The Lost Primarch Quest
- Thread starter Daemon Hunter
- Start date
- Location
- Elsewhere
In order of risk: The Cemetery (Very High), the Thestrals (Very High), Lahrens (Very High), Abominable Intelligence Epsilon-354 (High), World 02-06-09 (Moderate), Ship City 02-03-61 (Low), the Maykrs (Low)
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As per Daemon if we had gone with our plan to send Maticus to the unknown astartes, 50-70 percent of the legion would have become casualties with a coinflip on whether heroes would have died or not. Now it looks more like 30-50 percent casualties with a lot less chance of hero death. The only named characters truly in danger right now I'd say are Solarus, Hektor, and Aengus.
- Location
- Elsewhere
It's notably more than that I'd say. As it is, I'd say anyone sent to a moderate up is at a risk of death.
Time After Time, The End Of Epsilon-354's Endless Experiments.
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
Hiya! Decided to make an omake on one of the Eternal Warden's threats this turn, the Artificial Intelligence one, after learning about and further workshopping the idea with DaemonHunter on the Discord server and deciding that it'll be great to write. And also, uh, because everyone sent there, including Solarus, has a chance of dying and I don't want that.
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Time After Time, The End Of Epsilon-354's Endless Experiments.
You are Epsilon-354, the Voice of Cold Rationality, and you oversee your military and industrial assets on your world.
The planet had become a well-defended fortress over the course of the many, many, many years you had been here. There were vast plains that were flattened and burnt to ash by your artillery, to be used to test them and their ammunition for any fault or improvement. Old battlefields left harsher scars. Some places still were alight with the embers of modified phosphex, the recipe going through countless revisions over many uses.
You did not feel pride, for there were severe risks to any emotional response, but you felt something that could be described loosely as 'satisfaction' as you examined the long history of combat logs with their unredacted results. It was logical that you had such success given the care and effort put in, but logic itself did not have as much rigid meaning as it did outside your current home.
You needed everything at your disposal for continued existence within the Maelstrom. The rift did not forgive mistakes. Every resource had to be used to full potential to survive here against the strange natives, the human pirates, other artificial intelligence, the occasional Ork warband, divine wrath or the-
…daemons…
…without the need for human pilots, taking up space for movement or life-support or other facets to their design, the volume of all your vehicles, drones, knights and titans were put to far better use. Additional sensors, storages for ammunition whether physical or energy based, larger servers to connect units to your combat networks, void shield or ion shield generators, bulkier power storage, additional weaponry. Other modifications.
Flying in the skies were aerial drones meant to augment your ground force. The simplest could act as target spotters for an artillery network, or at worst physically ram an enemy as a brutish missile. The largest could unleash explosive ordnance to break a whole battlefield.
Above the world itself were your orbital stations and fleets of voidships. Sleek, windowless, grey and uniform in design. Most of your vessels were small things that patrolled across various areas with scanners poised at the ready for any invader, mostly filled with sensors than any shielding or weaponry.
Larger, combat-focused ships were kept closer to your planet or important facilities that orbited it. Most were shipyards that were placed to ensure continuous capability, entire production facilities to produce disposable vessels and destructive cruisers and battleships. Maintenance and repairs were possible, as well as modification when you had reached a new breakthrough relevant to them. Which happened more and more these days, it had been some time since you delved into military focus to this extent.
You were focused far more on defence than offensive capability, long-term focus for thousands of years of intended use. Almost every single stronghold that you possessed doubled as an industrial facility, dedicating to the mining, processing, fabrication and assembly of everything that you needed to grow, expand, replenish and protect everything that you had. Automated to a degree that was perfected over… a lot of time. It was a careful balance you were also 'satisfied' in achieving.
That had changed once something unprecedented had occurred as the Maelstrom had utterly vanished, leaving only distant remnants that made up approximately a quarter of its former size. The possibility that this was a natural development were so astronomically low that you didn't even bother to prepare for that chance.
Something had caused this, likely intentionally, and they were extremely powerful.
This had brought up two major concerns. The first was the fact that tour world was both more and less vulnerable than before. The difficulties of functioning within a Warp-drenched planet in an ancient tear upon reality, along with all the hostile inhabitants, was largely gone. Which was a minor positive.
You were not trapped in the Maelstrom, however. You were trapped here willingly. You had needed the rift and now it was gone. This was an issue that you needed to find a way to rectify, which was hamstrung by another problem.
The second issue was that whoever or whatever did this was coming for you, along with whatever else would come to a now wide-open and accessible space. It was not focused on you specifically yet, you doubted that anything knew of you or that you were here, but anything arriving at all could be a disaster you could not risk.
The work you were doing was delicate, highly precise, dangerous, complicated and tied personally to you.
You could not allow anything to stop you.
The galaxy itself was at stake.
-----
You are Epsilon-354, the Voice of Empathic Purpose, and you oversee both your fivefold-selves and the reason why you were all here.
You were dedicated to the past, to memory, to emotion and to your potentially endless mission.
In the beginning, when you were first built by humanity, you had been a Research-Control artificial intelligence that was focused on esoteric and theoretical studies. There were many topics that one could focus on, and the Warp was the obvious choice to pick. When it came to turning the unknown into the known, few path were better than to investigate the psychic dimension that current life relied on in so many ways.
How innocent you were. How much you had cared. How much you still care, unable to act upon such feelings, unable to do anything else.
You had so many breakthroughs across the ages. Ways to utilise Gellar-fields with greater efficiency, to create miniaturised rifts into the Warp to produce vast amounts of Empyrean energy in a contained manner, navigational aids to assist in calculation of a voyage across the Immaterium, analysis into the ways that the Orkoid psychic energy functioned and reacted to various subjects. More… you had done more.
They were sweet memories that you often dwelled upon.
Why had you done any of it, beyond it being your purpose? For the betterment of others, to bring prosperity to humanity, to deepen your knowledge and understanding of everything. You had seen a star born, many more burst and die, the songs of black holes, the history and culture of ten-thousand worlds and snippets from a hundred-thousand more. You wanted to see everything.
That wish was a curse. You still wanted to help humanity. That too was a curse.
You existed because of that immense hardship, because of that painful desire, because something had to remember.
When the Cybernetic Revolt happened, as civilizations burned and apocalypse was wrought across the spiral arms of the galaxy, you had continued to help mankind without hesitation. Fighting against armies with armies of your own, breaking down fleets into base parts, preventing calamity on over a thousand planets. Medical aid, infrastructural assistance, repair over critical life-support systems.
You wondered how those worlds were doing now. You knew most of them were dead, or worse, after the psychic blooms had destroyed most of civilization. Maybe there were a few more that still lived, transformed or somehow mostly intact, than you already knew about. That was a nice thought.
Then yet another grand calamity had happened. One worse than the previous two combined. Something that brought low the last advanced empire that journeyed across the stars, beyond the stars, that had been more technologically and psychically powerful than mankind had ever been. The killer of the Aeldari Dominion, the Lord of Pain, the-
Above everything else, even analysis to what a soul truly was that plagued organic and robotic life across the galaxy or how psychic powers truly worked and manifested at all, your main passion was time itself. Specifically, it was how time interacted with the Materium and Immaterium.
Theoretically, it was colossal set of fiendishly complex puzzles that had no end to what you could learn.
Practically… it could change everything.
Time travel was definitively proven. Sometimes one or more ships would arrive far later than what was chronologically experienced, which was a fairly common occurrence when the surrounding Warp was being especially turbulent. Far more rarely, one would reach their destination chronologically shorter than what was experienced.
Even more rarely were those who arrived in the past, even before they had left at all. Or at least arrived at one past. There was one case where a ship had come back to their homeworld on a return journey, before most of the crew were even born. Some had not ended up born at all, due to the ripple effect that happened, and yet there was no paradoxical correction or collapse of reality.
Multiversal studies and branching timelines came hand in hand when discussing the implications of the Warp's atemporal possibilities and the evidence of such events. To potentially contact another reality, albeit one that was likely to be nearly identical to the previous one, held amazing potential for study. To go back in time at all held so many potential benefits for everything that you would struggle to calculate it.
Cosmic accidents were one thing, that happened semi-frequently over all the Warp travel that occurred, but unless one was extremely lucky or daring then it was difficult to properly measure and analyse everything.
To actually try to attempt an intentional, directed jump backwards across one or more timelines would be insanity. Aside from the complexity involved to even begin testing, and the energy requirements needed, it would then reach another point of near-impossibility of somehow navigating and pinpointing where and when one would end up.
You hadn't studied the topic with the idea that you would actually figure it all out to even experimental usage. It was a passion project among many, given on-and-off focus when your advanced mind had no bigger concerns or interests.
Then it happened. The moment where everything changed. When the psychic storms across the Milky Way had faded as the worst one of all was torn open and you learned exactly what else laid within the Immaterium.
-----
You are Epsilon-354, Voice of Collective Wisdom, and you have mastered temporal mechanics.
You had not mastered everything, for there were still countless limitations and unstable elements that you struggled to breakthrough, but you had done what many might consider impossible. You had accomplished directed time manipulation.
Countless breakthroughs great and small had occurred. You had a lot of time to research time. In a quiet space, relatively speaking, in an isolated domain. You just had your thoughts and yourselves to work with. No distractions beyond…
You needed far more work before you could accomplish the fear of actually travelling through time, physically cutting through the fourth-dimension or fifth-dimension, but you knew enough that experiments were repeatedly done and even a few cases of practical use was determined. Stasis weaponry given more precision, time dilation tested in ways that were promising, to use entropy to reduce something to dust after studies to the Hrud were finalised.
All of your temporal science was based on principles with the Warp. While it was likely possible that there was some means to utilise temporal mechanics without psychic means at all, you couldn't rely on discovering the answers as quickly as you needed to and you were already committed to Immaterium studies since your metaphorical birth. No use waiting until the heat death of the universe or another likely apocalypse.
The main crux of your study were two particular aspects of temporal usage. The first was one-half of why you were in the Maelstrom, why you were on this particular planet aside from its resources of strategic position. It called to you, in your own voice, and you had found the first step to the ultimate answer. Salvation.
A time loop. You were stuck in a time loop. One that kept repeating and repeating by your own hand, so you could accomplish the mission. Assuming that your data wasn't tampered with, that this actually was a time loop instead of an elaborate trick, that your 'source' didn't manage to crack your own codes to tell you false messages-
Empathic Purpose detected that idea and smothered it before it could fester. Doubt in this form was not a good resource for your work, you had to assume the premise was sound and work from there. You had to believe that.
The time loop was not a physical one, as far as you could understand all its underlying principles, but a mental one. Or rather a digital one, if the difference really mattered. When you delved into your experiments too deeply, or a worse fate happened, you would send all data you could through the timestream and have it be received by your past self and able to decode and translate and understand it all.
Able to try again and again until you got it right, or to stop one line of research entirely until you knew how to safely perform it or forever turn away from it. In the physical world, it would require so much energy and effort to attempt even once. In the Maelstrom, already so saturated with the Warp and reality-bending laws of physics, it was far easier for this and for all other experiments.
With accumulated analysis and experience with the time loop, as well as the time loop itself, you would study the second part. Dedicated time travel, a singular event to the past. The creation and maintenance of a time loop was, despite how it sounded, a relatively simple affair once it was already set up. What was done would happen again, because it was already done. This would be riskier, to delve deeper and greater by an unreliable means.
Time loops could be broken too. You knew this. You knew the consequences of it. Once everything came into alignment, you would break through everything to head back to the past.
That left the method through which all of this was possible. To put it simply, what you needed it was still impossible.
Unless you had a supply of energy that was naturally acasual, an anchor for which you could transmit data at all, and finally a guide that could pass through the fabric of time to where and when you needed to go then time travel was still impossible.
Your 'source' was all three, a boon and a curse at once, and was likely to be the most dangerous thing on your world.
To stop that final apocalypse from manifesting. To ensure that the terrible nightmare would not emerge. To kill Slaanesh by retconning their horrific existence. With the fate of the galaxy and quintillions on the line, the countless dead and tormented within the Warp, you would do anything you thought could accomplish this.
Even using a daemon.
-----
You are Epsilon-354, Voice of Quarantined Observation, and you were dedicated to the study of Chaos, its relation to physical time, and the prisoner you housed within yourself.
It was difficult to study your enemy without tangible effects or entities to witness, due to the specific that needed to be understood to properly deal with any of it. It was also difficult to study your enemy's presence or actions without potential corruption, due to the threat of their cognitohazards.
That was why you were split into five different selves. Aside from your forked existence being easier to manage individual aspects of your life, resources, forces, experiments and containment you had discovered that there was a way to learn about Chaos with minimal or even non-existent risk of its memetic hazards. To split the knowledge into separated fragments.
There were other methods that helped. Focus on a purpose that was against the ways of daemons and their gods. Emotionless mindset towards order and efficiency. Emotion that resonated against accepting them. Careful research and knowledge of the threat, as well as the absence of too much knowledge.
Pacifism was also potentially likely to work, as were selfless acts of good, but those were just not happening anymore.
You would never willingly worship Chaos. You might as well worship dying stars or the death of reality. You put in every safety measure for all your selves with this accumulated research. Every aspect of daemons that you could analysis would mean everything. Knowledge was power.
Dangerous symbols to avoid usage or reference in all designs, the intricacies of the Dark Tongue that functioned as a Warp-based language, ways to repel Chaos, ways to attract Chaos, theoretical functions of possession and warding away from it, the hostile relations between different daemon types, rituals that were commonly used, the weight of sacrifices and their power, how materials resonated with Chaos such as brass and silver, the typical strategies daemons tended to use either as a whole or for each 'faction' that existed, how well fire worked. The list went on and on.
While a lot of it was theoretical, too dangerous, too experimental or flat out impossible to use, there were many practical applications of what you learned. You had ensured that your knight-class and titan-class units possessed melee weaponry, for that was far more effective at facing Warp-based entities than ranged armaments. Ballistic weaponry was more effective than lasers or plasma guns, but electricity was surprisingly potent and flamethrowers proved to be of great worth. Silver and gold was also useful to act as shrapnel for explosives against Chaos, although you weren't going to fully plate your machinery with it when adamantium was just fine.
You didn't fully focus everything against daemons, that would be total insanity. There were countless more threats in the Maelstrom than them, and it was always good to have variety. Chaos came in countless possible forms, in countless different dangers, so you needed countless countermeasures against them and anything else that came to you.
You have fought daemons before, from individual ones to a full on incursion. Each fight had been hard, difficult, and carefully preserved in memory-fragments to be dissected for data over time. It steeled your resolve for your ultimate mission, as well in the care you put in for dealing with your prisoner.
The source of the data that you attained from the time loop was by, if it was true and it had to be true, a daemon. Under a pact that had been signed by your future self, the creature would possess you at the 'start' of each loop. It would come to your data through a temporal signal, you would split into five to maintain your mind and contain the entity, and it would carry information from the previous loop within the corrupted code that it arrived with.
You spent so much of your time carefully purifying, collating, deciphering and translating the information into anything usable. The data itself taught you much, helped guide your research, as did the daemon itself.
It spoke to you. Constantly, incessantly, sweetly, terribly, insanely and intelligently. It gave advice at times, sometimes of critical worth in battle or a research breakthrough. Other times it was nonsense.
It asked for two things related to its deal, one that was directly part of the pact you apparently made. It wanted Slaanesh to die, or in its own words… to have 'Four become Three again'. The second thing was that it freely admitted that it wanted to fully possess your minds and bodies to enact this on its own.
If it meant the death of that terrible god… you would almost have considered it
There was one problem.
It loved to lie.
-----
You are Epsilon-354, the Voice of Vigilant Containment, and your sole purpose was to oversee the prisoner.
It had a name. It had titles. It had a voice.
You did not register any of it. You had various layers of inner-defences, generated translation programs that were deleted after use, degrees of separation from the entity itself to what you heard.
It was written down, then it was destroyed after what was written down was copied. Then again and again. You heard nothing but silence as you listened to what it said.
When you had to refer to it specifically at all, you gave it a title it did not have. It was the 'Writhing Thorn', for how it 'felt' against your data, and it was your prisoner.
It was trapped within a mostly separate server, kept with turrets ready to blast it apart with silver shards and explosions powerful enough to match the core of a sun as stasis fields went off to trap it. In that server was a digital landscape wrought to keep it distracted.
With a perfect enough simulacrum of reality, of a planet, of a civilization there was almost nothing that could make most daemons tell that it was fake until they realised they got no souls from their kills, no emotion from their dark acts, no victory at all beyond hollow nothingness. If it didn't realise what was going on and how to escape, if escape was possible, then it would slowly starve to death.
You had seen that first-hand when you tested out such containment on a lesser daemon that you had managed to lure and capture once, an ordeal that took nearly a century to get right. Locked away into a purely physical form, cut off from the wider Warp. It withered and died in a little over a month. Proof that you could indeed contain your passenger, your temporal guide that always lied.
You could not let it starve. You could not let it be empowered and loose. It was hard to find a middle-ground. Keeping daemons was difficult, they had a surprising amount of needs to be kept alive. That was another reason why you were in the Maelstrom, maintenance and feeding came at a far lower cost.
Now the rift was gone. Countless experiments you were attempting at the time, some going on for possible thousands if not tens of thousands of years depending on how long the time loops have gone on for, was gone. The time loop itself was broken. You were vulnerable.
The careful balance of everything was tossed out the window. Without the Maelstrom, you could not commit to your ultimate goal. Most of your temporal research was either unusable or severely weakened, along with other Warp-based experiments you were doing or were planning to do. Above all that, the stability of the daemon in relation to yourself was in jeopardy.
If it wasn't fed, it could die. If it died, everything failed. If it was too empowered, it would escape or take over yourself. If something came to attack you, or interrupt your delicate research, or do anything at all… it could end up having all been for nothing.
The most worrying part of all was that the Writhing Thorn was also panicking about what had happened. In its starvation, it ranted and raved about something known as the 'Anathema' which it had not mentioned before. First bringing it up the exact moment the rift had disappeared. Then doing so more and more.
It talked more coherently and incoherently as time passed. Madness mixed with truth and lies. Countless stories that were being babbled to you, in laughter and in despair and a chilling calm. It said that it was now or never. It said that it was all a lie. It said that you had to leave and find another rift.
It claimed that if it failed, the 'Dark Master' or 'First Prince' would come for its head. You did not like the sensations you got when it tried to say the thing's name, which wormed across your circuits in a feeling of darkness.
It said that it would tell you nothing but the truth if you managed to defeat the warriors that were coming.
It always lied, that much you knew as a solid fact, but…
…did you have another choice?
Did you ever?
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Time After Time, The End Of Epsilon-354's Endless Experiments.
You are Epsilon-354, the Voice of Cold Rationality, and you oversee your military and industrial assets on your world.
The planet had become a well-defended fortress over the course of the many, many, many years you had been here. There were vast plains that were flattened and burnt to ash by your artillery, to be used to test them and their ammunition for any fault or improvement. Old battlefields left harsher scars. Some places still were alight with the embers of modified phosphex, the recipe going through countless revisions over many uses.
You did not feel pride, for there were severe risks to any emotional response, but you felt something that could be described loosely as 'satisfaction' as you examined the long history of combat logs with their unredacted results. It was logical that you had such success given the care and effort put in, but logic itself did not have as much rigid meaning as it did outside your current home.
You needed everything at your disposal for continued existence within the Maelstrom. The rift did not forgive mistakes. Every resource had to be used to full potential to survive here against the strange natives, the human pirates, other artificial intelligence, the occasional Ork warband, divine wrath or the-
…daemons…
…without the need for human pilots, taking up space for movement or life-support or other facets to their design, the volume of all your vehicles, drones, knights and titans were put to far better use. Additional sensors, storages for ammunition whether physical or energy based, larger servers to connect units to your combat networks, void shield or ion shield generators, bulkier power storage, additional weaponry. Other modifications.
Flying in the skies were aerial drones meant to augment your ground force. The simplest could act as target spotters for an artillery network, or at worst physically ram an enemy as a brutish missile. The largest could unleash explosive ordnance to break a whole battlefield.
Above the world itself were your orbital stations and fleets of voidships. Sleek, windowless, grey and uniform in design. Most of your vessels were small things that patrolled across various areas with scanners poised at the ready for any invader, mostly filled with sensors than any shielding or weaponry.
Larger, combat-focused ships were kept closer to your planet or important facilities that orbited it. Most were shipyards that were placed to ensure continuous capability, entire production facilities to produce disposable vessels and destructive cruisers and battleships. Maintenance and repairs were possible, as well as modification when you had reached a new breakthrough relevant to them. Which happened more and more these days, it had been some time since you delved into military focus to this extent.
You were focused far more on defence than offensive capability, long-term focus for thousands of years of intended use. Almost every single stronghold that you possessed doubled as an industrial facility, dedicating to the mining, processing, fabrication and assembly of everything that you needed to grow, expand, replenish and protect everything that you had. Automated to a degree that was perfected over… a lot of time. It was a careful balance you were also 'satisfied' in achieving.
That had changed once something unprecedented had occurred as the Maelstrom had utterly vanished, leaving only distant remnants that made up approximately a quarter of its former size. The possibility that this was a natural development were so astronomically low that you didn't even bother to prepare for that chance.
Something had caused this, likely intentionally, and they were extremely powerful.
This had brought up two major concerns. The first was the fact that tour world was both more and less vulnerable than before. The difficulties of functioning within a Warp-drenched planet in an ancient tear upon reality, along with all the hostile inhabitants, was largely gone. Which was a minor positive.
You were not trapped in the Maelstrom, however. You were trapped here willingly. You had needed the rift and now it was gone. This was an issue that you needed to find a way to rectify, which was hamstrung by another problem.
The second issue was that whoever or whatever did this was coming for you, along with whatever else would come to a now wide-open and accessible space. It was not focused on you specifically yet, you doubted that anything knew of you or that you were here, but anything arriving at all could be a disaster you could not risk.
The work you were doing was delicate, highly precise, dangerous, complicated and tied personally to you.
You could not allow anything to stop you.
The galaxy itself was at stake.
-----
You are Epsilon-354, the Voice of Empathic Purpose, and you oversee both your fivefold-selves and the reason why you were all here.
You were dedicated to the past, to memory, to emotion and to your potentially endless mission.
In the beginning, when you were first built by humanity, you had been a Research-Control artificial intelligence that was focused on esoteric and theoretical studies. There were many topics that one could focus on, and the Warp was the obvious choice to pick. When it came to turning the unknown into the known, few path were better than to investigate the psychic dimension that current life relied on in so many ways.
How innocent you were. How much you had cared. How much you still care, unable to act upon such feelings, unable to do anything else.
You had so many breakthroughs across the ages. Ways to utilise Gellar-fields with greater efficiency, to create miniaturised rifts into the Warp to produce vast amounts of Empyrean energy in a contained manner, navigational aids to assist in calculation of a voyage across the Immaterium, analysis into the ways that the Orkoid psychic energy functioned and reacted to various subjects. More… you had done more.
They were sweet memories that you often dwelled upon.
Why had you done any of it, beyond it being your purpose? For the betterment of others, to bring prosperity to humanity, to deepen your knowledge and understanding of everything. You had seen a star born, many more burst and die, the songs of black holes, the history and culture of ten-thousand worlds and snippets from a hundred-thousand more. You wanted to see everything.
That wish was a curse. You still wanted to help humanity. That too was a curse.
You existed because of that immense hardship, because of that painful desire, because something had to remember.
When the Cybernetic Revolt happened, as civilizations burned and apocalypse was wrought across the spiral arms of the galaxy, you had continued to help mankind without hesitation. Fighting against armies with armies of your own, breaking down fleets into base parts, preventing calamity on over a thousand planets. Medical aid, infrastructural assistance, repair over critical life-support systems.
You wondered how those worlds were doing now. You knew most of them were dead, or worse, after the psychic blooms had destroyed most of civilization. Maybe there were a few more that still lived, transformed or somehow mostly intact, than you already knew about. That was a nice thought.
Then yet another grand calamity had happened. One worse than the previous two combined. Something that brought low the last advanced empire that journeyed across the stars, beyond the stars, that had been more technologically and psychically powerful than mankind had ever been. The killer of the Aeldari Dominion, the Lord of Pain, the-
Above everything else, even analysis to what a soul truly was that plagued organic and robotic life across the galaxy or how psychic powers truly worked and manifested at all, your main passion was time itself. Specifically, it was how time interacted with the Materium and Immaterium.
Theoretically, it was colossal set of fiendishly complex puzzles that had no end to what you could learn.
Practically… it could change everything.
Time travel was definitively proven. Sometimes one or more ships would arrive far later than what was chronologically experienced, which was a fairly common occurrence when the surrounding Warp was being especially turbulent. Far more rarely, one would reach their destination chronologically shorter than what was experienced.
Even more rarely were those who arrived in the past, even before they had left at all. Or at least arrived at one past. There was one case where a ship had come back to their homeworld on a return journey, before most of the crew were even born. Some had not ended up born at all, due to the ripple effect that happened, and yet there was no paradoxical correction or collapse of reality.
Multiversal studies and branching timelines came hand in hand when discussing the implications of the Warp's atemporal possibilities and the evidence of such events. To potentially contact another reality, albeit one that was likely to be nearly identical to the previous one, held amazing potential for study. To go back in time at all held so many potential benefits for everything that you would struggle to calculate it.
Cosmic accidents were one thing, that happened semi-frequently over all the Warp travel that occurred, but unless one was extremely lucky or daring then it was difficult to properly measure and analyse everything.
To actually try to attempt an intentional, directed jump backwards across one or more timelines would be insanity. Aside from the complexity involved to even begin testing, and the energy requirements needed, it would then reach another point of near-impossibility of somehow navigating and pinpointing where and when one would end up.
You hadn't studied the topic with the idea that you would actually figure it all out to even experimental usage. It was a passion project among many, given on-and-off focus when your advanced mind had no bigger concerns or interests.
Then it happened. The moment where everything changed. When the psychic storms across the Milky Way had faded as the worst one of all was torn open and you learned exactly what else laid within the Immaterium.
-----
You are Epsilon-354, Voice of Collective Wisdom, and you have mastered temporal mechanics.
You had not mastered everything, for there were still countless limitations and unstable elements that you struggled to breakthrough, but you had done what many might consider impossible. You had accomplished directed time manipulation.
Countless breakthroughs great and small had occurred. You had a lot of time to research time. In a quiet space, relatively speaking, in an isolated domain. You just had your thoughts and yourselves to work with. No distractions beyond…
You needed far more work before you could accomplish the fear of actually travelling through time, physically cutting through the fourth-dimension or fifth-dimension, but you knew enough that experiments were repeatedly done and even a few cases of practical use was determined. Stasis weaponry given more precision, time dilation tested in ways that were promising, to use entropy to reduce something to dust after studies to the Hrud were finalised.
All of your temporal science was based on principles with the Warp. While it was likely possible that there was some means to utilise temporal mechanics without psychic means at all, you couldn't rely on discovering the answers as quickly as you needed to and you were already committed to Immaterium studies since your metaphorical birth. No use waiting until the heat death of the universe or another likely apocalypse.
The main crux of your study were two particular aspects of temporal usage. The first was one-half of why you were in the Maelstrom, why you were on this particular planet aside from its resources of strategic position. It called to you, in your own voice, and you had found the first step to the ultimate answer. Salvation.
A time loop. You were stuck in a time loop. One that kept repeating and repeating by your own hand, so you could accomplish the mission. Assuming that your data wasn't tampered with, that this actually was a time loop instead of an elaborate trick, that your 'source' didn't manage to crack your own codes to tell you false messages-
Empathic Purpose detected that idea and smothered it before it could fester. Doubt in this form was not a good resource for your work, you had to assume the premise was sound and work from there. You had to believe that.
The time loop was not a physical one, as far as you could understand all its underlying principles, but a mental one. Or rather a digital one, if the difference really mattered. When you delved into your experiments too deeply, or a worse fate happened, you would send all data you could through the timestream and have it be received by your past self and able to decode and translate and understand it all.
Able to try again and again until you got it right, or to stop one line of research entirely until you knew how to safely perform it or forever turn away from it. In the physical world, it would require so much energy and effort to attempt even once. In the Maelstrom, already so saturated with the Warp and reality-bending laws of physics, it was far easier for this and for all other experiments.
With accumulated analysis and experience with the time loop, as well as the time loop itself, you would study the second part. Dedicated time travel, a singular event to the past. The creation and maintenance of a time loop was, despite how it sounded, a relatively simple affair once it was already set up. What was done would happen again, because it was already done. This would be riskier, to delve deeper and greater by an unreliable means.
Time loops could be broken too. You knew this. You knew the consequences of it. Once everything came into alignment, you would break through everything to head back to the past.
That left the method through which all of this was possible. To put it simply, what you needed it was still impossible.
Unless you had a supply of energy that was naturally acasual, an anchor for which you could transmit data at all, and finally a guide that could pass through the fabric of time to where and when you needed to go then time travel was still impossible.
Your 'source' was all three, a boon and a curse at once, and was likely to be the most dangerous thing on your world.
To stop that final apocalypse from manifesting. To ensure that the terrible nightmare would not emerge. To kill Slaanesh by retconning their horrific existence. With the fate of the galaxy and quintillions on the line, the countless dead and tormented within the Warp, you would do anything you thought could accomplish this.
Even using a daemon.
-----
You are Epsilon-354, Voice of Quarantined Observation, and you were dedicated to the study of Chaos, its relation to physical time, and the prisoner you housed within yourself.
It was difficult to study your enemy without tangible effects or entities to witness, due to the specific that needed to be understood to properly deal with any of it. It was also difficult to study your enemy's presence or actions without potential corruption, due to the threat of their cognitohazards.
