees a face that looks, in hindsight, so uncertain about his own prospects. Young, he thinks. Inexperienced. He knows that face. And the face of so many others. He realizes, that's Frederick. And beside him, there's Henry. Kenneth. Jane. So many people he came to know. So many—
"This is the Founding of Avernus," Ridcully says, breathless. "Why am I seeing this now?"
"Because, my new-found friend," the crystal man clasps his hands together. "Because you must see. To return home, you must tread the time-ways from past to the present. Walk the path of memory, reconstruct your history and you will come home again. Or—" he wiggled his fingers ever so mildly, "Something like that, at least. Now, open your eyes. See it now."
The image shifts, rocketing forward years, decades. He sees the first bloody years of Avernus' history- thousands, millions of brave men falling before an onslaught of flora and fauna that no Imperial save perhaps the Cadians could ever have hoped to survive. Forward. He witnesses the sea-singers and their queen; people of a race he has come to fear and respect in equal measure. He watches as the forces of a burgeoning world are tested by the betrayers—of Chaos—not a few years after the last war.
"This is all before I even arrived on Avernus," Ridcully says to the crystal man. "Why am I seeing this? If I am to retread history, shouldn't I be walking back through my own?"
"Good question!" The crystal man nods, "Certainly. Perhaps you should be. But then, you are not going back to your old life, are you? You're going to your new one. Your present life. You departed from your body on that place you call Avernus—does it not make sense that you would walk back through Avernus' own history to find yourself again? Count yourself lucky. We were only knocked back a few hundred years. Onwards!"
He sees the march of cryptic, necrotic machines and the rising tide of the planet itself push back against them. He witnesses a fanatical priest die in bloody battle, replaced by a living saint. He sees… He sees his own arrival. The establishment of the Telepathica. It goes by in a blur. He watches as the greatest light in the galaxy flickers and fades at long last, only for something infinitely more terrible than anything he had once thought possible to emerge from the darkness. He sees a face of peerless beauty and his old friend smiling like he has never smiled before—and like he will never smile again. His heart aches as she's torn away from a family only so recently made whole. He sees Avernus tear another family apart before it has the chance to truly begin. He sees Henry's heart break. He watches as he struggles forward, crawling toward tomorrow with humanity-on-Avernus on his back. He watches Garkill's first arrival. He watches as Avernus burns. He sees it welcome its newest children even as it kills millions more.
He watches through his own eyes as he walks again through the halls of the fel gods. This was the first time. He sees it again. Then it all goes wrong. The world burns purple. He watches as Drago, honorable, noble Drago, dies in brave combat, saving countless lives. He watches the first and foremeost bulwark of change and hope in the Mechanicus snuff out before the tireless, gyrating hordes. He sees Henry die. Ridcully winces, a spark of hatred and vitriol ignite just briefly in the depths of his heart. The crystal man lays a hand upon his shoulder and shakes his head. "Careful, now. Just watch. There is nothing you can do for these memories. They happened. Let them pass."
Ridcully sucks in a breath. He focuses his mind, the horizon draws closer still. Not long now.
Garkill returns once. Twice. The first time he is shattered only to return. The third time he is killed, never to return again.
Time blurs by. Countless meetings and departures, faces he knows and faces he doesn't fade in and out of the crowd. He sees… students. Students old and new. Xavier, Tamia, Ophelia these are the names he knows. He sees them everyday. But there are others. Francisca, Jordan, William, so many of his students passing in and out of his life. How many has he outlived? How many will he still outlive?
"Now," the crystal man says as the horizon approaches, demarcating the end of this period of time, defined and etched into the memory of history, and the beginning of the next, the unbound future, "Get ready. I think you should definitely keep your eyes open for this."
"What—" Ridcully opens his mouth to say as he passes over that threshold.
For a moment, he sees… A terrible, dark woman. Her features are strange. One half is a thing of remarkable beauty—more beautiful even than Lady Freya. The other is hideous, gaunt and skeletal, withered with disease and age. She wears a violet cloak woven of the fabric of night itself. For want of stars, it is decorated with countless, unblinking eyes. She smiles a wicked smile as he draws nearer to her boundary and opens the folds of her mantle to receive her. The crystal man glances up at the woman and frowns. "Well, I probably shouldn't go any further. But if you want one more piece of advice- or two- let me tell you. In about a year-- ten months, eight days and exactly two-hours-and-thirty-five-seconds from now-- you probably want to bombard an area exactly twelve-point-six kilometers due east-north-east from Dis. Terrible cultist uprising led by a diviner hopeful that your convalescence will weaken you in time for her to lead an assault. Best to nip that in the bud."
