The Lost Primarch Quest

[Ruirk]

Real short omake

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Front and Center

The years had been kind to Tenra, though she found her most recent assignments dull—save for the attempted coup on Terra. She had been stationed on Luna during the crisis, unable to aid her sisters in defending the Imperial Palace. Yet, the Sisters of Silence never abandoned their posts, even in the face of doubt and uncertainty.

The coup had failed, but its aftermath forced the Order to rebuild. Now a Knight Abyssal, Tenra bore the full weight of her new authority and responsibilities. Her recent elevation came with a set of custom artificer armor, a voidscale cloak, and a Charnabal Spear forged specifically for her—Inzhun's Revenge.

Even after all these years, she still mourned Inzhun's loss, yet she remained eternally grateful for his sacrifice. Few would have laid down their lives for a Blank, yet even if Inzhun had not been mortally wounded, she knew he would never have let her die.

That gratitude extended to his Legion. Though Tenra was no spy, nor did she play the role of an informant, she made a habit of writing to them. She also corresponded with Epistolary Akil, who never failed to express his appreciation that someone still remembered his fallen friend.

But when news of the Wardens' secession reached Terra, Tenra was forced to stop writing to them. That had been over a year ago. She often wondered how they were faring now. Many within the Sisterhood resented Terra's increasingly hostile stance toward the Wardens. Too many veterans had fought beside them during the Ritual War to see them as traitors.

Yet, such was the price of duty. Those in power decided who was friend and who was foe, and the rest were expected to follow. Still, Tenra often found herself wondering—if civil war did break out, how would she reach the Warden lines? One advantage of being a Blank was that no psyker could pry into her thoughts or intentions.

That was why she felt a flicker of unease when two Custodians approached her and instructed her to come with them. She obeyed because what else could she do? As they led her deep into the Imperial Palace, she reminded herself she had done nothing treasonous. Her loyalty remained with the Emperor, even if she had reservations about the High Lords and their plans.

The Custodians brought her to the Tower of Hegemon—the very heart of the Custodes, where the Companions resided. The golden-clad warriors were not the only ones she saw; their serfs, dressed in the finest fabrics and adorned with the bones of their ancestors, moved about with solemn purpose.

Before her loomed a vast door of gold, auramite, and sandstone, carved with grand depictions of the Unification Wars—victories across Terra, Luna, and beyond. Her escorts halted. "Enter," one commanded. Then they took position as sentries, leaving her alone.

Tenra stepped forward and, to her surprise, found herself in what appeared to be an office. Behind a large desk, quill in hand sat none other than Constantin Valdor—the Emperor's Spear, the Captain-General of the Custodian Guard.

It was an odd sight. The man was writing, his movements precise yet deliberate, as he worked through a collection of reports with an oversized ink quill. Even stranger, he wore no helmet, revealing sharp, patrician features that might have been considered handsome—if not for the weight of deep contemplation etched into his expression.

Valdor looked up, meeting her gaze with piercing intensity.

"Take a seat," he said, gesturing toward a chair designed for an Astartes rather than a mere mortal. Nevertheless, Tenra sat down and waited.

An awkward moment passed as Tenra waited for the Captain-General to speak. Valdor set his quill down, his piercing gaze studying her, maybe trying to find some sort of deception.

"Knight Abyssal," he said, almost testing the title on his tongue. "Quite the accomplishment for someone so young. It speaks highly of you—especially given your record. The Knight-Commander placed your name at the top of a very short list."

Tenra remained silent, waiting for him to reveal why she was here. The praise from the Knight-Commander was unexpected, and with it came an uneasy weight in her chest. Recognition was rarely without consequence.

Valdor's expression remained unreadable as he continued. "Your record shows you survived on RP-08 during the Maelstrom Compliance, after a complete military catastrophe. Specifically, you are the sole survivor of that debacle." He leaned back slightly. "Some might call that luck. I've come to recognize it as something else—talent."

She gave no response. It wasn't her place to accept praise, nor did she seek it.

"I intend to make use of that talent," Valdor stated. "As does our Emperor."

That caught her full attention.

"The Master of Mankind is planning an assault on a daemon world," he continued. "To reclaim something of great importance from our most hated foe. I will lead the vanguard. You will accompany me."

Tenra met his gaze, then lifted her hands in a practiced motion. 'You honor me.'

Valdor watched her sign and gave the faintest nod. Of course, he understood the ancient language of the Sisterhood, for he had fought alongside the Knight-Commander and her sisters since the Emperor was proclaimed the Master of Mankind.

To be chosen for something the Emperor himself would lead? That was an honor beyond reckoning.

But then came the real purpose of this meeting.

"However," Valdor continued, his tone sharpening, "vetting is necessary, and I have concerns regarding your long-standing ties to the Eternal Wardens. They have broken their oaths to the Emperor and jeopardized the Imperium's security. I do not question your loyalty—if I did, we would not be having this conversation—but what we are about to undertake demands absolute secrecy and discretion. I must verify your commitment."

Tenra remained still, weighing her response. She had anticipated scrutiny but from Valdor himself? That was another matter. Finally, she signed, 'Is the Knight-Commander aware of this concern?'

"She is," Valdor replied. "And she has left the final decision in my hands."

So she was on her own.

'What must be done to prove my loyalty?'

Valdor paused as if considering his next words, but Tenra suspected he had already decided.

"You've operated alongside the Eternal Wardens, spoken with their warriors, and fought beside them. That means you know how they function. You're going to tell us everything."

Tenra blinked, a dreadful weight settling in her chest.

'Everything?'

"Everything," he repeated. "Those who command their major frontline companies, how they have been deploying, their auxiliary elements, who lead their research projects, the extent of their domain—everything. If we are forced to counter them, we need every advantage."

The realization hit her immediately—he wanted information that could be used to undermine, even destroy, the Wardens. She could lie and omit details, but Valdor would see through it. There was no escaping this.

She signed her response carefully. 'I am... uncomfortable with this. The Wardens are honorable. I fought beside them. This insults the sacrifices they made for the Emperor.'

If she did this, she could never forgive herself. But she had sworn oaths—to the Sisterhood, to the Imperium, and above all, to the Emperor. The Wardens had broken theirs, no matter the justification.

Valdor exhaled through his nose, studying her reaction. "So you won't do this freely." He shook his head. "I can order you, then."

Tenra made her choice.

I will obey if ordered, but I do so under protest—and I will speak with the Knight-Commander about this. It would likely change nothing, but at least she could say she had tried.

Valdor snorted, amused but unsurprised. "Very well. I don't need you to like it—just follow orders. We'll get along just fine on the battlefield." And just like that, he was ready to dismiss Tenra, citing that he would call her back for future meetings.

She was quick to leave this office. Tenra felt guilty, almost like she had committed a grave sin against people who trusted her. If her information would cause harm to the Wardens…Tenra didn't want to imagine what Inzhun would think of her.

But Tenra had her duty to the Sisterhood and responsibilities now. The Emperor was calling for her aid, and who was she to argue with the Master of Mankind?

---

@Daemon Hunter

 

[Ruirk]

A Dark Day

Today was supposed to be a good day.

Instead, it became a black mark on Macragge's history. And the sad truth? Roboute hadn't done enough to prevent it.

His mother was getting married. It should have been a cause for joy, but an almost childish anxiety had settled over him ever since he first heard the news months ago. To him, it meant that his mother had—perhaps not forgotten—but finally moved on from Konor Guilliman after all these years.

And yet, could he truly blame her? His father had been dead for nearly half a century. People grieved, then moved on. They found new life, new happiness, in the arms of another. Euten Tarsha had found that with Aldrich Baelsar.

Roboute hadn't shared her excitement. He knew little about Aldrich beyond his doomed efforts to repair the Imperium's budget—an impossible task that had earned him disgrace and forced him into a second retirement. The Astartes and the Imperial Army had mocked him, calling him the Tyrant of Terra for his troubles.

Yet it was he and his mother who had orchestrated the deal that allowed the Imperium to borrow from Ultramar rather than the Mechanicum, giving Roboute unprecedented influence but also binding the galaxy in a fragile balance of mutual benefit and necessity.

And now, his mother had named Aldrich Legatus of Macragge. While Roboute had led the Legion, Aldrich had been by her side, guiding her through the political storm that followed the Masquerade End. It was Aldrich who proposed the marriage—a public reassurance in uncertain times.

A calculated move. A necessary distraction.

But one that Roboute had quietly wished she had reconsidered.

It was uncomfortable, knowing that his father's memory would soon be overshadowed. First, it had been by Roboute himself. Now, Aldrich would take his place.

Had he—perhaps unconsciously—wished for this to never happen?

Had the galaxy conspired against him? Against his mother? Against his people?

Macragge had been attacked the day before the wedding.

Aldrich Baelsar—a man Roboute had only just met, a man he could only see as the slow erosion of his father's legacy—was dead.

And he wasn't the only victim.

A million citizens. Hundreds of Astartes. Countless sons and daughters of the Macragge PDF.

But this death—this one—stung. More than all the others, it hurt his mother.

The gods had punished Euten Tarsha to humble Roboute Guilliman.

Why?

Was it not enough to take one husband from her—betrayed by a man she had once called a friend? Now, they had taken another, stolen from her the day before their wedding.

Hadn't his mother suffered enough?

The Ravenloft priests spoke of karma, of how the cosmos punished those who committed grave wrongs. Negative deeds brought only negative outcomes. Roboute had done terrible things in the name of necessity, but he had tried—tried—to be better. To do better.

No. This wasn't the time for self-reflection, for contemplating his place in some grand cosmic order.

His world had been attacked.

Imperial assassins. Black Brigaders. Traitors within his own PDF. They had slaughtered his sons and citizens. They had nearly killed—or worse, attempted to steal—his mother.

Cold fury hardened into something deeper, something darker.

A cold rage.

He ordered Macragge into full lockdown. His sons would take command of the PDF. Oriacarius—who had already proven himself invaluable—was granted full access to the planetary defense network and, with little more than a nod from Roboute, was given the authority to purge anyone suspected of harboring disloyalty to the Realm of Ultramar.

Meanwhile, Roboute was left with the monumental task of calming an entire world—assuring its people that this was not an invasion, even as the shadows of war loomed over them. The wedding guests, once arriving in celebration, were now being told of what had happened.

And through it all, he had been consumed by duty. By orders. By action.

It wasn't until Yvraine arrived—having stolen the fastest Aeldari craft, nearly breaking through a blockade of his own PDF to reach him—that she asked the one question he had failed to consider.

"How is your mother?"

The words hit him like a hammer blow.

It had been a full day since he had last seen her—since he had ensured her safety and then abandoned her to her grief.

Everything had happened so fast.

And now, standing amidst the chaos, he felt something unexpected.

Shame.

Not for what he had done—but for what he hadn't.

---

Once his conversation with Yvraine ended, Roboute rushed to find his mother.

She was easy enough to locate—Macragge's palace was under heavy guard, an entire company of Astartes ensuring its security. Yet despite the turmoil beyond these walls, Euten Tarsha had remained secluded in her chambers, venturing out only for a routine check-up by the medicae.

Roboute reached her door and dismissed the guards, ordering them to wait in the hall. As the heavy footsteps of Astartes receded, silence settled around him.

And still, he hesitated.

His hand hovered near the door handle, but he found himself unable to move.

The medics had assured him she was no longer in shock—at least, not physically. Whether that was due to the battle or the loss of her fiancé, they could not say.

A shameful feeling crept over him.

Relief.

He wouldn't have to be the one to tell her. Aldrich was dead, and she already knew.

Once, he had been able to look a grieving mother or widow in the eye and tell them—gently, with compassion and dignity—that their son or husband would not be coming home. They had given their lives for something greater than any person or world.

How tragic, then, that when it came to his own family, he dreaded the thought of trying to say such a thing. A bitter life lesson, perhaps.

Roboute knocked gently on the door. "Mother?"

For a fleeting moment, another memory surfaced—a similar scene years ago, in the days after his father's death.

He remembered how Euten had carried herself then: composed, dignified, her sorrow hidden behind gallows humor and the unyielding demands of necessity. Even in grief, she had been a pillar of strength, ensuring that Roboute, suddenly thrust into the role of Consul of Macragge, had no time to falter.

If nothing else, his mother had always been strong in the face of despair. Still, he wondered if this time would be different.

A brief pause followed before a voice from the other side of the door called out, "Enter."

Her tone was steady—too steady. Roboute stepped inside, his gaze immediately falling on his mother. She sat at her desk, staring at a holo-display that had just been powered down.

Closing the door behind him, he took in her appearance. She looked exhausted, her posture rigid and fatigued. It was clear she hadn't slept. He tried not to linger on the small personal effects around the room—items that had belonged to Aldrich, arranged just so, a quiet testament to the life he had shared with her.

Roboute stepped forward. Neither of them spoke.

How was he supposed to start this conversation? What could he possibly say?

Instead, he simply sat beside her, reaching out and taking her hand in his—just as he had done as a boy, just as he had done the day after they buried Konor.

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, Euten finally spoke. "You should be out there. You're going to be busy."

"I know." His nod was stiff, almost reluctant.

"How bad is it?"

"I don't know," Roboute admitted. "And I don't care."

Euten's expression tightened with frustration. "You need to take care of our people first. Then you need to be ready for whatever demands those fools on Terra will make of you."

She was right. Of course, she was right. But for once, Roboute didn't care.