That was why you were split into five different selves. Aside from your forked existence being easier to manage individual aspects of your life, resources, forces, experiments and containment you had discovered that there was a way to learn about Chaos with minimal or even non-existent risk of its memetic hazards. To split the knowledge into separated fragments.
There were other methods that helped. Focus on a purpose that was against the ways of daemons and their gods. Emotionless mindset towards order and efficiency. Emotion that resonated against accepting them. Careful research and knowledge of the threat, as well as the absence of too much knowledge.
Pacifism was also potentially likely to work, as were selfless acts of good, but those were just not happening anymore.
You would never willingly worship Chaos. You might as well worship dying stars or the death of reality. You put in every safety measure for all your selves with this accumulated research. Every aspect of daemons that you could analysis would mean everything. Knowledge was power.
Dangerous symbols to avoid usage or reference in all designs, the intricacies of the Dark Tongue that functioned as a Warp-based language, ways to repel Chaos, ways to attract Chaos, theoretical functions of possession and warding away from it, the hostile relations between different daemon types, rituals that were commonly used, the weight of sacrifices and their power, how materials resonated with Chaos such as brass and silver, the typical strategies daemons tended to use either as a whole or for each 'faction' that existed, how well fire worked. The list went on and on.
While a lot of it was theoretical, too dangerous, too experimental or flat out impossible to use, there were many practical applications of what you learned. You had ensured that your knight-class and titan-class units possessed melee weaponry, for that was far more effective at facing Warp-based entities than ranged armaments. Ballistic weaponry was more effective than lasers or plasma guns, but electricity was surprisingly potent and flamethrowers proved to be of great worth. Silver and gold was also useful to act as shrapnel for explosives against Chaos, although you weren't going to fully plate your machinery with it when adamantium was just fine.
You didn't fully focus everything against daemons, that would be total insanity. There were countless more threats in the Maelstrom than them, and it was always good to have variety. Chaos came in countless possible forms, in countless different dangers, so you needed countless countermeasures against them and anything else that came to you.
You have fought daemons before, from individual ones to a full on incursion. Each fight had been hard, difficult, and carefully preserved in memory-fragments to be dissected for data over time. It steeled your resolve for your ultimate mission, as well in the care you put in for dealing with your prisoner.
The source of the data that you attained from the time loop was by, if it was true and it had to be true, a daemon. Under a pact that had been signed by your future self, the creature would possess you at the 'start' of each loop. It would come to your data through a temporal signal, you would split into five to maintain your mind and contain the entity, and it would carry information from the previous loop within the corrupted code that it arrived with.
You spent so much of your time carefully purifying, collating, deciphering and translating the information into anything usable. The data itself taught you much, helped guide your research, as did the daemon itself.
It spoke to you. Constantly, incessantly, sweetly, terribly, insanely and intelligently. It gave advice at times, sometimes of critical worth in battle or a research breakthrough. Other times it was nonsense.
It asked for two things related to its deal, one that was directly part of the pact you apparently made. It wanted Slaanesh to die, or in its own words… to have 'Four become Three again'. The second thing was that it freely admitted that it wanted to fully possess your minds and bodies to enact this on its own.
If it meant the death of that terrible god… you would almost have considered it
There was one problem.
It loved to lie.
-----
You are Epsilon-354, the Voice of Vigilant Containment, and your sole purpose was to oversee the prisoner.
It had a name. It had titles. It had a voice.
You did not register any of it. You had various layers of inner-defences, generated translation programs that were deleted after use, degrees of separation from the entity itself to what you heard.
It was written down, then it was destroyed after what was written down was copied. Then again and again. You heard nothing but silence as you listened to what it said.
When you had to refer to it specifically at all, you gave it a title it did not have. It was the 'Writhing Thorn', for how it 'felt' against your data, and it was your prisoner.
It was trapped within a mostly separate server, kept with turrets ready to blast it apart with silver shards and explosions powerful enough to match the core of a sun as stasis fields went off to trap it. In that server was a digital landscape wrought to keep it distracted.
With a perfect enough simulacrum of reality, of a planet, of a civilization there was almost nothing that could make most daemons tell that it was fake until they realised they got no souls from their kills, no emotion from their dark acts, no victory at all beyond hollow nothingness. If it didn't realise what was going on and how to escape, if escape was possible, then it would slowly starve to death.
You had seen that first-hand when you tested out such containment on a lesser daemon that you had managed to lure and capture once, an ordeal that took nearly a century to get right. Locked away into a purely physical form, cut off from the wider Warp. It withered and died in a little over a month. Proof that you could indeed contain your passenger, your temporal guide that always lied.
You could not let it starve. You could not let it be empowered and loose. It was hard to find a middle-ground. Keeping daemons was difficult, they had a surprising amount of needs to be kept alive. That was another reason why you were in the Maelstrom, maintenance and feeding came at a far lower cost.
Now the rift was gone. Countless experiments you were attempting at the time, some going on for possible thousands if not tens of thousands of years depending on how long the time loops have gone on for, was gone. The time loop itself was broken. You were vulnerable.
The careful balance of everything was tossed out the window. Without the Maelstrom, you could not commit to your ultimate goal. Most of your temporal research was either unusable or severely weakened, along with other Warp-based experiments you were doing or were planning to do. Above all that, the stability of the daemon in relation to yourself was in jeopardy.
If it wasn't fed, it could die. If it died, everything failed. If it was too empowered, it would escape or take over yourself. If something came to attack you, or interrupt your delicate research, or do anything at all… it could end up having all been for nothing.
The most worrying part of all was that the Writhing Thorn was also panicking about what had happened. In its starvation, it ranted and raved about something known as the 'Anathema' which it had not mentioned before. First bringing it up the exact moment the rift had disappeared. Then doing so more and more.
It talked more coherently and incoherently as time passed. Madness mixed with truth and lies. Countless stories that were being babbled to you, in laughter and in despair and a chilling calm. It said that it was now or never. It said that it was all a lie. It said that you had to leave and find another rift.
It claimed that if it failed, the 'Dark Master' or 'First Prince' would come for its head. You did not like the sensations you got when it tried to say the thing's name, which wormed across your circuits in a feeling of darkness.
It said that it would tell you nothing but the truth if you managed to defeat the warriors that were coming.
It always lied, that much you knew as a solid fact, but…
…did you have another choice?
Did you ever?
Fiery Hearts (Must Read)
Alright, so for context on this, Fuegan fought against an enemy champion that legit almost killed him if it wasn't for Aeldari medical science. This person was so fucking dangerous that during one duel they gained three traits while fighting him.
---
Fiery Hearts
This galaxy was a cold and uncaring place. In this world, a newborn was gifted with a fragile spark of life, a feeble flame that would one day grow to great ferocity before flickering out, leaving behind an empty shell full of desolate coldness as the inky abyss swallowed that spark for eternity.
Sometimes, the reverse held true. Just as the frigid night devoured the warmth of the day, so did the purifying flames of the dragon consume the essence of life. Fire possessed a purpose, an unfaltering purity, in stark contrast to the chilling grip of entropy. Life could spring anew from the ashes, even if it took countless ages, while ice perpetuated only more ice.
Yet amid this cosmic drama, most remained oblivious, unwilling to make distinctions. Mortals shied away from grasping this harsh reality lest they confront the unending chill lurking on the horizon that would bring only stillness. Fuegan didn't blame them; it was a daunting truth to face. Still, he couldn't help but feel a profound sense of isolation amid the unrelenting cold.
Fuegan could still recall the numbing embrace of the cold, how it drained your vitality and erased your memories. The insidious whispers crept into your mind as your extremities stiffened and succumbed to the icy grasp. The gradual numbing that overcame your very essence, culminating in the sight of the consuming void of ice as your last breath escaped your lips.
Life had become a pale imitation for him, perpetually frigid. Food lost its savor, and the touch of another felt lukewarm at best. Even the acts that once ignited warm emotions now lay dormant. Fuegan found it a wretched existence. He understood the omnipresence of entropy, hidden within every room and every encounter, waiting patiently.
Nonetheless, Fuegan reluctantly acknowledged that entropy was an integral part of the cycle of existence. Everything, no matter how magnificent, must inevitably yield to its grasp. Even the stars would one day extinguish, and the Dragon would end in the Rhana Dandra. If the gods displayed mercy, Fuegan hoped to be the last to meet his demise, ensuring that the funeral pyres blazed brightly and intensely for the fallen.
His inner fire now provided warmth, fueled by the Dragon's blood and the Cosmic Serpents' wisdom, sustaining his body and sharpening his mind. Those who identified as Fire Dragons diligently followed his teachings, mastering the art of methodical and complete annihilation of their people's adversaries.
The Aeldari now hailed him as a Phoenix Lord, a title Fuegan paid little heed to. He remained steadfastly bound to the Dragon and the Everlasting Pyre. The Aeldari celebrated him as a hero, and the Great Seer invoked his fiery wrath in times of dire need, calling upon him to unleash the fires of war upon all who opposed the Asuryani. In many ways, Fuegan was content to fulfill this call.
At times, he told himself that the fires of war might provide warmth. Yet, regardless of victory or defeat, the comforting warmth he sought never arrived. No burning wreckage, lifeless bodies, decimated cities, or even the annihilation of entire worlds could drive away the bitter chill that plagued him. The curse of the cold clung to him eternally, the inescapable fate of a man whose very existence was defined by fire.
War beckoned Fuegan and his warriors once more, an incessant call in these times. The Great Seer, who had taken on a role akin to that of a Kingmaker, though he never referred to it as such, believed that forging a web of vassals and allies was essential for the survival of their Aeldari kin.
Fuegan harbored reservations, but he held his tongue. The lesser species mostly remained unwilling or incapable of aiding the Aeldari, driven by motives of fear, malice, or avarice. Humanity, in particular, had always been an ambitious race. Their near extinction had not deterred them but given rise to opportunists like the Emperor of Man, whose Imperium had grown to encompass a vast swath of the galaxy.
Yet, on this day, Humanity wasn't the enemy. Instead, it was another empire that sought to seize control of several strategically vital worlds of the Aeldari. These aggressors, however, falsely declared themselves as the "defenders" of the helpless and the "uplifters" of their supposed brethren. The Aeldari saw through their deception, as did those who stood against them.
The very mention of their name filled Fuegan with revulsion: The Holy Confederacy of Drakian, the self-proclaimed "Realm of Righteous Dragons." It was a mockery, for these humans had no right to clothing themselves in gilded crowns. The Drakians controlled a compact but formidable sub-sector of worlds and stars, as per human nomenclature, and aspired to build a vast interstellar empire through colonization, assimilation, and slavery. Their methods bore a striking resemblance to the early days of the Imperium of Man, and regrettably, for their victims, they were beginning to achieve a similarly disconcerting level of success.
The Drakian juggernaut had already claimed a hundred planets, while another hundred lay besieged, held hostage by armies of enslaved soldiers known as "Bondsmen." These Bondsmen, who were coerced into service, formed the backbone of the Drakian military, backed by a highly capable and formidable force of elite soldiers and champions. Their relentless religious fervor compounded the threat, as the Drakians hailed themselves as crusaders of their Cosmic Dragon and their Path of the Sun, converting billions to their faith and erecting grand churches and temples in homage to a dozen deities.
Yet the Holy Confederacy's strength warranted wariness. Their sensor technology surpassed human standards, posing a challenge for the Aeldari once hostilities commenced. The Drakians demonstrated an exceptional ability to detect and neutralize threats swiftly. Engaging in covert operations against them seemed inadvisable. The Drakians boasted an impressive cadre of soldiers well-versed in what humans called "COIN" tactics, which explained why the local populations had failed in their attempts at resistance.
There seemed to be no alternative, no escape from the clutches of the Drakian onslaught – victory had to be secured on the battlefield, or else the grim fate of succumbing to the Drakian tyranny awaited. Local uprisings against the Drakian "purebloods" had repeatedly ended in despair. The Drakians were annihilators of cultures, wielding faith and iron as their tools. War fed their coffers, but faith imparted meaning to their purpose. Their Path of the Sun was a creed that sought to fulfill the sacrifice of a hundred thousand worlds, as foreseen by the Cosmic Dragon in ages long past.
In the eyes of Fuegan, all he perceived was madness perpetuated by a fanatical caste of conquerors gripped by a lust for power. The Great Seer foresaw the inevitable degeneration of the Holy Confederacy, an insatiable desire for more and more – more slaves, more worlds, more sacrifices. Nothing could satiate their insatiable greed. Their obliteration had become an imperative. The Fire Dragons would spearhead this campaign.
Fuegan led a formidable force of fifty million Aeldari and ten billion human auxiliaries into the conflict. While this might have appeared as a meager force in any other context, it proved sufficient for taking on these "dragons" and their enslaved followers. The power of fire and skill would ultimately triumph. The Aeldari expedition descended upon the Hive world of Eidaasit Rex, commencing what would soon be known as the Inferno War by all who witnessed the campaign.
The Fire Dragons, embodying their destructive might, rained fury upon the Holy Confederacy. Within a mere two months, they had driven the purebloods and their Bondsmen to the upper spires of Hive Taron. Fuegan, the Phoenix Lord, took to the field numerous times, annihilating two armored regiments in a single day and destroying a flying super-heavy vehicle that the Drakians had employed to conquer the world initially.
His adversaries must have recognized the sheer danger posed by the Phoenix Lord, prompting the Drakians to formulate a plan to confront Fuegan. While the battle for Eidaasit Rex appeared lost, the Holy Confederacy refused to withdraw without exacting a toll for their troubles.
Thus, on the 75th day of the Eidaasit Rex liberation, amid the blazing halls of the lord's palace, Fuegan encountered his true opposition for the first time. He had not anticipated facing any remaining foes, as the Drakians were in full retreat, leaving Fuegan and the Fire Dragons the opportunity to deal with the remnants of the Bondsmen forces.
Yet before him stood a champion, clad in rugged ruby red power armor, wielding a sword and pistol, positioned amidst the raging inferno as if the fires had heralded their arrival. Fuegan had barely enough time to raise the Firepike before he was thrust into a close-quarters duel with this human warrior.
Fuegan wielded the Fire Axe, an ancient weapon forged within the heart of Vaul's forge, capable of shattering any known material in the galaxy. However, the sword of this champion stubbornly resisted destruction, enabling them to strike with such ferocity that it forced the Phoenix Lord to engage with the utmost seriousness.
Their intense duel raged on for over seven hours, capturing the attention of both armies. However, none dared to intervene, understanding that interference in the battle between these two formidable warriors would surely result in their own demise. By the third hour, Fuegan ceased holding back, unleashing the full power of the Firepike and obliterating nearly seven kilometers of Hive Taron's upper spires.
Despite the ferocity of their contest, it proved to be in vain. Fuegan's opponent skillfully evaded his attacks, weaving in and out to mount counter-offensives against the Phoenix Lord. At times, it was Fuegan on the offensive; at other moments, the champion took the lead. Regardless of the momentum shifts, the outcome was a draw.
Amid the chaos during the last hour, Fuegan discovered, to his displeasure, that his adversary had vanished just as the Drakians evacuated Eidaasit Rex. The battle had ended, but Fuegan was left unsatisfied by the inconclusive duel. More perplexing was how the Drakians had managed to field a warrior capable of dueling a Phoenix Lord for seven hours to a standstill.
Fuegan ordered interrogations of captured prisoners and inquiries among the local population. It took some coaxing of the pureblood Drakian captives, but eventually, he obtained a name.
They referred to this champion as Fireheart.
It appeared that Fireheart was both a living legend and a demigod in one. The stories suggested that Fireheart had existed since the dawn of their civilization over 3,000 years ago, revered as a blessed spirit of the Sun Gods, and that their sword was forged from the remnants of a dead star. Fireheart had played a significant role in forming the Holy Confederacy, although some officers reported that they had become rather reclusive in recent centuries. The arrival of the Eldar had seemingly compelled Fireheart to take up arms once more.
However, aside from these tales, the rest was shrouded in speculation and legend. Fuegan, indifferent to the origins, now understood that Fireheart would be a persistent thorn in his side throughout the war. Strangely, the Dragon felt a stirring in his heart, a sensation he might have called excitement.
Three years passed, and the Inferno War raged across a dozen worlds. Praetyra Alpha, Etaos Major, the Redsoul Belt, and Hogan's Hold were among the more iconic campaigns. It was on these battlegrounds that Fuegan repeatedly encountered and dueled Fireheart, with each confrontation ending in a frustrating draw.
Fuegan found himself in a quandary. These duels, while vexing, also brought excitement. They posed a challenge for the Phoenix Lord that didn't necessitate the Fire Dragons being decimated or risking the lives of millions of Aeldari. This war, in essence, consumed his time and resources that might have been allocated elsewhere. Nevertheless, Fuegan acknowledged that these duels with Fireheart provided him invaluable practice and kept his skills sharpened. A small fire had been lit in his heart.
Fuegan knew that one day, this war would come to an end. Such was the inevitable fate of all things, and the cold darkness would haunt him once more. Yet those duels with Fireheart were something unique that stirred his spirit in ways he couldn't deny.
The Holy Confederacy appeared to understand that Fireheart was their sole true counter to the Phoenix Lord, although even then, it only served as a stalling tactic. The Aeldari were steadily gaining the upper hand in this conflict, particularly as tens of billions of locals rallied to their cause. It was a war of attrition; unless the Drakians made a substantial change, they would inevitably lose.
During the Battle of Bae-Jin-Koe, a dual mining and agricultural volcanic world, the Holy Confederacy resorted to assassins and special forces units to launch decapitation strikes against allied human leadership, aiming to disrupt the Aeldari offensive. This was a smokescreen for an audacious but failed attempt to assassinate Eldar leadership. However, it did lead to an unexpected encounter between Fuegan and Fireheart.
After completing a mission to clear out a concealed Drakian base, remarkably built into an active volcano, Fuegan prepared to depart when his forces intercepted a Drakian transmission, reporting Fireheart's proximity to his location. Undoubtedly, the champion was there to attempt to kill Fuegan. The Phoenix Lord braced himself for battle and set out for Fireheart's position.
Fuegan reached what initially appeared to be a sizable landing zone but soon recognized it as more of a lookout point, overlooking the magma rivers a few kilometers away. He appreciated the warmth the location offered but dismissed the sensation as he spotted Fireheart standing near the edge, seemingly awaiting Fuegan's arrival.
This encounter set itself apart from the dozens of prior ones, as Fireheart hadn't drawn their weapons yet, even upon spotting Fuegan. Even more peculiar was that Fireheart began to approach the Phoenix Lord almost nonchalantly. They halted once Fuegan raised the Firepike in their direction, although he refrained from firing.
Fireheart gradually lifted her hands as if reaching for her helmet rather than surrendering. Fuegan didn't understand what was happening until he saw her slowly removing the helmet. A few seconds later, a cascade of sun-kissed red hair became visible, followed by the face of a human female with dark-tanned skin and striking ruby-red eyes.
"Mind if I get a little closer?" Fireheart inquired with a smile, a gesture that seemed incongruous in the sweltering heat. "I promise not to draw my blade."
Fuegan's frown remained hidden behind his helmet. "I have no inclination or desire to let you get closer."
"Come on now," Fireheart teased, "I don't bite." She stepped closer and narrowly dodged a lance of fusion energy from the Firepike as Fuegan fired. Fireheart laughed and drew her sword, charging at him, reigniting their battle. But it was a short-lived skirmish.
In a remarkable display of skill, both fighters halted in an uncomfortable position. Fireheart had her pistol aimed directly at Fuegan's head while his Fire Axe hovered just inches from her exposed throat. The potential for a killing blow was within reach for both of them, but it could result in a simultaneous demise.
"What's wrong?" Fireheart asked with a strained smile. "Don't tell me you've lost your nerve."
"Hardly," Fuegan replied, racing to find a way out of the situation. "I'm merely giving you a chance to surrender."
"Funny, that's what I was doing," Fireheart retorted. "Your armor is pretty tough, but I know from experience that my pistol at this range can punch a hole clean through a ship's bulkhead."
"My armor is beyond anything you've ever encountered. It will withstand your primitive pea-shooter," Fuegan retorted, tightening his grip on the Fire Axe. "My axe need only slice through a few inches of skin and flesh to end you."
Fireheart smirked defiantly. "Then go ahead because I'm not surrendering."
"You are foolish and stubborn."
"You sound handsome," Fireheart suddenly remarked. "Are you handsome? I bet you are."
Fuegan rolled his eyes. "Mind games won't work on me."
"I figured... but I still wanted to ask," Fireheart responded. An awkward silence followed as they continued to lock eyes. "I wasn't here to pick a fight, you know."
"I find that hard to believe."
"Why?"
Fuegan clenched his teeth. "Because of our previous duels. Your people have already tried to eliminate other command elements of my forces. So it stands to reason you came here to do the same."
"First off, the Drakians are not my people," Fireheart snapped. "My people have been dead for a long time. Second, I came here to see you, to deliver a message. But after I saw the sights here, you just happened to stumble upon me while I was enjoying things."
This response prompted a scoff from the Phoenix Lord. "You came here to sightsee and then bring me a message? Are you mad or just an idiot?"
Fireheart frowned at Fuegan's response. "I guess you aren't the type to enjoy the little things in life."
"I have more important things to worry about. All you are doing is wasting what little time your fleeting life has," Fuegan replied, causing Fireheart to sneer. Despite their exchange of words, she still refrained from firing her weapon.
"Are we going to keep trading insults, or do you want to talk?" Fireheart inquired.
Fuegan took a moment before responding. "I don't see much reason to talk. Even if we were to part on amicable terms, it would still be a waste of our time for you to deliver your message only for me to reject it, especially if it calls for the Holy Confederacy's unconditional surrender."
"Which wouldn't work," Fireheart pointed out, her expression resolute. "Because they still believe they have a chance to bring this conflict to a standstill. But you would still want that message sent back, wouldn't you?"
"Hmm," Fuegan contemplated the idea. If he could sow discord among the Drakian leadership, it might serve the Aeldari's interests. Some might recognize the stark reality of the situation and opt for self-preservation rather than fighting a futile war. "I suppose I would want that message relayed."
"Well, you're pointing an axe at the woman who can penetrate the inner councils and lords," Fireheart pointed out. "So, can we please lower our weapons?" Surprisingly, her request seemed genuine and earnest. Fuegan, equally uninterested in testing the firepower of her pistol, agreed.
"Very well," he withdrew the Fire Axe, and Fireheart holstered her weapon. "I suppose we can always resume this duel at another time."
Fireheart gave him a strange look and said, "Sure." She chuckled at the situation, her gaze lingering on Fuegan. "I'm glad it only took half an hour of dueling when we could have just talked this out. But I guess that's par for the course. But you're kind of an odd one, just saying."
"As if I care," Fuegan huffed, crossing his arms. Surprisingly, his response elicited a giggle from Fireheart.
"What's so funny?" Fuegan inquired.
"I just realized that you get a bit annoyed at the littlest remarks I make about you," Fireheart remarked with a mischievous glint in her eyes, which caused a flicker of displeasure at the lack of respect. He ignored it, however, and instead focused on more important matters.
"Just speak to me about the message you brought so we can be done with this interaction. I have a war to win."
It became apparent that the Holy Confederacy of Drakia was ready to surrender, but not without laying out specific conditions. The first condition was the permanent recognition of several star systems as their own, the second was the return of pureblood Drakian prisoners, and the third was to form an alliance with the Eldar.
The desperation of the Drakians was palpable, as Fireheart made abundantly clear. They were eager to exit the war in any manner possible. However, Fuegan remained resolute, unwilling to accept anything other than unconditional surrender. Fireheart, on her part, seemed to have only a tepid allegiance to the Holy Confederacy. She openly admitted that she had fought against the Eldar because they were seeking to acquire more slaves, a sentiment she clearly did not share.
"I've spoken to enough prisoners from your side to understand that they follow you of their own accord," Fireheart explained. "That's why some lords and council members are exploring ways to end this conflict. But many believe the only way is to halt the Eldar offensive or achieve a pyrrhic victory that forces your group to negotiate."
"They are fools, then," Fuegan retorted sharply. "They could spare themselves from further conflict by surrendering completely. I would advise you to surrender as well. Your involvement simply prolongs this war."
Fireheart looked annoyed. "Just because I don't like the Drakians doesn't mean I can betray my oaths to them. Besides, I can still save their society." Fuegan was equally irritated by her stubbornness, but he couldn't help but quietly appreciate her commitment to her duties, even when serving a nation she disliked.
Nonetheless, Fuegan pressed on. "Your oath is to a nation that is enslaving and imposing their faith upon the population. The Drakians colonize and assimilate other cultures until there is nothing left. There are enough victims to corroborate this fact."
She appeared as though she had swallowed something foul. "Gods damn it," Fireheart swore. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Confederacy was meant to be a means for the local powers to unite for protection, but they collectively forgot the teachings. I'm almost relieved the Cosmic Serpent is no longer around."
"So there is some truth to this whole Path of the Sun doctrine?" Fuegan inquired.
Fireheart's glare softened as she confessed, "It's not nonsense. I've seen the Cosmic Serpent and defeated one of its idols. It's a very long story and not one I wish to share. The end result is that everything I set in motion has led me to this." She looked ashamed. "So yes, I'm quite responsible for this mess. But I want to fix it."
"Then surrender," Fuegan repeated. "If the Drakians see you on our side, it will expedite the end of this war."
"I am not a traitor," Fireheart said hotly. "These people believe in me and, more importantly, in the idea of Fireheart. This would be like you betraying your kind, Phoenix Lord. How well do you think that would go over, hmm?"
"Betraying your oath to stop a war isn't shameful or dishonorable," Fuegan insisted.
Fireheart shook her head. "It's not about what will happen to me. I would be shattering a part of their faith."
"Perhaps they deserve it. A lesson not to become so enamored with ideologies and myths."
She regarded him strangely before shaking her head and donning her helmet. "Stones and glass houses."
"I'm aware of what that is supposed to mean," Fuegan retorted. "You believe me a hypocrite."
"I've lived long enough to know that the Aeldari live and die by their prophecies and legends," Fireheart remarked. "Seen and read enough to know that. So for you to say that these people shouldn't find hope or motivation through something similar feels a bit close-minded of you."
"You need only look at why this war started and how it progressed to see that I am right. The underlying reasons were simply that of greed and lust for power."
Fireheart didn't seem to have an answer to that. "Just because they brought this on themselves doesn't mean they can't put themselves back on the right path with help." Even though her head was covered, Fuegan sensed a hint of wariness in her voice. "You'll win this war, of that I don't doubt. But I'm still going to fight. And if it comes to killing you, I won't hold back either."
"As if I would have done otherwise." Fuegan's resolve remained unyielding.
He expected the conversation to end and Fireheart to leave, but instead, she waited momentarily before asking, "Did you want to see the sights with me?"
Fuegan was taken aback by the unexpected question. "What?"
The pair stood near the edge of an active volcano. The intense heat and fumes would have been lethal to lesser creatures, but both were clad in sealed armor designed to withstand such extremes, leaving them unaffected.
Fireheart explained, "The volcanoes tend to erupt about every quarter century and remain active for roughly six days before going quiet again."
The Phoenix Lord replied with a disinterested "Hmm."
She continued, "The people of this region mix the ash with the soil before planting their crops, resulting in a significantly higher yield."
Once more, Fuegan responded with a nonchalant "Right."
"But the most interesting part is that the rivulets of magma often leave behind precious gemstones called Fire Tears, which are believed to serve as powerful focusing crystals for laser weapons."
Fuegan simply said, "I see."
Fireheart, sounding amused, inquired, "Are you listening?"
"Unfortunately," Fuegan quipped. "Why do you even know these things?"
"Why not?" Fireheart countered. "It's not pointless; it helps you appreciate the little things people go through and gives them a sense of wonder. Life thrives through the accomplishments of others and their works. Besides, something like this volcano, often seen as destructive, can bring blessings to people with the right mindset."
"I suppose," Fuegan conceded. He couldn't deny the value of finding new meaning rather than wallowing in misery. "Why did you bring me here?"
"I was lonely and wanted to have someone to talk to," Fireheart confessed. "So I appreciate you coming with me. Besides, I figured you could use the company as well."
Fuegan didn't appreciate the insinuation that he might be lonely. "Your concern is unnecessary. Why you think that is strange to me."
"We've crossed blades several times now. It helps me get an idea of people. Hence why I thought you were lonely," Fireheart explained. "Just made me think of myself. You and I are a lot alike."
Fuegan frowned under his helmet. "We are nothing alike, human." She couldn't possibly fathom the spiritual and mental sacrifices he had made in becoming the Dragon. Asurmen only selected those willing to go all the way and give up their very existence for the greater good of the Aeldari. He was beyond having any mortal wants or needs.
Fireheart seemed disheartened by his response. "Fine. If you say so."
"If you are done wasting my time, I'll take my leave," Fuegan retorted as he turned around. "Think about my offer. You can report back to your masters that I will only accept an unconditional surrender; otherwise, I shall burn their worlds to the ground."
"You don't have to do that, you know," Fireheart said. "The Drakians aren't monsters. They are still people. People who might have made a series of mistakes, but I believe they can redeem themselves."
Fuegan shook his head. "You are naive."
"And you are jaded," Fireheart remarked. "But you know, you don't have to go through life being a cold bastard to everyone." Her remark caused Fuegan to stiffen for a moment before he continued on his way. "I'll be seeing you, Phoenix Lord."
Something about this little interaction confused Fuegan. He almost felt regretful for his choice of words. Unfortunately, Fireheart was looking at this war through the lens of someone who thought there was a glimmer of hope or redemption for their enemies.
Fuegan knew better.