"The second…" Ridcully sees him smile. "Don't blink."
The world disappears in a flood of light.
He feels breath rush into his lungs. He folds in on himself, suddenly feeling… Heavy. Heavier than he's ever felt in his life. The weight of the ages is, for the first time in his long years, finally something tangible. The weight of history—
Hang on.
What was that about a cultist uprising?
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notanautomaton
I've got 99 quests, I've finished one
What's the required roll for transcendence?
- Location
- USA NYC
I'd reason it as only the strongest managing to survive on Avernus also applies to Chaos Psykers. If your not really good with your Warp craft then you will be devoured by Atheric predators. So the rouge Chaos Psykers we get are such a pain in the ass cause Avernus kills off all the weaker ones. Or at least that's my attempt at headcanoning it.
Blind to Today
Zedman7054
Eternally 3rd
- Location
- United States
Blind to Today
or
Ridcully's Reluctant Off Day
Grandmaster Ridcully was without a doubt The Imperial Trust's greatest seer. This one man had seen and manipulated the flow and fates of entire wars, some of which have not, and will not even happen. He had seen the future and past of technologies older than some civilizations. He had laid sight to the birth and secrets of Gods, and the Emperor willing it he would do so again!
And so it was humbling, and only somewhat embarrassing, for his powers of foresight to wane, just enough to render this one day...blurry.
Psyker's powers were finicky even at the best and upper limits of power and control, such was the fate of any power that depended on the metaphysical force of change and disorder, so it couldn't be...entirely unexpected that during the countdown to what could be his greatest achievement (or his downfall), Ridcully would wake up one day, try to swing himself out of bed, and accidentally step on an unfortunately placed pen that had rolled off his bedside table during the night.
With only a quickly muffled yelp of pain and the plucking of an 'ornate' skull-and-needles laden birthday present, humanities' greatest seer found that he was blind to the present around him. A serious handicap, even to him, after all he heavily relied on his foresight to see, and with the upcoming awakening of the Ork gods he was restraining many of his other powers to better test himself. More than that, he had serious work to do. Research to be conducted, rituals to plan, contingencies to discus, all important, and all would be much more difficult without his full compliment of sight. A frown marked his face, but he would not be deterred. The Grandmaster had faced many hardships in his long life, and he would not let the psychic equivalent of temporary blindness get in his way.
With a thought he pictured his room and psychically sought the route to his robe, opening himself to the near future and... there, right where he left it. With a victorious grin Ridcully marched through his bedroom, grabbed his very impressive bathrobe, made out of the fur of a phase-tiger he has personally (and literally) hunted through a forest, and promptly put it on inside out.
'Now,' he thought, 'recaf.' He closed his eyes, a symbolic gesture, and nodded once, twice, three times to himself, turned and took two steps towards his chamber's door, tripped on some loose paperwork and stumbled his way into the doorhandle.
"Fawkes, be good while I'm out!" The petulant buzzing of his pet Dragonfly filled the room for the brief moment before Ridcully closed his door, turned, took three steps forward and grabbed the cup of Recaf his Sight told him would be there. There were many advantages almost miraculous precognition can grant, but always being able to find the nearest cup of freshly brewed recaf was, in Ridcully's opinion, easily in the top five. He didn't wonder why there was a cup of fresh recaf just outside his chamber nor did he notice the whimpers of the poor acolyte who had simply wanted to drink his recaf away from the noisy cafeteria, but he did take the time to take a thoughtful sip of his morning drink.
"Hmm. Could have used a bit more sugar."
And with that, one of Humanities' greatest champion's strolled through the halls of his school, calmly sipping stolen and slightly bitter recaf, more blind to the world than he had ever been. Until he tripped on a slightly upturned rug and crashed to the floor.
'Maybe...I can just take the day easy instead...'
or
Ridcully's Reluctant Off Day
Grandmaster Ridcully was without a doubt The Imperial Trust's greatest seer. This one man had seen and manipulated the flow and fates of entire wars, some of which have not, and will not even happen. He had seen the future and past of technologies older than some civilizations. He had laid sight to the birth and secrets of Gods, and the Emperor willing it he would do so again!
And so it was humbling, and only somewhat embarrassing, for his powers of foresight to wane, just enough to render this one day...blurry.
Psyker's powers were finicky even at the best and upper limits of power and control, such was the fate of any power that depended on the metaphysical force of change and disorder, so it couldn't be...entirely unexpected that during the countdown to what could be his greatest achievement (or his downfall), Ridcully would wake up one day, try to swing himself out of bed, and accidentally step on an unfortunately placed pen that had rolled off his bedside table during the night.