"I need to take care of you."

Euten exhaled softly, looking down at the darkened holo-display. "I'll survive, Roboute. I just... need time to process everything."

"I don't want you to be alone right now."

The silence that followed was suffocating. The rhythmic clicking of the chrono clock was the only sound between them, each tick stretching the moment unbearably.

Roboute still didn't know what to say. But he had to say something.

"What happened…" He hesitated, brow furrowing. "It could have been prevented. I know it."

His mother's gaze was steady, unreadable at first. Then, with a sigh, she spoke—flatly, but not unkindly.

"Roboute, if you're about to tell me this was your fault, then I need you to understand something." She squeezed his hand gently. "You can't plan for everything."

Her voice softened. "I told you long ago... sometimes, bad things just happen. No matter how much we try."

Something in Guilliman cracked.

Frustration surged through him—at the state of things, at his mother's acceptance, at his own failure to prevent this. His control wavered as he rose to his feet, pacing like a caged predator.

"Bad things don't just happen." His voice was taut with simmering anger. "This was premeditated. A message. To me, my brothers, the entire galaxy. There are those who fear what I have built—who envy the power of the Realm of Ultramar. They don't care about the good I have done; they only care that I have it, and they do not. Petty fools and craven murderers who believe themselves beyond consequence."

He stopped pacing, fists clenching at his sides. "But they are wrong. I swear to you, Mother—reprisal is coming. And it will be swift. It will be ferocious."

Euten exhaled sharply, her voice quiet but firm.

"Roboute… whatever you are planning—don't."

He turned back to her, frustration burning in his chest. Why wasn't she outraged? Why wasn't she demanding vengeance, as she should?

"Why are you urging restraint?" His voice was edged with disbelief. "After everything we've just endured?"

Euten exhaled, rubbing her temple. She looked even more exhausted now. "Because I need you to be level-headed for what comes next." Her tone was measured, but there was an undeniable weariness beneath it. "You'll have your justice, Roboute, I have no doubt. But do not let yourself be distracted by rage. Otherwise, you will do something you'll come to regret."

"I might regret not doing enough," Roboute snapped, his jaw tightening. "What good is restraint now?"

"It's good for the stability of the galaxy."

She stood and approached him, meeting his glare with quiet resolve. "Roboute, if your thirst for war is so great, then I will support your decision. But if you do this heedless of the consequences, then you will become nothing more than another tyrant—proclaiming honor and justice to quadrillions of humans who now have no food, no water, and no hope because you destroyed the galactic economy in your crusade."

She hesitated, then turned away. "And you will have lost my respect as well."

Roboute's breath caught in his throat. He stared at her, stunned. "What?"

"Why?!" His voice was hoarse with anger and hurt. "Terra did this! You would not respect me for seeking to right this wrong? They killed over a million of our people! They killed Aldrich!"

Euten closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at him—grief-stricken, but firm. "I know, love. But I don't want to lose you too."

Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of something undeniable.

"If you let yourself be consumed by this, the galaxy will turn against you. They will resent you, and likely your brothers, for plunging them into chaos. And when you finally come to your senses... I fear you will destroy yourself trying to undo what you've done. Regret and vengeance will have ruined you."

"I don't understand." Roboute's voice was unsteady, his soul twisted with terrible confusion. "Do you not want justice, Mother?"

"I do." Euten's reply was calm yet firm. "But I told you when your father died—you do not have the luxury of righting every slight against you, no matter how grievous. Not when the fate of thousands of worlds rests in your hands."

She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. "You must be better, Roboute. It is expected of you. Because it is your legacy."

Roboute scoffed, his frustration mounting. "Is that what this is about? Protecting my legacy, of all things?"

"Will you just listen?" Euten exclaimed, her voice rising with urgency. "Macragge and the Realm of Ultramar embody everything good in you and your father. It cannot become a weapon of destruction or a monument to vengeance. Defend it with your life if you must, or use it to bring some measure of good to the galaxy—but do not throw everything away in a fit of spiteful rage."

Roboute stared at her, searching for something—validation, agreement, anything. Instead, he found only resolve. "Do you not want revenge for Aldrich?"

"YES!" she cried, her voice raw, almost breaking. "I want bloody vengeance, just as I did when your father died. But I did what any mother should—I set aside my own desires for the good of my child. Because I love you, and I don't..." She stopped herself, her breath shuddering. Then, more quietly, "When you have children, real children, Roboute... you'll understand."

She stopped herself, turned back to her desk, and sat down with an air of exhaustion as if unwilling to continue the argument. At this point, Roboute wasn't sure what to make of everything she had said. Maybe now wasn't the time to press further. Instead, he shifted the conversation.

"Mother, are you..." He hesitated, sighing at how inadequate the question felt. "Are you alright?"

Euten seemed to consider the question for a long moment before smiling ruefully. "You know, before you came into our lives—before I even fell in love with Konor—I remember hearing the gossip among noble and middle-class women. They said losing a husband the first time was the hardest. The second or third, though?" She let out a breath, more scoff than a sigh. "By then, it was just an inconvenience. You became numb to it."

She stared off into nothing. "Konor's death was hard for me. But I had so many good memories, and I had you, Roboute. I loved him. It hurt so much losing him. And now, in the end, I know I loved Aldrich too. And I can tell you now—losing another man I love for the second time is no easier than the first." A bitter chuckle escaped her lips. "The gods' one mercy in all of this? He died before marrying me. At least I wasn't made a widow twice."

What the hell could Roboute even say to that?

"Mother, I promise—I will find out who ordered this attack."

Euten shook her head as if trying to clear away the dark thoughts clouding her mind. "What does it matter, Roboute? You won't get the vengeance we all crave. Not for Aldrich, not for me, not for the people who died."

"But I can still do something," Roboute insisted, his voice steady. "If I can't get justice, I can at least make them pay in another way."

She studied him briefly before finally nodding, though her expression was weary. "Yes... turn this disaster into an opportunity." But even as she spoke, it sounded like she could scarcely believe in the words herself. "The only real course of action now."

She didn't seem too interested in what Roboute would do in the future to remedy this situation—only that he wouldn't start a war.

"Is there anything you want me to do?" he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

"I don't know," Euten admitted, her voice quiet, uncertain. "I just need time. Time to put myself back together, time to step back into my duties—it's what I did last time. Then, eventually, I'll find a moment to grieve. And after that, I'll plan his funeral."

Some part of him wanted to say he'd take care of it for her, spare her from having to think about it. But what good would that do?

"He'll... receive full honors," Roboute said instead. "He died at his post. He died defending Macragge."

"That's good," she murmured, but her voice lacked any real feeling. "They told me he died in the fighting. That he didn't suffer." She paused, exhaling sharply. "It's comforting, I suppose, that he died with dignity."

Somehow, he doubted that brought her any comfort at all.

She looked at him then, a sad smile on her lips. "You didn't know him all that well, did you?"

Roboute hesitated, guilt curling in his gut. "No," he admitted.

"I never really had the chance to explain why I married him," she continued, her gaze drifting past him to something only she could see. "And now, too late, I find myself apologizing for it."

A pang of regret struck him. How many times had he wished this wedding had never happened? Had his resentment made things harder for her?

"You don't owe me an apology, Mother," he said, though the words felt inadequate.

"Oh, but I do." Euten shook her head. "Aldrich and I were marrying for the sake of the realm, and, in part, for you. The fact that we grew to care for each other was... a gift neither of us expected." Her hands tightened in her lap. "But it was sprung upon you, and I never wanted you to think that I had—" She stopped, her voice faltering.

"That I had forgotten your father."

Roboute let out a slow breath. "Gods, I know you would never do that, Mother." The thought had crossed his mind, but hearing her say it now made him ashamed. "But when I learned of this arrangement, I didn't understand. I didn't know what had led you to this choice."

Euten nodded slowly, considering her words. "Aldrich and I had our reasons, which I will explain in time. But know this, Roboute—you never move on from your first love. You only learn to make room for others."

She seemed content with that answer, but Roboute suspected she was saying it more for his sake than her own.

"I... wasn't exactly thrilled with your decision to marry someone else," he admitted, his voice quieter than before. "And what eats away at me now is that I shouldn't be fixating on just one loss—not when so many others died, too."

"You're fixating on Aldrich because his death is the closest one to you," Euten said gently. "Through me." She studied him carefully before continuing, "You may not have known him in any meaningful way, but because I did, you assumed that was enough. Enough to at least trust that he was a good man."

It was true. He had never questioned his mother's judgment. If she had loved Aldrich, then the man must have been worthy of that love. That realization made her grief all the more painful to witness.

"I barely knew him," Roboute admitted, the guilt twisting in his chest. "I never gave myself the chance. He wasn't my father. I resented that. And now… what right do I have to mourn him?"

"You don't," Euten said plainly, though there was no cruelty in her tone. "Mourn the others instead. They need your grief. They need your reassurance, your fury. More than I do."

"I don't want you to go through this alone."

She sighed, sounding weary and almost disappointed. "Roboute, you don't have the time to dwell on this. You can't step away from everything that's happening. Focus on the bigger picture."

"How can you say that?" His frown deepened, frustration and concern warring inside him. "I don't want to just leave you alone with this pain—"

She met his gaze, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. "I've survived loss before. And so have you. What matters is that you don't let it consume you."

As if exhausted by the conversation, Euten shifted the subject. "I will need to meet with the wedding guests and explain everything."

"I'll handle that," Roboute offered immediately.

"No." Her tone left no room for argument. "Your focus must be on securing Macragge first, then the Realm itself. After that, you will find out how this happened and ensure it never happens again. Only when all of that is done can either of us afford to grieve properly."

She met his gaze with quiet expectation. "Go do what you do best, Roboute."

For a moment, he considered pressing the matter, but the words died on his lips. Arguing wouldn't change anything. Instead, he slowly nodded. "As you say, Mother."

He turned to leave—but something stopped him. Instead of walking away, he crossed the room to where she sat. Kneeling before her, he looked upon a woman who, just yesterday, had seemed so much stronger. Now, she was smaller, frailer, weighed down by sorrow.

Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around her.

She returned the embrace, her touch as gentle as it had always been.

"I'm sorry this happened," Roboute murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Just remember—I'm always here for you. And I will always love you."

Euten gave a quiet, watery chuckle, brushing a hand over his cheek. "Sweet boy, I knew that already."

No matter what happened, Roboute would not let this transgression go unanswered. His mother deserved justice. Aldrich deserved justice. Every life lost—because of his miscalculation, his failure—demanded it.

There would be a reckoning.

---

Once her son finally departed, the weight of it all came crashing back down upon Euten—body and soul. Sleep had eluded her for the past day, not because she couldn't, but because she feared waking to an empty bed, to that brief, cruel moment where her mind might still believe Aldrich was there.

Those were the worst moments. That fleeting, fragile dream between sleep and wakefulness, where she could almost convince herself that he was at his desk, preparing for the day, or setting out breakfast—until reality shattered the illusion. Just like with Konor, Aldrich wasn't coming back.

All the careful plans, the hopes they had shared, the future they had dared to imagine together—now reduced to nothing more than what-ifs and regrets.

An entire future snuffed out in an instant. It was nothing new in a galaxy where death and loss were measured in the hundreds of trillions, but Euten was still human. And in her eyes, the world had dimmed.

There was work to be done. She would need to sort through Aldrich's belongings, prepare his funeral, and find someone to take his place. She had to be pragmatic—for the Realm, her son, and the stability of everything they had built. Grief had to wait.

And yet, instead of attending to those necessary duties, her gaze drifted back to the holo-display on her desk. A message, sent just two days ago, before everything had changed. She played it again—for the dozenth time—finding in its flickering light the only bittersweet solace left to her.

"Tarsha, this might seem a little strange to send so close to the wedding, but it's an old tradition from Cetin— the groom leaves his bride a message of appreciation." Aldrich's voice carried a playful warmth through the recording. "I can think of a few better ways to show it, but this... this is something you might come to treasure down the line."

She could hear the rustling of papers in the background before he cleared his throat. "Euten Tarsha, I am overwhelmed with joy at the prospect of marrying you—that we can build something beautiful together, and..." He paused, then chuckled. "God, this sounded so much better in my head."

With a soft sigh, he set the papers aside. When he spoke again, it was with a fond, unguarded smile. "Let's just do this from the heart. Throughout my life, I've been given many titles and ranks. I started as a conscript, then a Lord-General, then a Lord Commander Militant and Praesidius Legatus. People have called me the Archangel, the Tyrant, and, depending on how history sees me, either a failure or a hero when it comes to managing the budget."

He hesitated just briefly before continuing, his voice rich with adoration and pride. "But of all the titles I've ever held, I think 'husband'—your husband—is the greatest of them all. Certainly better than 'Tyrant of Terra,' that's for damn sure."

Aldrich hesitated as if unsure of how to continue. "I have a lot of regrets," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I wish my parents were here to see this. I wish we weren't all on the edge of a galactic civil war. But even so, this is still a beautiful thing in my eyes."

He exhaled, then pressed on, firmer this time. "I know it goes without saying, but I'm going to say it anyway—I'll always have your back, Tarsha. And your son's, too. You don't have to worry about that." There was a pause, then a softer, almost self-conscious chuckle. "And, well... I love you. I know it's been a bit awkward for us to say that, but I'll say it again—I love you, Tarsha. And I'll keep saying it as many times as you like. Because, honestly? It feels good to say it."