The Inferno War continued to escalate in battles and ferocity, with the Aeldari adapting their tactics to use the Holy Confederacy's unpopularity and size against them. Fuegan devised a strategy involving human auxiliaries to provide weapons and ammunition to rebels and insurgents in occupied worlds. This approach led to the sudden emergence of hundreds of bushfire conflicts overnight, compelling the Drakians to either deploy counter-insurgencies, engage in an unpopular conventional war, or retreat entirely.
The Drakians, realizing their decapitation strikes were ineffective, focused on eliminating their primary adversary, Fuegan, using Fireheart as their weapon. This resulted in nearly a hundred separate encounters with the living legend, not all of which turned violent. Fireheart, however, often insisted on arranging more "humanitarian" efforts, even after dueling with Fuegan, much to the annoyance of the Phoenix Lord.
Despite Fuegan's reservations, his warriors and auxiliary commanders recognized that these efforts were advancing their cause, even if it meant allowing the Drakians to leave. Fuegan would have preferred letting the Mon'keigh resolve their issues, but the situation was what it was. Yet the Drakians foolishly resisted surrender, holding out under the belief that the Aeldari would eventually accept terms other than unconditional surrender. Their fear of retribution from neighboring powers likely contributed to this stance.
While Fuegan could have accepted a negotiated peace, it didn't align with his style. Khaine, the Aeldari God of Murder, demanded only enemies' broken and smoldering remains or their submission. Besides, Fuegan's terms were already quite generous, offering to spare the Drakian capital worlds, followed by their demilitarization for a century or two.
Whenever Fuegan discussed these terms with Fireheart, she vehemently opposed the idea, fearing that the Drakians would be exploited for centuries. But this did not concern Fuegan, who saw the benefits of such an arrangement. Their disagreements often escalated into destructive duels, but somehow, they continued to engage in dialogue and debate. Fuegan's warriors started noticing their interactions, but he paid them little attention. Fireheart was the only intriguing aspect of this otherwise unremarkable war, though he would never openly admit it.
Fuegan found himself preoccupied with thoughts of Fireheart, even though he knew she was his enemy. She remained unwilling to accept the reality of the Drakians' situation and his offer to end the war. Fuegan couldn't shake the feeling that if peace had been achieved earlier, the devastating massacre on Gerald's Garden might have been entirely avoided.
Neither Fuegan nor Fireheart had been present during the tragedy, but the reports painted a confusing picture of events that led to the activation of a cyclonic torpedo, resulting in the deaths of over 40 billion humans, several hundred Eldar, and tens of millions of Drakian purebloods. The conflicting narratives had different factions accusing one another of escalating the conflict into a war of extermination.
After this catastrophic event, Fuegan's commanders and the Great Seer urged him to lead a final march toward the Holy Confederacy homeworlds and end the war at its source, regardless of the consequences. However, Fuegan was determined to uncover the truth behind what had happened on Gerald's Garden before making any drastic decisions. He needed answers, not just allowing his allies to have their blind vengeance.
He waited until the next encounter with Fireheart to demand some answers.
The tension between Fuegan and Fireheart was palpable as they faced each other on the liberated world of Cydia Prime. The conflict had ended there swiftly, with the Drakians offering only token resistance before retreating. Fireheart wasted no time in addressing a matter of great importance.
"The Drakians didn't destroy Gerald's Garden," she asserted.
Fuegan regarded her statement with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "Neither did my forces," he responded, "or do your masters believe we'd go so far as to kill our own?"
"They aren't my masters." Fireheart's voice was sharp with frustration, her eyes narrowed as she responded to Fuegan's accusation. "They are just as confused as everyone else in this situation. Someone might have given one of the local resistance elements a cyclonic torpedo but told them it was an atomic or something."
Fuegan remained unconvinced, his tone icy. "But you have no proof of that. It's just as likely that a Drakian commander found and used the device to deny Gerald's Garden for all." The loss of Gerald's Garden had far-reaching consequences, making it a focal point for outrage among all involved parties.
"The Drakians don't destroy worlds."
"Just cultures," Fuegan retorted, his voice dripping with disdain.
Fireheart met his gaze with determination. "I might not have evidence, but I can vouch for the Holy Confederacy that they didn't do this."
"You are defending slavers and killers."
"And you think those part of your coalition of planets are all saints?" Fireheart shot back, a bitter truth underlying her words. Some of the joined worlds had abhorrent practices that needed to be addressed, but that didn't absolve the Holy Confederacy of their crimes.
"Whatever you believe to be true doesn't change the situation," Fuegan asserted, his voice resolute. "This war has escalated now. If you believe the character of the Drakians is worthy of anything, they shall be willing to surrender to stop this war from worsening in ways that will do them absolutely no favors."
Fireheart looked deeply unhappy. "It's not that simple."
"Then I will make it simple for you. Their core worlds will either surrender or burn if they resist."
"Be reasonable, Fuegan!" Fireheart pleaded, desperation creeping into her voice. "There are people within the Confederacy government that are willing to end this war without further bloodshed. I just need to give them something to rally behind."
"And how long will that take? Another four years? Ten?" Fuegan's frustration seeped through his words. "How many more worlds will be consumed by the fires of war? How many more planets risk a similar fate to Gerald's Garden?"
Exasperation flashed across Fireheart's face. "I can make this work. I just need some time. Please, if our friendship means anything—"
"You are my enemy, Fireheart," Fuegan's voice rumbled with fury, his words echoing with finality. "We were never friends. Respected rivals, perhaps, but you are ultimately an obstacle to be defeated."
His words seemed to wound her deeply. "You don't mean that."
"For someone so capable, you are still just another Mon'keigh that believes themselves wise or correct in every subject," Fuegan sneered down at her. "I am an instrument of destruction, of Khaine's Wraith upon his enemies, and the salvation of the Aeldari. You are just some woman who refuses to recognize the evil in the people you serve. So either help me, draw your blade, or get out of my way."
The bitterness of his words hung heavily in the air, tainting the atmosphere with hostility. Fireheart's expression hardened as she met his challenge. "Fine," she uttered with finality, her hand inching closer to her blade, her eyes never leaving Fuegan. "I will not forsake my oaths and allow you to destroy the Holy Confederacy. I will kill you first, Fuegan of the Fire Dragons. The next time we meet…we'll have an ending to this."
Fuegan's response was cold and unyielding. "Good."
With that, Fireheart turned away, leaving Fuegan with an unsettling feeling of foreboding. That seemed to end the conversation. For a brief moment, Fireheart looked like she wanted to say something, regret on her face, before she steeled herself and turned away and left. Fuegan suddenly felt a lot colder than he had before this meeting. It was an ominous feeling.
There would, in fact, be an ending to this.
It would be another year before the long-anticipated confrontation between Fireheart and Fuegan would finally unfold. In the meantime, the Aeldari-led coalition relentlessly pushed into the Holy Confederacy's inner colonies. The cataclysmic events following the destruction of Gerald's Garden had sown chaos among the occupied worlds, leading to massive uprisings and rebellions erupting virtually overnight.
The remnants of the Holy Confederacy's fleets and military forces shifted their strategy, opting for holding actions and organized retreats instead of continuing a futile attrition war. Notably, Drakian purebloods were increasingly visible, indicating that they were no longer content to rely solely on Bondsmen armies.
Fuegan found himself in the unenviable position of issuing orders to his warriors and auxiliaries, instructing them to maintain order among the liberated locals and prevent any reprisals against captured Drakians or citizens who had converted or "collaborated" during the occupations. The Dragon Lord felt profoundly disappointed with how some humans treated their newfound freedom.
Word had reached him about Fireheart's presence across a dozen worlds, where she played a pivotal role in organizing defenses and evacuations. Her legendary status had reached new heights, as the people, who had once regarded her as a figure of myth and legend, now saw her as an avatar of the Cosmic Serpent and their savior. It became a potent source of propaganda, especially in light of the awareness that the Aeldari led the coalition.
Xenophobia was on the rise, even among the liberated locals who had once been subjugated. Humanity's capacity for prejudice and hatred was deeply disappointing, save for Fireheart, who stood apart. The incongruity of his thoughts troubled Fuegan as he frequently pondered if he had made a mistake with their last conversation. Had he been harsh? Perhaps. But Fuegan had to make his stance clear. Yet he wondered if that was worth destroying a friendship. The truth was that Fuegan didn't know how to respond to such a thing.
A Phoenix Lord had no room for friends, lovers, or family. Their duty solely defined their existence, their unyielding commitment to making sacrifices for the greater good. It was a responsibility that transcended individual desires, even if it meant one person willingly shouldered the burden to spare countless others. Fuegan was a warrior of his people, so he had to maintain boundaries and sever ties when necessary.
He repeated these principles to himself, but they rang hollow in Fuegan's heart. The entire situation felt profoundly wrong to him. Nonetheless, he understood that every action he took was both necessary and expected of him, for he was the one who had undertaken this arduous campaign. He had to maintain his focus and steel himself to confront Fireheart and emerge victorious.
Nothing else mattered; nothing else but achieving total victory.
The coalition achieved remarkable success at Aklon-127, defeating a Drakian defense fleet and creating a system-wide breach in their defenses. The path to the Drakian homeworlds now lay open to the coalition forces. Their final destination would be the planet of Chakao, a system capital and a staging ground for four Drakian army groups. Victory in Chakao would leave nothing between the coalition and the Drakian homeworlds.
The battle for Chakao commenced on both the planetary surface and in orbit, with coalition and auxiliary ships engaged in fierce combat. As the Aeldari prepared to launch their assault on the Drakian homeworlds, Fuegan received a message from his rangers, reporting that Fireheart had been sighted in Chakao's capital city. She appeared to be waiting there for something or someone.
Fuegan's primary obligation was to lead his forces in the critical battle unfolding. He had no right to abandon his post and confront Fireheart, especially during such a pivotal moment. Numerous logical reasons argued against his rash decision, from the possibility of it being a trap to the idea that they could face each other simultaneously. So why did he feel such an overwhelming compulsion to defy protocol and common sense?
However, a Dragon was a creature guided by its passions. Despite the apparent lack of wisdom in his decision, Fuegan felt he had to go through with it. He owed it to Fireheart and himself to see this through.
Snow drifted from the overcast skies, blanketing the once-thriving capital city in cold, silent serenity. But now, there was no one here. There were no inhabitants, no signs of life, only the chilling wind and the lonely figures of Fireheart and Fuegan. A city built to house a hundred million souls had become the somber and empty battleground for two demigods, their conflict against the backdrop of this cold metropolis.
The biting cold penetrated Fuegan's senses, but it was not the chill of the snow that gnawed at his consciousness. Instead, it was the overwhelming emptiness of the place, a void where life and purpose had once thrived. Fuegan felt like a solitary visitor walking through this city in a grand, forsaken tomb.
But none of that mattered now. Only one thing held significance in this empty city, at least in Fuegan's attempt to convince himself. He pressed onward toward the Temple of the Sunrise, where Fireheart had been spotted.
Fuegan found Fireheart seated near a grand sundial crafted from marble and steel outside the temple. Her helmet was off, revealing her face. Fuegan couldn't help but wonder what she looked like outside of her armor, but such musings were unproductive and irrelevant, especially given the circumstances. Instead, he observed her in silence as she sat, not looking at him but gazing at the snowing skies above.
"Did you ever like the cold?" Fireheart inquired, maintaining a noticeable distance between them. "I used to enjoy it. Winters brought cities to life, and nature seemed frozen in time, like a moment captured in stasis."
Fuegan's response was as blunt as his demeanor. "No. I've never taken pleasure in the cold, in any sense." He looked at her with an expectant expression. "So why did you stop enjoying it?"
Turning her gaze toward him, Fireheart recounted, "I witnessed too many people freeze to death. I watched a star slowly wither away, and the inhabitants of an entire planet succumbed to the endless winter. I survived because I stole fire from the Cosmic Serpent, and instead of being punished, he allowed me to keep the sacred flame. He called it an ember of starlight. It kept me warm until I was rescued. That was a long time ago. And depending on how this duel goes, it will finally be extinguished."
Fuegan remained silent, his expression as inscrutable as ever, as he observed Fireheart secure her helmet onto her head. Although numerous words and questions swirled in his mind, he refrained from speaking. Their chance for dialogue had passed, and it was time for action. Fuegan raised his Firepike, pointing it directly at Fireheart. He watched as she produced something in response.
"I hope you don't mind, but I ordered the evacuation of this city for more than one reason," Fireheart revealed, holding up a small device. Fuegan quickly recognized it as a detonator. "Forgive me, but I wanted to ensure I had all the advantages here." With those words, she pressed her right thumb down on the button.
Expecting an explosion that would consume the area around them or obliterate the temple, Fuegan found his expectations met. The ground quivered, and the temple and nearby structures erupted in a fiery blast. However, Fuegan soon realized that the detonation wasn't limited to their immediate surroundings; it had triggered the plasma reactors for the entire city.
Blowing up a city might stop a lesser adversary, but it wouldn't suffice to kill a Phoenix Lord. Fuegan acted swiftly, firing lances of fusion energy toward Fireheart as the ground beneath him crumbled and ignited. His adversary responded in kind, sending a barrage of shots from her pistol toward Fuegan. The Temple of the Sunrise seemed on the brink of collapsing around her.
Time seemed to warp for Fuegan. It slowed to a crawl as he engaged in close combat with Fireheart, then accelerated as the two demigods unleashed their grace and fury in a chaotic, deadly dance amid a crumbling city. So began their final duel.
He didn't know how long they dueled for. It could have been five minutes, five hours, or five days. Time had lost all meaning now. There was only the dance of death and the thrill of war, which was an exquisite feeling to Fuegan.
Over the past four and a half years, the two had engaged in countless duels, amassing a record of over a hundred confrontations. In hindsight, these encounters seemed more like sparring sessions. Neither of them had taken the fights seriously, often using them to measure each other's strength. It had never escalated beyond that until now.
This time was different. Both warriors were fighting with the intent to kill and now held nothing back. The spectacle was extraordinary, should anyone have survived to witness it. The atmosphere was thick with smoke, fire, and ash. Entire streets and habitation blocks were consumed by flames, and the raging inferno of the city was visible to those in orbit, among the other ongoing battles around Chakao.
Nothing else held meaning in that moment. Fuegan and Fireheart were entangled in a fierce life-and-death struggle. One misstep and one hesitation would be the end for one of them. The tension was suffocating, and the looming threat was ever-present. But by the gods, Fuegan felt more alive than he had in centuries. The dying city's raging fires and the battle's intensity made his blood and soul resonate with a primal, exhilarating energy.
The dragon was awake.
Nevertheless, his adversary had proven remarkably adept, matching his pace and penetrating his defenses in breathtaking ways. Fireheart earned the honor of drawing first blood, executing a daring maneuver by riding a burning, collapsed building. Seizing the element of surprise and harnessing the momentum, she skillfully punctured his armor, piercing through to one of his lungs.
Fuegan swiftly reciprocated, driving his Fire Axe through Fireheart's right shoulder. The force tore apart one of her pauldrons, but instead of deterring her, it only fueled her determination to vanquish the Phoenix Lord. As the battle unfolded, Fuegan couldn't help but observe a growing strength in Fireheart.
However, he acknowledged the truth—he was a Phoenix Lord, his skills largely untested in meaningful combat for centuries. Wars were poor training grounds once you reached a plateau, and finding opponents of equal caliber was challenging.
In her own way, Fireheart provided Fuegan with the closest match he could find in this era, and for that, he was grateful. The flames around them rose as they clashed, feeding on their wills and allowing their souls to burn brightly against each other. "What a splendid time to be alive," Fuegan thought, momentarily reveling in the intensity of the battle before the realization of the inevitable end of their duel tempered his enjoyment. Yet, amid fiery combat, neither Fuegan nor Fireheart seemed deterred from savoring the moment.
They clashed relentlessly. Fireheart exploited an opening in Fuegan's defense, stabbing one of his kidneys, only to find herself swiftly repelled as he slashed through her chest armor with a direct hit. A stray round from her pistol struck Fuegan's neck, drawing forth a stream of smoldering blood. In return, he drove a piece of burning rebar into her right leg with such force that the bone audibly broke beneath the ceremite armor plating. This did not stop their dance of death.
Fuegan tasted the coppery bitterness of blood in his mouth, a stark reminder of his impending demise. Fireheart appeared worn, with exposed subdermal armor and a protruding rebar. Blood flowed from both combatants, blending with the falling snow, while the fires raced across the ruins.
Despite her broken leg, the powered armor servos enabled Fireheart to persist in the fight. Although an easy target without his Firepike, lost during their skirmish, Fuegan found himself at a disadvantage. She had successfully disarmed him, keeping all advantages to herself as she aimed to endure him and secure victory.
As they fought their way back to the Temple of the Sunrise, where their duel had begun, the once-raging fires were reduced to smoldering embers. The snow gently fell as they silently sized each other up from a short distance before charging again, their weapons locked in a deadly embrace.
"Heh," Fuegan grumbled through bloodied teeth, "Time to end this, I think."
"That's…rich, coming from you." Fireheart breathed heavily, "Especially from where I'm standing." Fuegan smiled, understanding that if she survived, it would be as a great champion. However, seeing the exposed vulnerability in her armor up close, he knew what had to be done.
Fuegan made his final gambit, using all his strength to push Fireheart back, hoping to stagger her briefly. It allowed him to raise the Fire Axe above his head for a killing blow. Yet, Fireheart, despite her injuries, brought her sword to pierce him right into his heart.
For a moment, Fireheart seemed almost stunned as Fuegan appeared to meet his end, and the Fire Axe fell from his hands. However, his right hand quickly reached out to grab her exposed shoulder. Despite her attempt to move away, her maimed leg prevented her from exerting full strength, rendering her unable to escape what came next.
The Phoenix Lord's armor proved its lethal design. Fuegan's gauntlets, adorned with blades capable of piercing through flak armor, now targeted Fireheart's vulnerable torso. Stripped of real protection, she was defenseless. Fuegan thrust his armored hand into her warm body, penetrating all the way to his wrist, and twisted it just once, feeling the grim satisfaction of several vital organs being punctured and pierced.
Silence enveloped them, broken only by Fireheart's gasp of pain and surprise. In a display of resilience, her sword arm held the blade inside Fuegan for as long as possible before she slowly let go and reached for her helmet. Fuegan observed her as she pulled it off, revealing a visage that struggled with pain, vomiting blood, and gasping for air.
Collapsing against a broken wall, Fuegan felt the impending embrace of death. The thrill of battle faded, and the stinging cold of the surroundings became apparent. A pained chuckle emerged from Fireheart, who, amidst coughing up blood, looked at him with acknowledgment and admiration. "Y-you clever bastard. That was a good trick…"
"Didn't save me," Fuegan responded, mustering the strength to pull the sword out of his dying body. The unimaginable pain was ignored. "You'd have won otherwise." He tossed the sword back to Fireheart.
Attempting to laugh, Fireheart coughed up more blood. "Yay, me."
Moments of silence passed before Fuegan, compelled to make amends, spoke with a gasp, "I'm sorry it came to this. Had we another chance..."
"Fuegan, stop," Fireheart interrupted, slowly falling to her knees as she grasped her sword. "Just...do me a favor before I die?"
Fuegan "hmphed" at her request, "I'm a little pressed for time, Fireheart."
"It's an easy one." Her breathing labored, she requested, "Just...take off your helmet. I want to see your face."
Who was he to deny such a strange last request? He carefully removed his helmet, trying not to strain himself further. Fuegan looked straight toward Fireheart and saw a look of disbelief, awe, and regret in her eyes.
"Shit." She swore aloud, "You are handsome. Like…hot as hell." Fireheart remarked with all seriousness. The two exchanged glances before slowly chuckling at the pun, albeit with pain in their tones. They savored their last moments, perhaps rekindling their connection before this fateful duel.
It had been a long time since Fuegan had been this close to death, and it seemed like it was about to claim him for good. He forced himself to stay awake, holding onto a desperate hope that help might arrive. Perhaps someone could save him and Fireheart, and they could leave this place, attempting to make amends.
But it was a pathetic delusion. Fuegan knew he was responsible for this. The Dragon's pride had gotten the better of him, and now they both faced inevitable death. The only solace was the knowledge that, at least, they would die on their own terms.
The fires around him appeared to be growing again. How strange.
"Fuegan," Fireheart called out to him softly, "One last favor?"
He merely grunted, lacking the strength to speak. The fact that Fireheart could still talk was perplexing to the Phoenix Lord. "Please…don't be too hard on yourself." What could he say to that?
Had Fuegan possessed the strength, he might have made some quip or gesture. Instead, he witnessed something extraordinary. The sundial of the Temple of the Sunrise began to glow miraculously intact despite the city's destruction.
A beam of sunlight pierced through the clouds of smoke, ash, and snow, directed toward Fireheart as the fires around them grew bright and unnatural. They started to snake and spread toward her as if possessed by the warp, swirling around in a mystifying dance.
"Such warmth…" She muttered once before Fireheart's eyes closed for the last time, and the flames began their work, cascading and soaring into her body as if responding to her call to return home. The fires of a burning city converged upon her in a localized firestorm, taking the form of a fiery serpent whose eyes seemed to lock onto the Phoenix Lord's own.
Then, the moment passed.
All that remained of Fireheart's body was a charred skeleton encased in slagged power armor, her sword and pistol at her side, her hands neatly folded in her lap. Fireheart died in peace. The Cosmic Serpent had come to collect its flame and, more importantly, her.
Thus, Fireheart finally succumbed and died.
And soon, he would as well. But Fuegan felt content with this end. Fireheart had died, but not alone and in the cold. Her spirit would not be at the mercy of some creature within the warp but rather with her god. A death like this felt, if nothing else, peaceful.
He closed his eyes, realizing that the air around him was still warm, even with only snow to keep him company. A parting gift from Fireheart.
Fuegan opened his eyes…and was surprised to see that he was in an Aeldari medical facility, a familiar one found only inside the Black Library. Death had not claimed him just yet. The gods must still have use of him, and the Rhana Dandra still awaited him.
He called out to the one nearby healer, who looked thoroughly surprised to see the Fire Dragon awake now. It seemed like they weren't expecting him to have survived, either. Fuegan felt that perhaps Fireheart kept him safe until help did arrive.
Funny. He killed her, and Fireheart kept him alive. Fuegan wondered what that said about him and her.
To his surprise, Eldrad Ulthran came to explain what had happened, providing a thorough and insightful debrief. Fuegan had indeed teetered on the brink of death, but Aeldari medical science ultimately prevailed.
He had been in a coma for about five weeks. During that time, the Inferno War had come to an end. The Holy Confederacy of Drakia surrendered unconditionally to the coalition after the Drakians achieved a pyrrhic victory at Chakao. Instead of rallying their forces, this victory triggered enough public outrage on the Drakian homeworlds, leading to a demand for peace.
The death of Fireheart played a pivotal role in shifting the mentality of the populace. Her heroic sacrifice influenced the war-hawk factions to yield to the peace factions and the court of public opinion, providing the Drakian leaders with an "honorable" way to conclude the war. It served as an excuse for them to bow out without appearing weak.
Fuegan couldn't suppress his rage at these cowardly leaders exploiting Fireheart's death to save face. Eldrad assured him the new Aeldari-backed government would address these factions when the time was right to help with the transition. However, the war was over, and Eldrad acknowledged that the cost to the locals was slightly higher than anticipated despite the overall success of the Fire Dragons and the Aeldari.
But that was it. The war was over. Eldrad admitted that the cost to the locals was slightly higher than expected, but ultimately, the campaign was a stunning success for the Fire Dragons and the Aeldari. Fuegan didn't care. He didn't know what to think anymore. He felt disillusioned.
Eldrad shifted the discussion to the investigation of Gerald's Garden. "I suspect Drukhari involvement, given that cyclonic torpedos, are generally found in Imperial armories," he added, unsurprisingly. "Regardless, much effort is needed to assimilate the Drakians."
Recalling Fireheart's counsel, Fuegan mused, "Fireheart urged me to treat them fairly, believing in their potential for change. I suppose we should honor her wish."
"I must confess, even I was taken aback by the unexpected involvement of Fireheart," Eldrad admitted to Fuegan. "I had been informed of her considerable skills."
"She might rank among the greatest warriors I've encountered over millennia. Quite impressive for someone who isn't Jain Zar or even Aeldari," Fuegan's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Fireheart was something else."
"But how did she manage to keep pace with you?" Eldrad pressed Fuegan. "To engage in combat and nearly best a Phoenix Lord is nothing short of extraordinary."
Fuegan nodded in acknowledgment. "I'm aware," he admitted. He wanted to express how remarkable she was, but a sense of unworthiness held him back.
"She was supposed to meet her end in your initial encounter on Eidaasit Rex."
"Is that right?" Although, in his mind, Fuegan doubted that. He contemplated the improbable turn of events. It was hard to fathom that outcome in this existence, perhaps in another, a thought he detested. "I suppose she defied fate."
"Fuegan, one doesn't defeat fate. You and I both know that," Eldrad spoke candidly. "Surviving a hundred duels with someone of your caliber is no small feat."
"No, it isn't," Fuegan agreed solemnly.
Eldrad picked up on Fuegan's apparent lack of interest in the conversation but continued to press, undeterred. "Fuegan, how did you ultimately emerge victorious?"
Fuegan's gaze shifted to his Phoenix Armor, the lingering stains of Fireheart's blood on his gauntlet as a grim reminder. It made him feel like he now embodied the Bloody-Handed God in more ways than one. "We dueled for five days straight, I believe. She managed to stab me in the heart, but I used that moment as a diversion, plunging my hand through her chest and tearing through some of her organs."
"So, you secured victory, but not without almost succumbing in the process," Eldrad gently accused Fuegan. "It seems you both were prepared to meet your end there." The Great Seer inquired, "What was going through your mind, Fuegan?" Eldrad's tone wasn't disappointing; he expressed genuine confusion regarding the Dragon's actions.
Fuegan remained silent, the weight of what he had done settling heavily upon him. In the grand scheme of things, his actions seemed futile. Fireheart was dead; the only undeniable truth mattered to him. It might not have held significance to others who didn't know her, but to him, it was a solitary burden he carried.
He felt cold again.
The healing process for Fuegan was slow but steady. A Phoenix Lord often recovered fairly quickly and sometimes even felt better than before. One of the many boons that their devotion to the art of war provided him. That said, Fuegan's near-death experience required him to take it easy and recover.
Despite the need for rest, Phoenix Lords were not accustomed to idleness. Fuegan, driven by an innate warrior's spirit, engaged in a careful regimen of physical conditioning while concurrently delving into meditation to recalibrate his mind. Drawing insights from the tumultuous events of the last five years of the Inferno War, he sought to refine his skills and strategic acumen.
Struggling to banish thoughts of Fireheart from his mind, Fuegan battled with himself. She was gone, yet her specter was a persistent distraction in his thoughts. It frustrated him, for he couldn't comprehend why this endured. Months had passed since their fateful duel on Chakao, but a chilling sensation lingered in his chest, a constant reminder.
The nights became a relentless struggle for Fuegan. Sleep eluded him, haunted by dreams and nightmares dominated by her presence. Even in meditation, attempts to center his thoughts were thwarted by the persistent return to memories of Fireheart and their intense duel. He couldn't escape the vivid recollections of her graceful and fierce combat, her eyes gleaming like precious rubies, and her hair reminiscent of strands of sunlight.
Such pervasive thoughts. It prompted Fuegan to a self-interrogation: Why did this matter so much to him? She was, after all, just another human—an exceptional one, admittedly, but still just a fleeting spark in the vast expanse of existence. A flicker life. Her name, deeds, and history would inevitably fade into obscurity within a few generations, turning to ash like the countless other ephemeral lives in the galaxy.
In the grand scheme of time, Fuegan was the sole custodian of her memory. Yet, what did he truly know about Fireheart? He had rebuffed all her attempts at friendship, a deliberate choice dictated by his role as a Phoenix Lord. Forging bonds with beings destined to be left behind or deemed unfit to follow him was a pain he couldn't afford. Consequently, Fireheart's extraordinary legacy seemed destined to be lost forever, extinguished by his hands.
Was this a punishment, perhaps a curse invoked by her god? Fuegan dismissed such notions; a deity wouldn't risk the ire of a Phoenix Lord. Instead, the weight of what he felt rested solely on him. Only now did he realize the true nature of his emotions—guilt, regret, grief. In his service to the Aeldari, Fuegan had dispatched countless warriors, champions, and heroes, and he knew that more would fall before his own time ended. Yet, this instance marked the first time he grappled with a sensation akin to shame concerning his faction's deeds.
The act of killing Fireheart haunted him, and Fuegan found himself unable to pinpoint why. Yet he did not have to wait long for someone to come around and explain.
Amidst his meditation, attempting to divert his thoughts from the persistent specter of Fireheart, Fuegan sensed an unusual chill in the air. It felt more like the touch of early winter frost upon his soul, a sensation preceding the presence of someone unfamiliar yet strangely familiar.
Intriguingly, a woman's voice cut through the silence, dripping with an air of divinity. "How dreadful," she remarked. Fuegan turned to find the form of Venus Cherital, the half-Aeldari goddess of Love and War, in the room with him. She gazed expectantly, surrounded by a small assembly of shadow cats. "I was wondering why my Pandafeches were so eager recently."
Fuegan chose to ignore her, harboring no love for the goddess. In his eyes, she had stolen a fragment of Khaine's power and audaciously declared herself one of their gods—a proclamation he deemed sheer madness. Venus might have held sway among humans, but that influence did not extend seamlessly to the Aeldari. The Dragon Lord remained steadfast, refusing to acknowledge her.
"Oh, don't be like that, Fuegan," Venus remarked with a playful grin as she approached the stoic Dragon. "I'm just curious about what's causing you such confusion. You've stopped dreaming, and that's been a nuisance for my dream eaters."