With only a quickly muffled yelp of pain and the plucking of an 'ornate' skull-and-needles laden birthday present, humanities' greatest seer found that he was blind to the present around him. A serious handicap, even to him, after all he heavily relied on his foresight to see, and with the upcoming awakening of the Ork gods he was restraining many of his other powers to better test himself. More than that, he had serious work to do. Research to be conducted, rituals to plan, contingencies to discus, all important, and all would be much more difficult without his full compliment of sight. A frown marked his face, but he would not be deterred. The Grandmaster had faced many hardships in his long life, and he would not let the psychic equivalent of temporary blindness get in his way.
With a thought he pictured his room and psychically sought the route to his robe, opening himself to the near future and... there, right where he left it. With a victorious grin Ridcully marched through his bedroom, grabbed his very impressive bathrobe, made out of the fur of a phase-tiger he has personally (and literally) hunted through a forest, and promptly put it on inside out.
'Now,' he thought, 'recaf.' He closed his eyes, a symbolic gesture, and nodded once, twice, three times to himself, turned and took two steps towards his chamber's door, tripped on some loose paperwork and stumbled his way into the doorhandle.
"Fawkes, be good while I'm out!" The petulant buzzing of his pet Dragonfly filled the room for the brief moment before Ridcully closed his door, turned, took three steps forward and grabbed the cup of Recaf his Sight told him would be there. There were many advantages almost miraculous precognition can grant, but always being able to find the nearest cup of freshly brewed recaf was, in Ridcully's opinion, easily in the top five. He didn't wonder why there was a cup of fresh recaf just outside his chamber nor did he notice the whimpers of the poor acolyte who had simply wanted to drink his recaf away from the noisy cafeteria, but he did take the time to take a thoughtful sip of his morning drink.
"Hmm. Could have used a bit more sugar."
And with that, one of Humanities' greatest champion's strolled through the halls of his school, calmly sipping stolen and slightly bitter recaf, more blind to the world than he had ever been. Until he tripped on a slightly upturned rug and crashed to the floor.
'Maybe...I can just take the day easy instead...'
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- Location
- Alice Springs, Australia
now, 80, well 78 after the last Omakes
min is 75
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@Durin
In a role play I picked up the Imperiums currency name of "Crown" as a smaller one to "Throne". Just no scale of exchange.
As you had already pointed out in the before a Throne is worth a lot and I hope that for omake makers it could be a workaround for citizen interactions with money.
Your opinion?
In a role play I picked up the Imperiums currency name of "Crown" as a smaller one to "Throne". Just no scale of exchange.
As you had already pointed out in the before a Throne is worth a lot and I hope that for omake makers it could be a workaround for citizen interactions with money.
Your opinion?
- Location
- Alice Springs, Australia
yes that sunds fair, 100 Crows to a Throne (making it around $10) and 100 ?? to a Crown (making it around $0.10)
notanautomaton
I've got 99 quests, I've finished one
That's actually entirely possible. Crossing my fingers!
Doomed Wombat
Let's go Darling!
- Location
- Dancing on wires!
- Location
- Alice Springs, Australia
thank you@Durin welcome back.
HanEmpire
Delicious
1) Does this mean the value of the Throne is different according to planet?
2) Who holds the power to adjust the exchange rates?
3) How much Thrones does an average Avernite earn per year?
- Location
- Alice Springs, Australia
1. how much it can buy changes with location but 1 Throne = 1 Throne
3. 300
Shard
One and Many
- Location
- Malaysia
Avernus, with DAoT tech is surely a post-cash society. Just use 0.76 Crows, etc.
Planetary Annihilation.
ArchAIngel
Sorcerer Supreme.
- Location
- Right behind you.
The Imperium did deal with a War World at one point.
Planetary Annihilation.
It had happened. As had been foreseen, as had been foretold.
The Ork Gods, Gork and Mork, gods of the Orks, had awoken.
Their steps had sundered the Warp, as the Maelstrom, the Sanctus Rift, the Black Gates, and so many more Warp Storms in realspace were simply... snuffed out, like a candle before a howling gale.
What had come in their wake made the scraps of humanity left pray that the Chaos Gods returned, that the bruises eclipsing the horizon on worlds light-years away would come back.
They simply mutated, changed, warped. You could fight them. Could kill what they spat out. Could even turn back the thrusts of Old Night, with bravery and heroism and sacrifice.
What came from those holes in the world... you couldn't.