A brief silence followed as though he debated whether to add anything more. Then, with a playful lilt, he continued, "So, yeah... that's all I wanted to say. Let's hope the wedding goes smoothly, yeah? And maybe—just maybe—we can spend some time convincing Roboute to agree to his own. Now, that would be a nice little twist to our wedding, wouldn't it?"

He chuckled, warm and affectionate—then the recording cut off.

The steady ticking of the chrono clock was the only sound in the dimly lit room, each second stretching into eternity. Shadows clung to the corners like the weight of her thoughts, heavy and suffocating. It had taken her years to mend the wound left by Konor's death—years of grief, duty, and quiet acceptance. To endure such a loss again? Euten wasn't sure she had the strength to try a third time. Perhaps she never would.

What had happened on Macragge was more than a tragedy; it was a reckoning. It was a dark day, not just for her, not just for Roboute, but for the entire galaxy. And now, only her son could set things right—if right even existed anymore.

She restarted the recording, Aldrich's voice filling the silence once more, a ghost of warmth in the cold void he had left behind. As she listened, a terrible doubt took root in her mind. Had she been wrong to stop Roboute from seeking vengeance?

Euten had told herself that justice, not wrath, was what mattered. That the galaxy didn't deserve to burn for the sins of a few. But as the recording played on, as she clung to the echoes of a love already lost, she wondered—perhaps it was too late to save?

---

@Daemon Hunter

 

[Ruirk]

A Few Conversations

Death was a concept shaped by culture, history, and necessity, and no two species in the galaxy viewed it the same way. To the Aeldari—at least the Asuryani—it was a fate too grim to dwell on, a final loss that carried the terrible risk of their souls being devoured. For humans, the afterlife was a mystery. Did they simply vanish into the Warp, or was there something beyond Chaos, something capable of granting true salvation? No one truly knew.

Weddings, however, were nearly universal in their significance. Even among the Drukhari, where cruelty and treachery were second nature, such unions were grand, sacred affairs. Animosities were set aside—if only for the sake of decorum—and grievances were handled discreetly. Assassinations were not unheard of, but targeting the bride and groom was considered distasteful at best, dishonorable at worst, unless they had made exceptionally powerful enemies.

So when the Aeldari delegation arrived on Macragge, invited to witness a rare human wedding, they were unsurprised—though still disappointed—to find that humans had little regard for such traditions. Not only had blood been spilled openly during the ceremony, but it had been shed against those who weren't even invited.

And worse still, the groom had been struck down while defending the honor and sanctity of his bride's home.

Then, an attempted abduction of the bride? Barbaric.

For most of the Aeldari present, it was merely another reminder that humanity was a species of brutish, short-sighted creatures. Best to avoid such events in the future.

But for Yvraine, it was different.

She had not known Aldrich Baelsar, but she understood loss. And she knew that Euten, and by extension Roboute, were suffering in the wake of his death. The attack on Macragge was not just an act of violence; it was a wound to their very foundation.

Roboute had always cared deeply for his mother, but in the aftermath, his rage had consumed him. His focus had narrowed, sharpening into an obsessive hunt for those responsible. It was only the day after Aldrich's death when Yvraine asked him how Euten was holding up, that something in him cracked. The shame in his eyes was plain. His fury had so blinded him that he hadn't even spoken to his mother beyond ensuring she was alive.

That was all it took—one moment of guilt—to snap him out of his rage long enough to remember what mattered.

That had been two days ago. Most of the guests had been asked to leave—for their own safety and because, with the groom slain, there was no longer a wedding to attend. Yet what left many unsettled was that Euten herself delivered the announcement.

Even among those hardened by war and politics, there was a quiet, unspoken question: Why was she the one standing before them? Why was she the one expected to explain? Surely, if anyone deserved the right to withdraw, to grieve in solitude, it was her. And yet, there she stood, composed but hollow, speaking words of duty when she should have been allowed to mourn in peace.

For the Aeldari, grief was not just an emotion—it was woven into the fabric of their existence now and perhaps forever, a necessity to prevent their souls from withering under the weight of their existence. To see someone refrain from it, not in the heat of battle or the chaos of war, but in a moment when mourning was not only expected but needed, left many uneasy.

Some among them began to wonder: Did the bride even realize the depth of her own sorrow?

But it wasn't their place to pry into Euten's grief. The Aeldari had an insatiable hunger for secrets, but there were lines even they would not cross. This was not a mystery to unravel, not some intrigue to exploit—just a tragedy, and one they had no interest in picking apart.

Yvraine, however, felt differently. Not that she had any more right than the others. Her relationship with Roboute did not grant her insight into his mother's heart. Whatever thoughts Euten harbored about her, Yvraine could only guess. She suspected there was wariness, perhaps even resentment—understandable, given the nature of their people and the history that lay between them.

So when a message arrived in secret, delivered by one of Euten's own servants, requesting a private meeting, Yvraine was caught off guard. It was unexpected, but she accepted without hesitation.

The meeting was set for that night, within one of the geodesic domes of the Fortress of Hera. Yvraine took care to move unseen, though in a place as fortified as this, secrecy was difficult. Had she been discovered, explanations would have been required—explanations she was not prepared to give.

Upon reaching her destination, Yvraine did not have to wait long. Euten arrived with a small detachment of Astartes, their towering forms casting long shadows in the moonlit dome. Without hesitation, she dismissed them with a quiet but firm command, leaving the two of them alone. Only then did Yvraine step from her hiding place.

"Ah, there you are," Euten murmured, her voice soft and weary. "Well met, Yvraine."

Yvraine merely inclined her head in acknowledgment, taking a moment to truly see the woman before her. This was not the same Euten she had encountered before—at least, not entirely. The fire that once burned so fiercely in her eyes had dimmed. Now, she looked every bit her age.

"We meet again, though not in joyous circumstances," Yvraine remarked, hesitating briefly. She was unsure whether to offer condolences—Euten had summoned her, but that did not mean she was welcome. Grief was deeply personal, and Yvraine was, at best, an outsider.

Euten gave a slow nod, the motion carrying the weight of exhaustion. "Yes… these last two days have been trying." She moved toward a small stone bench and sat down with deliberate care, as if every motion now required effort. "Tell me, how is my son?"

Yvraine considered her words carefully. "Frustrated. Angry. Confused. And relieved."

Euten exhaled softly, a weary acknowledgment. "More or less the same as what he's told me, though I suspect he's withholding the worst of it. He doesn't want to worry me." She gave a tired chuckle, though there was no real amusement in it. "That's what he does. It's what he's always done. If one of his closest companions, like Arthron or Corvus, was taken from him, I imagine he would feel much the same. But you…" She let the words hang between them, meeting Yvraine's gaze with an intensity that had not yet dulled.

Yvraine nodded slowly. "Roboute cares deeply for those around him."

"It's his humanity," Euten agreed, though there was something darker beneath her words. "It stops him from becoming something monstrous. But…" Her voice dropped to a quiet murmur, and she shook her head as if chastising herself for speaking the thought aloud. "A man who loses his love will likely see the entire galaxy burn to make it their funeral pyre."

Yvraine frowned at Euten's words. "Are you worried that I might become a liability for him?"

Euten winced, her expression betraying reluctance. But after a moment, she nodded. "Not the word I would have chosen, but I suppose it fits." She exhaled, rubbing her temple before continuing, her voice heavy with concern. "When I spoke with Roboute, he sounded as if he were ready to launch a crusade of vengeance across the entire galaxy. I saw it in his eyes. He has a good soul, and he cares deeply, but that same unyielding determination can be twisted into something… dangerous. If you died, I shudder to think what would happen to him."

She paused, then added, "You and I both know what grief does to a person. Perhaps your people can channel it better, but for humans…"

"I am well aware of how passionate humankind can be," Yvraine said, her tone measured. "And especially Roboute. But I have faith in him to make the right decision when faced with such despair—just as you do."

She studied Euten carefully before asking the real question lurking beneath the conversation. "Are you asking me to stop seeing your son?"

Euten considered the question, her gaze distant for a long moment. Then, she shook her head. "No. I've accepted that you are the one he wants. And… I'll even give you my blessing."

That admission came with a weary sigh, as if she had wrestled with the thought and finally reached her answer. "These last few days have reminded me of how quickly things can change."

Hearing that she had Euten's blessing was a small but welcome comfort. "Thank you, Tarsha." Yvraine hesitated before adding, "And… I'm sorry about what happened to your companion."

"At least I know you mean it, dear," Euten replied, her voice laced with quiet bitterness. "A few others meant it as well, but most? They just gave me looks of pity. I think they care more about what Roboute is going to do now than about the man I lost. It's a bit sad, isn't it? All those deaths, and yet they're overshadowed by one simple question: What is Primarch Guilliman going to do?"

"I imagine they're worried," Yvraine offered.

Euten snorted. "Gods, what a mess." She looked down at the stone floor, as if sorting through the storm of thoughts in her mind. After a moment, she lifted her gaze. "I want to provide some context as to why I was marrying Aldrich. I haven't even told Roboute this. But I'm saying it now, as the mother of the man you love, and I want you to understand that this is the truth."

She paused again, gathering her thoughts before continuing. "After the Masquerade's End, there was—understandably—an overwhelming amount of confusion, fear, and uncertainty across Macragge and the entire Realm. Aldrich and I were searching for ways to soften the blow of those revelations, to give people something to focus on, something to believe in." She exhaled. "I proposed that you and Roboute get married. Publicly."

Yvraine blinked, taken aback. "…Truly?"

Marriage. The idea had crossed her mind before, but only as a fleeting fancy, something she never entertained seriously. "Tarsha, Roboute, and I aren't—well, our relationship is fruitful, but such a thing—"

"It would have taken quite a bit of convincing, yes," Euten admitted. "But Aldrich, bless his soul, talked me down from such recklessness. He believed that forcing a marriage for political gain would create endless trouble for all of us—even if," she hesitated, lips pressing into a thin line, "he suggested that Roboute pretend to have taken you as a war bride."

Yvraine recoiled at the thought. "That would have gone poorly among the Aeldari," she said, her voice edged with distaste. "They do not take kindly to the idea of their people being forced into such…arrangements."

"Well, in the end, we both agreed not to pursue a marriage between you and Roboute," Euten concluded with a weary sigh. "Instead, Aldrich suggested that we should marry." She exhaled, shaking her head. "I've been thinking a lot about that conversation… and I've realized just how close I came to punishing both you and Roboute with my own hubris."

Her gaze grew distant as if staring into the past. "Had I forced the two of you into marriage—to the astonishment and confusion of all—it would have most certainly ended in a crisis. And not just any crisis," she admitted grimly, "but one far worse than the one I've already dragged us through."

Did she blame herself for all of this? If Yvraine had been human, perhaps she would have wondered the same. But she was Aeldari, and she had seen too much to believe that fate was ever so simple. "You are mistaken to think so."

Euten looked up, startled. "Oh? And why is that?"

"Because fate is fickle. It does not punish or reward—it simply is." Yvraine hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Your lover's death was not some singular, predestined tragedy. There were a thousand other paths that could have played out. You might have perished instead. Roboute could have been wounded. One of his sons—Arthron, even—might have fallen. I could have been here that day, or perhaps one of his brothers. The assassins might have been stronger. Or weaker. This wedding was merely one thread in a vast, tangled weave of possibilities."

Euten scoffed, though it was not directed at Yvraine—rather, at the merciless weight of reality itself. "The day before my wedding," she muttered, shaking her head. "It's a cruel thing."

"Yes," Yvraine said softly. "It is."

Euten inhaled sharply. "And yet... the thought that this was the best outcome for us all..." She shuddered, her expression darkening. "Gods. Does that mean the deaths of so many were insignificant? That Aldrich's death was a better fate than the alternatives?"

Yvraine stepped closer, lowering herself to sit beside Euten. "You don't have to see it that way," she said gently. "Not everything happens for a reason. Sometimes, tragedy is just that—tragedy. Seeking meaning in every loss can break you."

She reached out, taking Euten's hand in hers. "It is better to accept grief for what it is, rather than what it might have been."

Euten stared at their joined hands for a long moment before exhaling, her shoulders sagging as if releasing a burden too heavy to carry. "I suppose that's the most reasonable way to look at it," she admitted, her voice quieter now, lacking its earlier sharpness.

Yvraine offered a faint smile. "Reason has little place in grief. I merely speak from experience."

"But I don't know which is worse—the idea that all of this was leading to some inevitable conclusion, or that it was all just chaos, with no rhyme or reason at all."

Yvraine squeezed her hand gently. "Then don't force yourself to find meaning in it. Simply grieve. Honor Aldrich for his life, not the one he might have had. That is the only certainty we ever truly have."

For a long time, Euten said nothing. Finally, she gave a small nod. "Perhaps you're right." She looked at Yvraine in a different light. "It's good knowing that my son has someone like you."

That compliment caused Yvraine to blush every so slightly. It felt good to hear such acceptance from Euten.

Euten smirked, "It is good to know that for all the stories about the Aeldari and their arrogance, you're surprisingly wise."

Yvraine smirked faintly. "We are arrogant because we think ourselves wise. And because we are often right."

That earned a real laugh from Euten—tired, weary, but genuine. At last, a connection had formed between them beyond just concern or love for Roboute. There was understanding. Empathy. A shared familiarity with grief and its weight.