Fuegan couldn't resist a retort, "In that case, I'm glad I stopped sleeping. Now, leave me be."
Venus regarded him for a moment, her expression shifting to a frown. "What is this turmoil I feel in your heart? What's wrong?"
Fuegan bristled even more at the persistence of her concern. "Don't bother asking," he reiterated, firm in his resolve to deflect any further probing. "Leave me be."
As the shadow cats, the Pandafeches, circled around the Phoenix Lord, he sneered at the warp creatures. "You test my patience by bringing these things into my inner sanctum."
Venus, unfazed, merely shrugged. "They are completely harmless. Though they have told me interesting things." She lowered herself to meet Fuegan's gaze. "Your dreams were of fire and destruction, which, for one such as yourself, seems par for the course. But there was something else... wasn't there?"
Fuegan's vulnerability betrayed him as a fleeting image of a smiling Fireheart crossed his mind, and Venus seemed to catch the drift. "Oh-ho. What do we have here?" Just as he was about to demand her departure, the goddess's appearance abruptly transformed into an uncanny likeness of Fireheart. Ruby-red eyes, dark skin, sunlight hair – Venus now mirrored the fallen warrior's form. Unlike the power armor Fireheart exclusively wore, she adorned herself in a dress of splendid red and orange hues decorated with depictions of fire and two dragons intertwined that clung to her curves. Even her voice mimicked Fireheart's.
Fuegan felt a growing fury engulfing his soul. The Phoenix Lord rose, his tone seething with anger. "Remove this form from my sight, now!"
"Why would I do that?" Venus retorted, a tantalizing smile playing on her lips. "Am I bothering you, looking like this?"
Fuegan's response was resolute. "You are being disrespectful to the dead."
"Oh?" Venus conjured a mirror from the warp to examine the mirrored visage of Fireheart. "Hmm, what a beauty. Was this woman important to you? I can see why she might have been. Your heart sings with grief and regret. This must be the champion you recently faced— the one everyone has been discussing." Fuegan, unaware of such discussions, remained indifferent to idle gossip, but this information unsettled him still.
"I don't know what gossip has reached you, but I'm not in the mood for whatever perverse games you're playing. Get out," Fuegan demanded, attempting to resist the allure of the false Fireheart before him. Though his rational mind knew better, his gaze lingered longer than it should have.
Venus, undeterred, examined her new form, commenting, "How peculiar. Even through this guise, I can feel a lingering heat surrounding me." Her eyes then shifted to Fuegan. "And I can see a thread of fire tied to you."
Fuegan glared at the goddess, his tone carrying a final warning, "Last chance to leave peacefully." The Fire Axe was within reach, but his threat incited growls and hisses from the shadow cats. Venus gestured for them to stand down.
"No need for violence, Fuegan. I didn't come here to mock you or the memory of this woman. In fact, I think I can help you."
"I don't want or need your help," Fuegan asserted firmly. He refused to owe this goddess any favors, especially if it involved continued mockery of Fireheart through her deceptive guise.
"Fireheart?" Venus looked back into the mirror and slowly nodded. "Yes, that does sound appropriate for a body like this." She turned her gaze back to Fuegan. "I would shed this visage, but your soul is compelling me to take this form, and I'd be remiss to ignore it."
Fuegan felt his body tense at the insinuation that he was causing Venus to look like Fireheart, "I don't know what you are talking about, and I don't think you can help me."
"Nonsense," Venus dismissed his skepticism, approaching with a sultry smile that, though unsettling, evoked the memory of Fireheart. "The fires of your passion burn hot, but so does your sorrow and grief. I can help you feel better in more ways than one." She fluttered her eyes at him, attempting to entice him.
Unaccustomed to such forward advances from women, Fuegan resisted the temptation. "I'm not interested in sleeping with you."
"You aren't sleeping with Venus Cherital," the goddess wearing Fireheart's visage insisted. "You are sleeping with the woman you loved."
Her words jolted Fuegan out of the surreal encounter. "Love... I never... don't conflate admiration and respect with love. Fireheart was a great fighter and an honorable woman, but she never loved me."
"War can destroy the strands between two people, especially on opposing sides," Venus remarked, her smile carrying a touch of sadness and understanding. "But I've seen bonds form in the hellfire of conflict as well, and I know, with absolute certainty, that you and Fireheart had something more than mutual respect and admiration."
Venus fixed an expectant gaze on him. "It must stir you, hearing it as I am, yes? She must have thought it at least once as well. 'I love you, Fuegan.'"
He despised how correct that sounded and felt he had missed something. Such wants and desires seemed unfitting for a Phoenix Lord, contrary to what Asurmen taught him and against the very nature of the Dragon. Yet, Fuegan couldn't deny the sharp pang in his soul.
"She might have thought it once," Fuegan admitted a hint of resignation in his tone. "But it doesn't matter now. She died fighting in some blighted war for people who didn't deserve her. I most certainly don't, not after everything."
"That's the funny thing about love, Fuegan," Venus remarked, now within arm's length. "It doesn't matter what we did or said. Only our heart's desires matter." She reached for him, saying, "You can enjoy what might have been through me."
A strange sensation enveloped Fuegan. Fireheart stood right before him, alive. He tried to convince himself that she had returned from beyond, heard the unspoken words, and acknowledged what they could have meant to him. Yielding to the moment, Fuegan gently pulled her close, succumbing to the impulse that felt right and kissed her.
Yet, the illusion shattered with a biting cold, and he instantly pulled away. "I'm... I'm sorry, but that was wrong of me," Fuegan stammered, recoiling from the ethereal moment. "You need to leave."
To his surprise, the illusion of Fireheart dissipated, and Venus returned to her original form. She appeared both surprised and content with his actions. "I see. I can't say I didn't try, but I'm starting to think you'll actually be alright, Fuegan."
Fuegan grunted in response, not entirely pleased. "You say that."
"And I mean it," Venus replied with a smile. "You love her so much that you'd rather honor who she was rather than replace it with a falsehood. Even with all that pain and grief you are feeling, it makes your love toward her real and the memories all the more special."
Fuegan mulled over Venus's words. What good were memories if they only brought forward this frigid bleakness of regret and grief? These sentiments suggested he should be grateful and happy for his time with Fireheart, but the pain lingered.
"I killed her, you know," Fuegan remarked solemnly. "I shoved my hand through her chest after she stabbed me in the heart, lung, and kidney. I could have died there with her."
"But you didn't," Venus retorted softly. "Because she wouldn't have wanted you to die with her. She was a warrior. And I'd like to think she would have wanted you not to be so hard on yourself."
Fuegan couldn't shake the memory of Fireheart's second favor, 'Please... don't be too hard on yourself.' Did she know that he would survive in the end? Even as he lay dying beside her? It didn't make him feel less guilty, but it did make Fuegan believe that Fireheart had been ready to die that day.
"If I might make one suggestion to you, Fuegan?" Venus asked though she knew he wouldn't stop her. "It's alright for you to grieve and move on. There is no disrespect in doing that to someone you loved." She smirked at him. "Especially if she was a great warrior."
"She was," Fuegan acknowledged. "Perhaps one of the greatest of this era."
"And you defeated her," Venus said respectfully. "Take pride in that, Fuegan. Because I can imagine Fireheart would have loved for her name to be spoken with such reverence by the Dragon."
That thought brought a bittersweet smile to his face. "Fireheart dueled me a hundred times to a standstill and then almost killed me. Those are some amazing feats. She might have been able to fight Daemons, maybe even a Primarch, or even the other Phoenix Lords, and had a real chance of coming out on top."
"And you'll always know that," Venus said proudly. "All the best memories of her will be yours. You'll carry them for as long as you live."
"Until I eventually fall as well," Fuegan snapped back. "If I die, no one will remember her. They'll remember the Phoenix Lord Fuegan but not Fireheart. And she'll be forgotten." Even preserving her story in a psychic imprint would eventually subject it to the relentless march of time. The Holy Confederacy, too, would either forget or reshape her narrative over the passing years, as all legends were prone to do. The transience of memory was a fickle thing, even to the Eldar.
Venus smiled at him, "Fuegan, why don't you tell me everything about Fireheart?"
Recognizing this as her way of helping preserve Fireheart's memory, Fuegan didn't object much. "If you'd like. It might take a while, though."
"I was ready to stay the whole night with you, so I don't mind," she remarked, gesturing for the shadow cats to vacate, which the warp creatures dutifully did. "When we are finished tonight, try and get some sleep. I promise you'll feel better, and no nightmares shall come."
"I don't fear any nightmares," Fuegan replied plainly but nodded. "But I am grateful all the same."
She gave him a teasing grin, "If you want, we can talk in the bedroom..."
"...Let's just talk here," Fuegan suggested, feeling silly playing this game with Venus. He noticed a momentary pout on her face, making him wonder if his initial assessment of the hybrid goddess was a bit unfair. Regardless, he was adamant about not owing her any favors.
Venus made no further attempts to redirect the conversation. True to her word, the pair spoke at length about Fireheart, with Fuegan recounting his memories of the human. He described the emotions he felt when recalling those last few encounters, the words spoken and unspoken, and the mistakes made during the heat of the moment.
To her credit, Venus simply listened, asking a few questions but otherwise letting Fuegan talk at length about the woman who had almost killed him and whom he, in turn, had killed. They delved into the legend of Fireheart, the woman he loved, as the night unfolded.
It had been a few months since Fuegan spoke with Venus. The passage of time seemed to have worked its subtle magic on the Phoenix Lord. He was doing better now; his thoughts were not constantly plagued by the loss of Fireheart. Taking the goddess's advice, he had found time to grieve properly and promised not to be too hard on himself for what happened in the Inferno War.
The respite from the heavy burden of grief allowed Fuegan to refocus on his duties. The next set of wars loomed on the horizon, and the Dragon within him stirred with anticipation. His mind was clear once more, and he directed his attention back to commanding his Aspect warriors, honing his skills for the battles that awaited. The Dragon would roar again, resolute and ready for the challenges ahead.
But then, one day, something extraordinary happened.
Fuegan had been in deep meditation when one of his Exarchs appeared in his inner sanctum, looking apologetic. "Apologies, Great Dragon, but a visitor is bearing the mark of the Lords of Ravens. He says he is here to deliver something to you at the behest of Venus Cherital."
"Hrm," Fuegan grunted, seeming unamused at the interruption. Just because he had a much better relationship with the Goddess of Love and War didn't give her the right to bother him. "Send this visitor in."
He didn't have to wait long before his Exarch returned, escorting a scrawny-looking human who entered with a hover-trolley at his side. To Fuegan's surprise, the man looked unafraid and lacked any awe that a Phoenix Lord would have normally garnered.
"Lord Fuegan," the man spoke with a refined tone, "I am Jonathon Ezikeli Lockcraft, Director of Ravenloft." Fuegan had heard a few stories about this man and his organization. This fool had personally interviewed the Laughing God, seeking answers, and somehow emerged alive with his sanity intact. "Per the request of several parties, I have been instructed to bring you several items of interest."
The Dragon approached, casting an imposing figure. "What sort of items?" Fuegan stood ominously tall before Lockcraft, who seemed rather bored to be in the presence of a Phoenix Lord. This Lockcraft turned to the trolley and what appeared to be a large, lengthy weapon case that seemed to have been covered by ritual seals.
"These items were recovered from the destroyed Temple of the Sunrise in Chakao by a Ravenloft team a few days after your fight with Fireheart. Including her remains," Lockcraft explained, unaware of how these details shocked the Phoenix Lord behind his helmet. Fuegan had tried to find her remains but had been told that much of the city had been flattened in the fighting. That Ravenloft found them was suspicious but ultimately a good thing for him.
Lockcraft began to remove the seals around the case. "I'm sorry to say that her body was reduced to ash. We gathered it up and placed it in a sanctified urn. There was also the recovery of her weapons. Her sword was... difficult to transport."
"Difficult, how?" Fuegan was curious. "That sword was made of star matter but was completely inert."
"It isn't anymore," Lockcraft explained as he opened the weapons case, allowing Fuegan to see inside. The Phoenix Lord stared down at Fireheart's sword and pistol, but they looked completely different now, appearing to be almost rebuilt or modified. The sword was also in a metal scabbard, something Fireheart never used or that Fuegan could ever recall seeing.
"Everything was studied. This Fireheart was walking around with a weapon made for what we can only assume to be an Eidolon, a divine engine, you see." He reached forward and pulled out Fireheart's rail pistol, which now looked more like a Shuriken pistol. "Her sidearm was using what appears to be a micro-fusion battery, which was easy enough to fix, but the reactive catapult systems had to be replaced with wraithbone psy-materials. Luckily, Venus got Ullánta to forge the replacement."
Now, Fuegan was curious. "Venus requested this?"
"This and more," Lockcraft remarked as he handed the pistol over to Fuegan, who found the weapon perfectly balanced and weighted in his hand. "The sword is where the real story is, though. I don't know what favors you promised her, but the result is something else."
Lockcraft reached for the sword, but Fuegan beat him to it. "Let me," the Phoenix Lord rumbled as he held the sheathed blade. He looked down at the ruby-red scabbard adorned with depictions of an inferno raging across a city, with two dragons dueling above the ruins below. The metal felt unnaturally warm to the touch and familiar as well.
Then it clicked in Fuegan's mind. "This... was made from her armor."
Lockcraft nodded. "Good guess. The power armor was completely wasted but seemed to have gained some esoteric principles. It's exceedingly good at keeping heat at bay, acting almost like a heatsink. I dare say you can use it as a weapon with some practice. But, as I said, the real story comes from the blade itself."
Not waiting any longer, Fuegan slowly unsheathed the star sword, mesmerized as the blade glowed a brilliant white, like a midday summer sun, bathing the room in light and warmth. It was one of the most beautiful things that Fuegan had ever seen. He was also quite confused. What happened to cause the sword to become like this?
Lockcraft seemed to have an answer, "Tell me, you were wounded in your fight with Fireheart, yes? Your blood was spilled because of this blade?"
"It stabbed me through the heart," Fuegan answered while his eyes adjusted to the glowing white blade. He noticed a large diamond where the sword's pommel used to be. "So yes, there was a lot of blood."
The diamond was humming. It was calling to him.
"Your blood reignited the star matter," Lockcraft spoke plainly. "And yes, that is as fantastic as it sounds and caused a bit of a stir among several research divisions at Ravenloft, but that's beside the point. It seems that your blood produced enough of a warp causality to bring this sword back to its true form."
Barely paying attention, Fuegan's mind focused on the call of the diamond. He heard the clashing of blades, and for a moment, Fuegan was back on Chakao, dueling Fireheart among the burning ruins of a dying city.
He could recall everything perfectly. The snow, smoke, ruins, blood, and fire. It was just like he was there all over again.
"Noticed the diamond, yes?" Lockcraft brought Fuegan to reality, the Phoenix Lord wondering what had just happened. "Another project that caused significant outrage among our divisions. Fireheart's ashes were given over to the Lord of Gears, per the request of Venus, mind you, and turned into what he calls a Timeless Diamond."
Fuegan still didn't fully grasp this. "I felt myself back on Chakao. I could smell the smoke and feel the heat from the fires."
"Those are her memories, Lord Fuegan," Lockcraft briefly explained. "Although the Timeless Diamond can't show everything, it can and will show all the moments that mattered most to Fireheart and its wielder. This means as long as this sword is in the hands of someone, they can see them."
Fuegan felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The implication of this diamond meant that no matter how many times the sword traded hands, the wielder would know of her strength and skill, of how she lived and died. More than what could ever be written in some book or imprinted via the warp, this sword would carry her legacy onto future battlefields for all time.
Just as long as it was put into the right hands. "There is one more thing for you, Lord Fuegan," Lockcraft announced before pulling out a small, leather-bound booklet from his coat pocket. "This was recovered from a home in the Drakian capital world after the Lord of Gears learned of it while seeing her memories. If I had to guess, it might be a journal. I'm guessing because no one has read it."
He handed it to the Phoenix Lord, who looked down at the decrepit thing and smiled under his helmet. "I see…thank you."
"It was a pleasure to assist, really," Lockcraft remarked. "The research opportunities alone gave us several findings that will accelerate our projects and understanding of several study and research topics. That we could aid you is an added bonus," the man admitted readily enough. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several other figures of note to meet with."
Lockcraft departed, leaving behind the case and notes on their findings. Fuegan appreciated the solitude, allowing him a moment of reflection. He had braced for the worst regarding Fireheart's remains, even fearing scavengers might desecrate her corpse and pilfer her weapons.
The discovery that she had been found and her weapons improved upon touched him deeply. Venus had set things in motion, and Fuegan acknowledged he could never fully repay her for this gesture. Nevertheless, he pledged that the Fire Dragons would answer her call for aid when the time arose. He also felt indebted to the Lord of Gears for ensuring Fireheart's legacy would endure.
Yet, beyond these debts, Fuegan now possessed insights into who Fireheart was, far beyond the warrior he had met and fought. That alone justified owing favors to two gods.
Her name was Cassandra. Born over 10,000 years ago, during the Golden Age of Humanity, Fireheart earned her nickname from a brother. Raised as a farmer, she harbored a deep-seated resentment for the mundane and yearned to explore the stars. Cassandra escaped her agrarian life by enlisting in the Federation Army. She fought in numerous wars but eventually left, choosing the path of a mercenary. Her journal vividly revealed the toll war took on her soul, eroding her honor and leaving her in a state of despair.
Fuegan delved into the entries chronicling Cassandra's journey through the tumultuous Age of Strife. She fought for lost causes across multiple worlds, confronting unspeakable horrors and barely surviving. Unlike a hero or champion, she identified herself simply as a soldier, driven by the primal instinct to survive. Over time, her family succumbed to the ravages of time, leaving her with a solitary purpose—exploring the farthest reaches of space, a quest that provided her only reason to live.
Cassandra's life unfolded in the crucible of fire and blood, yet amidst the chaos, she discovered pockets of happiness wherever her journey took her. During her travels, she also stumbled upon the Path of the Sun, claiming to have witnessed the awe-inspiring Cosmic Serpent. This encounter ignited an obsession within her, driving her quest to find the mythical creature, convinced it could grant her a wish.
Her memories of these experiences became fragmented with time, but she recounted a momentous battle against the creation of the Cosmic Serpent. In an audacious act, Cassandra stole an ember of creation from the serpent, a daring move that resulted in the creature pardoning her transgressions but refusing to engage with her further.
Cassandra played a role in aiding the founders of the Drakian Confederacy. However, as their faith transformed into a tool for imperialism and greed, she found herself powerless to prevent the erosion of its original purpose. The Cosmic Serpent, once a source of solace, fell silent, leaving Cassandra adrift in a world where nothing seemed to matter anymore. Frustrated by her inability to intervene without sparking civil unrest, she turned to fighting as her new raison d'être, clinging to the hope that one day, the Cosmic Serpent would find it in itself to forgive her.
And that was it.
The story of Fireheart was one of a woman who tried to find purpose multiple times and failed, leaving her only with the desire to enjoy the little things in life and fight. Fuegan could respect that Fireheart…Cassandra, did what she could to keep living.
And so, the saga of Fireheart reached its poignant conclusion. Her story was one of unrelenting determination, an unwavering pursuit of purpose that ultimately led to her demise at the hands of a foe who had become something more. Her odyssey, a tale destined to be woven into the fabric of stories and myths, held the potential to inspire those who would one day wield her weapons.
For Fuegan, however, the weight of responsibility lingered. He was entrusted with the solemn duty of preserving and guarding Fireheart's truth and legacy. In the clash of love and conflict, he emerged as the sole custodian of her memory—a woman he both loved and, in the end, had to vanquish. As the keeper of her truth, Fuegan felt the warmth of those memories in the cold expanse of the galaxy. Love might elude him in the future, but he had basked in its warmth for that fleeting moment. Now, with only keepsakes to tether him to that memory, he embraced the gratitude that came with remembrance.
Though he lost her flame, life didn't seem that cold now.
---
@Daemon Hunter Mmkay, this got out of control like normal.
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Fiery Hearts
This galaxy was a cold and uncaring place. In this world, a newborn was gifted with a fragile spark of life, a feeble flame that would one day grow to great ferocity before flickering out, leaving behind an empty shell full of desolate coldness as the inky abyss swallowed that spark for eternity.
Sometimes, the reverse held true. Just as the frigid night devoured the warmth of the day, so did the purifying flames of the dragon consume the essence of life. Fire possessed a purpose, an unfaltering purity, in stark contrast to the chilling grip of entropy. Life could spring anew from the ashes, even if it took countless ages, while ice perpetuated only more ice.
Yet amid this cosmic drama, most remained oblivious, unwilling to make distinctions. Mortals shied away from grasping this harsh reality lest they confront the unending chill lurking on the horizon that would bring only stillness. Fuegan didn't blame them; it was a daunting truth to face. Still, he couldn't help but feel a profound sense of isolation amid the unrelenting cold.
Fuegan could still recall the numbing embrace of the cold, how it drained your vitality and erased your memories. The insidious whispers crept into your mind as your extremities stiffened and succumbed to the icy grasp. The gradual numbing that overcame your very essence, culminating in the sight of the consuming void of ice as your last breath escaped your lips.
Life had become a pale imitation for him, perpetually frigid. Food lost its savor, and the touch of another felt lukewarm at best. Even the acts that once ignited warm emotions now lay dormant. Fuegan found it a wretched existence. He understood the omnipresence of entropy, hidden within every room and every encounter, waiting patiently.
Nonetheless, Fuegan reluctantly acknowledged that entropy was an integral part of the cycle of existence. Everything, no matter how magnificent, must inevitably yield to its grasp. Even the stars would one day extinguish, and the Dragon would end in the Rhana Dandra. If the gods displayed mercy, Fuegan hoped to be the last to meet his demise, ensuring that the funeral pyres blazed brightly and intensely for the fallen.
His inner fire now provided warmth, fueled by the Dragon's blood and the Cosmic Serpents' wisdom, sustaining his body and sharpening his mind. Those who identified as Fire Dragons diligently followed his teachings, mastering the art of methodical and complete annihilation of their people's adversaries.
The Aeldari now hailed him as a Phoenix Lord, a title Fuegan paid little heed to. He remained steadfastly bound to the Dragon and the Everlasting Pyre. The Aeldari celebrated him as a hero, and the Great Seer invoked his fiery wrath in times of dire need, calling upon him to unleash the fires of war upon all who opposed the Asuryani. In many ways, Fuegan was content to fulfill this call.
At times, he told himself that the fires of war might provide warmth. Yet, regardless of victory or defeat, the comforting warmth he sought never arrived. No burning wreckage, lifeless bodies, decimated cities, or even the annihilation of entire worlds could drive away the bitter chill that plagued him. The curse of the cold clung to him eternally, the inescapable fate of a man whose very existence was defined by fire.
War beckoned Fuegan and his warriors once more, an incessant call in these times. The Great Seer, who had taken on a role akin to that of a Kingmaker, though he never referred to it as such, believed that forging a web of vassals and allies was essential for the survival of their Aeldari kin.
Fuegan harbored reservations, but he held his tongue. The lesser species mostly remained unwilling or incapable of aiding the Aeldari, driven by motives of fear, malice, or avarice. Humanity, in particular, had always been an ambitious race. Their near extinction had not deterred them but given rise to opportunists like the Emperor of Man, whose Imperium had grown to encompass a vast swath of the galaxy.
Yet, on this day, Humanity wasn't the enemy. Instead, it was another empire that sought to seize control of several strategically vital worlds of the Aeldari. These aggressors, however, falsely declared themselves as the "defenders" of the helpless and the "uplifters" of their supposed brethren. The Aeldari saw through their deception, as did those who stood against them.
The very mention of their name filled Fuegan with revulsion: The Holy Confederacy of Drakian, the self-proclaimed "Realm of Righteous Dragons." It was a mockery, for these humans had no right to clothing themselves in gilded crowns. The Drakians controlled a compact but formidable sub-sector of worlds and stars, as per human nomenclature, and aspired to build a vast interstellar empire through colonization, assimilation, and slavery. Their methods bore a striking resemblance to the early days of the Imperium of Man, and regrettably, for their victims, they were beginning to achieve a similarly disconcerting level of success.
The Drakian juggernaut had already claimed a hundred planets, while another hundred lay besieged, held hostage by armies of enslaved soldiers known as "Bondsmen." These Bondsmen, who were coerced into service, formed the backbone of the Drakian military, backed by a highly capable and formidable force of elite soldiers and champions. Their relentless religious fervor compounded the threat, as the Drakians hailed themselves as crusaders of their Cosmic Dragon and their Path of the Sun, converting billions to their faith and erecting grand churches and temples in homage to a dozen deities.
Yet the Holy Confederacy's strength warranted wariness. Their sensor technology surpassed human standards, posing a challenge for the Aeldari once hostilities commenced. The Drakians demonstrated an exceptional ability to detect and neutralize threats swiftly. Engaging in covert operations against them seemed inadvisable. The Drakians boasted an impressive cadre of soldiers well-versed in what humans called "COIN" tactics, which explained why the local populations had failed in their attempts at resistance.
There seemed to be no alternative, no escape from the clutches of the Drakian onslaught – victory had to be secured on the battlefield, or else the grim fate of succumbing to the Drakian tyranny awaited. Local uprisings against the Drakian "purebloods" had repeatedly ended in despair. The Drakians were annihilators of cultures, wielding faith and iron as their tools. War fed their coffers, but faith imparted meaning to their purpose. Their Path of the Sun was a creed that sought to fulfill the sacrifice of a hundred thousand worlds, as foreseen by the Cosmic Dragon in ages long past.
In the eyes of Fuegan, all he perceived was madness perpetuated by a fanatical caste of conquerors gripped by a lust for power. The Great Seer foresaw the inevitable degeneration of the Holy Confederacy, an insatiable desire for more and more – more slaves, more worlds, more sacrifices. Nothing could satiate their insatiable greed. Their obliteration had become an imperative. The Fire Dragons would spearhead this campaign.
Fuegan led a formidable force of fifty million Aeldari and ten billion human auxiliaries into the conflict. While this might have appeared as a meager force in any other context, it proved sufficient for taking on these "dragons" and their enslaved followers. The power of fire and skill would ultimately triumph. The Aeldari expedition descended upon the Hive world of Eidaasit Rex, commencing what would soon be known as the Inferno War by all who witnessed the campaign.
The Fire Dragons, embodying their destructive might, rained fury upon the Holy Confederacy. Within a mere two months, they had driven the purebloods and their Bondsmen to the upper spires of Hive Taron. Fuegan, the Phoenix Lord, took to the field numerous times, annihilating two armored regiments in a single day and destroying a flying super-heavy vehicle that the Drakians had employed to conquer the world initially.
His adversaries must have recognized the sheer danger posed by the Phoenix Lord, prompting the Drakians to formulate a plan to confront Fuegan. While the battle for Eidaasit Rex appeared lost, the Holy Confederacy refused to withdraw without exacting a toll for their troubles.
Thus, on the 75th day of the Eidaasit Rex liberation, amid the blazing halls of the lord's palace, Fuegan encountered his true opposition for the first time. He had not anticipated facing any remaining foes, as the Drakians were in full retreat, leaving Fuegan and the Fire Dragons the opportunity to deal with the remnants of the Bondsmen forces.
Yet before him stood a champion, clad in rugged ruby red power armor, wielding a sword and pistol, positioned amidst the raging inferno as if the fires had heralded their arrival. Fuegan had barely enough time to raise the Firepike before he was thrust into a close-quarters duel with this human warrior.
Fuegan wielded the Fire Axe, an ancient weapon forged within the heart of Vaul's forge, capable of shattering any known material in the galaxy. However, the sword of this champion stubbornly resisted destruction, enabling them to strike with such ferocity that it forced the Phoenix Lord to engage with the utmost seriousness.
Their intense duel raged on for over seven hours, capturing the attention of both armies. However, none dared to intervene, understanding that interference in the battle between these two formidable warriors would surely result in their own demise. By the third hour, Fuegan ceased holding back, unleashing the full power of the Firepike and obliterating nearly seven kilometers of Hive Taron's upper spires.
Despite the ferocity of their contest, it proved to be in vain. Fuegan's opponent skillfully evaded his attacks, weaving in and out to mount counter-offensives against the Phoenix Lord. At times, it was Fuegan on the offensive; at other moments, the champion took the lead. Regardless of the momentum shifts, the outcome was a draw.
Amid the chaos during the last hour, Fuegan discovered, to his displeasure, that his adversary had vanished just as the Drakians evacuated Eidaasit Rex. The battle had ended, but Fuegan was left unsatisfied by the inconclusive duel. More perplexing was how the Drakians had managed to field a warrior capable of dueling a Phoenix Lord for seven hours to a standstill.
Fuegan ordered interrogations of captured prisoners and inquiries among the local population. It took some coaxing of the pureblood Drakian captives, but eventually, he obtained a name.
They referred to this champion as Fireheart.
It appeared that Fireheart was both a living legend and a demigod in one. The stories suggested that Fireheart had existed since the dawn of their civilization over 3,000 years ago, revered as a blessed spirit of the Sun Gods, and that their sword was forged from the remnants of a dead star. Fireheart had played a significant role in forming the Holy Confederacy, although some officers reported that they had become rather reclusive in recent centuries. The arrival of the Eldar had seemingly compelled Fireheart to take up arms once more.
However, aside from these tales, the rest was shrouded in speculation and legend. Fuegan, indifferent to the origins, now understood that Fireheart would be a persistent thorn in his side throughout the war. Strangely, the Dragon felt a stirring in his heart, a sensation he might have called excitement.