Hideous, howling, roaring hordes that came in ransacking fleets outmassing the worlds they hovered over, hollowing them out and leaving devoid shells that they crudely strepped bombs and guns and so many maelfic contraptions to that they were more some blind, brutal parody of Mars than anything truly understood by human minds.
In trillions, in quadrillions they came from each storm, an emerald tide eclipsing the Imperial Guard in total, each Ork carrying the might of a Warboss of old, and the Warbosses, Warlords, Overlords, and the hideous apocalypse-monger that stood unnamed and untitled at their head were things even the Emperor's Sons could not fight and assuredly win, even as the Wolftime fell and the Khan returned and Vulkan lived and so many others hidden and potent returned.
There was one choice, they gave to the worlds they met.
Lie down your arms, and die for nothing, or stand and fight, and die for something.
Planets were stripped bare, drenched in flame, and smote to molten ruins.
To the few minds who remembered any of the Emperor's words before the Horus Heresy, a singular quote came to mind, with hideous potency.
"Either the Emperor is not as perfect an architect of this new age as we like to suppose, and he is capable of manufacturing nightmares, or he has anticipated threats we can't possibly imagine."
They now knew which of those was true, as they watched simple Boyz bull through Leman Russ formations like an army of Warbosses.
To be a man in such times is to be an inheritor of armageddon, though Armageddon itself is another scrap-corpse echoing through the stars.
It is to exist on the brink of extinction, the fate of so many blighted aliens and monstrous things that had once roamed the stars now brought to those who had slain so many.
It is to live with the terrifying knowledge that nightmares are real, and that oblivion could come at any moment at the end of an emerald fist.
Forget the promise of enforced security that the Imperium brought with hundreds of thousands of corpses every day, for the galaxy burns with war on an unimaginable scale, and there is no more Emperor to guide the fate of man.
Forget the blissful ignorance of ages past, for one need only look up to see that the stars are going out, forged into monstrous weapons that are pointed at worlds that pulse and hum with Necrodermis flows.
There is no deliverance for men beyond what they make for themselves, and to falter now would leave mankind with no one to carry on.
There will be no after.
There will be no other day.
Not until the Ork is dead, and their gods with them.
Humanity cannot achieve that.
Not alone. Too many dead, too many mad, too many isolated, too many bickering.
All swept up like sand in a hurricane, or burnt into blackglass by industrial fire to fuel a war beyond any mortal reckoning.
Even the worlds warned of the oncoming storm were not assured of safety in this age of monsters, as the Nine Worlds soon learned.
It hadn't even been a splinter of the blighted might borne by the Beast, a mere hundred thousand scrapships that, even with the emerald that coruscated through their frames and formed ghostly, leering heads that gnawed at all struck by the corpse-hulls, would not truly match the voidskill borne out, the ambushes knifing into their flanks, and the death-forged majesty of the boarding troops, power armor and plasma their standard instead of the flak and pikes and shotguns the Armsmen of old bore to push back the emerald tide.
No, what broke the fleet of the Imperial Trust was the planet marching to war.
It was an idea fourty-two thousand years old, planet-sized warships, but only an idea, dismissed as madness, as fiction, as an amusing story.
Stories were real, now, at the brutal fists of the Ork.
The few Command Battleships simply vanished at a single touch of the guns, crude macro-cannons flinging scrapshells bigger than the warships in question and in far larger numbers, while even squadrons of precious Battleships washed away in the fire of crude Nova bombs, and anything less was as paper before the "Point Defense" of the world.
You cannot fight a planet. Sheer, obdurate mass, and the hideous volumes of firepower emplaced upon it, as well as more Orks than humans ever born in the Trust swarming on the internals like ants in a hive made sure of that.
Yet even as they salvaged the broken ruins of the fleet, laughing with glee as they popped the oxygen tanks of the few survivors just to watch their faces burst, having competitions on whose humie could die the slowest, they ignored eight of the worlds.
After all, they were weak, and not a good fight.
But the gods had heard a tingle in their ear, at one point, from a Overlord on the cusp of something more. An old, Old tingle.
They knew what that meant, a damn good fight, so the pounding changed one tiny fleet's direction.
And as they approached one of the worlds upon which their kind was forged, as grim-faced man drew gun and shot for one final, stubborn stand, in the hopes someone could survive through the number of Orks they felled, as the finest Psychic might mankind had produced in the 40th millennium was brought to bear.