Perhaps that was why Euten finally spoke the words lingering in her mind. "Yvraine... I want to know if I can ask your people for a favor."

Yvraine arched a delicate brow. "That depends on the nature of the favor. Your son already has quite a few outstanding, you know."

"This one is different," Euten countered. "This is one that I will owe."

Something about her tone made Yvraine wary. She shifted, fingers idly brushing against the fabric of her sleeve. "Roboute wouldn't approve of this, would he?"

"I'll handle him when the time comes."

A long pause. Yvraine studied her, gaze sharp yet unreadable. Then, at last, she inclined her head slightly. "Hmm, what exactly do you have in mind?"

---

Orbán Vilmo found the entire situation tragic. Aldrich had been a man even Skullface himself had respected, if only for his thankless efforts to salvage the Imperium's fractured financial state, only for someone like Eli to come around and jam the knife further into that effort. His death had certainly been another indicator of how dire things had become.

Upon his arrival on Macragge, with the looming threat of further attacks or outright invasion, Orbán had fully expected to be turned away. The wedding was over. Anyone with no pressing reason to remain on the Ultramarines' homeworld should have been leaving.

To his surprise, however, First Captain Gielux requested a meeting. That alone was unexpected. Seeing the Eternal Wardens First Captain in charge of Macragge's defenses was even stranger, but with Guilliman and his sons preoccupied with urgent matters, Oriacarius had taken command. His first priority was determining what in the hell had happened.

When they met, Oriacarius explained in grim detail. A coordinated attack—an alliance of Officio assassins, Black Brigades, and traitorous elements within the Macragge PDF. The scale of the treachery was staggering. But the mention of the Black Brigades sent a wave of shame washing over Orbán.

Once again, something he had helped create had been twisted into a weapon of ruin, turned against the very worlds he had sworn to protect. Once more, the Black Brigades were something that the Imperium should unlearn. Nevertheless, he put aside those thoughts to focus on more important matters.

Oriacarius then revealed something even more unexpected—there had been infighting among the assassins sent to kill Aldrich and capture Euten Tarsha. More astonishing still, an Eversor—one of the most fanatical and uncontrollable killers ever engineered—had surrendered to the Macragge PDF after slaying one of its own.

The assassin was now held in a secure location under the tightest guard, but any attempt to extract information had been met with silence or incoherent responses. No one had managed to get anything useful out of him.

Orbán immediately understood why he had been summoned.

Among humanity, few interrogators were as skilled—or feared—as Orbán Vilmo. Torture wouldn't work on an Eversor, not in any meaningful way. But information could still be uncovered, given the right approach. And that was why Oriacarius asked for his assistance.

Orbán quickly secured clearance to a hidden prison facility in Illyria, a region often derided as bandit country by the more loyal citizens of Macragge. The designation wasn't without merit—Illyria had long been a hotbed of discontent, and Orbán suspected the choice of location was deliberate.

If the Ultramarines ever lost control of the prison, they could easily justify an orbital bombardment to wipe it off the map, with minimal concern for collateral damage—a pragmatic, if brutal, contingency.

There was certainly no fanfare for him as Orbán stepped off the Valkyrie. The Illyrian wind howled through the facility's battlements, carrying the scent of ozone and the faint tang of promethium from the defense turrets scanning the skies above.

The prison was a squat, reinforced monolith of steel and rockcrete, built less for rehabilitation and more as a fortress to contain the worst threats to Macragge's security. Orbán was quite familiar with such places.

A squad of Ultramarines awaited him. The squad sergeant, a veteran whose helmet was marked with campaign laurels, gave a curt nod before leading Orbán through the facility's labyrinthine corridors. They had been given orders not to speak with him unless necessary.

The deeper they went, the heavier the security became. Automated turrets tracked his every move, their machine spirits primed for the slightest anomaly. Servo-skulls hovered above, scanning and recording. Orbán counted no fewer than four additional checkpoints before they reached the final descent—a massive vault door reinforced with void-hardened plating, flanked by no fewer than two dozen Ultramarines in full battle gear.

A tech-priest chanted binaric canticles as the door's locks disengaged with a series of grinding clicks. Hydraulic systems hissed, and the vault door slowly parted, revealing a chamber bathed in harsh lumen-strips. And there, shackled within a stasis-dampened containment field, was his focus for today.

It was time to get to work.

Orbán signaled to one of the Ultramarines to lower the stasis field, granting the Eversor more freedom. The assassin remained seated, seemingly unbothered by his newfound mobility. Orbán took a good look at him—male, likely in his late 30s or early 40s, his body a patchwork of scars that told a lifetime of violence. The Ultramarines had reported that he had willingly removed his body glove, a rare display of compliance for one of his kind. He called himself "Kappa-56."

But what caught Orbán's attention most wasn't the scars or the unsettling stillness—it was the look in Kappa's eyes. That cold, measured gleam of controlled sadism. Not the mindless bloodlust typical of Eversors, but something far more deliberate. Orbán had seen that look before in many subjects that were part of the first companies of Black Brigades.

Orbán took a measured step closer, his sharp eyes dissecting the assassin's every twitch, every micro-expression. Kappa-56 remained still, his body language deceptively relaxed—yet poised, like a predator conserving energy. Then, something flickered in his expression. Recognition.

"Lord-Commander Vilmo," Kappa greeted him, voice like grinding stone, a twisted smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "The Archtraitor himself."

"My infamy precedes me," Orbán remarked, his tone calm but laced with curiosity. "Though I shouldn't be surprised the Officio has its sights set on me." He studied the Eversor more closely. "Curious. You should be twitching, barely holding yourself back from tearing my throat out with your teeth. Yet here you are—sitting. Cooperating."

Kappa tilted his head slightly, a slow, deliberate movement. "The chemicals don't burn as hot anymore," he said, voice hoarse but disturbingly conversational. "I've learned to quiet the fire when it suits me. My handlers call it a built immunity."

"Tch. Nothing worse than a weapon that doesn't work as intended." Orbán exhaled through his nose, half in amusement, half in understanding. He knew what it was like to develop tolerances—painkillers had long since lost their effectiveness on him. "That same immunity seems to have made surrender more palatable."

"I had my reasons," Kappa replied evenly, unbothered. "That's why you're here, isn't it? These Ultramarines and their Primarch want to know why we attacked. Why I surrendered."

"Among other topics," Orbán admitted, stopping just a meter away from him. "Right now, you're one of the few people alive who can answer those questions. But I have to imagine they also want someone to execute for the assassination of a high official and the attempted kidnapping of another—on the eve of their wedding, no less."

Kappa nodded slowly. "Tragic. But more importantly—sloppy and inflammatory work on our part. Then again, what do you expect when the mission was unsanctioned?"

Orbán narrowed his eyes. "Unsanctioned?" He found that difficult to believe. "It was certainly sloppy and inflammatory—especially considering the Primarch holding the purse strings might very well cut them now—but unsanctioned?" His voice dipped lower, scrutinizing. "You can shield the Officio or your precious Clades all you like, but let's not pretend Terra didn't know about this."

"If Terra had truly been involved in the planning, you wouldn't have even realized what had happened until it was far too late," Kappa-56 stated with absolute confidence. "Our orders were flawed by design. Intentionally so."

"You actually believe that?" Orbán asked, skepticism lacing his tone.

"I know that," Kappa replied without hesitation. "But I suppose there's always the possibility that things just went wrong. You can carry out ninety-nine perfect assassinations, but eventually, you hit the one that ruins the streak. Such is life."

"A philosophical Eversor. Just when I thought I'd seen everything." Orbán's eyes narrowed. "But I think what really happened here is that the Sigillite wanted to send a message to the Primarchs—not just Guilliman. And maybe you're not lying when you say that if he had been more directly involved, no one would have known until it was too late. Which means someone within the Clades sent conflicting orders."

It made sense. The Sigillite likely had some knowledge of a plan like this—perhaps as a contingency, something drafted but never meant to be executed. Yet, someone else had uncovered it and decided to bring it to fruition in the most reckless and incendiary way possible.

"I can't and won't speak for what possessed the Clades to carry out this mission," Kappa continued, his tone flat. "But I will warn you—whatever happens next is beyond our control."

"That was probably the intention," Orbán muttered. Someone wanted Guilliman to react rashly, to lash out in a way that would ultimately harm the Imperium. And they might very well get exactly what they wanted.

But speculation could wait. Now, it was time to begin the interrogation in earnest. Orbán had many questions, and Kappa-56 was one of the few who could provide answers.

---

Marius Gage had been absent from this disaster—most of the Legion had—a bitter reality, one that gnawed at him. The First Captain and the other Tetrarchs had been away, gathering gifts for the wedding or overseeing marching exercises. It was meant to be a grand occasion, the largest assembly of Ultramarines on Macragge since the Emperor's arrival.

They had all been a single day out. The thought grated against Marius's every instinct. What if this hadn't been an assassination attempt but a full-scale invasion? To think the Ultramarines had been caught off-guard during a moment of pre-celebration—it was unacceptable. Their triumph against the Consolidation had dulled them and made them complacent.

And for that hubris, the price had been staggering, not in losses, but in confidence. Aldrich Baelsar was dead. Euten Tarsha had come within a breath of being taken. Over a million citizens of Ultramar lay slain at the hands of invaders and traitors. A hundred of his battle-brothers had also perished in the fighting.

Macragge, the heart of Ultramar, was shaken. The Legion's confidence—shaken. And Marius had every intention of making sure it never happened again. The Primarch had given him instructions to figure out why infiltrators had been able to breach their security systems for the second time in a decade. After the Masqurades End, new measures had been drawn up to prevent further intrusion events, but this didn't address a fundamental flaw.

Thankfully, Marius didn't have to look too long. Two battle-brothers had already proven their mettle during the assassination attempt. A squad of five had been assigned to protect Euten Tarsha that day, but only Sergeant Aelius Dracontis and Brother Thestor Callion had survived.

Their squad had been thrust into a brutal fight, caught between traitor PDF forces and two Culexus Assassins, all while being pinned down by a Vindicare sniper. The battle had been relentless, every second a struggle for survival.

Captain Tiberius Laxo, the squad's leader, fought fiercely, holding the line with his storm shield against the Culexus' reality-warping presence—until the Vindicare's single, perfect shot took him through the skull. With their leader down, it fell to Brother Kordain and Acastian to engage the Culexus directly, a near-suicidal task.

It had been a battle of inches—every moment was a fight for survival. But just as they were in danger of being overwhelmed, the Primarch arrived. Guilliman descended upon the battlefield like a manifestation of fury, cutting down the remaining assassins and traitors with cold, methodical precision.

With the immediate threat neutralized, Guilliman gave a direct order: Sergeant Dracontis and Brother Callion were to remain at Euten Tarsha's side, ensuring her safety until she could be fully secured. Their vigilance did not waver, even as they escorted her away from the carnage.

Now, with the crisis contained, both warriors were fully engaged in clean-up operations, tracking down any remaining threats and piecing together how the attack had unfolded.

But Marius had other plans for them.

He summoned both to the Fortress of Hera. Sergeant Aelius Dracontis and Brother Thestor Callion stood at attention within one of the fortress's strategic chambers. They were still clad in their warplate, their armor bearing the scars of the assassination attempt. It had been only three days since everything concluded, and the First Master doubted either man had rested.

His gaze swept over the two Astartes, noting their battered but upright forms.

"You have both acquitted yourselves well," Gage said from the command pulpit, taking only a moment to move away from the strategic display. "You held your ground against the Officio's most insidious killers and lived to tell of it. That is no small feat."

Dracontis inclined his head, his expression neutral. "We did our duty, First Master."

Callion added, "Our brothers paid the price for it."

Gage studied them both for a moment before speaking. "And now, I require warriors who can do more than fight. Both of you have proven exceedingly capable of keeping your charge alive, especially against heavy odds, but you also have strengths in other avenues."

Marius had already reviewed their records extensively.

Sergeant Dracontis was a reserved, analytical warrior, a man of precision in both combat and speech. Every action he took was measured and deliberate. His experience guarding high-value individuals and counter-assassination tactics made him invaluable, but it was his ability to read people—body language, intent, hidden motives—that set him apart. In his eyes, a good bodyguard did not merely react to threats but anticipated them before they emerged.

It was Dracontis who first realized they were facing Blanks on top of traitor forces, recalling his prior service alongside a Sister of Silence. He endured their disturbing nature through sheer discipline, using practiced techniques to defy the assassins even in melee.

Brother Callion, on the other hand, was an unshakable force. Stoic, disciplined, and relentless, he embodied the Ultramarines' indomitable will. A veteran of the Ritual War, he had fought daemons and emerged stronger for it. Though not formally trained in diplomacy, his presence in negotiations was enough to command respect, and he had learned much through quiet observation.

When the assassins struck, Callion became Euten's last line of defense. He positioned himself between her and the Culexus, absorbing strikes that would have shattered lesser warriors. Even as the null-field pressed down on him, suffocating and unnatural, he held.

Neither Dracontis nor Callion showed any hesitation, whether they felt it or not. Their expressions remained unreadable, their discipline absolute.

"We will carry out the Primarch's will," Dracontis said evenly. "It is an honorable charge—but one that will require resources."

"And time," Callion added, his tone firm.

Marius nodded. "You shall have both—after you receive your Laurels of Victory."

Both Astartes stiffened slightly, exchanging a glance. Dracontis was the first to speak. "With respect, Lord Gage, are we truly deserving of such an honor? The Laurels are awarded for great victories in service to the Legion and the Imperium."