Three years passed, and the Inferno War raged across a dozen worlds. Praetyra Alpha, Etaos Major, the Redsoul Belt, and Hogan's Hold were among the more iconic campaigns. It was on these battlegrounds that Fuegan repeatedly encountered and dueled Fireheart, with each confrontation ending in a frustrating draw.
Fuegan found himself in a quandary. These duels, while vexing, also brought excitement. They posed a challenge for the Phoenix Lord that didn't necessitate the Fire Dragons being decimated or risking the lives of millions of Aeldari. This war, in essence, consumed his time and resources that might have been allocated elsewhere. Nevertheless, Fuegan acknowledged that these duels with Fireheart provided him invaluable practice and kept his skills sharpened. A small fire had been lit in his heart.
Fuegan knew that one day, this war would come to an end. Such was the inevitable fate of all things, and the cold darkness would haunt him once more. Yet those duels with Fireheart were something unique that stirred his spirit in ways he couldn't deny.
The Holy Confederacy appeared to understand that Fireheart was their sole true counter to the Phoenix Lord, although even then, it only served as a stalling tactic. The Aeldari were steadily gaining the upper hand in this conflict, particularly as tens of billions of locals rallied to their cause. It was a war of attrition; unless the Drakians made a substantial change, they would inevitably lose.
During the Battle of Bae-Jin-Koe, a dual mining and agricultural volcanic world, the Holy Confederacy resorted to assassins and special forces units to launch decapitation strikes against allied human leadership, aiming to disrupt the Aeldari offensive. This was a smokescreen for an audacious but failed attempt to assassinate Eldar leadership. However, it did lead to an unexpected encounter between Fuegan and Fireheart.
After completing a mission to clear out a concealed Drakian base, remarkably built into an active volcano, Fuegan prepared to depart when his forces intercepted a Drakian transmission, reporting Fireheart's proximity to his location. Undoubtedly, the champion was there to attempt to kill Fuegan. The Phoenix Lord braced himself for battle and set out for Fireheart's position.
Fuegan reached what initially appeared to be a sizable landing zone but soon recognized it as more of a lookout point, overlooking the magma rivers a few kilometers away. He appreciated the warmth the location offered but dismissed the sensation as he spotted Fireheart standing near the edge, seemingly awaiting Fuegan's arrival.
This encounter set itself apart from the dozens of prior ones, as Fireheart hadn't drawn their weapons yet, even upon spotting Fuegan. Even more peculiar was that Fireheart began to approach the Phoenix Lord almost nonchalantly. They halted once Fuegan raised the Firepike in their direction, although he refrained from firing.
Fireheart gradually lifted her hands as if reaching for her helmet rather than surrendering. Fuegan didn't understand what was happening until he saw her slowly removing the helmet. A few seconds later, a cascade of sun-kissed red hair became visible, followed by the face of a human female with dark-tanned skin and striking ruby-red eyes.
"Mind if I get a little closer?" Fireheart inquired with a smile, a gesture that seemed incongruous in the sweltering heat. "I promise not to draw my blade."
Fuegan's frown remained hidden behind his helmet. "I have no inclination or desire to let you get closer."
"Come on now," Fireheart teased, "I don't bite." She stepped closer and narrowly dodged a lance of fusion energy from the Firepike as Fuegan fired. Fireheart laughed and drew her sword, charging at him, reigniting their battle. But it was a short-lived skirmish.
In a remarkable display of skill, both fighters halted in an uncomfortable position. Fireheart had her pistol aimed directly at Fuegan's head while his Fire Axe hovered just inches from her exposed throat. The potential for a killing blow was within reach for both of them, but it could result in a simultaneous demise.
"What's wrong?" Fireheart asked with a strained smile. "Don't tell me you've lost your nerve."
"Hardly," Fuegan replied, racing to find a way out of the situation. "I'm merely giving you a chance to surrender."
"Funny, that's what I was doing," Fireheart retorted. "Your armor is pretty tough, but I know from experience that my pistol at this range can punch a hole clean through a ship's bulkhead."
"My armor is beyond anything you've ever encountered. It will withstand your primitive pea-shooter," Fuegan retorted, tightening his grip on the Fire Axe. "My axe need only slice through a few inches of skin and flesh to end you."
Fireheart smirked defiantly. "Then go ahead because I'm not surrendering."
"You are foolish and stubborn."
"You sound handsome," Fireheart suddenly remarked. "Are you handsome? I bet you are."
Fuegan rolled his eyes. "Mind games won't work on me."
"I figured... but I still wanted to ask," Fireheart responded. An awkward silence followed as they continued to lock eyes. "I wasn't here to pick a fight, you know."
"I find that hard to believe."
"Why?"
Fuegan clenched his teeth. "Because of our previous duels. Your people have already tried to eliminate other command elements of my forces. So it stands to reason you came here to do the same."
"First off, the Drakians are not my people," Fireheart snapped. "My people have been dead for a long time. Second, I came here to see you, to deliver a message. But after I saw the sights here, you just happened to stumble upon me while I was enjoying things."
This response prompted a scoff from the Phoenix Lord. "You came here to sightsee and then bring me a message? Are you mad or just an idiot?"
Fireheart frowned at Fuegan's response. "I guess you aren't the type to enjoy the little things in life."
"I have more important things to worry about. All you are doing is wasting what little time your fleeting life has," Fuegan replied, causing Fireheart to sneer. Despite their exchange of words, she still refrained from firing her weapon.
"Are we going to keep trading insults, or do you want to talk?" Fireheart inquired.
Fuegan took a moment before responding. "I don't see much reason to talk. Even if we were to part on amicable terms, it would still be a waste of our time for you to deliver your message only for me to reject it, especially if it calls for the Holy Confederacy's unconditional surrender."
"Which wouldn't work," Fireheart pointed out, her expression resolute. "Because they still believe they have a chance to bring this conflict to a standstill. But you would still want that message sent back, wouldn't you?"
"Hmm," Fuegan contemplated the idea. If he could sow discord among the Drakian leadership, it might serve the Aeldari's interests. Some might recognize the stark reality of the situation and opt for self-preservation rather than fighting a futile war. "I suppose I would want that message relayed."
"Well, you're pointing an axe at the woman who can penetrate the inner councils and lords," Fireheart pointed out. "So, can we please lower our weapons?" Surprisingly, her request seemed genuine and earnest. Fuegan, equally uninterested in testing the firepower of her pistol, agreed.
"Very well," he withdrew the Fire Axe, and Fireheart holstered her weapon. "I suppose we can always resume this duel at another time."
Fireheart gave him a strange look and said, "Sure." She chuckled at the situation, her gaze lingering on Fuegan. "I'm glad it only took half an hour of dueling when we could have just talked this out. But I guess that's par for the course. But you're kind of an odd one, just saying."
"As if I care," Fuegan huffed, crossing his arms. Surprisingly, his response elicited a giggle from Fireheart.
"What's so funny?" Fuegan inquired.
"I just realized that you get a bit annoyed at the littlest remarks I make about you," Fireheart remarked with a mischievous glint in her eyes, which caused a flicker of displeasure at the lack of respect. He ignored it, however, and instead focused on more important matters.
"Just speak to me about the message you brought so we can be done with this interaction. I have a war to win."
It became apparent that the Holy Confederacy of Drakia was ready to surrender, but not without laying out specific conditions. The first condition was the permanent recognition of several star systems as their own, the second was the return of pureblood Drakian prisoners, and the third was to form an alliance with the Eldar.
The desperation of the Drakians was palpable, as Fireheart made abundantly clear. They were eager to exit the war in any manner possible. However, Fuegan remained resolute, unwilling to accept anything other than unconditional surrender. Fireheart, on her part, seemed to have only a tepid allegiance to the Holy Confederacy. She openly admitted that she had fought against the Eldar because they were seeking to acquire more slaves, a sentiment she clearly did not share.
"I've spoken to enough prisoners from your side to understand that they follow you of their own accord," Fireheart explained. "That's why some lords and council members are exploring ways to end this conflict. But many believe the only way is to halt the Eldar offensive or achieve a pyrrhic victory that forces your group to negotiate."
"They are fools, then," Fuegan retorted sharply. "They could spare themselves from further conflict by surrendering completely. I would advise you to surrender as well. Your involvement simply prolongs this war."
Fireheart looked annoyed. "Just because I don't like the Drakians doesn't mean I can betray my oaths to them. Besides, I can still save their society." Fuegan was equally irritated by her stubbornness, but he couldn't help but quietly appreciate her commitment to her duties, even when serving a nation she disliked.
Nonetheless, Fuegan pressed on. "Your oath is to a nation that is enslaving and imposing their faith upon the population. The Drakians colonize and assimilate other cultures until there is nothing left. There are enough victims to corroborate this fact."
She appeared as though she had swallowed something foul. "Gods damn it," Fireheart swore. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Confederacy was meant to be a means for the local powers to unite for protection, but they collectively forgot the teachings. I'm almost relieved the Cosmic Serpent is no longer around."
"So there is some truth to this whole Path of the Sun doctrine?" Fuegan inquired.
Fireheart's glare softened as she confessed, "It's not nonsense. I've seen the Cosmic Serpent and defeated one of its idols. It's a very long story and not one I wish to share. The end result is that everything I set in motion has led me to this." She looked ashamed. "So yes, I'm quite responsible for this mess. But I want to fix it."
"Then surrender," Fuegan repeated. "If the Drakians see you on our side, it will expedite the end of this war."
"I am not a traitor," Fireheart said hotly. "These people believe in me and, more importantly, in the idea of Fireheart. This would be like you betraying your kind, Phoenix Lord. How well do you think that would go over, hmm?"
"Betraying your oath to stop a war isn't shameful or dishonorable," Fuegan insisted.
Fireheart shook her head. "It's not about what will happen to me. I would be shattering a part of their faith."
"Perhaps they deserve it. A lesson not to become so enamored with ideologies and myths."
She regarded him strangely before shaking her head and donning her helmet. "Stones and glass houses."
"I'm aware of what that is supposed to mean," Fuegan retorted. "You believe me a hypocrite."
"I've lived long enough to know that the Aeldari live and die by their prophecies and legends," Fireheart remarked. "Seen and read enough to know that. So for you to say that these people shouldn't find hope or motivation through something similar feels a bit close-minded of you."
"You need only look at why this war started and how it progressed to see that I am right. The underlying reasons were simply that of greed and lust for power."
Fireheart didn't seem to have an answer to that. "Just because they brought this on themselves doesn't mean they can't put themselves back on the right path with help." Even though her head was covered, Fuegan sensed a hint of wariness in her voice. "You'll win this war, of that I don't doubt. But I'm still going to fight. And if it comes to killing you, I won't hold back either."
"As if I would have done otherwise." Fuegan's resolve remained unyielding.
He expected the conversation to end and Fireheart to leave, but instead, she waited momentarily before asking, "Did you want to see the sights with me?"
Fuegan was taken aback by the unexpected question. "What?"
The pair stood near the edge of an active volcano. The intense heat and fumes would have been lethal to lesser creatures, but both were clad in sealed armor designed to withstand such extremes, leaving them unaffected.
Fireheart explained, "The volcanoes tend to erupt about every quarter century and remain active for roughly six days before going quiet again."
The Phoenix Lord replied with a disinterested "Hmm."
She continued, "The people of this region mix the ash with the soil before planting their crops, resulting in a significantly higher yield."
Once more, Fuegan responded with a nonchalant "Right."
"But the most interesting part is that the rivulets of magma often leave behind precious gemstones called Fire Tears, which are believed to serve as powerful focusing crystals for laser weapons."
Fuegan simply said, "I see."
Fireheart, sounding amused, inquired, "Are you listening?"
"Unfortunately," Fuegan quipped. "Why do you even know these things?"
"Why not?" Fireheart countered. "It's not pointless; it helps you appreciate the little things people go through and gives them a sense of wonder. Life thrives through the accomplishments of others and their works. Besides, something like this volcano, often seen as destructive, can bring blessings to people with the right mindset."
"I suppose," Fuegan conceded. He couldn't deny the value of finding new meaning rather than wallowing in misery. "Why did you bring me here?"
"I was lonely and wanted to have someone to talk to," Fireheart confessed. "So I appreciate you coming with me. Besides, I figured you could use the company as well."
Fuegan didn't appreciate the insinuation that he might be lonely. "Your concern is unnecessary. Why you think that is strange to me."
"We've crossed blades several times now. It helps me get an idea of people. Hence why I thought you were lonely," Fireheart explained. "Just made me think of myself. You and I are a lot alike."
Fuegan frowned under his helmet. "We are nothing alike, human." She couldn't possibly fathom the spiritual and mental sacrifices he had made in becoming the Dragon. Asurmen only selected those willing to go all the way and give up their very existence for the greater good of the Aeldari. He was beyond having any mortal wants or needs.
Fireheart seemed disheartened by his response. "Fine. If you say so."
"If you are done wasting my time, I'll take my leave," Fuegan retorted as he turned around. "Think about my offer. You can report back to your masters that I will only accept an unconditional surrender; otherwise, I shall burn their worlds to the ground."
"You don't have to do that, you know," Fireheart said. "The Drakians aren't monsters. They are still people. People who might have made a series of mistakes, but I believe they can redeem themselves."
Fuegan shook his head. "You are naive."
"And you are jaded," Fireheart remarked. "But you know, you don't have to go through life being a cold bastard to everyone." Her remark caused Fuegan to stiffen for a moment before he continued on his way. "I'll be seeing you, Phoenix Lord."
Something about this little interaction confused Fuegan. He almost felt regretful for his choice of words. Unfortunately, Fireheart was looking at this war through the lens of someone who thought there was a glimmer of hope or redemption for their enemies.
Fuegan knew better.
The Inferno War continued to escalate in battles and ferocity, with the Aeldari adapting their tactics to use the Holy Confederacy's unpopularity and size against them. Fuegan devised a strategy involving human auxiliaries to provide weapons and ammunition to rebels and insurgents in occupied worlds. This approach led to the sudden emergence of hundreds of bushfire conflicts overnight, compelling the Drakians to either deploy counter-insurgencies, engage in an unpopular conventional war, or retreat entirely.
The Drakians, realizing their decapitation strikes were ineffective, focused on eliminating their primary adversary, Fuegan, using Fireheart as their weapon. This resulted in nearly a hundred separate encounters with the living legend, not all of which turned violent. Fireheart, however, often insisted on arranging more "humanitarian" efforts, even after dueling with Fuegan, much to the annoyance of the Phoenix Lord.
Despite Fuegan's reservations, his warriors and auxiliary commanders recognized that these efforts were advancing their cause, even if it meant allowing the Drakians to leave. Fuegan would have preferred letting the Mon'keigh resolve their issues, but the situation was what it was. Yet the Drakians foolishly resisted surrender, holding out under the belief that the Aeldari would eventually accept terms other than unconditional surrender. Their fear of retribution from neighboring powers likely contributed to this stance.
While Fuegan could have accepted a negotiated peace, it didn't align with his style. Khaine, the Aeldari God of Murder, demanded only enemies' broken and smoldering remains or their submission. Besides, Fuegan's terms were already quite generous, offering to spare the Drakian capital worlds, followed by their demilitarization for a century or two.
Whenever Fuegan discussed these terms with Fireheart, she vehemently opposed the idea, fearing that the Drakians would be exploited for centuries. But this did not concern Fuegan, who saw the benefits of such an arrangement. Their disagreements often escalated into destructive duels, but somehow, they continued to engage in dialogue and debate. Fuegan's warriors started noticing their interactions, but he paid them little attention. Fireheart was the only intriguing aspect of this otherwise unremarkable war, though he would never openly admit it.
Fuegan found himself preoccupied with thoughts of Fireheart, even though he knew she was his enemy. She remained unwilling to accept the reality of the Drakians' situation and his offer to end the war. Fuegan couldn't shake the feeling that if peace had been achieved earlier, the devastating massacre on Gerald's Garden might have been entirely avoided.
Neither Fuegan nor Fireheart had been present during the tragedy, but the reports painted a confusing picture of events that led to the activation of a cyclonic torpedo, resulting in the deaths of over 40 billion humans, several hundred Eldar, and tens of millions of Drakian purebloods. The conflicting narratives had different factions accusing one another of escalating the conflict into a war of extermination.
After this catastrophic event, Fuegan's commanders and the Great Seer urged him to lead a final march toward the Holy Confederacy homeworlds and end the war at its source, regardless of the consequences. However, Fuegan was determined to uncover the truth behind what had happened on Gerald's Garden before making any drastic decisions. He needed answers, not just allowing his allies to have their blind vengeance.
He waited until the next encounter with Fireheart to demand some answers.
The tension between Fuegan and Fireheart was palpable as they faced each other on the liberated world of Cydia Prime. The conflict had ended there swiftly, with the Drakians offering only token resistance before retreating. Fireheart wasted no time in addressing a matter of great importance.
"The Drakians didn't destroy Gerald's Garden," she asserted.
Fuegan regarded her statement with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "Neither did my forces," he responded, "or do your masters believe we'd go so far as to kill our own?"
"They aren't my masters." Fireheart's voice was sharp with frustration, her eyes narrowed as she responded to Fuegan's accusation. "They are just as confused as everyone else in this situation. Someone might have given one of the local resistance elements a cyclonic torpedo but told them it was an atomic or something."
Fuegan remained unconvinced, his tone icy. "But you have no proof of that. It's just as likely that a Drakian commander found and used the device to deny Gerald's Garden for all." The loss of Gerald's Garden had far-reaching consequences, making it a focal point for outrage among all involved parties.
"The Drakians don't destroy worlds."
"Just cultures," Fuegan retorted, his voice dripping with disdain.
Fireheart met his gaze with determination. "I might not have evidence, but I can vouch for the Holy Confederacy that they didn't do this."
"You are defending slavers and killers."
"And you think those part of your coalition of planets are all saints?" Fireheart shot back, a bitter truth underlying her words. Some of the joined worlds had abhorrent practices that needed to be addressed, but that didn't absolve the Holy Confederacy of their crimes.
"Whatever you believe to be true doesn't change the situation," Fuegan asserted, his voice resolute. "This war has escalated now. If you believe the character of the Drakians is worthy of anything, they shall be willing to surrender to stop this war from worsening in ways that will do them absolutely no favors."
Fireheart looked deeply unhappy. "It's not that simple."
"Then I will make it simple for you. Their core worlds will either surrender or burn if they resist."
"Be reasonable, Fuegan!" Fireheart pleaded, desperation creeping into her voice. "There are people within the Confederacy government that are willing to end this war without further bloodshed. I just need to give them something to rally behind."
"And how long will that take? Another four years? Ten?" Fuegan's frustration seeped through his words. "How many more worlds will be consumed by the fires of war? How many more planets risk a similar fate to Gerald's Garden?"
Exasperation flashed across Fireheart's face. "I can make this work. I just need some time. Please, if our friendship means anything—"
"You are my enemy, Fireheart," Fuegan's voice rumbled with fury, his words echoing with finality. "We were never friends. Respected rivals, perhaps, but you are ultimately an obstacle to be defeated."
His words seemed to wound her deeply. "You don't mean that."
"For someone so capable, you are still just another Mon'keigh that believes themselves wise or correct in every subject," Fuegan sneered down at her. "I am an instrument of destruction, of Khaine's Wraith upon his enemies, and the salvation of the Aeldari. You are just some woman who refuses to recognize the evil in the people you serve. So either help me, draw your blade, or get out of my way."
The bitterness of his words hung heavily in the air, tainting the atmosphere with hostility. Fireheart's expression hardened as she met his challenge. "Fine," she uttered with finality, her hand inching closer to her blade, her eyes never leaving Fuegan. "I will not forsake my oaths and allow you to destroy the Holy Confederacy. I will kill you first, Fuegan of the Fire Dragons. The next time we meet…we'll have an ending to this."
Fuegan's response was cold and unyielding. "Good."
With that, Fireheart turned away, leaving Fuegan with an unsettling feeling of foreboding. That seemed to end the conversation. For a brief moment, Fireheart looked like she wanted to say something, regret on her face, before she steeled herself and turned away and left. Fuegan suddenly felt a lot colder than he had before this meeting. It was an ominous feeling.
There would, in fact, be an ending to this.
It would be another year before the long-anticipated confrontation between Fireheart and Fuegan would finally unfold. In the meantime, the Aeldari-led coalition relentlessly pushed into the Holy Confederacy's inner colonies. The cataclysmic events following the destruction of Gerald's Garden had sown chaos among the occupied worlds, leading to massive uprisings and rebellions erupting virtually overnight.
The remnants of the Holy Confederacy's fleets and military forces shifted their strategy, opting for holding actions and organized retreats instead of continuing a futile attrition war. Notably, Drakian purebloods were increasingly visible, indicating that they were no longer content to rely solely on Bondsmen armies.
Fuegan found himself in the unenviable position of issuing orders to his warriors and auxiliaries, instructing them to maintain order among the liberated locals and prevent any reprisals against captured Drakians or citizens who had converted or "collaborated" during the occupations. The Dragon Lord felt profoundly disappointed with how some humans treated their newfound freedom.
Word had reached him about Fireheart's presence across a dozen worlds, where she played a pivotal role in organizing defenses and evacuations. Her legendary status had reached new heights, as the people, who had once regarded her as a figure of myth and legend, now saw her as an avatar of the Cosmic Serpent and their savior. It became a potent source of propaganda, especially in light of the awareness that the Aeldari led the coalition.
Xenophobia was on the rise, even among the liberated locals who had once been subjugated. Humanity's capacity for prejudice and hatred was deeply disappointing, save for Fireheart, who stood apart. The incongruity of his thoughts troubled Fuegan as he frequently pondered if he had made a mistake with their last conversation. Had he been harsh? Perhaps. But Fuegan had to make his stance clear. Yet he wondered if that was worth destroying a friendship. The truth was that Fuegan didn't know how to respond to such a thing.
A Phoenix Lord had no room for friends, lovers, or family. Their duty solely defined their existence, their unyielding commitment to making sacrifices for the greater good. It was a responsibility that transcended individual desires, even if it meant one person willingly shouldered the burden to spare countless others. Fuegan was a warrior of his people, so he had to maintain boundaries and sever ties when necessary.
He repeated these principles to himself, but they rang hollow in Fuegan's heart. The entire situation felt profoundly wrong to him. Nonetheless, he understood that every action he took was both necessary and expected of him, for he was the one who had undertaken this arduous campaign. He had to maintain his focus and steel himself to confront Fireheart and emerge victorious.
Nothing else mattered; nothing else but achieving total victory.
The coalition achieved remarkable success at Aklon-127, defeating a Drakian defense fleet and creating a system-wide breach in their defenses. The path to the Drakian homeworlds now lay open to the coalition forces. Their final destination would be the planet of Chakao, a system capital and a staging ground for four Drakian army groups. Victory in Chakao would leave nothing between the coalition and the Drakian homeworlds.
The battle for Chakao commenced on both the planetary surface and in orbit, with coalition and auxiliary ships engaged in fierce combat. As the Aeldari prepared to launch their assault on the Drakian homeworlds, Fuegan received a message from his rangers, reporting that Fireheart had been sighted in Chakao's capital city. She appeared to be waiting there for something or someone.
Fuegan's primary obligation was to lead his forces in the critical battle unfolding. He had no right to abandon his post and confront Fireheart, especially during such a pivotal moment. Numerous logical reasons argued against his rash decision, from the possibility of it being a trap to the idea that they could face each other simultaneously. So why did he feel such an overwhelming compulsion to defy protocol and common sense?
However, a Dragon was a creature guided by its passions. Despite the apparent lack of wisdom in his decision, Fuegan felt he had to go through with it. He owed it to Fireheart and himself to see this through.
Snow drifted from the overcast skies, blanketing the once-thriving capital city in cold, silent serenity. But now, there was no one here. There were no inhabitants, no signs of life, only the chilling wind and the lonely figures of Fireheart and Fuegan. A city built to house a hundred million souls had become the somber and empty battleground for two demigods, their conflict against the backdrop of this cold metropolis.
The biting cold penetrated Fuegan's senses, but it was not the chill of the snow that gnawed at his consciousness. Instead, it was the overwhelming emptiness of the place, a void where life and purpose had once thrived. Fuegan felt like a solitary visitor walking through this city in a grand, forsaken tomb.
But none of that mattered now. Only one thing held significance in this empty city, at least in Fuegan's attempt to convince himself. He pressed onward toward the Temple of the Sunrise, where Fireheart had been spotted.
Fuegan found Fireheart seated near a grand sundial crafted from marble and steel outside the temple. Her helmet was off, revealing her face. Fuegan couldn't help but wonder what she looked like outside of her armor, but such musings were unproductive and irrelevant, especially given the circumstances. Instead, he observed her in silence as she sat, not looking at him but gazing at the snowing skies above.
"Did you ever like the cold?" Fireheart inquired, maintaining a noticeable distance between them. "I used to enjoy it. Winters brought cities to life, and nature seemed frozen in time, like a moment captured in stasis."
Fuegan's response was as blunt as his demeanor. "No. I've never taken pleasure in the cold, in any sense." He looked at her with an expectant expression. "So why did you stop enjoying it?"
Turning her gaze toward him, Fireheart recounted, "I witnessed too many people freeze to death. I watched a star slowly wither away, and the inhabitants of an entire planet succumbed to the endless winter. I survived because I stole fire from the Cosmic Serpent, and instead of being punished, he allowed me to keep the sacred flame. He called it an ember of starlight. It kept me warm until I was rescued. That was a long time ago. And depending on how this duel goes, it will finally be extinguished."
Fuegan remained silent, his expression as inscrutable as ever, as he observed Fireheart secure her helmet onto her head. Although numerous words and questions swirled in his mind, he refrained from speaking. Their chance for dialogue had passed, and it was time for action. Fuegan raised his Firepike, pointing it directly at Fireheart. He watched as she produced something in response.
"I hope you don't mind, but I ordered the evacuation of this city for more than one reason," Fireheart revealed, holding up a small device. Fuegan quickly recognized it as a detonator. "Forgive me, but I wanted to ensure I had all the advantages here." With those words, she pressed her right thumb down on the button.
Expecting an explosion that would consume the area around them or obliterate the temple, Fuegan found his expectations met. The ground quivered, and the temple and nearby structures erupted in a fiery blast. However, Fuegan soon realized that the detonation wasn't limited to their immediate surroundings; it had triggered the plasma reactors for the entire city.
Blowing up a city might stop a lesser adversary, but it wouldn't suffice to kill a Phoenix Lord. Fuegan acted swiftly, firing lances of fusion energy toward Fireheart as the ground beneath him crumbled and ignited. His adversary responded in kind, sending a barrage of shots from her pistol toward Fuegan. The Temple of the Sunrise seemed on the brink of collapsing around her.
Time seemed to warp for Fuegan. It slowed to a crawl as he engaged in close combat with Fireheart, then accelerated as the two demigods unleashed their grace and fury in a chaotic, deadly dance amid a crumbling city. So began their final duel.
He didn't know how long they dueled for. It could have been five minutes, five hours, or five days. Time had lost all meaning now. There was only the dance of death and the thrill of war, which was an exquisite feeling to Fuegan.
Over the past four and a half years, the two had engaged in countless duels, amassing a record of over a hundred confrontations. In hindsight, these encounters seemed more like sparring sessions. Neither of them had taken the fights seriously, often using them to measure each other's strength. It had never escalated beyond that until now.
This time was different. Both warriors were fighting with the intent to kill and now held nothing back. The spectacle was extraordinary, should anyone have survived to witness it. The atmosphere was thick with smoke, fire, and ash. Entire streets and habitation blocks were consumed by flames, and the raging inferno of the city was visible to those in orbit, among the other ongoing battles around Chakao.
Nothing else held meaning in that moment. Fuegan and Fireheart were entangled in a fierce life-and-death struggle. One misstep and one hesitation would be the end for one of them. The tension was suffocating, and the looming threat was ever-present. But by the gods, Fuegan felt more alive than he had in centuries. The dying city's raging fires and the battle's intensity made his blood and soul resonate with a primal, exhilarating energy.
The dragon was awake.
Nevertheless, his adversary had proven remarkably adept, matching his pace and penetrating his defenses in breathtaking ways. Fireheart earned the honor of drawing first blood, executing a daring maneuver by riding a burning, collapsed building. Seizing the element of surprise and harnessing the momentum, she skillfully punctured his armor, piercing through to one of his lungs.
Fuegan swiftly reciprocated, driving his Fire Axe through Fireheart's right shoulder. The force tore apart one of her pauldrons, but instead of deterring her, it only fueled her determination to vanquish the Phoenix Lord. As the battle unfolded, Fuegan couldn't help but observe a growing strength in Fireheart.
However, he acknowledged the truth—he was a Phoenix Lord, his skills largely untested in meaningful combat for centuries. Wars were poor training grounds once you reached a plateau, and finding opponents of equal caliber was challenging.
In her own way, Fireheart provided Fuegan with the closest match he could find in this era, and for that, he was grateful. The flames around them rose as they clashed, feeding on their wills and allowing their souls to burn brightly against each other. "What a splendid time to be alive," Fuegan thought, momentarily reveling in the intensity of the battle before the realization of the inevitable end of their duel tempered his enjoyment. Yet, amid fiery combat, neither Fuegan nor Fireheart seemed deterred from savoring the moment.
They clashed relentlessly. Fireheart exploited an opening in Fuegan's defense, stabbing one of his kidneys, only to find herself swiftly repelled as he slashed through her chest armor with a direct hit. A stray round from her pistol struck Fuegan's neck, drawing forth a stream of smoldering blood. In return, he drove a piece of burning rebar into her right leg with such force that the bone audibly broke beneath the ceremite armor plating. This did not stop their dance of death.