Ancient, potent stations responded, for there were no more ships to fight off the ramshackle hordes, and even the dumbest of AI upon the Old One's works knew what a planet moving meant. Each and every one of the Warp-borne garbage scows was wiped away in blossoms of hideous light, titanic Hulks blossoming into newborn stars that were crushed and directed into lances of corpseflame, rending great trenches into the War World, glistening crimson wounds that drooled rock and metal in equal amounts.
Yet... it was not enough. Simple volume of fire meant that the few fractions of a second spent in realspace to let dust-coated generators cool evaporated them, sheer size and blast compensating for maddening technology.
A single shell missed, from the cannons, this time, and human life on Avernus was extinguished as the skies lit up with flame and fire, an entire continental plate exposed and turned into a cloud of ejecta and rubble, not even their most fast holds and deepest shelters surviving the apocalyptic impact.
The shield of glimmering night-dark under the surface, on the other hand, cared not as it unfolded.
Stone and veins of metal and the vast majority of living species simply... vanished, on the scales of the thing immersing itself from the eggshell-planet it had been incubating in.
It was not supposed to be born so early, so violently, so roughly. It was a crippled, retarded child of a species, a single-life so weak and soft-hided any adult of their kind would've slain it simply for a mercy.
Yet... it was the only one there was. The only one there could be, any more, for the rest had died in the impact. And the other worlds were... gone.
The Premature unfolded, dark crystal soaking up the star nearby into a orbiting corona that casually absorbed the storm of metal and shell like rain upon a roof.
It did not understand its mission. How could it, for it was born so quickly, so vastly before it was supposed to be, that it was less than a fetus of what it should have been?
Yet a singular wingflick hacked a continental plate from its moorings on the Ork work, spilling uncounted lives into uncaring void, and a twist of a neck sent the star it had so casually assumed control of into the planet, and for the first and last time in their lives, the War World found itself in the position of so many patrol frigates that had found it.
Completely and utterly outsized, to the point it wasn't even a bug on a windshield.
The Premature keened as the world melted, and wrapped it around itself, like a child in their elder's clothing.
It knew not what to do. So it simply acquired power, as best it could. First the worlds of the Helheim system were crack apart, cooked like eggs in their shell, and eaten like such.
Next.... Who knew?
Only the black crystal demon that wandered the stars, crying and crying for its parents, in a galaxy devoid of any hope or care for such an abandoned child.
======
That ended sadder than I thought.
Obviously non-canon.
Planetary Annihilation.
It had happened. As had been foreseen, as had been foretold.
The Ork Gods, Gork and Mork, gods of the Orks, had awoken.
Their steps had sundered the Warp, as the Maelstrom, the Sanctus Rift, the Black Gates, and so many more Warp Storms in realspace were simply... snuffed out, like a candle before a howling gale.
What had come in their wake made the scraps of humanity left pray that the Chaos Gods returned, that the bruises eclipsing the horizon on worlds light-years away would come back.
They simply mutated, changed, warped. You could fight them. Could kill what they spat out. Could even turn back the thrusts of Old Night, with bravery and heroism and sacrifice.
What came from those holes in the world... you couldn't.
Hideous, howling, roaring hordes that came in ransacking fleets outmassing the worlds they hovered over, hollowing them out and leaving devoid shells that they crudely strepped bombs and guns and so many maelfic contraptions to that they were more some blind, brutal parody of Mars than anything truly understood by human minds.
In trillions, in quadrillions they came from each storm, an emerald tide eclipsing the Imperial Guard in total, each Ork carrying the might of a Warboss of old, and the Warbosses, Warlords, Overlords, and the hideous apocalypse-monger that stood unnamed and untitled at their head were things even the Emperor's Sons could not fight and assuredly win, even as the Wolftime fell and the Khan returned and Vulkan lived and so many others hidden and potent returned.
There was one choice, they gave to the worlds they met.
Lie down your arms, and die for nothing, or stand and fight, and die for something.
Planets were stripped bare, drenched in flame, and smote to molten ruins.
To the few minds who remembered any of the Emperor's words before the Horus Heresy, a singular quote came to mind, with hideous potency.
"Either the Emperor is not as perfect an architect of this new age as we like to suppose, and he is capable of manufacturing nightmares, or he has anticipated threats we can't possibly imagine."
They now knew which of those was true, as they watched simple Boyz bull through Leman Russ formations like an army of Warbosses.
To be a man in such times is to be an inheritor of armageddon, though Armageddon itself is another scrap-corpse echoing through the stars.
It is to exist on the brink of extinction, the fate of so many blighted aliens and monstrous things that had once roamed the stars now brought to those who had slain so many.