Marius met their gazes evenly. "You saved the Primarch's mother—and perhaps the Imperium itself by making sure our Primarch doesn't do anything too rash. Besides, this is not my decree; it comes directly from Guilliman. You will accept the Laurels."

Dracontis and Callion said nothing at first, but they both inclined their heads in solemn acknowledgment after a beat.

"As the Primarch wills," Dracontis said.

"We will wear them with honor," Callion affirmed.

The First Master nodded stiffly. "Wear them you shall." The ceremony for their laurels would come later. "For now, you will assist me with security efforts on Macragge and beyond. Consider it a learning experience—the first of many."

Dracontis inclined his head. "Has a name been chosen for this company yet?"

"No," Marius answered flatly. "That decision falls to you."

Callion considered for a moment before speaking. "The Laurel Circle," he said. "We earned these laurels not by winning a great battle or slaying some mighty foe but by protecting someone—even if we lost three brothers in the process. I want the name to mean something beyond self-congratulation."

Marius grunted, folding his arms. "Hmph. Noble enough. Let's see if it holds through your deeds."

This was the nucleus for something. Hopefully, something good would come from this, for all their sakes.

---

@Daemon Hunter

 

[TinyGladiator]

Alright, omakes.

What is there to say about them? Some small, some larger, some absolutely gigantic. Side stories, fan art, informational lists, a few side-quests (that went nowhere), actual studio glass hypercubes that are incredible and what the fuck.

What on earth would this quest be without them? It'd be dramatically different, except for the delightfully crazy and dramatic dice rolls which seem to be a staple of so much that's happened. It's hard to even put to words how different it would really be. From all the rewards that have shaped countless events, or created them or denied their formation, to the actual occurrences of those canonical omakes too.

From various characters that live or die, or come into existence or arrive in a new way, to entire threats pushed forward or given special attention and detail or are also wholesale created, to technology and research or other understandings of how the metaphysics work. So much has been invented or transformed. It's all so…

Beautiful.

The Lost Primarch Quest, featuring the Primarch Kesar Dorlin (who is not lost, that's a different Primarch not in the quest) from Valhalla (no relation to the canonical Warhammer 40,000 world that the 'Hero of the Imperium' Ciaphas Cain is heavily connected with), is a story of stories. It has utilised the setting of Warhammer 40,000 to create a series of events that keep on growing and growing.

Can you even count the individual threads of stories that have sprouted? Like mycelium from a fungal network, like rain drops in a cloud, like memories floating above closed eyes. Things that have been cut short, bound tightly to other threads, bloomed into new branches or even changed the entire pattern of this tapestry. Even as I type this more ideas form or existing ones crystalise into being.

It's beautiful. It's full of starlight moments. The dice being rolled a vehicle of chance to spice up the events. Building up to various conclusions great and small, or more roads for us to walk down or both. Or new ones to be built entirely!

It's been years since The Lost Primarch Quest began by Daemon Hunter's hands, as a decision to start writing a shared story was made and sealed by what is now millions of words, several art pieces and countless comments and conversations and questions and answers and the sharing of ideas. So much has happened, and it is a wonderful thing to be a part of it all.

Yet there is an unaddressed element in the room. One that's large enough to be a radioactive hell -what? Elephant? How could my room fit an elephant? Oh, whoops.

I have seen many quests, albeit not too closely, and while some chose not to reward omakes (for various understandable reasons as yeah balance can shatter into pieces) or give a little boost to rolls or experience if rolls aren't a thing. That sorta dealio is common and isn't a problem at all. Yet here?

There's so much effort put into rewarding omakes in The Lost Primarch Quest that it's, frankly, absurd. Even putting aside from how you could try to balance things, especially in the face of colossal omakes of exceptional quality or somebody making a Rune out of actual glass (twice), just keeping track of it all and what so much of it leads too must take enormous effort.

What rewards they are too. Unlocking new tech trees, reducing years or adding bonuses for research, new traits and bonuses permanent and temporary, enemies getting weakened or having their secrets revealed, questions that can be answered and reveal a ton of information, tweaking the results of so many scenarios, creating entire new systems, changing the course of the quest itself.

So many options given to people too. It's such a unique, collaborative experience that is probably the biggest contributors for why there's two million, four-hundred-thousand words for just the sidestory tab of this quest. A lot more than that, actually, given how omakes in spoiler boxes don't aren't counted in the big tally!

All this work has been put into the communal system of quest player and quest master, rewards from small bonuses to the seeds that sprout into fruit and trees, a library created and maintained by the barter system. This is a story made up of trade, of swapping ideas and expanding events, endless sparks cascading into fireworks and starlight moments.

Yet it's not been given the proper respect and acknowledgement that is deserved to the one who manages it all. Thank you, Daemon Hunter, for all your hard labour and now allow me to give you a taste of your medicine.

It's time for omake rewards to be rewarded.

The Golden Path - Library of Nalanda (Unlocks Psi-Architecture Tree)

Click to shrink...

I find it so charming that there is an absence of a header or brief description or note that begins this collection of omake rewards.

Even the threadmark of this post is rather streamlined. Back then, there was no thought of a second list. There was no consideration of a part 2, for this isn't listed as a part one but just as 'Omake List'. In the absence of numeral designation comes the implication of exclusivity.

Why would there need to be more than a solitary compendium of written words and attached rewards?

That assumption was a mistake. The limits of passionate inspiration, the countless events that would spark attention and drama, the muses that were born under these myriad branches of chance. There could never have been only one list, if only by means of convenience for record-keeping than worries about editing being confined by lagging computers struggling to handle the weight.

This is not some Greek Myth reference, one titan is not enough to hold up the weight of the omake sky. Or 'ocean' as it's referred to a lot on the Discord server. Yet as described by the first post of this thread, this is the first writing project done by Daemon Hunter, so there can be leinance and forgiveness for this blunder. This is a learning experience.

That is not to say that Daemon Hunter is exempt of criticism for what he has written. There's the view that the prologue, not to be confused with the prologue, which is a bit of a rough start. Some systems that just didn't quite work out, such as the production points and how unbalanced they were and hard to manage and keep track of. The fact that he has allowed a man named Raven Raven to bump uglies with a dark elf pirate battle-maid sadomasochist idol of a love goddess that, if she was from an anime or manga, would cause an endless amount of simping and people to have her picture for their user avatars.

But all this is besides the point. This should be a time of celebration as well as critical examination. This is the beginning of a wonderful journey for collaborative storytelling. Indeed, the first ever omake for the quest is celebrated by being placed at the very top. Nothing to distract from what would be the first of hundreds and then over a thousand.

The Library of Nalanda is also a special thing just on its own. Aside from being the first omake, and granting an entire tech tree from its reward, it also lead to other very notable things. Did you know that the whole Rune system is based, at least within the lore, from what was found in the Nalanda Library on Valhalla?

It's the first sign, looking back, that just the omakes themselves could also be the 'reward' with what they gave. The mere act of addition to the wider story and setting can create a vast array of possibilities. Branches synergising with the wider whole and the main trunk of the tree, inspiring and shifting everything. Such dangerous power.

There's so many memories that are deeply interwoven here, so many characters risen up. Inzhun, who could have been a Hero unit but instead was able to have a tragic yet beautiful end during the Ritual War of the Maelstrom. Doom Slayer had risen up here, becoming the silent slaughterer we all know. Cetenus Solarus the Mad Bomber, who has lead to so many explosive elements. Raziel the Chief Librarian that fell and then gave rise to the Triquetra. Also Baldur too, he's a thing here.

Imagine what the quest would be without any of them? Even with such little presence, or death, there still continues to be moments that are derived from their existence. For others they are key points in the quest. I can't imagine what Heroes we might have had without Doom Slayer or Solarus, if we'd even have had anything that you could say 'replaced' them.

What would The Lost Primarch Quest be without all this?

There's some amusing things that can be found within this old list. For example, the second omake's reward has a storied tale of being forgotten in part (due to it being for some reason not written on the list itself). It halves the dice check for all research and reduces them all by one year, the latter part being lost to memory. This was then pointed out, leading to Daemon Hunter giving a third research slot just for the next turn, and then why there was a third research slot was forgotten and it was used for multiple more turns until it was belatedly realised that it was meant for just one. And then the reward itself was forgotten in whole for a very long while and only very recently remembered!

Or the 'Contingency Vault' Megaproject that was unlocked for potential use after the 'Monument' Megastructure was done, that big thing meant to be dedicated to the fallen Astartes of the Imperium. Considering that fifty years were chosen to establish the base of the Monument, as in the first part of it, it's hilarious that this is just… well, I suppose it could show up during the epilogue? The fact that this Contingency Vault would be best suited for an apocalyptic civil war, and that the Monument's foundation is getting done when such a war could spark, is darkly amusing.

On that note, I find it interesting how there's a few omake rewards that are rediscoveries of various bits from the past. Such as the food 'macaroni and cheese' was rediscovered, or 'many types' of pizza, or rock and roll music. I wonder what any of this actually means, and not in the mechanical sense. Is there now pizza flavoured rations for some regiments of the Imperial Army? Do Forge Worlds study the harmonic meaning and numerical patterns of, I dunno, Elvis albums?

What is the metaphysical weight of these omakes, from the smallest jokes to the behemoths of dense words and ideas, and thus the weight of the rewards given to them? There are colossal, branching paths that most readers can't even see if they just follow the main threadmarks. There are one-off jokes that even those that follow everything will forget.

All these ideas are growing rapidly, seen or unseen, in countless forms. They writhe and grow in so many shapes that they are a dam on the flow of collective time, filtering their effects downstream for the future. So many consequences to all this effort spent.

Do you remember the Ruoult? That xenos race that was omaked up and then was further omaked out in a grand series? That ended up featuring in the main updates as another reason Lorgar Aurelian ended up having a terrible falling out? Whatever happened to them, haha?

What-

Spoiler: "-ever happened to what had happened?"

Time's Embrace, Where Do Forgotten Pieces Go?

Something was wrong.

The thought dominates your mind in countless ways across the current time. The Imperium was full of rot you had tried not to see or touch, yet was not omnipresent and against you. The galaxy itself under threat of apocalypse from mankind's civil war or the end of the conflict that shook the Warp. The family you loved was now threatened or ready to plunge a knife into you or fell an axe upon your head.

There was too much to consider. Despair and hatred were mingled with a helpless sense that there was nothing you could do to prevent that, something that was the worst aspect from an emotional sense.

Yet something else was wrong. Deeper. More profound if it wasn't just a strange form of insanity. Something that made you feel as though…

You are Magnus the Red, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, and you know that something was wrong.

You remember.

It started off simple. You were given a report, delivered by one of your sons, and you had already known through the use of your powers.

That was one of the many, many benefits of being what you were. As a Primarch your mind and capability was already above almost everything else you knew, and that wasn't an empty boast. As an Alpha-plus psyker that was trained by the masters of Prospero, guided in part by the Emperor of Mankind, and had access to the Black Library within the Webway?

Your mastery of arcane foresight was one of the best in the galaxy. It opened doors that others simply couldn't try opening, for it was too risky or just unknown to their perception. Paths that were dangerous for you too, as you learned.

You tried not to do it too often despite its uses. You have learned, by many ways great and small, that you are simply not infallible. Your sight can be blinded or distorted. Details missed from delving into the skein of fate compared to the here and now.

Still, it did speed things up when you did actually read the report and you were able to notice any discrepancies quickly. To prepare for something and gain a supernatural expectation was extremely useful even if the situation was different, so long as you allowed yourself to be flexible and not rigorous in how you followed such visions.

The report was strange. It wasn't what you expected. It left you…

You hadn't noticed exactly why yet with all the details seeming correct. Instead you asked the messenger a question. Small talk while he was here, as you went over the data. You loved your sons and you enjoyed hearing whatever they learned, whatever troubled them, whatever was on their mind. You asked him about what he felt about who directly lead him to battle.

Tyrian, a mighty hero among your sons. A Captain of the Thousand Sons that had been raised on Terra, back when the Unification Wars were still being fought, a truly impressive figure that you were exceptionally glad to have with you. Slayer of witches and tyrants, as a common soldier would say if they knew of him. His blade having taken the lives of countless foes, his leadership granting victory for your Legion, his battles bringing victory in many wars.

You remembered him well. His deeds, his demeanour, his connection with you and the rest of your brilliant warriors. Only…

You didn't quite remember how you had met him.

That wasn't entirely true. You did remember, quite clearly in fact. You could close your eye and envision that moment exactly as it happened. The memory conjured by a brain wrought to something as close to perfection as your creator could allow. Psychic mastery able to make it real, a scene projected into a waking dream, that same moment.

You had met him when your father came and you joined the Imperium of Mankind and you had met your wonderful sons. In that memory, Tyrian was there. That was one recollection of events.

Yet there was another memory. In the other, the same thing happened but Tyrian was not there. A past so close to another that they were disregarded as the same, twin moments with a small but noticeable difference, two descriptions that almost matched yet changed one crucial detail.

He was a former Legion Master, the first one as one of the original members of the then unnamed Fifteenth Legion, and a great hero of storied strength. You knew this and yet…

Azhek Ahriman was the Legion Master until you had appointed him as the Captain of the First Fellowship. You knew this too. Or did you? Was that true? Could it have been Tyrian, or both him and Ahriman, or someone else?