Fuegan tasted the coppery bitterness of blood in his mouth, a stark reminder of his impending demise. Fireheart appeared worn, with exposed subdermal armor and a protruding rebar. Blood flowed from both combatants, blending with the falling snow, while the fires raced across the ruins.
Despite her broken leg, the powered armor servos enabled Fireheart to persist in the fight. Although an easy target without his Firepike, lost during their skirmish, Fuegan found himself at a disadvantage. She had successfully disarmed him, keeping all advantages to herself as she aimed to endure him and secure victory.
As they fought their way back to the Temple of the Sunrise, where their duel had begun, the once-raging fires were reduced to smoldering embers. The snow gently fell as they silently sized each other up from a short distance before charging again, their weapons locked in a deadly embrace.
"Heh," Fuegan grumbled through bloodied teeth, "Time to end this, I think."
"That's…rich, coming from you." Fireheart breathed heavily, "Especially from where I'm standing." Fuegan smiled, understanding that if she survived, it would be as a great champion. However, seeing the exposed vulnerability in her armor up close, he knew what had to be done.
Fuegan made his final gambit, using all his strength to push Fireheart back, hoping to stagger her briefly. It allowed him to raise the Fire Axe above his head for a killing blow. Yet, Fireheart, despite her injuries, brought her sword to pierce him right into his heart.
For a moment, Fireheart seemed almost stunned as Fuegan appeared to meet his end, and the Fire Axe fell from his hands. However, his right hand quickly reached out to grab her exposed shoulder. Despite her attempt to move away, her maimed leg prevented her from exerting full strength, rendering her unable to escape what came next.
The Phoenix Lord's armor proved its lethal design. Fuegan's gauntlets, adorned with blades capable of piercing through flak armor, now targeted Fireheart's vulnerable torso. Stripped of real protection, she was defenseless. Fuegan thrust his armored hand into her warm body, penetrating all the way to his wrist, and twisted it just once, feeling the grim satisfaction of several vital organs being punctured and pierced.
Silence enveloped them, broken only by Fireheart's gasp of pain and surprise. In a display of resilience, her sword arm held the blade inside Fuegan for as long as possible before she slowly let go and reached for her helmet. Fuegan observed her as she pulled it off, revealing a visage that struggled with pain, vomiting blood, and gasping for air.
Collapsing against a broken wall, Fuegan felt the impending embrace of death. The thrill of battle faded, and the stinging cold of the surroundings became apparent. A pained chuckle emerged from Fireheart, who, amidst coughing up blood, looked at him with acknowledgment and admiration. "Y-you clever bastard. That was a good trick…"
"Didn't save me," Fuegan responded, mustering the strength to pull the sword out of his dying body. The unimaginable pain was ignored. "You'd have won otherwise." He tossed the sword back to Fireheart.
Attempting to laugh, Fireheart coughed up more blood. "Yay, me."
Moments of silence passed before Fuegan, compelled to make amends, spoke with a gasp, "I'm sorry it came to this. Had we another chance..."
"Fuegan, stop," Fireheart interrupted, slowly falling to her knees as she grasped her sword. "Just...do me a favor before I die?"
Fuegan "hmphed" at her request, "I'm a little pressed for time, Fireheart."
"It's an easy one." Her breathing labored, she requested, "Just...take off your helmet. I want to see your face."
Who was he to deny such a strange last request? He carefully removed his helmet, trying not to strain himself further. Fuegan looked straight toward Fireheart and saw a look of disbelief, awe, and regret in her eyes.
"Shit." She swore aloud, "You are handsome. Like…hot as hell." Fireheart remarked with all seriousness. The two exchanged glances before slowly chuckling at the pun, albeit with pain in their tones. They savored their last moments, perhaps rekindling their connection before this fateful duel.
It had been a long time since Fuegan had been this close to death, and it seemed like it was about to claim him for good. He forced himself to stay awake, holding onto a desperate hope that help might arrive. Perhaps someone could save him and Fireheart, and they could leave this place, attempting to make amends.
But it was a pathetic delusion. Fuegan knew he was responsible for this. The Dragon's pride had gotten the better of him, and now they both faced inevitable death. The only solace was the knowledge that, at least, they would die on their own terms.
The fires around him appeared to be growing again. How strange.
"Fuegan," Fireheart called out to him softly, "One last favor?"
He merely grunted, lacking the strength to speak. The fact that Fireheart could still talk was perplexing to the Phoenix Lord. "Please…don't be too hard on yourself." What could he say to that?
Had Fuegan possessed the strength, he might have made some quip or gesture. Instead, he witnessed something extraordinary. The sundial of the Temple of the Sunrise began to glow miraculously intact despite the city's destruction.
A beam of sunlight pierced through the clouds of smoke, ash, and snow, directed toward Fireheart as the fires around them grew bright and unnatural. They started to snake and spread toward her as if possessed by the warp, swirling around in a mystifying dance.
"Such warmth…" She muttered once before Fireheart's eyes closed for the last time, and the flames began their work, cascading and soaring into her body as if responding to her call to return home. The fires of a burning city converged upon her in a localized firestorm, taking the form of a fiery serpent whose eyes seemed to lock onto the Phoenix Lord's own.
Then, the moment passed.
All that remained of Fireheart's body was a charred skeleton encased in slagged power armor, her sword and pistol at her side, her hands neatly folded in her lap. Fireheart died in peace. The Cosmic Serpent had come to collect its flame and, more importantly, her.
Thus, Fireheart finally succumbed and died.
And soon, he would as well. But Fuegan felt content with this end. Fireheart had died, but not alone and in the cold. Her spirit would not be at the mercy of some creature within the warp but rather with her god. A death like this felt, if nothing else, peaceful.
He closed his eyes, realizing that the air around him was still warm, even with only snow to keep him company. A parting gift from Fireheart.
Fuegan opened his eyes…and was surprised to see that he was in an Aeldari medical facility, a familiar one found only inside the Black Library. Death had not claimed him just yet. The gods must still have use of him, and the Rhana Dandra still awaited him.
He called out to the one nearby healer, who looked thoroughly surprised to see the Fire Dragon awake now. It seemed like they weren't expecting him to have survived, either. Fuegan felt that perhaps Fireheart kept him safe until help did arrive.
Funny. He killed her, and Fireheart kept him alive. Fuegan wondered what that said about him and her.
To his surprise, Eldrad Ulthran came to explain what had happened, providing a thorough and insightful debrief. Fuegan had indeed teetered on the brink of death, but Aeldari medical science ultimately prevailed.
He had been in a coma for about five weeks. During that time, the Inferno War had come to an end. The Holy Confederacy of Drakia surrendered unconditionally to the coalition after the Drakians achieved a pyrrhic victory at Chakao. Instead of rallying their forces, this victory triggered enough public outrage on the Drakian homeworlds, leading to a demand for peace.
The death of Fireheart played a pivotal role in shifting the mentality of the populace. Her heroic sacrifice influenced the war-hawk factions to yield to the peace factions and the court of public opinion, providing the Drakian leaders with an "honorable" way to conclude the war. It served as an excuse for them to bow out without appearing weak.
Fuegan couldn't suppress his rage at these cowardly leaders exploiting Fireheart's death to save face. Eldrad assured him the new Aeldari-backed government would address these factions when the time was right to help with the transition. However, the war was over, and Eldrad acknowledged that the cost to the locals was slightly higher than anticipated despite the overall success of the Fire Dragons and the Aeldari.
But that was it. The war was over. Eldrad admitted that the cost to the locals was slightly higher than expected, but ultimately, the campaign was a stunning success for the Fire Dragons and the Aeldari. Fuegan didn't care. He didn't know what to think anymore. He felt disillusioned.
Eldrad shifted the discussion to the investigation of Gerald's Garden. "I suspect Drukhari involvement, given that cyclonic torpedos, are generally found in Imperial armories," he added, unsurprisingly. "Regardless, much effort is needed to assimilate the Drakians."
Recalling Fireheart's counsel, Fuegan mused, "Fireheart urged me to treat them fairly, believing in their potential for change. I suppose we should honor her wish."
"I must confess, even I was taken aback by the unexpected involvement of Fireheart," Eldrad admitted to Fuegan. "I had been informed of her considerable skills."
"She might rank among the greatest warriors I've encountered over millennia. Quite impressive for someone who isn't Jain Zar or even Aeldari," Fuegan's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Fireheart was something else."
"But how did she manage to keep pace with you?" Eldrad pressed Fuegan. "To engage in combat and nearly best a Phoenix Lord is nothing short of extraordinary."
Fuegan nodded in acknowledgment. "I'm aware," he admitted. He wanted to express how remarkable she was, but a sense of unworthiness held him back.
"She was supposed to meet her end in your initial encounter on Eidaasit Rex."
"Is that right?" Although, in his mind, Fuegan doubted that. He contemplated the improbable turn of events. It was hard to fathom that outcome in this existence, perhaps in another, a thought he detested. "I suppose she defied fate."
"Fuegan, one doesn't defeat fate. You and I both know that," Eldrad spoke candidly. "Surviving a hundred duels with someone of your caliber is no small feat."
"No, it isn't," Fuegan agreed solemnly.
Eldrad picked up on Fuegan's apparent lack of interest in the conversation but continued to press, undeterred. "Fuegan, how did you ultimately emerge victorious?"
Fuegan's gaze shifted to his Phoenix Armor, the lingering stains of Fireheart's blood on his gauntlet as a grim reminder. It made him feel like he now embodied the Bloody-Handed God in more ways than one. "We dueled for five days straight, I believe. She managed to stab me in the heart, but I used that moment as a diversion, plunging my hand through her chest and tearing through some of her organs."
"So, you secured victory, but not without almost succumbing in the process," Eldrad gently accused Fuegan. "It seems you both were prepared to meet your end there." The Great Seer inquired, "What was going through your mind, Fuegan?" Eldrad's tone wasn't disappointing; he expressed genuine confusion regarding the Dragon's actions.
Fuegan remained silent, the weight of what he had done settling heavily upon him. In the grand scheme of things, his actions seemed futile. Fireheart was dead; the only undeniable truth mattered to him. It might not have held significance to others who didn't know her, but to him, it was a solitary burden he carried.
He felt cold again.
The healing process for Fuegan was slow but steady. A Phoenix Lord often recovered fairly quickly and sometimes even felt better than before. One of the many boons that their devotion to the art of war provided him. That said, Fuegan's near-death experience required him to take it easy and recover.
Despite the need for rest, Phoenix Lords were not accustomed to idleness. Fuegan, driven by an innate warrior's spirit, engaged in a careful regimen of physical conditioning while concurrently delving into meditation to recalibrate his mind. Drawing insights from the tumultuous events of the last five years of the Inferno War, he sought to refine his skills and strategic acumen.
Struggling to banish thoughts of Fireheart from his mind, Fuegan battled with himself. She was gone, yet her specter was a persistent distraction in his thoughts. It frustrated him, for he couldn't comprehend why this endured. Months had passed since their fateful duel on Chakao, but a chilling sensation lingered in his chest, a constant reminder.
The nights became a relentless struggle for Fuegan. Sleep eluded him, haunted by dreams and nightmares dominated by her presence. Even in meditation, attempts to center his thoughts were thwarted by the persistent return to memories of Fireheart and their intense duel. He couldn't escape the vivid recollections of her graceful and fierce combat, her eyes gleaming like precious rubies, and her hair reminiscent of strands of sunlight.
Such pervasive thoughts. It prompted Fuegan to a self-interrogation: Why did this matter so much to him? She was, after all, just another human—an exceptional one, admittedly, but still just a fleeting spark in the vast expanse of existence. A flicker life. Her name, deeds, and history would inevitably fade into obscurity within a few generations, turning to ash like the countless other ephemeral lives in the galaxy.
In the grand scheme of time, Fuegan was the sole custodian of her memory. Yet, what did he truly know about Fireheart? He had rebuffed all her attempts at friendship, a deliberate choice dictated by his role as a Phoenix Lord. Forging bonds with beings destined to be left behind or deemed unfit to follow him was a pain he couldn't afford. Consequently, Fireheart's extraordinary legacy seemed destined to be lost forever, extinguished by his hands.
Was this a punishment, perhaps a curse invoked by her god? Fuegan dismissed such notions; a deity wouldn't risk the ire of a Phoenix Lord. Instead, the weight of what he felt rested solely on him. Only now did he realize the true nature of his emotions—guilt, regret, grief. In his service to the Aeldari, Fuegan had dispatched countless warriors, champions, and heroes, and he knew that more would fall before his own time ended. Yet, this instance marked the first time he grappled with a sensation akin to shame concerning his faction's deeds.
The act of killing Fireheart haunted him, and Fuegan found himself unable to pinpoint why. Yet he did not have to wait long for someone to come around and explain.
Amidst his meditation, attempting to divert his thoughts from the persistent specter of Fireheart, Fuegan sensed an unusual chill in the air. It felt more like the touch of early winter frost upon his soul, a sensation preceding the presence of someone unfamiliar yet strangely familiar.
Intriguingly, a woman's voice cut through the silence, dripping with an air of divinity. "How dreadful," she remarked. Fuegan turned to find the form of Venus Cherital, the half-Aeldari goddess of Love and War, in the room with him. She gazed expectantly, surrounded by a small assembly of shadow cats. "I was wondering why my Pandafeches were so eager recently."
Fuegan chose to ignore her, harboring no love for the goddess. In his eyes, she had stolen a fragment of Khaine's power and audaciously declared herself one of their gods—a proclamation he deemed sheer madness. Venus might have held sway among humans, but that influence did not extend seamlessly to the Aeldari. The Dragon Lord remained steadfast, refusing to acknowledge her.
"Oh, don't be like that, Fuegan," Venus remarked with a playful grin as she approached the stoic Dragon. "I'm just curious about what's causing you such confusion. You've stopped dreaming, and that's been a nuisance for my dream eaters."
Fuegan couldn't resist a retort, "In that case, I'm glad I stopped sleeping. Now, leave me be."
Venus regarded him for a moment, her expression shifting to a frown. "What is this turmoil I feel in your heart? What's wrong?"
Fuegan bristled even more at the persistence of her concern. "Don't bother asking," he reiterated, firm in his resolve to deflect any further probing. "Leave me be."
As the shadow cats, the Pandafeches, circled around the Phoenix Lord, he sneered at the warp creatures. "You test my patience by bringing these things into my inner sanctum."
Venus, unfazed, merely shrugged. "They are completely harmless. Though they have told me interesting things." She lowered herself to meet Fuegan's gaze. "Your dreams were of fire and destruction, which, for one such as yourself, seems par for the course. But there was something else... wasn't there?"
Fuegan's vulnerability betrayed him as a fleeting image of a smiling Fireheart crossed his mind, and Venus seemed to catch the drift. "Oh-ho. What do we have here?" Just as he was about to demand her departure, the goddess's appearance abruptly transformed into an uncanny likeness of Fireheart. Ruby-red eyes, dark skin, sunlight hair – Venus now mirrored the fallen warrior's form. Unlike the power armor Fireheart exclusively wore, she adorned herself in a dress of splendid red and orange hues decorated with depictions of fire and two dragons intertwined that clung to her curves. Even her voice mimicked Fireheart's.
Fuegan felt a growing fury engulfing his soul. The Phoenix Lord rose, his tone seething with anger. "Remove this form from my sight, now!"
"Why would I do that?" Venus retorted, a tantalizing smile playing on her lips. "Am I bothering you, looking like this?"
Fuegan's response was resolute. "You are being disrespectful to the dead."
"Oh?" Venus conjured a mirror from the warp to examine the mirrored visage of Fireheart. "Hmm, what a beauty. Was this woman important to you? I can see why she might have been. Your heart sings with grief and regret. This must be the champion you recently faced— the one everyone has been discussing." Fuegan, unaware of such discussions, remained indifferent to idle gossip, but this information unsettled him still.
"I don't know what gossip has reached you, but I'm not in the mood for whatever perverse games you're playing. Get out," Fuegan demanded, attempting to resist the allure of the false Fireheart before him. Though his rational mind knew better, his gaze lingered longer than it should have.
Venus, undeterred, examined her new form, commenting, "How peculiar. Even through this guise, I can feel a lingering heat surrounding me." Her eyes then shifted to Fuegan. "And I can see a thread of fire tied to you."
Fuegan glared at the goddess, his tone carrying a final warning, "Last chance to leave peacefully." The Fire Axe was within reach, but his threat incited growls and hisses from the shadow cats. Venus gestured for them to stand down.
"No need for violence, Fuegan. I didn't come here to mock you or the memory of this woman. In fact, I think I can help you."
"I don't want or need your help," Fuegan asserted firmly. He refused to owe this goddess any favors, especially if it involved continued mockery of Fireheart through her deceptive guise.
"Fireheart?" Venus looked back into the mirror and slowly nodded. "Yes, that does sound appropriate for a body like this." She turned her gaze back to Fuegan. "I would shed this visage, but your soul is compelling me to take this form, and I'd be remiss to ignore it."
Fuegan felt his body tense at the insinuation that he was causing Venus to look like Fireheart, "I don't know what you are talking about, and I don't think you can help me."
"Nonsense," Venus dismissed his skepticism, approaching with a sultry smile that, though unsettling, evoked the memory of Fireheart. "The fires of your passion burn hot, but so does your sorrow and grief. I can help you feel better in more ways than one." She fluttered her eyes at him, attempting to entice him.
Unaccustomed to such forward advances from women, Fuegan resisted the temptation. "I'm not interested in sleeping with you."
"You aren't sleeping with Venus Cherital," the goddess wearing Fireheart's visage insisted. "You are sleeping with the woman you loved."
Her words jolted Fuegan out of the surreal encounter. "Love... I never... don't conflate admiration and respect with love. Fireheart was a great fighter and an honorable woman, but she never loved me."
"War can destroy the strands between two people, especially on opposing sides," Venus remarked, her smile carrying a touch of sadness and understanding. "But I've seen bonds form in the hellfire of conflict as well, and I know, with absolute certainty, that you and Fireheart had something more than mutual respect and admiration."
Venus fixed an expectant gaze on him. "It must stir you, hearing it as I am, yes? She must have thought it at least once as well. 'I love you, Fuegan.'"
He despised how correct that sounded and felt he had missed something. Such wants and desires seemed unfitting for a Phoenix Lord, contrary to what Asurmen taught him and against the very nature of the Dragon. Yet, Fuegan couldn't deny the sharp pang in his soul.
"She might have thought it once," Fuegan admitted a hint of resignation in his tone. "But it doesn't matter now. She died fighting in some blighted war for people who didn't deserve her. I most certainly don't, not after everything."
"That's the funny thing about love, Fuegan," Venus remarked, now within arm's length. "It doesn't matter what we did or said. Only our heart's desires matter." She reached for him, saying, "You can enjoy what might have been through me."
A strange sensation enveloped Fuegan. Fireheart stood right before him, alive. He tried to convince himself that she had returned from beyond, heard the unspoken words, and acknowledged what they could have meant to him. Yielding to the moment, Fuegan gently pulled her close, succumbing to the impulse that felt right and kissed her.
Yet, the illusion shattered with a biting cold, and he instantly pulled away. "I'm... I'm sorry, but that was wrong of me," Fuegan stammered, recoiling from the ethereal moment. "You need to leave."
To his surprise, the illusion of Fireheart dissipated, and Venus returned to her original form. She appeared both surprised and content with his actions. "I see. I can't say I didn't try, but I'm starting to think you'll actually be alright, Fuegan."
Fuegan grunted in response, not entirely pleased. "You say that."
"And I mean it," Venus replied with a smile. "You love her so much that you'd rather honor who she was rather than replace it with a falsehood. Even with all that pain and grief you are feeling, it makes your love toward her real and the memories all the more special."
Fuegan mulled over Venus's words. What good were memories if they only brought forward this frigid bleakness of regret and grief? These sentiments suggested he should be grateful and happy for his time with Fireheart, but the pain lingered.
"I killed her, you know," Fuegan remarked solemnly. "I shoved my hand through her chest after she stabbed me in the heart, lung, and kidney. I could have died there with her."
"But you didn't," Venus retorted softly. "Because she wouldn't have wanted you to die with her. She was a warrior. And I'd like to think she would have wanted you not to be so hard on yourself."
Fuegan couldn't shake the memory of Fireheart's second favor, 'Please... don't be too hard on yourself.' Did she know that he would survive in the end? Even as he lay dying beside her? It didn't make him feel less guilty, but it did make Fuegan believe that Fireheart had been ready to die that day.
"If I might make one suggestion to you, Fuegan?" Venus asked though she knew he wouldn't stop her. "It's alright for you to grieve and move on. There is no disrespect in doing that to someone you loved." She smirked at him. "Especially if she was a great warrior."
"She was," Fuegan acknowledged. "Perhaps one of the greatest of this era."
"And you defeated her," Venus said respectfully. "Take pride in that, Fuegan. Because I can imagine Fireheart would have loved for her name to be spoken with such reverence by the Dragon."
That thought brought a bittersweet smile to his face. "Fireheart dueled me a hundred times to a standstill and then almost killed me. Those are some amazing feats. She might have been able to fight Daemons, maybe even a Primarch, or even the other Phoenix Lords, and had a real chance of coming out on top."
"And you'll always know that," Venus said proudly. "All the best memories of her will be yours. You'll carry them for as long as you live."
"Until I eventually fall as well," Fuegan snapped back. "If I die, no one will remember her. They'll remember the Phoenix Lord Fuegan but not Fireheart. And she'll be forgotten." Even preserving her story in a psychic imprint would eventually subject it to the relentless march of time. The Holy Confederacy, too, would either forget or reshape her narrative over the passing years, as all legends were prone to do. The transience of memory was a fickle thing, even to the Eldar.
Venus smiled at him, "Fuegan, why don't you tell me everything about Fireheart?"
Recognizing this as her way of helping preserve Fireheart's memory, Fuegan didn't object much. "If you'd like. It might take a while, though."
"I was ready to stay the whole night with you, so I don't mind," she remarked, gesturing for the shadow cats to vacate, which the warp creatures dutifully did. "When we are finished tonight, try and get some sleep. I promise you'll feel better, and no nightmares shall come."
"I don't fear any nightmares," Fuegan replied plainly but nodded. "But I am grateful all the same."
She gave him a teasing grin, "If you want, we can talk in the bedroom..."
"...Let's just talk here," Fuegan suggested, feeling silly playing this game with Venus. He noticed a momentary pout on her face, making him wonder if his initial assessment of the hybrid goddess was a bit unfair. Regardless, he was adamant about not owing her any favors.
Venus made no further attempts to redirect the conversation. True to her word, the pair spoke at length about Fireheart, with Fuegan recounting his memories of the human. He described the emotions he felt when recalling those last few encounters, the words spoken and unspoken, and the mistakes made during the heat of the moment.
To her credit, Venus simply listened, asking a few questions but otherwise letting Fuegan talk at length about the woman who had almost killed him and whom he, in turn, had killed. They delved into the legend of Fireheart, the woman he loved, as the night unfolded.
It had been a few months since Fuegan spoke with Venus. The passage of time seemed to have worked its subtle magic on the Phoenix Lord. He was doing better now; his thoughts were not constantly plagued by the loss of Fireheart. Taking the goddess's advice, he had found time to grieve properly and promised not to be too hard on himself for what happened in the Inferno War.
The respite from the heavy burden of grief allowed Fuegan to refocus on his duties. The next set of wars loomed on the horizon, and the Dragon within him stirred with anticipation. His mind was clear once more, and he directed his attention back to commanding his Aspect warriors, honing his skills for the battles that awaited. The Dragon would roar again, resolute and ready for the challenges ahead.
But then, one day, something extraordinary happened.
Fuegan had been in deep meditation when one of his Exarchs appeared in his inner sanctum, looking apologetic. "Apologies, Great Dragon, but a visitor is bearing the mark of the Lords of Ravens. He says he is here to deliver something to you at the behest of Venus Cherital."
"Hrm," Fuegan grunted, seeming unamused at the interruption. Just because he had a much better relationship with the Goddess of Love and War didn't give her the right to bother him. "Send this visitor in."
He didn't have to wait long before his Exarch returned, escorting a scrawny-looking human who entered with a hover-trolley at his side. To Fuegan's surprise, the man looked unafraid and lacked any awe that a Phoenix Lord would have normally garnered.
"Lord Fuegan," the man spoke with a refined tone, "I am Jonathon Ezikeli Lockcraft, Director of Ravenloft." Fuegan had heard a few stories about this man and his organization. This fool had personally interviewed the Laughing God, seeking answers, and somehow emerged alive with his sanity intact. "Per the request of several parties, I have been instructed to bring you several items of interest."
The Dragon approached, casting an imposing figure. "What sort of items?" Fuegan stood ominously tall before Lockcraft, who seemed rather bored to be in the presence of a Phoenix Lord. This Lockcraft turned to the trolley and what appeared to be a large, lengthy weapon case that seemed to have been covered by ritual seals.
"These items were recovered from the destroyed Temple of the Sunrise in Chakao by a Ravenloft team a few days after your fight with Fireheart. Including her remains," Lockcraft explained, unaware of how these details shocked the Phoenix Lord behind his helmet. Fuegan had tried to find her remains but had been told that much of the city had been flattened in the fighting. That Ravenloft found them was suspicious but ultimately a good thing for him.
Lockcraft began to remove the seals around the case. "I'm sorry to say that her body was reduced to ash. We gathered it up and placed it in a sanctified urn. There was also the recovery of her weapons. Her sword was... difficult to transport."
"Difficult, how?" Fuegan was curious. "That sword was made of star matter but was completely inert."
"It isn't anymore," Lockcraft explained as he opened the weapons case, allowing Fuegan to see inside. The Phoenix Lord stared down at Fireheart's sword and pistol, but they looked completely different now, appearing to be almost rebuilt or modified. The sword was also in a metal scabbard, something Fireheart never used or that Fuegan could ever recall seeing.
"Everything was studied. This Fireheart was walking around with a weapon made for what we can only assume to be an Eidolon, a divine engine, you see." He reached forward and pulled out Fireheart's rail pistol, which now looked more like a Shuriken pistol. "Her sidearm was using what appears to be a micro-fusion battery, which was easy enough to fix, but the reactive catapult systems had to be replaced with wraithbone psy-materials. Luckily, Venus got Ullánta to forge the replacement."
Now, Fuegan was curious. "Venus requested this?"
"This and more," Lockcraft remarked as he handed the pistol over to Fuegan, who found the weapon perfectly balanced and weighted in his hand. "The sword is where the real story is, though. I don't know what favors you promised her, but the result is something else."
Lockcraft reached for the sword, but Fuegan beat him to it. "Let me," the Phoenix Lord rumbled as he held the sheathed blade. He looked down at the ruby-red scabbard adorned with depictions of an inferno raging across a city, with two dragons dueling above the ruins below. The metal felt unnaturally warm to the touch and familiar as well.
Then it clicked in Fuegan's mind. "This... was made from her armor."
Lockcraft nodded. "Good guess. The power armor was completely wasted but seemed to have gained some esoteric principles. It's exceedingly good at keeping heat at bay, acting almost like a heatsink. I dare say you can use it as a weapon with some practice. But, as I said, the real story comes from the blade itself."
Not waiting any longer, Fuegan slowly unsheathed the star sword, mesmerized as the blade glowed a brilliant white, like a midday summer sun, bathing the room in light and warmth. It was one of the most beautiful things that Fuegan had ever seen. He was also quite confused. What happened to cause the sword to become like this?
Lockcraft seemed to have an answer, "Tell me, you were wounded in your fight with Fireheart, yes? Your blood was spilled because of this blade?"
"It stabbed me through the heart," Fuegan answered while his eyes adjusted to the glowing white blade. He noticed a large diamond where the sword's pommel used to be. "So yes, there was a lot of blood."
The diamond was humming. It was calling to him.
"Your blood reignited the star matter," Lockcraft spoke plainly. "And yes, that is as fantastic as it sounds and caused a bit of a stir among several research divisions at Ravenloft, but that's beside the point. It seems that your blood produced enough of a warp causality to bring this sword back to its true form."
Barely paying attention, Fuegan's mind focused on the call of the diamond. He heard the clashing of blades, and for a moment, Fuegan was back on Chakao, dueling Fireheart among the burning ruins of a dying city.
He could recall everything perfectly. The snow, smoke, ruins, blood, and fire. It was just like he was there all over again.
"Noticed the diamond, yes?" Lockcraft brought Fuegan to reality, the Phoenix Lord wondering what had just happened. "Another project that caused significant outrage among our divisions. Fireheart's ashes were given over to the Lord of Gears, per the request of Venus, mind you, and turned into what he calls a Timeless Diamond."
Fuegan still didn't fully grasp this. "I felt myself back on Chakao. I could smell the smoke and feel the heat from the fires."
"Those are her memories, Lord Fuegan," Lockcraft briefly explained. "Although the Timeless Diamond can't show everything, it can and will show all the moments that mattered most to Fireheart and its wielder. This means as long as this sword is in the hands of someone, they can see them."
Fuegan felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The implication of this diamond meant that no matter how many times the sword traded hands, the wielder would know of her strength and skill, of how she lived and died. More than what could ever be written in some book or imprinted via the warp, this sword would carry her legacy onto future battlefields for all time.
Just as long as it was put into the right hands. "There is one more thing for you, Lord Fuegan," Lockcraft announced before pulling out a small, leather-bound booklet from his coat pocket. "This was recovered from a home in the Drakian capital world after the Lord of Gears learned of it while seeing her memories. If I had to guess, it might be a journal. I'm guessing because no one has read it."
He handed it to the Phoenix Lord, who looked down at the decrepit thing and smiled under his helmet. "I see…thank you."