It is to live with the terrifying knowledge that nightmares are real, and that oblivion could come at any moment at the end of an emerald fist.
Forget the promise of enforced security that the Imperium brought with hundreds of thousands of corpses every day, for the galaxy burns with war on an unimaginable scale, and there is no more Emperor to guide the fate of man.
Forget the blissful ignorance of ages past, for one need only look up to see that the stars are going out, forged into monstrous weapons that are pointed at worlds that pulse and hum with Necrodermis flows.
There is no deliverance for men beyond what they make for themselves, and to falter now would leave mankind with no one to carry on.
There will be no after.
There will be no other day.
Not until the Ork is dead, and their gods with them.
Humanity cannot achieve that.
Not alone. Too many dead, too many mad, too many isolated, too many bickering.
All swept up like sand in a hurricane, or burnt into blackglass by industrial fire to fuel a war beyond any mortal reckoning.
Even the worlds warned of the oncoming storm were not assured of safety in this age of monsters, as the Nine Worlds soon learned.
It hadn't even been a splinter of the blighted might borne by the Beast, a mere hundred thousand scrapships that, even with the emerald that coruscated through their frames and formed ghostly, leering heads that gnawed at all struck by the corpse-hulls, would not truly match the voidskill borne out, the ambushes knifing into their flanks, and the death-forged majesty of the boarding troops, power armor and plasma their standard instead of the flak and pikes and shotguns the Armsmen of old bore to push back the emerald tide.
No, what broke the fleet of the Imperial Trust was the planet marching to war.
It was an idea fourty-two thousand years old, planet-sized warships, but only an idea, dismissed as madness, as fiction, as an amusing story.
Stories were real, now, at the brutal fists of the Ork.
The few Command Battleships simply vanished at a single touch of the guns, crude macro-cannons flinging scrapshells bigger than the warships in question and in far larger numbers, while even squadrons of precious Battleships washed away in the fire of crude Nova bombs, and anything less was as paper before the "Point Defense" of the world.
You cannot fight a planet. Sheer, obdurate mass, and the hideous volumes of firepower emplaced upon it, as well as more Orks than humans ever born in the Trust swarming on the internals like ants in a hive made sure of that.
Yet even as they salvaged the broken ruins of the fleet, laughing with glee as they popped the oxygen tanks of the few survivors just to watch their faces burst, having competitions on whose humie could die the slowest, they ignored eight of the worlds.
After all, they were weak, and not a good fight.
But the gods had heard a tingle in their ear, at one point, from a Overlord on the cusp of something more. An old, Old tingle.
They knew what that meant, a damn good fight, so the pounding changed one tiny fleet's direction.
And as they approached one of the worlds upon which their kind was forged, as grim-faced man drew gun and shot for one final, stubborn stand, in the hopes someone could survive through the number of Orks they felled, as the finest Psychic might mankind had produced in the 40th millennium was brought to bear.
Ancient, potent stations responded, for there were no more ships to fight off the ramshackle hordes, and even the dumbest of AI upon the Old One's works knew what a planet moving meant. Each and every one of the Warp-borne garbage scows was wiped away in blossoms of hideous light, titanic Hulks blossoming into newborn stars that were crushed and directed into lances of corpseflame, rending great trenches into the War World, glistening crimson wounds that drooled rock and metal in equal amounts.
Yet... it was not enough. Simple volume of fire meant that the few fractions of a second spent in realspace to let dust-coated generators cool evaporated them, sheer size and blast compensating for maddening technology.
A single shell missed, from the cannons, this time, and human life on Avernus was extinguished as the skies lit up with flame and fire, an entire continental plate exposed and turned into a cloud of ejecta and rubble, not even their most fast holds and deepest shelters surviving the apocalyptic impact.
The shield of glimmering night-dark under the surface, on the other hand, cared not as it unfolded.
Stone and veins of metal and the vast majority of living species simply... vanished, on the scales of the thing immersing itself from the eggshell-planet it had been incubating in.
It was not supposed to be born so early, so violently, so roughly. It was a crippled, retarded child of a species, a single-life so weak and soft-hided any adult of their kind would've slain it simply for a mercy.
Yet... it was the only one there was. The only one there could be, any more, for the rest had died in the impact. And the other worlds were... gone.
The Premature unfolded, dark crystal soaking up the star nearby into a orbiting corona that casually absorbed the storm of metal and shell like rain upon a roof.
It did not understand its mission. How could it, for it was born so quickly, so vastly before it was supposed to be, that it was less than a fetus of what it should have been?