Why were these even questions for you? You already knew.

You already knew the both of them.

You already…

…

You dismissed your son, thanking him for delivering the report, as you began to reflect on what else you knew that was different to what you also knew. Planning another trip to the Black Library on both means of subtle memory influence as well as an even worse possibility.

Temporal influence rewriting events.

-----

Days later, with your thoughts gathered and the Black Library quickly delved to the best of your reading capability, you came to the conclusion that things were far worse than you initially feared.

There were inconsistencies everywhere. Details big and small were found in so many areas, not just related to your own experiences. Across the Imperium- no, across the galaxy itself did you find bits and pieces that formed a terrible picture.

Tyrian was the most obvious, his questionable history had sparked this whole investigation. After ruling out the possibility he was some sort of infiltrator that had fooled your Legion for decades, which you were relieved with as that meant he was indeed one of your Thousand Sons, you knew that he had suddenly… 'appeared' and a new branch of memories formed.

Bastet, which was such a shock that you couldn't believe it. They were a gift from Kesar Dorlin, a psychic familiar. They were a native creature of Prospero, one that you should have had or known about already before Kesar Dorlin. As if they were channelling the myth of the cat in the box, they were between two different states as well. Their very species was in question.

With your brother in mind, there were a number of oddities surrounding him.

You once heard a report from his domain that seemed to be too fantastical to be true in hindsight. Booming production in a way that boggled the mind with surges of resources, construction, design and organisation. In a decade, he could have started building wonders that few else in the Imperium could manage outside of Ultramar or the Sol system itself.

Only, well, you didn't hear that report. Of course it never happened. With how recently he had been found compared to other Primarchs like yourself, he simply wouldn't have had the time to manage all of this. Yet there were memories of him mentioning such things himself in several letters, which were now rewritten as you also remembered them to be.

There was also the Ruoult Xenos that were within the Eleventh's domain and not brought to the sword as so many other sapient races were. A minor matter, one you recalled your unfortunate brother Lorgar Aurelian being exceptionally aggravated over. Now it was like they didn't even exist, and you knew that places where they were mentioned had been changed.

In a matter that was deeply concerning, you were fairly sure that Kesar Dorlin had said two different sets of names for their parents. The culture of his homeworld somewhat shifted, his very history distorted however faintly, the origin of one you closely knew and had done so much…

Aside from that, there was a number of other discrepancies you needed more time to investigate relating to your brothers. You were pretty such that Roboute Guilliman had at least a hundred-thousand of his Astartes just disappear, although there were a number of other potential explanations for that which you might not have found quite yet.

You could have sworn you heard of a terrible incident between Ferrus Manus and Roboute Guilliman too, something about a member of an honour guard dying in a heated argument. Was that just a rumour? It seemed too serious to just be made up or mistaken.

You were fairly certain that Lion El'Jonson had given you a card of Aeldari origin that had helped your journey to reach the Black Library and collaborate with the Eldar, yet recently you were pretty sure that he kept that card. Knowing what Cegorach was capable of, you wondered if this was something they did just to mess with you.

Mortarion seemed to have one or more threats in his domain just removed from existence, although knowing your brother that could have just been the result of thorough extermination.

Even when, exactly, your brothers were discovered by the Imperium of Mankind was startlingly uncertain. The very order seemed somewhat vague.

So many other minor matters that it was difficult to even keep track of everything, so many subtle memories doubled or even tripled with varying events. There wasn't just a few overlapping ripples, there was an infuriating uncertainty regarding everything. Everything had to be put into question in a way that you really didn't enjoy compared to normal research.

More than the events and temporal inconsistencies, there was also the question as to how this was even happening and why. An existential threat, one you hadn't even fully considered to be a serious matter before now, was happening. You knew that without a doubt, yet you knew not the purpose behind it all.

This was so maddening. Your very existence could be directly rewritten, either to a tiny degree or to a massive one, and you wouldn't know why. It could have happened already for all you knew. More than once.

But who or what could be responsible? You had to know. This was beyond anything else you had faced before.

The Chaos Gods were an obvious candidate, especially Tzeentch. It could also shift what was happening in a way that was both better and far worse than initially assumed. With your missing eye, it could easily be used to manipulate you or even just implant false memories or perception. As well as the ability to shift time with their fell power.

Slaanesh was another obvious candidate. You had passed through that colossal rift, entered the domain of the Dark Prince, and then reached the very core of She Who Thirsts before being caught and barely escaping. You could have ended up in another universe during that escape, escaping the distorted gravity well of a Chaotic singularity.

Cegorach and the Black Library would likely have the power, skill, knowledge and capability to perform such an act. Yet even with the capricious nature of the Laughing God, to just twist the fabric of reality and not use it to twist a lot more to help their efforts. Unless these were side-effects of a grander attempt to change the timeline which was still being done, a thought that you really wished you could disprove.

Then again, with all the Primarchs and other figures that were coming to align with the Aeldari, the idea that these manipulations were done to benefit the Eldar could did have some merit. But simple divination, plentiful resources and general reasons for such an alliance could easily explain that.

There was that recent trip to the Aeonic Pathways, a broken section of the Webway that connected to endless different times and spaces across the multiverse, although it would be extremely difficult to tell this reality was influenced or if you just ended up in another reality that was extremely similar but still different to the one you knew. Which was… well, not the worst explanation.

Wait, when did you do that excursion into the Aeonic Pathways? With all the recent matters you had been dealing with, from training Kesar Dorlin in the Imperial Palace to dealing with that disaster that Prospero narrowly averted, where had you- ah, yet another uncertain thing to investigate.

Finally, there was the 'one' responsible for your awareness of paradoxical occurrences. A hero of ages, many different origins and skills and forms, that you had faced in a world of looping time and timelines surrounding a single figure. You had taken a mask and, more importantly, experience regarding the manipulation of temporal forces and how to be aware of it.

Was it also a curse that you had taken from that foe? Was the mask distorting your perception? Were you just now too detached from linear time that you were now experiencing phantom realities overlapping over your own existence, echoes and parallels interwoven with your being?

Or were there no answers in the form of a direct cause? You thought back to one of the boons you had asked from the Great Harlequin, after you had done the monumental task of journeying to the Palace of Pleasure. The history of the galaxy, the beginning to the present, the War in Heaven that had laid the foundations for so much.

Was time, was the Warp's influence, just that… malleable? That a person's existence could be shifted in one moment, or however long these changes took, into something different? After all the many reality tearing and Immaterium shaking weapons and acts, the death of a Yngir or C'tan and the repercussions that had on everything, the festering wounds that were still felt to this day.

Was this just normal? Whether time was actively manipulated by a person or a force, or just shifted in currents as the Great Ocean of the Warp, were these inconsistencies to be expected? With how fragile reality became, how the Immaterium quaked then and now, were paradoxes and 'new' events just a form of natural response to keep everything from collapsing?

Perhaps you were a part of it, with your actions in analysing temporal matters and becoming more aware of this influence. As you travelled the Aeonic Pathways, the Domain of a Chaos God, as you investigated the timeless Black Library. Multiple answers given to the questions of life, countless repeating ripples from every action.

Maybe all that really changed was how aware you were of such events. A fish first able to feel the waves. A flame able to sense heat. A crystal that noticed when light pass through its facets.

You didn't know. Too much was unknown here. Perhaps even the answer, the cause, would shift between multiple origins. An ouroboros of rewritten events.

You knew that it was happening and that was enough to push you forward. That was affecting you, your sons, your brothers and even your homeworld. The Imperium and the galaxy beyond it.

You had to know more.

You were Magnus the Red, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, and you were going to find answers.

 

[Balmung1]

@Daemon Hunter
This is my first attempt at a actual canon omake comments and constructive criticism is appreciated

Gamma Faction- The Totenmensch Army​

Blooded by the Maelstrom, these soldiers have no fear left. Whatever horrors their masters did in the camps pales to what they have fought.​

---

Origins​

One of the systems brought into peaceful compliance by the Imperium was the Nachtingel Authority. To most it was a model world, it paid it's tithes with great ease, it was known for being a source of the Black Brigades and fiercely lobbied for further expansions of the Imperial Army. But that ignored the bloody truth of the Nachtingel Authority, as it was a authoritarian state with a obsession with eugenics, social engineering and cruelty that made most other states look mild in comparison. From mental disabilities, homosexuality or even being born to worlds and societies the Nachtingel Authority had previously conquered condemned these poor souls to life in the 'Salvation Camps' where they would be exposed to many horrors.

Some Salvation Camps were akin to penal labor, used to further increase the Authority's contributions to the rest of the Imperium but those were never the main part of their purpose. They were essentially torture pure and simple. Some were essentially raised as livestock and vivisected, other more 'humane' camps tried to 'fix' their prisoners, while there were 'supermax' camps where the entire population was essentially turned mad due to living and dying often in solitary confinement. Not to mention many who became personal slaves of the guards.

Yet life continued, there where always new arrivals, now considered impure by the rest of society, the occasional dissident and many who created odd patchwork families. They would find love, have children who would often be sent to separate facilities and in turn adopt whatever children were sent in. So a patchwork culture, formed of half remembered cultures from worlds long conquered and colonized by the Nachtingel, new ideas from those who scraped together learning and the ruminations of the occasional political dissident fused together into something different, a group who wore a new name- Totenmensch. Even in these harsh times, in vile conditions the Totensmensch persisted until an even far beyond their knowledge changed everything...

The Maelstrom War​

The Imperium was desperate for men and Nachtingel was all to willing to provide.Billions of newly minted 'Undesirable' regiments composed of first rebellious Totensmensch and later just as many Totensmensch Nachtingel had were shipped off to the battlefield where the Maelstrom would get rid of them. Of course to show their sincerity to the Imperium(and make sure the slaves didn't get any ideas in transit) most of Nachtingels tithable citizenry was sent along too with a final bit of insurance was the threat that should any of the Totensmensch regiments rebel their entire family down to the third cousing would be hunted down and turned into Servitors...


However what happened in the Maelstrom War was a unmitigated disaster for Nachtingel and a boon to the Totensmensch as most of the truly loyal regiments died early on or were used to contain bloody mutinies(though in one case a regiment had a bombardment 'accidentally' called on them by a newly promoted Totensmensch). In comparison 'only' half of all the Totensmensch died, the rest being known as crack troops with unshakeable morale, ability to work together and once their old CO's died or went insane the Totensmensch commanders were known for their cleverness, quick learning and bravery.

Though Nachtingel had issues as more and more commanders wanted why exactly a admittedly loyal world that prided itself on it's stability was producing so many regiments that acted more akin to fanatics or penal units. with the manpower shortage it was getting harder and harder to buy off or stonewall investigations. While some of the more notable Totensmensch commanders were growing in influence and rising through the IA's ranks...

However the final nail in the coffin was the winding down of the Maelstrom War and later the emergence of Gamma factions as the future leader of the Gamma Faction recieved word from her contacts regarding Nachtingel. Realizing the Imperium may not be in a future position to guarantee their rule the Nachtingel Authority was exterminating the Totensmensch they still had in the Salvation Camps and were trying to rally loyal IA and Black Brigade forces to ride out the current crisis.

Realizing whatever previous plans they had of contacting Lord Vulkan may be moot the Totensmensch called in every favor and rallied every remaining Totensmensch regiment in the Imperium. If their kin were to die then they would make sure Nachtingel would burn as a result. They knew what awaited them at death, whatever punishment the Emperor could give was minor in comparison...

Current Situation​

It is estimated that of the forces allayed against Nachtingel there are approximately a core of 1-5 Billion Totensmensch IA forces. They are veterans of the Maelstrom campaign and were reported as being one of the better performing IA units. Black Brigade and/or psychological warfare tactics like those of the Night Lords are assumed to have minimal or reduced impact though this does not extend to the mercenaries or non-Nachtingel IA regiments. whatever fear they have of Astartes is unlikely due to repeated deployments with Astartes or in missions where Astartes were killed en masse.

Unverified reports may indicate that their commanders, codenamed Edelweiss and Golem have manages to acquire Solar Auxilla weaponry to equip the Totensmensch forces, worse there may be reports of them managing to acquire stockpiles of decommissioned Volkite weaponry.

Accompanying them are around 3 -10 billion IA guardsmen, Imperial Navy assets and Totensmensch rebels in Nachtingel mainly from units who Edelweiss has commanded or who Edelweiss has called in favors to acquire their services.

There are a unknown number of mercenaries hired by Edelweiss.

How she got this amount of funds and resources is both surprising and unusual. Edelweiss had a knack for predicting luxury good markets and more specifically made huge amounts of money off of predicting consumer crazes, especially those of the nobility and turning small investments into huge profits which she and the rest of the Totensmensch used to create a fund that due to avoiding military industries was much more discrete.

Notables

Edelweiss- Born into one of the more 'merciful' camps as Clara Hauptmann she was classified as a 'invalid' due to her lack of sociability, low testing scores and lack of attention for what passed as the education system there with a noted tendency to acquire small baubles(usually bits of cloth or malleable materials) which without she would start getting increasingly anxious and obsessed over recovering. The main reason she lived to adolescence was her brother, AKA Golem. Drafted into one of the early Totensmensch regiments and as a joke the regiments masters/officer class put her down as a NCO. However said leadership was corrupted by a Tzeentchian Daemon early on with only Clara surviving to lead the regiment. Where it became clear that she had a enormous aptitude for command, management and oddly enough a interest in noble etiquitte and letter writing(theorized that it's due to giving her a established framework for converstation) with her on one occasion managing to perfectly memorize a notoriously strict set of Knight World customs to the extent that they initially mistakes her for a noble.