"It was a pleasure to assist, really," Lockcraft remarked. "The research opportunities alone gave us several findings that will accelerate our projects and understanding of several study and research topics. That we could aid you is an added bonus," the man admitted readily enough. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several other figures of note to meet with."
Lockcraft departed, leaving behind the case and notes on their findings. Fuegan appreciated the solitude, allowing him a moment of reflection. He had braced for the worst regarding Fireheart's remains, even fearing scavengers might desecrate her corpse and pilfer her weapons.
The discovery that she had been found and her weapons improved upon touched him deeply. Venus had set things in motion, and Fuegan acknowledged he could never fully repay her for this gesture. Nevertheless, he pledged that the Fire Dragons would answer her call for aid when the time arose. He also felt indebted to the Lord of Gears for ensuring Fireheart's legacy would endure.
Yet, beyond these debts, Fuegan now possessed insights into who Fireheart was, far beyond the warrior he had met and fought. That alone justified owing favors to two gods.
Her name was Cassandra. Born over 10,000 years ago, during the Golden Age of Humanity, Fireheart earned her nickname from a brother. Raised as a farmer, she harbored a deep-seated resentment for the mundane and yearned to explore the stars. Cassandra escaped her agrarian life by enlisting in the Federation Army. She fought in numerous wars but eventually left, choosing the path of a mercenary. Her journal vividly revealed the toll war took on her soul, eroding her honor and leaving her in a state of despair.
Fuegan delved into the entries chronicling Cassandra's journey through the tumultuous Age of Strife. She fought for lost causes across multiple worlds, confronting unspeakable horrors and barely surviving. Unlike a hero or champion, she identified herself simply as a soldier, driven by the primal instinct to survive. Over time, her family succumbed to the ravages of time, leaving her with a solitary purpose—exploring the farthest reaches of space, a quest that provided her only reason to live.
Cassandra's life unfolded in the crucible of fire and blood, yet amidst the chaos, she discovered pockets of happiness wherever her journey took her. During her travels, she also stumbled upon the Path of the Sun, claiming to have witnessed the awe-inspiring Cosmic Serpent. This encounter ignited an obsession within her, driving her quest to find the mythical creature, convinced it could grant her a wish.
Her memories of these experiences became fragmented with time, but she recounted a momentous battle against the creation of the Cosmic Serpent. In an audacious act, Cassandra stole an ember of creation from the serpent, a daring move that resulted in the creature pardoning her transgressions but refusing to engage with her further.
Cassandra played a role in aiding the founders of the Drakian Confederacy. However, as their faith transformed into a tool for imperialism and greed, she found herself powerless to prevent the erosion of its original purpose. The Cosmic Serpent, once a source of solace, fell silent, leaving Cassandra adrift in a world where nothing seemed to matter anymore. Frustrated by her inability to intervene without sparking civil unrest, she turned to fighting as her new raison d'être, clinging to the hope that one day, the Cosmic Serpent would find it in itself to forgive her.
And that was it.
The story of Fireheart was one of a woman who tried to find purpose multiple times and failed, leaving her only with the desire to enjoy the little things in life and fight. Fuegan could respect that Fireheart…Cassandra, did what she could to keep living.
And so, the saga of Fireheart reached its poignant conclusion. Her story was one of unrelenting determination, an unwavering pursuit of purpose that ultimately led to her demise at the hands of a foe who had become something more. Her odyssey, a tale destined to be woven into the fabric of stories and myths, held the potential to inspire those who would one day wield her weapons.
For Fuegan, however, the weight of responsibility lingered. He was entrusted with the solemn duty of preserving and guarding Fireheart's truth and legacy. In the clash of love and conflict, he emerged as the sole custodian of her memory—a woman he both loved and, in the end, had to vanquish. As the keeper of her truth, Fuegan felt the warmth of those memories in the cold expanse of the galaxy. Love might elude him in the future, but he had basked in its warmth for that fleeting moment. Now, with only keepsakes to tether him to that memory, he embraced the gratitude that came with remembrance.
Though he lost her flame, life didn't seem that cold now.
---
@Daemon Hunter Mmkay, this got out of control like normal.
'We Are The Dead', The Cemetery Of The Maelstrom.
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
Hiya! Decided to omake one of the 'minor' Chaos worlds this turn for the Eternal Wardens, as seen at the bottom of this update here, due to it being apparently a very hard fight to face and being a fascinating world from what was learned over in the Discord server.
-----
'We Are The Dead', The Cemetery Of The Maelstrom.
Within what had been known as the Maelstrom, the vast wound upon the galaxy now largely destroyed, one planet still suffered the effects of the Warp.
It had once been a relatively prosperous place, surviving the Age of Strife with little loss in capability or culture or populace. Self-sufficient, possessing a good amount of resources, an atmosphere that only needed a little adjustment to support human life.
It had not seemed that way any more. Life still existed, in various different cities, but it was no paradise or ordinary planet. It was covered in scars of battle and fouler things that began when the world had been swallowed whole by the hungry rift. Rubble surrounded the Last Cities, rings of debris turned into makeshift barricades against outside attacks. Craters from explosive ordnance used liberally. Scorch-marks over the landscape.
Void shields flicker in the rain, surrounding the Last Cities. During the shifting of 'seasons' that existed on the world, there were often times that rain fell constantly. The clouds changed as they travelled across the planet. Putrid water, red as blood, burning as oil, falling as sludge.
The last experiment of the world, that had brought doom, loomed over the north and south poles of the planet as well as the direct remains of where it all went wrong.
The Maelstrom had pulled away, revealing skies that were now able to let the sight of distant stars once more, but the Warp itself had not.
-----
In the Dark Age of Technology, the world was known by several names. Tairol II, the second planet that orbited the lone Tairol star, was the most commonly known name to outsiders and almost all inhabitants.
To the reigning company that owned the planet, the board of executives that had decided every course of action since the start and the research teams inside, it was known simply as Research Site Thirty-Three. One of many worlds that were settled simply for the purposes of an experiment.
This one was comparatively minor and less esoteric than several others. Dedicated to a field that was connected to almost every world of mankind, on every ship that traversed the galaxy, that protected the hive-cities and voidships and space stations across the domain of humanity. That which was enveloped around Titans, that which covered a few entire planets, that which could be used on something as small as a house or even a person.
Void shield technology.
To delve deeply onto one of the most practically useful Warp-based technologies that humanity had ever invented was an obvious choice, only underneath such gigantic breakthroughs as faster-than-light traversal through the Immaterium or the Gellar fields that made it possible to survive such voyages. There were those that chased loftier or more impossible fields, from the intricacies of souls and psychic powers, the depths that Navigators could go through, ways to bring back the dead or even ways to replicate the power that Orks possessed.
For Tairol II's extremely well supplied and funded research teams, they instead chose to focus on a field where tangible benefits were obvious and universal and well-rewarding to them. At first the experiments were a simple affair, focused on the planet itself and its cities. Modifying the designs of the Void shield generators on the cities there to be stronger in effect, possess multiple layers at once, more power efficient or were able to be more easily modified in protection against an environment.
Since the world was dedicated to experimental study and application to Void shields, it was placed near the vast expanse of twisted reality and Warp energy that was known as the Maelstrom. There were few better places to conduct experiments with the Immaterium and technologies based around them, and most experts in the field were already living and working around the region.
To this location, there were further opportunities for study. After initial results had borne great fruit, to the point that the work had gone on to be spread across tens of thousands of other planets as new Standard Template Constructs, the now highly skilled research groups had decided to go further with their corporate approval.
More dangerous experiments had been attempted as time passed. Some had dangerous power usage concerns, where normal plasma drives would simply burn out if the shields were put at even half-capacity. Others were risky due to the materials that were involved, physically resonant or repulsive metals that could only be found within the Maelstrom itself. A few disasters had happened with the shielding technology being modified in mistaken ways, yet nothing that was enough to stop the experiments from continuing due to what was ongoing.
The most dangerous test of all happened at the end, to initial triumph and great joy with its success, but had been considered since the very beginning.
During the time of Old Night, as disaster descended upon most of mankind, the world of Tairol II had suffered against many different things. From normal but fierce raiders, to Orks and local xenos, to fouler things that sometimes came through the now massively enlarged Maelstrom.
Yet despite everything that had happened since the Cybernetic Revolt, as supply lines and all the additional resources had been destroyed, the world had been mostly intact and even somewhat prosperous given the bleak circumstances. Most of the research teams, their equipment and a lot of the materials they needed for their work had all remained on the world and were put to work with renewed fervour. The shields and the research behind them were what ensured the planet's survival.
So it had been inevitable that the final experiment had been attempted. After thousands of years of on-and-off studies and calculations had proven that it can be done, and worse raids that had happened, the void shields across the planet had been strengthened in a way that was obvious on paper. Void shields utilised the Warp to function, banishing all attacks into that realm, so instead of simply augmenting or refining the technology… one could find a way to make the Warp 'closer' to a surrounding region and make it easier for shields to access the Immaterium while also expanding the limits of what could be done.
On that day that it was attempted, a deliberate and extremely careful weakening of the veil between the Materiun and the Immaterium on Tairol II… it was a perfect success.
Things had changed overnight as the shields seemed to gleam with newfound strength. With the enhanced shields that the world now possessed, it could now withstand almost anything that came by with an immense ease compared to before.
Energy and power usage had massively dropped, which helped supply the complex machinery used to thin the barrier between realities. The few starships in orbit were also affected, able to last far longer which was needed to keep the dwindling numbers and falling quality from being broken further in future conflicts. Cities were more protected and it allowed for many previously untenable modifications to be done without problem.
Even psyker birthrates were kept to a sustainable minimal increase from the manipulation of the veil between realms, ensuring that there would be minor possibility of a disaster that stemmed from one of the Warp-touched humans. In some ways, it was almost considered a boon with how useful the 'witches' could be for research or in other forms of support as the researchers knew with their knowledge of the Warp.
It was a time of prosperity, where the world was turning to a brighter future despite everything that had befallen mankind as a whole. While difficult and requiring a lot of moving parts, advanced work and constant progress, life went well for Tairol II as its shields helped allow its people to live protected lives.
Until a new god arose from the Warp, screaming an endless scream as it tore through the Aeldari Dominion, and both the Materium and Immaterium changed enough to cause the balance to be destroyed.
Reality broke and the world was swallowed whole.
-----
That which the Imperium aptly called the Cemetery faced a threat that was constant.
On the north and south poles of the planet, where once mighty Void shield generators had worked for millenia to keep the planet itself protected, were things that could be seen clearly no matter how far away one had been. Looming over the horizon as if it didn't exist, bending light and energy to always be seen in that direction, only covered by walls and darkness.
Giant warp rifts that constantly spew forth the hellish energy of the Immaterium, giant spectres of the world's hubris as it tried and failed to fully master even one aspect of the psychic realm's almighty power. The polar gates brought forth the spirits of the foulest nightmares, the daemons that constantly tested and broke the will of the populace who now knew only the laughter of thirsting gods.
On the capital city, where the generations old research teams spent most of their time in the main laboratories built on and underneath the hive, two more colossal rifts had formed from the remains of the reality-thinning technology. Twin giants from which came the worst monsters, as surrounding skies swirled around as though in a constant hurricane. They wrought the lights of the sky, like solar flares against magnetic fields, into scintillating shows of madness.
The Last Cities survived by the lessons taken from the Cybernetic Revolt and the wars that came through the Age of Strife's turmoil, as the military rose up and became synonymous with the populace. The few scientists that survived doing everything they could to modify and maintain the void shields of the few places of civilization, to prepare and protect the people of the world against this apocalypse.
Corruption could come from the air, from the rain, from the mere sight of those rifts. The scientists penning down everything they could for future generations to keep the Last Shields running as long as possible. On data-slates with downloaded guides, printed sheets of paper that were hastily bound together, handwritten notes to act as contingencies. Power had to be maintain precisely. The shields could not fall, or the Last Cities would truly flood with even worse influence than what was already felt.
The cities were transformed into fortresses, sprawling mazes dedicated to kill invading monsters and take as few losses as possible. All that was destroyed was recycled without care for whatever it had once been. Spiked walls grew with turret towers, overwatching cannons that blasted the armies of hell that kept arriving, giant cauldrons full of boiling oil in reflection of ancient siege lessons. Everything was turned into a weapon and a shield. The cities had to survive. The cities had to last.
There was no hope for rescue, for none would be insane enough to traverse the Maelstrom to reach a world at war for any benevolent reason. No hope that the rifts would fall, after desperate attempts failed to make an inverted version of a reality thinning device to instead strength the barrier. None had hoped that the war would be won, after so many died.
The remaining populace fought because that's what their parents did, what their parent's parents did, and so on and so forth. Generations had fallen and left their descendents to carry up the torch because, simply, that was all that could be done. There was only war, for that was survival on the hell that had been partially wrought by what had once been a crowning glory they had made.
Over time, the populace began to manifest a mutation from the constant presence and forced observation of the four rifts and the wider Maelstrom. Purple eyes had become extremely common across almost every single living soul there, the infernal light of the Warp permanently reflected upon their gaze.
Many psykers had been born and many had died as they failed to control their powers. Those that hadn't had been put to use to support the war, either directly or through other means related to their talents. They were neither respected nor wholly feared. They were just another living resource.
The Outer Sentries were the greatest of the militant populace of the Last Cities, those who stood at the outmost perimeter upon or within the great walls that surrounded each city. Bodies fully covered in armour, covered in a thick greatcoat and gasmask to insulate each soldier from as much corruptive fluids and gases that they would constantly face as they shot upon the daemonic armies. The tainted rain and blood that fell down, the diseased smog from the undead monsters, the blasted smoke from all the burning bodies.
It wasn't to protect them, in the sense to keep them healthy. It was to protect them, in the sense to keep them alive to fight more. It would be a war that would never end, so thus they had to last as long as possible so they could be properly replaced. Mechanisms in a war against hell, moving like clockwork day in and day out.
It was known that everyone would one day die, that the shields would collapse, that the daemons would win. Yet they still fought, recycled and reinforced the Last Cities, because that was all that could be done.
One day, the Maelstrom had vanished. It hadn't stopped the four rifts or even slowed down the nightmarish armies from constantly coming back, not to any noticeable degree, and yet it was a strange portent. A feeling that was akin to relief had been felt by all, or at least that an unseen pressure had become not as overwhelmingly bleak as it had been before. There was no use to dwell on it, for the war would continue on forever…
…unless a new element had arrived.
-----
'We Are The Dead', The Cemetery Of The Maelstrom.
Within what had been known as the Maelstrom, the vast wound upon the galaxy now largely destroyed, one planet still suffered the effects of the Warp.
It had once been a relatively prosperous place, surviving the Age of Strife with little loss in capability or culture or populace. Self-sufficient, possessing a good amount of resources, an atmosphere that only needed a little adjustment to support human life.
It had not seemed that way any more. Life still existed, in various different cities, but it was no paradise or ordinary planet. It was covered in scars of battle and fouler things that began when the world had been swallowed whole by the hungry rift. Rubble surrounded the Last Cities, rings of debris turned into makeshift barricades against outside attacks. Craters from explosive ordnance used liberally. Scorch-marks over the landscape.
Void shields flicker in the rain, surrounding the Last Cities. During the shifting of 'seasons' that existed on the world, there were often times that rain fell constantly. The clouds changed as they travelled across the planet. Putrid water, red as blood, burning as oil, falling as sludge.
The last experiment of the world, that had brought doom, loomed over the north and south poles of the planet as well as the direct remains of where it all went wrong.
The Maelstrom had pulled away, revealing skies that were now able to let the sight of distant stars once more, but the Warp itself had not.
-----
In the Dark Age of Technology, the world was known by several names. Tairol II, the second planet that orbited the lone Tairol star, was the most commonly known name to outsiders and almost all inhabitants.
To the reigning company that owned the planet, the board of executives that had decided every course of action since the start and the research teams inside, it was known simply as Research Site Thirty-Three. One of many worlds that were settled simply for the purposes of an experiment.
This one was comparatively minor and less esoteric than several others. Dedicated to a field that was connected to almost every world of mankind, on every ship that traversed the galaxy, that protected the hive-cities and voidships and space stations across the domain of humanity. That which was enveloped around Titans, that which covered a few entire planets, that which could be used on something as small as a house or even a person.
Void shield technology.
To delve deeply onto one of the most practically useful Warp-based technologies that humanity had ever invented was an obvious choice, only underneath such gigantic breakthroughs as faster-than-light traversal through the Immaterium or the Gellar fields that made it possible to survive such voyages. There were those that chased loftier or more impossible fields, from the intricacies of souls and psychic powers, the depths that Navigators could go through, ways to bring back the dead or even ways to replicate the power that Orks possessed.
For Tairol II's extremely well supplied and funded research teams, they instead chose to focus on a field where tangible benefits were obvious and universal and well-rewarding to them. At first the experiments were a simple affair, focused on the planet itself and its cities. Modifying the designs of the Void shield generators on the cities there to be stronger in effect, possess multiple layers at once, more power efficient or were able to be more easily modified in protection against an environment.
Since the world was dedicated to experimental study and application to Void shields, it was placed near the vast expanse of twisted reality and Warp energy that was known as the Maelstrom. There were few better places to conduct experiments with the Immaterium and technologies based around them, and most experts in the field were already living and working around the region.
To this location, there were further opportunities for study. After initial results had borne great fruit, to the point that the work had gone on to be spread across tens of thousands of other planets as new Standard Template Constructs, the now highly skilled research groups had decided to go further with their corporate approval.
More dangerous experiments had been attempted as time passed. Some had dangerous power usage concerns, where normal plasma drives would simply burn out if the shields were put at even half-capacity. Others were risky due to the materials that were involved, physically resonant or repulsive metals that could only be found within the Maelstrom itself. A few disasters had happened with the shielding technology being modified in mistaken ways, yet nothing that was enough to stop the experiments from continuing due to what was ongoing.
The most dangerous test of all happened at the end, to initial triumph and great joy with its success, but had been considered since the very beginning.
During the time of Old Night, as disaster descended upon most of mankind, the world of Tairol II had suffered against many different things. From normal but fierce raiders, to Orks and local xenos, to fouler things that sometimes came through the now massively enlarged Maelstrom.
Yet despite everything that had happened since the Cybernetic Revolt, as supply lines and all the additional resources had been destroyed, the world had been mostly intact and even somewhat prosperous given the bleak circumstances. Most of the research teams, their equipment and a lot of the materials they needed for their work had all remained on the world and were put to work with renewed fervour. The shields and the research behind them were what ensured the planet's survival.
So it had been inevitable that the final experiment had been attempted. After thousands of years of on-and-off studies and calculations had proven that it can be done, and worse raids that had happened, the void shields across the planet had been strengthened in a way that was obvious on paper. Void shields utilised the Warp to function, banishing all attacks into that realm, so instead of simply augmenting or refining the technology… one could find a way to make the Warp 'closer' to a surrounding region and make it easier for shields to access the Immaterium while also expanding the limits of what could be done.
On that day that it was attempted, a deliberate and extremely careful weakening of the veil between the Materiun and the Immaterium on Tairol II… it was a perfect success.
Things had changed overnight as the shields seemed to gleam with newfound strength. With the enhanced shields that the world now possessed, it could now withstand almost anything that came by with an immense ease compared to before.
Energy and power usage had massively dropped, which helped supply the complex machinery used to thin the barrier between realities. The few starships in orbit were also affected, able to last far longer which was needed to keep the dwindling numbers and falling quality from being broken further in future conflicts. Cities were more protected and it allowed for many previously untenable modifications to be done without problem.
Even psyker birthrates were kept to a sustainable minimal increase from the manipulation of the veil between realms, ensuring that there would be minor possibility of a disaster that stemmed from one of the Warp-touched humans. In some ways, it was almost considered a boon with how useful the 'witches' could be for research or in other forms of support as the researchers knew with their knowledge of the Warp.
It was a time of prosperity, where the world was turning to a brighter future despite everything that had befallen mankind as a whole. While difficult and requiring a lot of moving parts, advanced work and constant progress, life went well for Tairol II as its shields helped allow its people to live protected lives.
Until a new god arose from the Warp, screaming an endless scream as it tore through the Aeldari Dominion, and both the Materium and Immaterium changed enough to cause the balance to be destroyed.
Reality broke and the world was swallowed whole.
-----
That which the Imperium aptly called the Cemetery faced a threat that was constant.
On the north and south poles of the planet, where once mighty Void shield generators had worked for millenia to keep the planet itself protected, were things that could be seen clearly no matter how far away one had been. Looming over the horizon as if it didn't exist, bending light and energy to always be seen in that direction, only covered by walls and darkness.
Giant warp rifts that constantly spew forth the hellish energy of the Immaterium, giant spectres of the world's hubris as it tried and failed to fully master even one aspect of the psychic realm's almighty power. The polar gates brought forth the spirits of the foulest nightmares, the daemons that constantly tested and broke the will of the populace who now knew only the laughter of thirsting gods.
On the capital city, where the generations old research teams spent most of their time in the main laboratories built on and underneath the hive, two more colossal rifts had formed from the remains of the reality-thinning technology. Twin giants from which came the worst monsters, as surrounding skies swirled around as though in a constant hurricane. They wrought the lights of the sky, like solar flares against magnetic fields, into scintillating shows of madness.
The Last Cities survived by the lessons taken from the Cybernetic Revolt and the wars that came through the Age of Strife's turmoil, as the military rose up and became synonymous with the populace. The few scientists that survived doing everything they could to modify and maintain the void shields of the few places of civilization, to prepare and protect the people of the world against this apocalypse.
Corruption could come from the air, from the rain, from the mere sight of those rifts. The scientists penning down everything they could for future generations to keep the Last Shields running as long as possible. On data-slates with downloaded guides, printed sheets of paper that were hastily bound together, handwritten notes to act as contingencies. Power had to be maintain precisely. The shields could not fall, or the Last Cities would truly flood with even worse influence than what was already felt.
The cities were transformed into fortresses, sprawling mazes dedicated to kill invading monsters and take as few losses as possible. All that was destroyed was recycled without care for whatever it had once been. Spiked walls grew with turret towers, overwatching cannons that blasted the armies of hell that kept arriving, giant cauldrons full of boiling oil in reflection of ancient siege lessons. Everything was turned into a weapon and a shield. The cities had to survive. The cities had to last.
There was no hope for rescue, for none would be insane enough to traverse the Maelstrom to reach a world at war for any benevolent reason. No hope that the rifts would fall, after desperate attempts failed to make an inverted version of a reality thinning device to instead strength the barrier. None had hoped that the war would be won, after so many died.
The remaining populace fought because that's what their parents did, what their parent's parents did, and so on and so forth. Generations had fallen and left their descendents to carry up the torch because, simply, that was all that could be done. There was only war, for that was survival on the hell that had been partially wrought by what had once been a crowning glory they had made.
Over time, the populace began to manifest a mutation from the constant presence and forced observation of the four rifts and the wider Maelstrom. Purple eyes had become extremely common across almost every single living soul there, the infernal light of the Warp permanently reflected upon their gaze.
Many psykers had been born and many had died as they failed to control their powers. Those that hadn't had been put to use to support the war, either directly or through other means related to their talents. They were neither respected nor wholly feared. They were just another living resource.
The Outer Sentries were the greatest of the militant populace of the Last Cities, those who stood at the outmost perimeter upon or within the great walls that surrounded each city. Bodies fully covered in armour, covered in a thick greatcoat and gasmask to insulate each soldier from as much corruptive fluids and gases that they would constantly face as they shot upon the daemonic armies. The tainted rain and blood that fell down, the diseased smog from the undead monsters, the blasted smoke from all the burning bodies.
It wasn't to protect them, in the sense to keep them healthy. It was to protect them, in the sense to keep them alive to fight more. It would be a war that would never end, so thus they had to last as long as possible so they could be properly replaced. Mechanisms in a war against hell, moving like clockwork day in and day out.
It was known that everyone would one day die, that the shields would collapse, that the daemons would win. Yet they still fought, recycled and reinforced the Last Cities, because that was all that could be done.
One day, the Maelstrom had vanished. It hadn't stopped the four rifts or even slowed down the nightmarish armies from constantly coming back, not to any noticeable degree, and yet it was a strange portent. A feeling that was akin to relief had been felt by all, or at least that an unseen pressure had become not as overwhelmingly bleak as it had been before. There was no use to dwell on it, for the war would continue on forever…
…unless a new element had arrived.
The Monster Of The Eleventh Legion A sequel to Abdul Being A Beta Boy
- Location
- United States
The Monster Of The Eleventh Legion
A sequel to Abdul Being A Beta Boy
A sequel to Abdul Being A Beta Boy
Warning, it doesn't seem like it at first, but this is a horror story.
--- Chrome Soldier's Perspective---
[Language and details have been roughly translated to High Gothic by Lexicanium Joaquin Abul]
The firing bay was a mess of activity, with the battle raging on outside. Soldier Drones scurrying to and fro, running through their countless tasks, or wandering-Lost in the confusion of Shell Shock. We were built for this, [Chrome] and machine of course, but such was the nature of combat. It was chaotic, green, and a blur of constant motion as tactics, soldiers, and positions were all adjusted again and again to the enemy.
Towering above all of us, the top of its rotating Volkite barrels just inches from the ceiling, the main RCW [An acronym for Revolving Capacitor Weapon] Volkite Lance spat its fury, destroying ship after ship in its wrath. Each one of its eight massive barrels a hundred meters long, and two meters tall. There, on one end, a line of shifting protective plates allowed the gun to aim left and right into the outside world without exposing its delicate machinery to outside aggressors. On the other end: The command station of this firing bay wrapped protectively around the delicate machinery of the Volkite Cannon, like some desperate, last line of defense.
Lining the outer wall: its mechanical protectors: Volkite, Bolt, Las, and Auto cannons that worked tirelessly with their crews to gun down any craft that made it too close. They were stacked on top of each other, each cannon and its crew, each team given a rough square outlined with bright yellow paint, and stacked three squares tall all across the wall. Each was given its own, small, working space, or balcony for weary [Chromes] to rest, store ammunition, and any other supplies necessary to complete their tasks.
The glimmering floor, no more than [Roughly a two standard Terran years] old was similarly busy. With such a massive room, a hundred meters wide, thirty five tall, and with thousands of Soldier Drones stationed here, the necessary supplies for all of us had to be nearby. Ammunition storage for the smaller cannons, food, water, guns, and armor for the soldiers in case things got hairy. Replacement cannons were lined up about thirty meters away from the three-high walls of them, and already what seemed like two dozen teams were going through impromptu repairs of any that had malfunctioned in their first real battle. All of which left the floor covered in a cluttered array of supplies, repairs, and even medical stations as the fight crept towards the one hour mark, and soldier after soldier collapsed from exhaustion, dehydration, hunger and exertion.
All of which was clearly visible from our position, in the Auxilian waiting room from the top of the firing bay's main command station.
It felt…almost aggravating, being veteran soldiers resigned to just sitting around while our juniors and peers waged a desperate defense against the might of the color-mans.
[Note: The name 'color-mans' seems to be a misunderstanding. See, the Low-Gothic word for human has three syllables. Hu-man-Oh. Which can be misunderstood as hue-man-oh. This theory is still pending appropriate Magos review, however.]
But the logic was sound. If something happened, if anything happened, we would need a force to surprise the color-mans, an increase of effectiveness we could leverage to regain our footing. Plus, if something unexpected happened, it was only obvious the veteran troops would handle it better than newer recruits, and that they would handle it best if they were fresh and well rested. It even lets the younger, newer soldiers get valuable combat experience with adequate fallback lines to make Bloodying the newest troops a safe prospect.
But it still felt wrong. Some of the best soldiers here, and we were still stuck over-analyzing every shot our juniors made, increasingly frustrated as their inexperience and exhaustion led to them making simple mistakes we would never have made, so that each time they missed an easy shot our anger grew, and we were ever-more itching for battle. But we were ordered to stand aside, and it was well documented how veterans jumping in too early led to disaster.
We heard the slow, methodical melody of carapace scraping on steel, and at once our heads turned to see Aureus Miles, our [Master Gunner] ascend from below. He was massive, even for a Soldier Drone, with more gold than bone in his carapace armor and, if rumor is to be believed, more of both than muscles, organs, and dorsal combined. He was a veteran, even amongst us, with the gold to prove it.
Immediately, we all snapped to attention.
"Team FF-D!" the [Master Gunner] boomed just over the chaos that surrounded us all, his chittering calm, and collected, "The Flavo Arca's armor has been breached in Stygian Hallway. Quadrant 4." he explained, hitting a button that highlighted the ship's hallway in my automated navigations system, "Go there and report any disturbances."
I nodded, but Caeruleum clicked his mandibles in frustration. "It's probably just debris."
"Probably." Aureus agreed, "But if the color-mans made it onto this ship there's no one I trust to handle it more than you lot." He crackled [Grumbled].
"Besides," I added, "is the alternative of waiting around here for something to happen really any better?"
Caeruleum didn't say anything.
"Then we shall be back soon." I promised and then, a half-second later, "Sir."
He [visibly agrees through the use of body language], handing me a data-slate map of the ship as my [Chrome Soldiers] passed him.
I looked down at it, noting the particular storage room and hallway we were to investigate highlighted, as well as a oath to get to them.
"Guard this with your life." The [Master Gunner] whispered, "Do not let it fall into enemy hands.
---
Following the data-slate's' auto-directory, we were able to locate the breach. Or, at least, what had breached through.
It was one of the color-mans, one of their nobles, judging from the blue coloration of its skin. It was covered in ice, and an advanced suit of black armor which had evidently failed, as it was covered in needle-like holes all over, with a large indent of missing flesh in one side, just above his pelvis, and one of his arms had clearly been torn off.