Yet a singular wingflick hacked a continental plate from its moorings on the Ork work, spilling uncounted lives into uncaring void, and a twist of a neck sent the star it had so casually assumed control of into the planet, and for the first and last time in their lives, the War World found itself in the position of so many patrol frigates that had found it.
Completely and utterly outsized, to the point it wasn't even a bug on a windshield.
The Premature keened as the world melted, and wrapped it around itself, like a child in their elder's clothing.
It knew not what to do. So it simply acquired power, as best it could. First the worlds of the Helheim system were crack apart, cooked like eggs in their shell, and eaten like such.
Next.... Who knew?
Only the black crystal demon that wandered the stars, crying and crying for its parents, in a galaxy devoid of any hope or care for such an abandoned child.
======
That ended sadder than I thought.
Obviously non-canon.
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- Location
- Brazil
Who has the best purchasing power and how do they relate to each other?
The Green Awakening: The Prodigal Son
Doomed Wombat
Let's go Darling!
- Location
- Dancing on wires!
The Green Awakening: The Prodigal Son
On a planet on the outer edges of the galaxy lies an observatory, established there millennia ago at the whim of a powerful being. What its purpose was the current inhabitants did not know, maybe it was to see other galaxies, or divine the mysteries of the void.
It had been abandoned long before they arrived, making a semi-permanent home there where the Warp was calmer compared to the chaos of the inner galaxy. There they could rest, study, practise and plot in relative peace and comfort.
It was also why here Ahzek Ahriman made his grandest divinations. The calm barriers between the warp, the centuries of warding, powerful students and ancient artefacts that had been gathered there made such divinations somewhat safer than they would be anywhere else.
Within an instant the Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons entered the warp, like a fish returning to water and sped towards his quarry, the duelling presence in the wastes of the warp. Even as he moved he knew he had made the right choice. Other powerful figures were converging on the same place he was, they too wished to know how and what would happen when the Ork Gods awakened. Ah that knowledge, so painfully bought.
Within a moment he stood upon a mountain top, his horned helmet staring at the battling Gods who so outclassed him. That was understandable. They were gods and he was yet still mortal. His ascension was fast approaching. And so, he cloaked himself with deceit and girded his soul with iron, before he felt a familiar presence turn its attention his way.
So even the aberration bandying around in his father's corpse and disgracing his memory… could not resist the spectacle of what was to take place. With a tumultuous effort of will Ahriman restrained his emotions before they gave him away even though the anger and loss within him burned hot enough to make him a like a Khornate.
But that was not his way, all through his life even when he was a child of absolute power on distant, long gone Terra he had been in control, even when Ohrmuzd had been twisted into a monster by his flesh he had been in control, even when his home was unjustly burned.
He. Had. Been. In. Control.
Turning his attention to the Ork gods to distract himself from the emotions he was trying to suppress he withdrew parchment and cut his hand to make the ink. It was the only way to make the letters stick. Dispassionately he threw himself into observation of the flows of frequencies, power and resonance between the two beings. Until they were gone.
Grimacing, Ahriman knew he had outstayed his welcome, but his curiosity bad he stay until he was thrown back by a force surpassing force. Thrown downwards he reinforced his body with power drawing deeply on the warp to survive the impacts with the mountains before he saw a green wall fast approaching him.
Stumbling and grimacing as his artefacts and mind attempted to compensate for the raw power he witnessed he ran, leaping onto the air as he did so to gain more speed as lesser seers floundered and died.
He made the preparations to leave the warp and then cursed. His body was too far away for him to return there intact. At least where he was at this moment.
Then he turned, running still, for he heard an inhalation of breath that felt more ominous than the preparation for exterminatus.
"OY 'OO IZ STEAL'N OUR BOYZ"
And then they roared and Ahriman stopped running even as his mind was starting to be flayed by the power of their awakening. Calling his disc of Tzeench from the infinite warp he leapt onto the wave in possibly the most foolish action he had ever taken in the last four millennia. What choice did he have, he could not have run fast enough, though given the number of burnt out over loaded amulets and trinkets upon his chest, his mind may have possibly been inhibited too.
He made the strongest shields he could below his legs and straddled the power of a God made manifest even as his disc screamed as it burnt and died he was left moderately untouched. But no being could ride this beast and he was soon thrown from its peak, far enough for him to return to his body once more.
He woke to see a room in chaos, his servants all fled, though the cooling, blackened corpses of some indicated that his journey had had physical impacts in the world around him. As he attempted to stand he hissed in pain, before realising that both his legs below the knees were gone. Blackened stumps.
Cursing he felt his current prohabitioner running to his aid as he grasped the parchment he had sacrificed so much to obtain.