While even her own troops note her lack of personal converstation skills and somewhat reclusive tendency her ability to do official social duties is excellent and she has been in combat against Tzeentchian Greater Daemons and came out with her mind intact. This mental fortitude is theorized to lay somewhat with her desire for stimulating baubles that she uses to keep focus or provide stress relief(OOC:If Kesar ever negotiates with her her she would know a lot of customs but would use something like a stress ball and would no sell the usual Primarch aura. However take away her outlets and even small talk would make her stressed)

Golem- Born, Mouran Hauptmann as the older brother to his sister Clara his experiences was rather different. Considered under the insane Eugenics based society of Nachtingel as a 'savant' this meant he was seen as highly intelligent though sadly too socially I'll adept to be allowed in normal society. Put under rigorous academic studies with the threat of food deprivation, various 'correctional' tortures and a ban on meeting anyone other than occasionally his family or teachers though he still periodically escaped and fed his sister what food he had. During the Maelstrom War he volunteered and soon made a name for his tenacity and skill at fighting. Due to nearly dying multiple times and his sister getting some favors from the mechanicum most of his body is now cybernetic and he uses a combination of power weapons and a Volkite rifle in combat. Though psych evaluations show someone who is very erudite and who will talk for hours about his preferred subjects- political history and Volkite weaponry.

 

[TinyGladiator]

Alright, omakes.

Looking back on it, Kesar Dorlin himself was heavily shaped by the early omakes. As Valhalla's history was sketched, coloured in, painted, detailed and described so too did it form the one who would lead the Eternal Wardens which in turn shaped the Legion.

Omakes might as well be the blood for the body of this quest. How they move between the organs, fuelled by the heart and the bones, how they breathe life and spread it to the stories. They touch almost all details and spread as roots, as branches, as fungal networks, as blood, as life.

The best thing about life is to grow, and these omakes grew past a mere singular list. Far more than just one, in fact.

Because the current Omake List is so long that it causes the site to lag far too much for me to use properly now, here is a part 2 for it.

Click to shrink...

Here begins the more personal touch, the voice behind the long curtain of rewards and canonical authority. The list was so filled to the brim that it became detrimental to stuff it further, as edited went from quick and spry to old and cumbersome.

That is an incredible achievement in and of itself, to have the metaphysical container begin to crack with the sheer weight. Even Pandora's box didn't manage that. There's perhaps a little over exaggeration with my words, but the intent ought to be made clear.

Isn't that crazy to say? That a work had so many omakes, and corresponding rewards listed out that there's even a second post dedicated purely to recording it all? Archived to the extent that a machine of the modern age cannot display it all without notably sluggish effort?

Speaking of recording things, I have to say that reading through these lists shows an interesting look back into the 'focus' of those that follow the quest at the time. In this list specifically, it starts with a reward that grants a malus to the Changeling. There's actually quite a few such examples here, directly against this Exalted nightmare or about the related battle and everything that was going on there.

I personally discovered this quest back when it was in the middle of the fight. In fact, I was the one to come up with the name of 'The Battle of Three Stars' back in the Rolz channel. Good times, glad to have decided to stick with this and gotten to this point.

Also, good grief was it a lucky break for this entire fight. Ignoring the fact that it was a victory, and that Lorgar Aurelian and Aetaos'rau'keres were brought to their ends here, the location of this conflict was also in flux. It could have ended up in the Warp itself, and I don't think I need to tell people why fighting an Exalted of Tzeentch in the Immaterium is a horrible idea. Especially if the Architect of Fate still used their emergency buttons against us in that scenario, that'd be orders of magnitude worse.

Aetaos'rau'keres is a Primordial Daemon, a tier above Exalted, and was the God of Sorcery before they were bound by the Changer of Ways. I shudder to imagine what they could do if they fought in the Warp. Perhaps they'd have their full +500 bonus to combat that they were meant to have, similar to what they'd possess if Tzeentch had spent the year needed to 'prepare' them than immediately using them.

Speaking of other daemons, there was also the possibility of facing the Changeling with ninety-nine Lords of Change under their command. That is also a terrible thing and would have drastically, absurdly shifted the playing field. Especially with Lorgar having a lot more means to escape.

Of course it was also apparently possible for Alpharius and Omegon to have kidnapped the Changeling and, uh, anticlimactically bypassed this entire encounter and probably have ascended as gods of theft way earlier too. Still, with all the above in mind, it's been an incredibly lucky battle that definitely shaped so many future moments.

Then again, that should have been made clear from when Alpharius and Omegon managed to do, what was it, a trillion to one odds vs Tzeentch itself and ascend into gods of espionage, and then separately ascend with the domain of traps too by stealing both domains from a Chaos God? The entire quest has been unlikely events cascading, one after the other, into something strange and delightful and refreshingly unexpected. A miracle of story-progression.

To talk so much about a specific event, reflected or not by omakes, than the actual list itself feels strange. It's not like literally every omake is about this conflict, although it's definitely a big chunk. Yet I'm talking about it because of what it represents.

It's rather nice to look back. That's what going through these lists mean. To go back and see the journey of the quest itself. In the omakes and their accompanying rewards we see the passion, interest, will and inspiration that drove those readers and thus the quest itself. The mirror is defined not as an object, but by what it is there to show.

Of course not all omakes are a 'reactionary' display of events in the story or backstory, that's just not how people write stuff here. There's a greater net of stuff to catch attention for us all, or ideas and desires that just suddenly sparked off or were slowly burning for a while. Magnus didn't get his cat Bastet because he encountered a world that desperately needed a feline familiar, or let Perturabo find the still hidden Necron pylons at Cadia, or have Scafrir's armour to become an incredibly good relic because we needed it immediately.

The connection between what omake writers do and the 'main' story of The Lost Primarch Quest does also becomes tightly bound at times. Without an omake reward, Lorgar Aurelian wouldn't have gone against the order of the Chaos Gods and very likely not have ended up dead. He could perhaps have survived or at least done more than what little he managed to really accomplish here.

With all this wonderful effort, all the mechanical considerations for the quest, there should also be a reflection of that here, looking at these lists.

Don't you wonder what things could look like if things were a bit different?

Spoiler: Other omakes.

A Warped Galaxy.

(Alternate link for those who see formatting issues or other problems in the above.)

 

[ThatOneGuy050]

Technology of the Eleventh Legion​

Gemini Pattern Dreadnought - A generally rare variant of the Ironclad dreadnought, built to have two pilots to reduce the strain on either pilot. Most other legions do not use them to any great extent because of the fact that it requires two critically wounded astartes and does not reduce the degradation of it's pilots enough to justify widespread adoption by the various legions, as well as only being made by a select few forge worlds and several of those bordering or being within The Desolation, and the knowledge to make them being lost or destroyed. It just so happens that some of the forge worlds with the capabiltity to produce it are within Svarga. Usually equipped with a Seismic Hammer, and a Power Fist with an undermounted Purgation pattern Heavy Flamer, these terrifying war machines are proof of the old adage that two heads are better than one. Most which have been put to use were brought into service shortly before and during the Maelstrom Crusade, which was used as their proving ground.

Spoiler: Flavor Text

Due to a recessive trait of their Sus-an Membrane, the dreadnoughts of the Eleventh Legion do not have to be put into stasis to prevent their deterioration and can instead enter a low-power 'resting' mode that prevents most of the degradation caused by being entombed within a dreadnought. These dreadnoughts are also generally more resistant to the depredations of Chaos, which is another reason they are so well-liked by the Eternal Wardens.

We have awakened. What enemies of the legion must we face, brother? - Revered Ancient Solomon, formerly Sergeants Kaine and Salvatore, shortly after awakening.

Purgation pattern Flamer - A flamer variant unique to the Eternal Wardens. The fuel used for these burns hotter than is standard, and these are typically inscribed with either a Rune of Purity or more commonly with a runic array made of the Rune of Silver and the Rune of Purging, these were made in great enough numbers that some Imperial Army regiments were granted these amazing weapons during the Maelstrom Crusade.

Spoiler: Flavor Text

Supposedly, some daemons banished by these still feel the pain of being immolated by these weapons, with some simply being burned entirely into nothingness. Those used by the Imperial Guard often have the names of their wielders inscribed on them, with some particularly ancient ones having thousands of names, and having markedly better performance and efficiency than a standard flamer.

The Gellar fields are failing! Jenkins, get the Flamer! Now, damnit! - Lieutenant Hayes to one of the soldiers under her command.

Kerberos pattern Tactical Dreadnought Armor - A variant of Terminator armor used exclusively by the Tomb Guard, a group charged with guarding the resting place of their fallen brothers and the parents of their primarch. This armor is made exclusively on Valhalla, each suit inscribed with the names of fallen Wardens, and their weapons inlaid with the names of the Lost whom they have granted the mercy of death.

Spoiler: Flavor Text

You defile this place with your very presence, Lost One. Know that you are still my brother, and that I do not enjoy the duty I am charged with, but I will carry it out regardless. - Victor, Captain of the Tomb Guard

You would talk down to me so, brother? Condescend to me like a small child, simply because I have learned of the greater truth, of the Gods and the power they have granted me!? You are a fool, and you will die a fool, brother! - Adam, Lord of the Defilers warband

There are no gods. ‐ Victor, Captain of the Tomb Guard

Spoiler: Authors Note

On the Gemini Dreadnought: This was inspired by the Cerberus pattern dreadnought made by undead frog in their quest The Long Founding, which itself requires three pilots. The flavor text about the Sus-an membrane is me pulling something out of my ass, but it would be an interesting trait that would explain why other legions don't use it. There is an implication about the name the dreadnought used being a name that is wholly different from the two who were entombed in it. The implication being that they have melded into one mind and have become stronger and more resistant to warp influence because of it.

On the Purgation Flamer: This is mostly just something I thought would make sense for the Wardens as a whole. Flamers that can mentally and physically scar a daemon, or cause the warpstuff that makes them up to literally burn away, permanently killing them in the process. Those given over to the Imperial Army would become prized relics with legends and stories of their own, tales of desperate defenses and horrible victories won with these weapons, bearing the names of hundreds of others, many so faded as to be illegible, who you're certain died using that same weapon. There's probably a mini-story all on its own right there.

On the Kerberos terminator armor: All right, this one is just something I came up with because I thought it'd be cool. There is really nothing more to say about it, beyond that it's terminator armor wholly unique to the eleventh legion.

Decided to write up an omake on the tech unique to the Eternal Wardens. Declare it as canon or non-canon as you please.

@Daemon Hunter

 

[Ruirk]

Some of the possible events that can appear during Fulgrim's coup attempt.

---

Outcomes and Choices

For someone like Eldrad Ulthran, he had become sidetracked far too many times within the last two decades. Much as the Great Seer hated to admit it, he might have reached the limits of his abilities now.

That wasn't to say his abilities were underwhelming, far from it, but the reality was that unless he found another means of empowering his farsight, this was as far as he could go. A man who could see across the vast gulfs of time and space, yet even Eldrad was still finding out things far too late.

For example, the warp spoke of what the Palatine Primarch was planning. It was a foolish but equally courageous decision to undermine the Emperor and take control of his empire in one fell swoop, almost commendable in its subtlety. The problem was, like all things, it would not survive contact with the enemy to use a human phrase.

Not that it would have surprised anyone, least of all the Phoenician, who would have been as shocked as anyone else if his plot went without a hitch. Of course, he didn't need it, but it had to reach a certain threshold to ensure his efforts could not be undone.

Simply put, so long as he achieved enough of his primary objectives, any further attempts to undermine his efforts would fail. Yet there lies the crux of this conundrum and what the warp had shown Eldrad: a hundred different outcomes, all of which distorted victory and defeat.

One simply doesn't just uproot the established order like this. Orban Vilmo had tried and failed, and while he was a mere mortal compared to a demigod, that wasn't to say he had lacked inherent advantages over the Phoenician.

How amusing, though, to see another change in this particular Primarch, who would have been a willing puppet of the Great Enemy in a different time and place, fueled by his hubris and lack of self-worth, now sought to preserve humanity in one last desperate gambit.

Desperation. The word clung to Fulgrim's fate. It was a feeling that Eldrad could empathize with in such trying times, but now the Phoenician might very well tip the scales toward true chaos, and nothing would stop it. The Great Seer wondered if he even should?

Yet as he divined the futures that await Fulgrim, it became increasingly clear to Eldrad that the future Palatine Emperor would be forced into making unsavory alliances and promises toward elements that he'd have otherwise wished to have seen removed. Such was the price of an attempt to save an empire.

He had his work cut out for him. The first viper that will attempt to co-opt the Primarch is Kelbor-Hal, the supreme master of the Mechanicum—a man whose ambitions outweighed even the Primarchs but with far less altruism and with a zealot's heart.

This Kelbor-Hal would be the first to learn what the Primarch was attempting, and would do nothing to stop it, but rather weigh his options. His primary mandate would, unsurprisingly, position himself and the Mechanicum to get the most out of this chaos.