Could this be the last piece of the puzzle?
I hope I didn't make it too goofy, but I did want to show Ahriman in a good if someone what insane light
@Durin
I think you might have missed this one
On a planet on the outer edges of the galaxy lies an observatory, established there millennia ago at the whim of a powerful being. What its purpose was the current inhabitants did not know, maybe it was to see other galaxies, or divine the mysteries of the void.
It had been abandoned long before they arrived, making a semi-permanent home there where the Warp was calmer compared to the chaos of the inner galaxy. There they could rest, study, practise and plot in relative peace and comfort.
It was also why here Ahzek Ahriman made his grandest divinations. The calm barriers between the warp, the centuries of warding, powerful students and ancient artefacts that had been gathered there made such divinations somewhat safer than they would be anywhere else.
Within an instant the Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons entered the warp, like a fish returning to water and sped towards his quarry, the duelling presence in the wastes of the warp. Even as he moved he knew he had made the right choice. Other powerful figures were converging on the same place he was, they too wished to know how and what would happen when the Ork Gods awakened. Ah that knowledge, so painfully bought.
Within a moment he stood upon a mountain top, his horned helmet staring at the battling Gods who so outclassed him. That was understandable. They were gods and he was yet still mortal. His ascension was fast approaching. And so, he cloaked himself with deceit and girded his soul with iron, before he felt a familiar presence turn its attention his way.
So even the aberration bandying around in his father's corpse and disgracing his memory… could not resist the spectacle of what was to take place. With a tumultuous effort of will Ahriman restrained his emotions before they gave him away even though the anger and loss within him burned hot enough to make him a like a Khornate.
But that was not his way, all through his life even when he was a child of absolute power on distant, long gone Terra he had been in control, even when Ohrmuzd had been twisted into a monster by his flesh he had been in control, even when his home was unjustly burned.
He. Had. Been. In. Control.
Turning his attention to the Ork gods to distract himself from the emotions he was trying to suppress he withdrew parchment and cut his hand to make the ink. It was the only way to make the letters stick. Dispassionately he threw himself into observation of the flows of frequencies, power and resonance between the two beings. Until they were gone.
Grimacing, Ahriman knew he had outstayed his welcome, but his curiosity bad he stay until he was thrown back by a force surpassing force. Thrown downwards he reinforced his body with power drawing deeply on the warp to survive the impacts with the mountains before he saw a green wall fast approaching him.
Stumbling and grimacing as his artefacts and mind attempted to compensate for the raw power he witnessed he ran, leaping onto the air as he did so to gain more speed as lesser seers floundered and died.
He made the preparations to leave the warp and then cursed. His body was too far away for him to return there intact. At least where he was at this moment.
Then he turned, running still, for he heard an inhalation of breath that felt more ominous than the preparation for exterminatus.
"OY 'OO IZ STEAL'N OUR BOYZ"
And then they roared and Ahriman stopped running even as his mind was starting to be flayed by the power of their awakening. Calling his disc of Tzeench from the infinite warp he leapt onto the wave in possibly the most foolish action he had ever taken in the last four millennia. What choice did he have, he could not have run fast enough, though given the number of burnt out over loaded amulets and trinkets upon his chest, his mind may have possibly been inhibited too.
He made the strongest shields he could below his legs and straddled the power of a God made manifest even as his disc screamed as it burnt and died he was left moderately untouched. But no being could ride this beast and he was soon thrown from its peak, far enough for him to return to his body once more.
He woke to see a room in chaos, his servants all fled, though the cooling, blackened corpses of some indicated that his journey had had physical impacts in the world around him. As he attempted to stand he hissed in pain, before realising that both his legs below the knees were gone. Blackened stumps.
Cursing he felt his current prohabitioner running to his aid as he grasped the parchment he had sacrificed so much to obtain.
Could this be the last piece of the puzzle?
I hope I didn't make it too goofy, but I did want to show Ahriman in a good if someone what insane light
@Durin
I think you might have missed this one
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There are super cars that match the cost of Trooper Armour. Not many but some.
Is this before or after those reforms Scott had planned?
$300,000 average income? I knew Avernites were loaded but that is amazing.
Actually… depending on the cost of living and how big a range there is between high income and low income the 'Extract from Sports Of the Trust Canon' omake could already be occurring.
Doomed Wombat
Let's go Darling!
- Location
- Dancing on wires!
Given the free healthcare, education possibly free food ect. I'd imagine cost of living is fairly low.
- Location
- Alice Springs, Australia
Yes it could