In that, Eldrad saw visions of Martian "Peacekeepers" landing upon the orbitals and shipyards of the gas giant of Jupiter. In securing the Jovian Shipyards, Kelbor-Hal would quietly and then loudly remove those that resisted Martian control, inevitably leading to fighting. The moon of Ganymede would either surrender or be destroyed, and the Imperium would lose control of the Jovian Shipyards.

A second vision, however, showed a Martian taskforce sent to Terra to directly aid the Primarch and restore order in the face of a grave threat. This alliance would, in turn, give Fulgrim a powerful force but gain him the ire of Luna, Jupiter, and Terra for allowing a Martian army to garrison the capital of humanity. A civil war would break out, and Kelbor-Hal would rescind the Treaty of Olympus.

Eldrad saw, however, the Phoenician stopping both events, so long as other actors and contingencies did not come to pass. Every fate hinged on whatever the Primarch and his legion planned to counter their foes.

Fulgrim would have his work cut out for him.

Unsurprisingly, he would encounter most obstacles on Terra. The Sisters of Silence, upon discovering no threat but that of the Primarch and his legion, would fight back. In most instances of them staying, they would inevitably perish against the full might of a legion, but cost the Primarch precious resources and time.

However, Eldrad saw in several other visions that they were forced to retreat to Luna, taking as many heads of the Imperial government as possible and removing strategic information from the millions. And upon the moon, they would hunker down, to which the Primarch's force laid siege but kept them occupied.

During these events, the Sisters of Silence worked with the surviving Selenar Cults to develop a bioweapon against the Astartes. In some visions, the Custodians aided them, resulting in a plague that would eventually catch the attention of the Plague Father himself.

Civil wars were always a breeding ground for problems like this, but Eldrad hoped humanity would have the discipline and courage not to go down the darkest path when so many better alternatives awaited them.

A man should not be punished for trying to right a wrong.

Some men, however, just wanted to see others fail if they couldn't win. The one known as Erevan was a wildcard whenever Eldrad looked upon his future, which made the Great Seer suspicious. Rarely does any human have the ability to distort their fate.

His plots involved either ruining things or positioning himself to gain the most from the success of others. A cunning trickster, through and through, and Eldrad almost wondered how dangerous this human would have been with Harlequin training.

These "Vanus" assassins, whom the Imperium employed, used information as a weapon. It didn't surprise Eldrad to see the warp whispering that if Erevan wanted to make things worse for all his enemies, all he had to do was tell enough lies or truths to incite destruction.

Stranger, though, was that multiple fates showed him aligning himself with the Primarch. This Erevan was mercenary enough to throw away his loyalties to the Emperor if it meant carrying out his objective, which the warp did not show to the Great Seer. Once more, humanity produced a snake masquerading as a man.

What grasped the Great Seer's attention was that of another of the Primarch's sons, the one known as Fabius Bile, whose loyalty to his genesire depended on whether or not he attempted to shut down his experiments on Terra.

If the Primarch failed to control the Imperial Palace and sought to destroy it, his wayward son would not obey his commands and unleash an army of faceless souls upon his brothers, resulting in the deaths of millions. Another soul with a kaleidoscope of colors and worn-out faces would fall upon the Primarch and deliver the death blow.

Just as Eldrad didn't think this situation could get even more insane, the Warp allowed him to notice something had finally awakened on Jupiter. A god who bore the same name as the gas giant was waiting for events to unfold. He would seek out the Primarch and offer his services in exchange for more power and safe passage out of Sol.

As always, the gods were being opportunists. Not that Eldrad could blame Jupiter for wanting to escape Sol. It would have been a death sentence otherwise. Still, it was always difficult to ascertain the motivations of gods. They always had a way to shield themselves from scrying.

This left Eldrad wondering what the next big step was. Of course, his people would observe the situation and respond accordingly. They had no reason to intercede on anyone's behalf, and none would want to be caught in someone else's civil war. If there was a winning move to be made, the fates weren't telling him.

Suffice it to say, Fulgrim was on his own and tragically, that might have been for the best. Adding any additional actors or factions would be disastrous. It would cause one side to enact their final measure or catch the eyes of those who were best left unaware or unfocused. Sometimes you needed to keep others out for the best outcome.

But as Eldrad continued measuring the threads of fate, he saw not salvation or damnation, but merely another threshold being met.

This was only the beginning.

---

@Daemon Hunter Ehh, I'm done with this.

 

[Balmung1]

@Daemon Hunter
here's a omake

Flashpoint- the xenos empire of tlaesotili pipiyoltin and the Queensguard​

Preamble: While the Imperium has encountered brutal Xenos empires known for their brutality and use of slave labor the Tlaesotili as they call themselves are a more awkward case, Imperial scouts first contacted them in the form of a series of Xenos ships fleeing their territory and wishing to be in Imperial custody. However a tlaesotili ship intercepted the refugee fleet and commenced boarding operations where their forces public ally massacred the refugee fleet with Volkite, rad and chem weaponry.

However the commander of this operation then public ally identified herself as Mixtla Three-Iron, Emissary of the tlaesotili pipiyoltin, the Queen of Queens and patron of humanity. Further diplomatic contact revealed that humans have a rather honored place tlaesotili hierchy, being roughly equivalent to the Imperial Black Brigades or Lucifer Blacks in terms of duty and quality for this empire. Normally a empire as vicious as the tlaesotili would be marked for extermination but with the fact that humans are enthusiastic allies of the tlaesotili in putting down rebellions makes this a more fraught situation...

Biology​

The average tlaesotili as they refer to themselves. is a insectoid Worker Caste bee around half the size of a human. They communicate through a combination of pheromones and telepathy though they have learned how to speak to humans telapathically or with communicators. Worker Caste Bees tend to be larger and more physically capable than their Warrior Caste counterparts but Warriors are more combat focused and can use psychic attacks on the mind, buzz their wings to create a sonic attack and have extremely potent stingers and spitting venom.

Above them are the Overseers who are the size of a human and have a combination of Worker and Warrior and are meant to keep their other Caste members in line and around 1/10 are low level Blanks.

All of the above tlaesotili are uniformly females(Though with the introduction of humans it is common for a Worker or Warrior to use masculine pronouns/titles with gender schema being very fluid in tlaesotili society) as the only males are the surprisingly large King Caste tlaesotili who are around the size of a Baneblade and are all Psykers of at minimum Gamma score.

The 'Queen' of a tlaesotili hive is always a Worker Caste who when given a substance called tlahtoani ineuk which causes a biological transformation or is born as one. Technically Worker Castes can reproduce with a Drone to produce more Workers but with a Queen the newborns can be of the Warrior Caste varieties and Overseer varieties. However due to the nature of this transformation this means that attempts for other Workers to become Queen are common resulting in either exile/new hive creation, a protracted conflict or one Queen killing the other for most of tlaesotili history. The level of control a tlaesotili Queen has can range between making every member if her hive a extension of her will to subliminal control of many individual tlaesotili(though older Queens prefer the creativity and delegation this latter option provides and the Queen of Queens tend to see more direct usage as a sign of a possible power play)

Social Structure​

On top of the tlaesotili pipiyoltin Empire's social structure is the Queen of Queens, the tlaesotili pipiyoltin who is the embodiment of the species and through humans and her ruling hive controls all the other Queens in tlaesotili society. Below her are her many Drone-Legate-Concubines which act in her name. The Royal Hive is also composed primarily of Overseer Caste tlaesotili thanks to genetic programmes allowing for the tlaesotili pipiyoltin to control what type of Caste a egg turns into.

Serving the Royal Hive are the milkitki or commoner Hives whose Queens are kept loyal to the tlaesotili pipiyoltin through certain methods to be listed later. But below the milkitki are the Thralls. Defeated Xenos Empires used by the milkitki to pay their tithes and once every few years are subjected to the Flower Wars wherein tlaesotili soldiers destroy whatever level of civilization the Thralls have, take huge amouns of prisoners for experimentation and only help rebuild if the Thralls promise to pay even more in Tithes while also public ally executing important figures in a variety of ways.


Humans however are different. According to myth a near mythical Queen of Queens found humans who saved her life from a internal coup and as repayment she made them her executioners. Humans are the only ones in the Empire allowed to care for, guard and interact with possible successors. In milkitki hives there is always a 'honor guard' of humans around every Queen ready to execute her entire life if she shows any disloyalty.

For larger revolts or enemies there are the Iteteyaotla miktlan , composed of eugenically enhanced Royal Hive Warrior Caste, robotic androids and primarily humans who use Solar Auxilla level gear(More exactly, heavy armor and a lot of Volkite weaponry) who have a level of brutality that wouldn't look out of place in the Desolation or in the Black Brigades.

 

[Balmung1]

@Daemon Hunter

Here's the Omake!

The Purification Junta​

Preamble-

" After a extended siesta I AM BACK BABY! Ah nice to see some old faces"

" Glorious leader we have heard tales of your magnificence... Are you"

"You think I am of the delusion you are the same officers I used to have. Ah old Trujillo was like that, a canny type who's always in every Junta I've had. The only delusion was the Imperials thinking that they could do what Allende couldn't."

-Colonel Condor AI when reactivated by the Purification Junta

A highly aggressive Gamma Camp emerging in Segmentum Solar it is led oddly enough by a Man of Iron called Colonel Condor and officially by a military junta of Generals from the Pinochet system. A terrifyingly adept AI at both social engineering and warfare it took the efforts of a Alpha Grade psyker to keep him sealed away, a Psyker who was killed by the Imperium early in the Great Crusade. Now Condor embarks on one last blaze of glory , a rampage that will see planets burn....

Early History and Initial Assumptions​

"You think of me as a monster, a tyrant who uses witchcraft to make men his puppets. I am simply a man trying to reign in a bloodthirsty machine that has existed for generations. Kill me , put your Emperor in charge and use those old monsters into hero's. It doesn't matter the machine will devour you in time"- Last words of Allende before dying.

Originally the Pinochet system was controlled by a Alpha Grade Telepath and Technomancer savant called Allende who had ruled the system for 30 years with a large cult of personality based around his reforms to the Underhives, defeating a believed to be mythical tyrant or AI referred to as Colonel Condor and land reform in poor agriworlds. Imperial intelligence early in the Great Crusade managed to depose him thanks to a military coup by anti-Psyker/pro-Imperium factions who seemingly transformed the system into a rabidly pro-Imperial military dictatorship who venerated the pre-Allende government and contributed many regiments to the IA.

These regiments, called the Espadas Del Emperador specialized in orbital drops though IA officers noted a rather high degree of indoctrination towards the 'Glorious Leader', a near monstrous disregard for civilians and a tendency for even Imperial Psykers to die to 'friendly fire' in the Espadas area.

These oddities also extended to the rest of the Pinochet system in general though these concerns were brushed away as the lingering influence of Allende or trauma from being ruled over by a Psyker for so long.

New Revalations and Gamma Camp formation​

"How are you doing this? Genetic loyalty? Another Psyker? Cybernetic controls?"

" HA! Do I look like some loco AI who only thinks in ones and zeroes, I prefer to use my dazzling charm to be the man of the hour!"

"A psyop?"

" Oh you sweet summer child, this entire society is PsyOps all the way!"

- Converstation between unknown operative and Colonel Condor before the operative was executed.

With the formation of the Gamma Camps the ruling dictatorship was removed by a group of younger officers who claimed that Pinochet needed to purge the Imperium of the traitors and spies who caused these issues. Which they claimed to be Psykers, Xenos, civilian governments and 'effeminate weaklings'.

But this isn't just some coup from below, new intelligence revealed that before Allende there was a highly jingoistic Man of Iron by the name of Colonel Condor who ruled the population thanks to extensive social engineering, the fact he was inside a Dark Age warship, a specialty in Psyop and with these aces in the whole was going to slaughter the rest of the Segmentum with his human dupes.

If not for Allende managing to badly damage Condor, seal off his access to the outside world and took control of the AI's social engineering to prevent anyone from reawakening him.

By removing Allende the constructed cult of personality left intact by the Imperium and Condors own deep cover agents still remained, all it took was a few decades to refocus the cult of personality onto a few carefully groomed intermediaries who followed Condors every word.

Now Condor has embarked on a rampage through the area, recruiting dissatisfied IA units and putting entire systems to flame, spreading fine tuned propaganda that causes huge amounts of anti-Psyker violence, civil unrest and xenophobia while his band of killers roam through the Segmentum.

Military Forces​

" Vamanos amigos! Today we shall become legends! Ready the guns, start the invasion because some Brujas are going to die now!"

-Condor during a assault on a Telepathica facility

Condor is seemingly uninterested in actual conquest or state building, merely content to go out killing as many people as possible.

He has a force of around 1 Billion carefully groomed elite Espadas de Emperador troopers 5 Billion IA recruits and around 10 Billion non-IA recruits who can range between law enforcement to simply duped civilians.

But his main danger is himself, a Dark Age Battlecruiser designed around speed and high firepower though with less armor than a ship of that size would have. Following him are 3 large Battleships, a dozen Cruisers around 50 Picket vessels and more than enough troop carriers and logistical ships to quickly go from sector to sector.

It is worth noting that even if Condor is removed his underlings are more than willing to carry on violence in his name and the local IA units have some sympathy with Condor's anti-Psyker and anti-Xeno rhetoric

---

AN: I had fun making this Omake and I started this off as thinking of a Gamma Faction- that manages to be left alone due to killing downtrodden minorities like Xenos and Psykers. Then I read a few to many articles on CIA operations, a bit of Hellsing Abridged and got a cold. This was the result.