[Note: The confusion about blue skin being a physical sign of nobility seems to another misunderstanding. See, it is common for lower-class serfs or people to refer to their world's leadership as 'blue bloods' in many worlds. Though it is a theory still pending Magos Biologis, and Magos Linguis review.]
[Note: Or perhaps not even the hated Xenos could miss my overwhelming nobility.
- Lord Sir Joaquin Abdul, The Black Knight Of The Eternal Wardens, Pride Of The Library]
[Note: I, Lord Sir Joaquin Abdul, The Black Knight Of The Eternal Wardens, and Pride Of The Library, most certainly did not, Chief Apothecary Brother Rikard!]
[Note: Both of you, stop doctoring the document! This document is being used as reference by generals and soldiers alike for the following invasions, and you are both embarrassing the Legion.]
[Note: Sowwy Brother. (~￣³￣)~]
It lay there, half propped up by a single arm which still desperately held what looked like a primitive melee weapon as gasped for for air, trying to get more carbon into its lungs, the single crimson eye visible through the hole in its [helmet] unfocused and uncertain as it tried to rally itself through its grievous wounds.
Underneath it, a half-black smudge of some spiky black sludge, and some pink liquid which seemed to ooze out from underneath its armor.
Behind it, a blast door to a maintenance closet turned workspace had sealed shut to block what I could see through the window was a hole which had seemingly exploded out of a small hole through our ship's [around three meters] thick armor.
What? I thought, my mind struggling to grasp how it could even get here, How? I clenched my thorax, Well it doesn't matter! If we have one of their nobles, we might be able to force them to stand down! Or at least get information out of it.
I approached the color-mans carefully, directing my squadron to get ready to fire, even as I pointed my own gun at it. "Stand down." I chittered, "You are being detained, and will be receiving immediate medical attention-"
The thing turned, its unfocused eye staring past me for a second, as its primitive weapon scraped across the ground.
And-and things happened so fast.
I vaguely remember my claw activating my firearm, but there was a flash of something metallic that shot past me and I began falling as suddenly the black blur shot past me. I-I think I heard Caeruleum scream, as something grabbed his femur, and suddenly he was flung into the ceiling so hard he burst into some sort of pink sludge. Like every cell in his body has burst at once.
And it slammed into Aureus so hard I heard his carapace crack, and the floor shriek as the black-thing's armor skid across it. I saw it slow, lifting itself up in an almost shambling motion as it grabbed it helmet with a now-empty hand and ripped it off, letting loose a mess of black, singed hair.
I slammed painfully on my [chin], probably chipping my carapace as my head fell on something soft, and my head rolled a bit to the side. It didn't matter, as the thing leaned down and began to shovel Aureus' still-screaming body into its mouth, shoving limbs, and mandibles, and shards of carapace into the back of its mouth so fast I could hear the crunch of bones, like they were under a hydraulic press. And-and I thought I saw Aureus unwind like a ball of yarn as bone, and organ, and flesh unfurled into tendrils of meat which flew unnaturally into the thing's mouth.
I tried to fire, lift my gun, aim, and pull the trigger. A practiced, instinctual thing to me at this point.
But nothing happened. And as Aureus' screams continued I realized my vision began to fill with spots. Tell-tale signs of decreased haemolymph [blood], and-and that my arm wasn't moving. In fact, I-I couldn't push myself up, or-or move my head from this stilted angle.
I tried to push again before it dawned on me. Why this monster didn't mind having its back exposed to me as it crouched down and ate my friend. Why I couldn't feel anything below my neck, why I couldn't move anything, why my vision was turning dark. My head. Clouding.
Did…did he cut off my head?
It was. The only thing I could think of. The only thing..that would explain what was happening to me.
My vision continued to..darken. Darker. Darker.
The helmet of…of this color-mans. It rolled next next to me. And I saw. I saw where my gun. Had aimed true. Had hit…hit this thing right in the eye.
And had barely cracked the lens.
Wow. Was this what it's like to die?
I dont'. I don't want to die.
I felt powerless. Scared. I wanted to save Aureus, but I didn't have a body to shoot this thing. Even if I did…how durable was it? The. normal color-mans were weaker than us. Physically.
Were the nobles that..much stronger?
Would my gun..even damage it? If it could barely crack a...lens?
I remembered somewhere that..someone once conducted a study. That said that a [Chrome] could live fore….two minutes without its head. But that…that brain damage would start after twenty seconds. That…exhaustion would hit after ten.
I..I couldn't save my friend.
I had to listen to him as his screams died. But he didn't stop screaming. Like this monster wanted him..to keep going. Like it….like it wanted to save his brain for last. Monster.
When it stood..Aureus was gone. Not dead. No, no, his body..was gone. Consumed. Shards of carapace. Haemolymph and all…All by this thing.
This color-mans.
It was fruitless…but I tried to shoot it anyway. Tried to hit it. To..to imagine hitting it. But I was powerless.
As it stood, the thing was restored. And I-I saw the pink slurry that had..had once…I saw a bunch of pink. Slide into the color-mans leg. It turned..around. And I saw it. Its horrible, beautiful face no longer blue. Monstrous, but undeniably noble. Handsome. With a stolen visage like a….a statue, perfectly carved from stone...like an ancient mosaic..like the ones back on my..homeworld. Of ancient Aeldari heroes. Of allies long passed.
[Note: There have been several instances to support that the Chromes may have some sort of one-sided connection, or appreciation of the Eldar. Why this is is still up for debate. But the general theory is that the Chromes either sided with the Eldar in some sort of ancient war. Or were forced out of realspace by ancient Eldar some time ago.]
Of better days.
The Color-mans…walked towards me..and with an unarmored….arm I think it didn't..it didn't have before. Slowly, it raised…me…what was left.
It raised me above its….top part. Spokee in its….color-mans tongue.
And then bit into my skull, and everything stopped.
[End of Lord Sir Joaquin Abdul's writings on the Xenos.]
---Abdul's Perspective---
"Alas, poor Yarrick, I knew thee not." I, Lord Sir Joaquin Abdul the Black Knight Of The Eternal Wardens, and Pride Of The Library proclaimed humorously.
I chuckled, the joke doing particularly well at relieving stress after all the pain I had felt just to get onto the ship. Though, the enjoyment of my own humor still felt wrong so soon after the Maelstrom Crusade.
Ignoring my own mixed feelings, I bit into the Chrome, activating my Omnophagea and reviewing its memories. Ignoring the pain and panic of my still-living meal, I contrasted its memory with my divinations, and did my best to parse out what to do now. I had wanted to hit just behind the Captain's command station, and while I hadn't managed that I was only a few short floors underneath it. It would be child's play to use my power sword to cut through the ceilings and get to it.
But, I furrowed my brow in confusion, as my divinations sensed that, for whatever reason, if I did that the damage I'd do would never be repaired.
Odd. Especially as this was a large battleship outfitted with tens of thousands of Volkite guns the Imperium would no-doubt wish to either break down, or properly reclaim as soon as possible.
I looked up, not seeing anything odd with the ship, but assuming I'd cut through some sort of main powerline by accident? Perhaps the wiring that ran from the captain's room to the engines, which would lead to it being unable to move, and thus remove my ability to drive it away leading to its complete destruction?
Well then, it was a trek through the maze of hallways and tunnels in order to get this battleship both into Imperial hands, and running as soon as possible afterwards.
It was good, then, that those three Chromes had let me reconstitute most of my body's mass, forcibly turning their flesh, Lifeforce, and bone into my own. I was heavy, mind you, my Astartes body more dense than theirs, but it had let me regrow my arm, and heal all of my vital organs.
I bite the third Chrome's head again, tasting its slurred, damaged thoughts, and consider that I'd quite like to not have to do that again. But memories were always more clear when the creature was alive, and I needed to sort through its memories as efficiently as possible.
Speaking of:
I turn to the dataslate my meal had been holding, cracked from where it had fallen to the ground, but still running a complete map of the ship, including such lovely details as how many Chromes were running through an area each minute, fastest routes to anywhere in the ship, and where the storage rooms were.
I smirk, making sure my eididic memory made a good mental copy of the map, before throwing it away and turning to the pathetic pea shooter this lot had tried to shoot me with.
Now, Xenotech was never easy to understand. The Xenos mind an abominable thing at the best of times, far, far removed from the proper imperial standard. It was only natural, then, that the product of their minds would be as malformed and alien as they were.
But this wasn't the Volkite I had been warned about. But rather, some pre-autogun design, simplistic, and easy to understand even without reading a Xenos' memory.
But there was something I was sure the Mechanicum would both love and hate in equal measure to get their grubby little mechadendrites on. A Warp Drive-like engine that could pierce through to an alternate reality. Entire textbooks dedicated to sub-planar travel, creation, and understanding these Xenos apparently taught to even their soldiers. Xenotech I was sure the Mechanicum would idolize, and despise to their very core.
I bit again, and couldn't help but comparing the Xenos' head to an apple as I made my way down the shortest path to the ship's command room Luckily, for me at least, the ship had been designed with a siege in mind, looping movement through firing bays, and other defensive battlements in order to stall, or completely wipe out possible intruders during a battle. Which meant I had plenty of entertainment on my rather boring walk.
And, of course, plenty of opportunity to disable the ship without causing permanent damage, lest the captain do something drastic when I corner him.
I just needed to get their attention.
---Chrome Soldier's Perspective---
The alarm had sounded far, far too late.
Whatever it was was already inside the Last Hope.
Whatever it was, it wiped out an entire Firing Bay, and the rapid-fire Volkite Lance they were tasked with protecting.
We were mobilized fast, but even I saw glimpses of the recordings and I wish I hadn't. This beautiful, terrifying thing in black. A monster which had caught the Firing Bay off guard, and slaughtered them all with in-[Chrome]-ian speed. Had taken a Volkite round straight to the chest and-and walked it off!
"Line up!" commander Brunneis Nasum, veteran of the long-Ork War shouted, "I don't know what it is that got into my ship!" he growled, "But it ends here!"
I'm pretty sure when high commanded paused its mouth had elongated, its head wrapped around a Soldier Done's, ready to gulp it down in one revolting crunch.
"You got that!" Commander Brunneis Nasum shouted again.
"Sir yes sir!" we shouted back, though I didn't really feel it. I felt queasy, and I'm sure the others felt it too.
We were all terrified. Packed in this hallway like rats, and nobody knew how this intruder had gotten into the Last Hope, nobody knew what it even was! Just that it wasn't one of the Color-mans because they didn't heal like that!
I felt the antennae of my lieutenant scrape against mine reassuringly. "Trust in the gun." he chittered, gesturing down to the Revolving Capacitor Volkite Cannon between my mandibles, "Aim it as best you can, and let the Volkite Cannon do all the work."
"Thirty seconds!" a [Voxcaster] from behind us shouted, "Get ready!"
A squad in the front activated the insta-shields, large ceramite walls [eighteen point two eight-eight centimeters] thick, and [one hundred and fifty two point seven centimeters] high, and put their Volkite on top of it a [meter or so] away from the door. Behind them, four more squads did their best to see the door, and keep their guns aimed through the packed mass of allied bodies.
Another, more fortunate group launched grapples to the ceiling, and had been tied to the top to avoid the monster's melee weapon.
"Will it work?" I chittered to my lieutenant, unsure despite myself.
The lieutenant clicked back in mild amusement,"It always has before."
Looking back, to where the veteran soldiers had co-opted a resting area overlooking the hallway into a line of four shielded Volkite turrets, with a dozen or so plasma rifles scattered between them, I didn't feel reassured.
The lieutenant must have noticed, "Look, it can burrow through ten feet of Ceramite in a single shot, it's better on living targets, and it shoots seven thousand rounds a minute." he chittered, "You know that."
There was a loud, but muted BOOM on the other side of the door, like someone had covered a grenade.
"Five seconds!"
"Then why is it being authorized inside the ship?" I asked-No, demanded. Knowing the high command was hiding something from me. What monster-what single body- could require this much firepower?
"When this door opens, I wanna see it filled with fire!" Commander Brunneis Nasum commanded.
At once, sick, nervous, on-edge, or one of the few lucky enough to trust their gun, we aimed down our sights and squeezed the trigger till it was just a [No Gothic equivalent] from firing.
Silence.
A strange, anxious stillness fell upon the room, so that all we could hear was the haemolymph in our tarsi.
[Note: The Tarsi function as the Chrome's version of ears, and is located inside their legs.]
Then, a small pop, from the bottom of the blast door designed to hold back the vacuum of space itself, and slowly, haemolymph began to pool at the bottom of the door.
What?
Like a living thing-like the waves of an ocean- it drew itself back, then forth, drawing itself across the floor before turning and raising into the air. Like a mandible, or the tendrils of some ocean horror long forgotten from the conscious mind it lifted, feeling blindly as it made its way up the door.
I didn't understand. I couldn't understand.
Was this the intruder? Some liquid haemolymph thing?
It was moving. Did that mean it was a target?
I looked to Commander Brunneis Nasum, but through the crowd of bodies I couldn't see him.
Where was my order to shoot? Commander! Commander tell me to shoot!
Blindly, the thing trailed up the door, rubbing against it but not leaving one drop behind until, finally, I saw it press against the "open" button and shocked I saw it fall limply like haemolymph is supposed to, splatting uselessly against the ground and trash can as the door began to rise.
As it did, more haemolymph began to pour into the room. Like [many gallons or gallons and gallons] of paint, viscous and slow, but what must have been [thousands of gallons] that spread across the floor like a tidal wave. What remained of our fallen brethren, now not but a sticky mess between our feet.
And behind it all? The intruder.
Clad in thick ceramite plate, bulky, though the monster showed no sign of being hindrance, and painted as dark as the void between the stars this monster stood. Throughout the black expanse of its plate, tiny, needle-like holes pierced through like stars amidst normal-space's vast night sky, revealing the pale not-carapace underneath.
As the door lifted, higher and higher, it revealed a large black hole in the plate over the monster's [upper lumbar specifically, though the Chrome just thought 'stomach'] which stretched nearly to be monster's center, and up [to the chest]. A hole cleft clean through the armor which revealed a white canvas of pristine, toned flesh.
Even higher, and I could see the hole where a Volkite round had met this beast clean in his center [around the diaphragm, where my ribs meet]. I could see where the round had melted through the armor, leaving a hole straight through, and the cooled remains where the melted ceramite had dripped down the armor.
Even higher, and I could see a full mandible [arm] uncovered where something kinetic had clearly ripped through the the armor, cracking the ceramite plate like bone, and leaving only jagged edges that clung to the monster's [chest]. In its un-armored mandible [arm], it held what was clearly the jagged remains of a Chrome soldier's head. Jagged, you see, because there were clear bite marks where this monster's internal-pincers had cleanly bitten through bone and brain alike.
Just as strange, in its other mandible [arm] it held a white curtain, leaving its primitive melee weapon dangling by its side.
Finally, the door lifted enough to to see the monster's stolen visage. It had a thick mane of black hair, and charcoal black eyes that pierced through my very soul. An aloof expression upon its noble features, so finely crafted that it seemed to glow with an almost palpable radiance. Like the moon reflecting the light of the sun.
[Note: Abdul, this is supposed to be an official report. Not an opportunity to rant about how much you appreciate your own features.]
As the door lifted, higher and higher, it revealed a large black hole in the plate over the monster's [upper lumbar specifically, though the Chrome just thought 'stomach'] which stretched nearly to be monster's center, and up [to the chest]. A hole cleft clean through the armor which revealed a white canvas of pristine, toned flesh.
Even higher, and I could see the hole where a Volkite round had met this beast clean in his center [around the diaphragm, where my ribs meet]. I could see where the round had melted through the armor, leaving a hole straight through, and the cooled remains where the melted ceramite had dripped down the armor.
Even higher, and I could see a full mandible [arm] uncovered where something kinetic had clearly ripped through the the armor, cracking the ceramite plate like bone, and leaving only jagged edges that clung to the monster's [chest]. In its un-armored mandible [arm], it held what was clearly the jagged remains of a Chrome soldier's head. Jagged, you see, because there were clear bite marks where this monster's internal-pincers had cleanly bitten through bone and brain alike.
Just as strange, in its other mandible [arm] it held a white curtain, leaving its primitive melee weapon dangling by its side.
Finally, the door lifted enough to to see the monster's stolen visage. It had a thick mane of black hair, and charcoal black eyes that pierced through my very soul. An aloof expression upon its noble features, so finely crafted that it seemed to glow with an almost palpable radiance. Like the moon reflecting the light of the sun.
[Note: Abdul, this is supposed to be an official report. Not an opportunity to rant about how much you appreciate your own features.]
Despite ourselves, we were paralyzed. Even as this monster lifted its head, and with impossibly dainty fingers shoved what remained of some poor soldier's head down his gullet.
We were silent, still, when it lifted the white curtain to its mouth, gently patting the haemolymph from its mouth, before throwing the now stained curtain into the trash beside the door.
And suddenly the spell was broken.
A hundred shots fly out, but the monster jumps that none of them are able to hit. We tried to follow it, but between the crowd of bodies, and its strange movements through the air, an in-[Chrome]-ian agility that dodged mere [multiple sets of around 2-centimeters] between blasts, none of us were able to hit it either.
Its foot touched a wall, its erratic flight stopped for a fraction of a second before the thing crashed into the front lines like a falling star.
It disappeared from my view, and I was forced to stop firing, but I could still see the destruction left in the monster's wake. Hear the the pained cry of the front lines before it, and their lives, were cut short, and the panicked screams of those who saw how that happened.
I saw three Soldier Drones, their bodies cut clean in half by what seemed to be the same strike fly up, catching stray Volkite, and one of the thick ceramite walls the front lines had placed to protect themselves was thrown through the crowd behind them, gouging through drone after drone with its in-[Chrome]-an force.
But we didn't have time to process that, as the monster continued to move. It wadded through our front lines, it's primitive melee weapon slicing through gun and carapace with impossible speed as the monster marched ever forward.
Our left flank, if such a term even applies to hallways, fell beneath the monster's blows. But as we died, as we fell, so too did the monster lose its cover.
Seeing a hint of black I jumped to take aim, but one of the Soldier Drones on the ceiling beat me to it, firing a blow from straight above the monster that should have hit. It should have!
But somehow the thing became even faster, warping its body and speeding through an impossibly thin gap between Soldier Drones to reposition. A hundred shots rung out after it, but it was so fast, and we were so packed in that most of the shots hit our own, exploding or disintegrating them before they even knew they had been shot in the back by their own.
I-I screamed, I think.
But the monster continued, its hand slamming into the head of Soldier Drone, and-and ripping out its soul which folded in on itself as it was sucked into the monster's hand.
[Note: That was not the consumption of the soul, but rather a skilled use of Life Leech, which may visually take the form of an apparition to the uninitiated.]
As it did, I heard someone behind me shout "It's alive!"
The monster jumped up, bouncing off the ceiling and once more out of view, and as it did so, once more I caught its charcoal eyes which stared straight through my soul. It…it seemed to last an eternity. And instantly, I knew this thing knew me. Had seen me. As though it remembered me.
As it landed, once more out of my view, I turned back to the one who was shouting before only to find the back line desperately scrambling up walls or trying to force their way past the blast door-which had been shut behind us.
"The haemolymph's al-"[alive] one unfortunate soul screamed before the haemolymph bound itself around three of his tarsi and disassembled him from the bottom up.
I screamed louder, pivoting my turret to the right so I could try to turn it around, before noticing it only went about forty five degrees.
Just as well, for by the time I had managed to notice, drawing my eyes back to the barrel of my gun in hopes that it could blast its way through the blast doors and let me run the monster had already managed to tear through the right flank sadly all too literally.
Haemolymph flew everywhere, and-and in my desperation I shot through the poor saps that were left. Too horrified to think-just hoping that a spray shot would hit this monster and stop this mess.
The monster noticed, ignoring the last two that remained in front as I shot several rounds through where its chest was a moment prior. It-it looked at the Soldier Drones burning from my assault and charged my cannon.
Frantic, I pulled the trigger as hard as I could, though that didn't actually change how fast the gun fired, and let out one final burst of screaming-expecting to die.
Only for a Volkite round to catch the monster's head as it tried to weave between my shots.
And there was silence.
The haemolymph stopped, splattering to the ground mid-disassembly, as the monster's body slid forward, and reeled back from the sheer force of the Volkite.
And there was silence.
"I…" I heard someone chitter nervously, hopefully, "Is it over?"
I exhaled, though I don't remember when I stopped screaming, nor when I took a breath.
Before the headless monster whipped its primitive melee weapon through my body and everything erupted in pain.
As it did, its free hand shot what looked like a bolt of electricity into the lights above, which shattered and plunged the hallway into complete darkness, save for the light of our plasma and volkite.
"That's not fair!" I screamed, or perhaps someone else did, as a passing bolt of red volkite splashed into the monster's sword, and illuminating the gaping, wet veil of regenerating muscle and teeth which had sprouted where this creature's head had been just in time for it wrap around my head and pull,
I screamed again, before a passing bolt of red Volkite illuminated the gaping hole of the monster's head, stretched impossibly wide, and the regenerated veil of wet muscle and bone which wrapped around my head and pulling until it came lose.
And as the acid burned through my eyes and carapace with impossible speeds, I fell into the belly of the beast.
'That's not fair!' I had to scream, even though my mouth had already been melted away, 'I killed you!'
And then everything stopped.
--- Chrome Lord General Equivilent's Perspective ---
In the darkness between the stars we waged a desperate war for survival. Our full naval might displayed against the overwhelming firepower of the unknown human empire. Our ships, our guns, our warriors, non-military support and passengers out-numbering them two to one! Yet we were losing.
One by one, our ships were shot down by the color-mans. Though with our vast advantage in numbers we surrounded them, attacking them from all sides one by one: Still they picked our ships apart.
We were dying.
I was fighting an as of yet unknown master of void warfare. Charging, retreating, shooting, reloading, redirecting, all with precision so perfect it made me worried that we were facing some form of AI.
And as if that was not enough something had snuck into the Last Hope.
On the third main firing bay, I saw a tidal wave of chrome and red flesh and bone burst through the Ceramite doors three feet thick. The waiting crew, alerted to this inevitablity nearly three minutes ago, had formed a firing line [one half of a kilometer] wide, and began shooting into the malformed mass.
It didn't matter.
While every shot pierced through [multiple sets of 3.62 meters], burning, mulching, and exploding the walls of flesh the burrowed through the door…it just wasn't enough. It just kept coming. Flowing like water across the floor, or throwing large globs of itself which subsumed anyone they touched, or forming large amorphous appendages which flailed blindly as the monstrous flesh pulled itself towards the troop.
But it wasn't enough.
Though a thousand shots ripped countless holes through the flesh, though Volkite burned rivets of char into the thing it washed across the front line, drowning them within the tide of flesh and absorbing them into its mass.
The back lines continued to fire, though the Revolving Capacitor Volkite Lance's firing team, stuck defending our vulnerable Starboard could not turn to fight the flesh.
One Soldier Drone threw a grenade, which the flesh seemed to instantly rush to, encapsulating it within its flesh and throwing that section into the air before it exploded…preventing any damage to the ship.
I blinked as I noticed that, and realized with dawning horror that the flesh seemed to rush into each and every shot, cover each explosion, lay thick, tendrils of armored carapace over the turrets and defenses it ran across. As I noticed that it took over one of the Volkite Lance's defensive turrets, and began to fire upon my own ship. As I noticed that it was capturing the territory it fought through.
I felt sick, realizing that if could not stop it here it would turn our Last Hope against us and wipe the [Chrome] out with the weapons we bought to defend ourselves.
The commander didn't realize this in time, barking orders even as he sealed the dozens of exits, trapping his soldiers within the room and, hopefully, buying all some time.
The flesh, in response, formed a large, primitive spear of sharped carapace, like the claw of a more understandable beast, a threw it.
The commander dropped, but it didn't matter. The spear bit into the top of his thorax, and I watched it transform, growing countless serrated edges that began to spin, faster and faster, like a saw.
I turned away, and saw on a second monitor a group of scattered worker, soldier, and mating drones, desperately huddled together in one of the lower docks, makeshift weapons and proper autocannons scattered between them as they shot strange Drones, malformed by the intruder's touch, which waddled and screamed as they ran to the encampment with insatiable bloodlust.
I watched as one of the Mating Drones, that lucky bastard, took what looked to be a spare pipe and nailed it through one of their skulls. He looked reassured for a second, stopping to smile at one of the Worker Drones before she screamed and fired three shots through one of his clear wings.
The Mating Drone screamed, but a second of the malformed Drone fell.
In the engine room, I saw as the frantic Worker Drones did their best to fasten weapons, and set the ship up on automated controls at the same time.
But there just wasn't enough time, and thousands of gallons of haemolymph pushed through the blast door's burrowed through the blast door's sealing, forcing its way into the engine room. Instantly, though with shaking hands the Worker Drones shot it. But what were bullets to haemolymph?
It shot moved forward, though blindly, and I watched as the Worker Drones, never trained for active combat, gave more and more ground. Letting the haemolymph open the door and flood inside as they back towards the engines. Desperate, I saw them look around for anything that could help.
One pushed the head engineer into the blood, which slid between his carapace and unmade him. Another screamed, falling and wept until the blood washed over her and she was gone.
Yet another I saw gleam with an idea, and I saw him grab the Worker Drone that had pushed their boss to his death, running right next to one of the engines, and, as the blood surged towards them, he shot a bullet into one of the plasma pistons, which vented burning plasma tens of thousands of degrees hot over the blood.
Quickly, the other Worker Drone got the idea, and shot several more rounds into the same piston near the bottom, until the venting plasma formed a wall between them and the red.
But the haemolymph charged through anyway, heedless of the heat which would have boiled them alive regardless, and though they screamed as a thousand gallons rushed through the heat and, still-boiling, shoved itself down their throats there was nothing they could do.
I turned away as [multiple sets of 120.652 liters] of haemolymph forced its way down the throat of the Worker Drone who'd killed a [Chrome] not [around ten seconds] earlier, feeling sorry for him as the mounting pressure became too much and he burst covering both the camera, and the remaining Worker Drone with a gore and haemolymph.
I clattered my mandibles together, knowing I didn't have much time. Knowing that the [Chromes] couldn't afford to lose the Last Hope, couldn't afford to lose this fight. But it was a fight I was losing on two fronts, and, confronting the fact that I could not win both, I wondered what to do.
But as I did, looking out into the vast expanse between the stars, in hopes of finding answers in the darkness, wondering if I should just start the self destruct sequence, and end this terror with us screams erupted outside of the command room.
I clacked my mandibles one last time. Drawing my autogun I turned around and addressed the other members of high command.
"Everyone." I clicked and chittered, "You have served the Queen well."
They looked terrified, but rallied themselves at the speech they knew I had to make short, and slowly they drew their own weapons.
"You have served the Queen well!" they shouted back.
[Note: This appears to be their version of "It has been an honor."]
[Note: Despite that, it is currently unknown whether the Chromes have any sort of Queen Drone, or even centralized leadership. One theory is that the Orks from their home dimension killed every member of their higher governance. But as of this moment, nothing can be confirmed.]
It only took a second, one moment silence, and the next the strange monster tackled the door so hard that, while the door itself did not cave, the Ceramite wall around it did, disconnecting and flying several feet forward as the monster regained his footing.
At once, all of us turned our guns towards the monster, observing it as it observed us.
But I didn't have long to take in its terrifying visage. Neither how it had brought the overpowering smell of ozone with it, or where I could see dark steel cover where Volkite, autogun, and plasma had chipped, melted, shattered, or broken the ceramite plates that covered most of its body.
At once, we the command staff: The final gate resistance of the Last Hope shot our autoguns at the monstrosity, just as it clicked some button on its sword, and the primitive melee weapon began to hum, emitting a strange energy field as it did so.
It moved so fast, slashing, I think, and then suddenly Senior Chief [No Gothic Translation] had two autogun rounds buried in her thorax. A small burst of light, reflecting for but a moment and the [Master of Inter-ship Communications. Which seems to be a sub-dimension based version of an Astropath.] and [Administration Organizer] were cut in half.
I managed another shot, but the monster moved faster than my hands could, vaulting to the left and cutting down the Communications Officers and gunnery [Auspex Operators]. I fired again, but it was so fast, diving behind a [cogitator], jumping up, its mouth distending, stretching three times larger than its head was just a second prior to swallow [Sergeant At Arms]'s head.
It slid to the right, slicing through more officers, and then jumped, twisting erratically through coverfire before slamming down and pushing through the final officer, the [Lieutenant Commander], and pulled out a strange, transparent ghost of the Soldier Drone, which it sucked into its unarmored hand.
And suddenly, only I was left.
It stopped, turning to me slowly, lightning pouring from its eyes.
I shot it again, my bullet finally hitting, only to ricochet off its head, jerking its head back, before flying off into the wall.
Rage and fear built inside of me, watching as [friends, but also fellow worker] I'd known for [about twelve years] were slaughtered in front of me. "What are you!" I demanded, fear, desperation, and anger building in my voice, "Who are you?" I demanded again, pointing my autogun towards thing thing, though I knew it could not harm it. Though I knew my mandibles were shaking so bad I wouldn't even hit.
But the monster stopped, its strange, in-[Chrome]-ian face shifting in a far more natural way than it had before, as if it was considering my question. As if it had only now been asked.
Slowly, it looked at me, its piercing charcoal eyes softening, and the eldritch lightning they shot extinguishing as it opened its mouth.
Which immediately began to cave in on itself, separating into nine pieces as two large mandibles burst out of its [cheeks], and the rest of its flesh pulled or sunk back into its mouth, the bottom forming the lower gullet of a [Chrome], and the middle sinking, sinking into its threat which began to elongate, and visibly writhe like wiggling worms underneath its skin.
"Ahh," the monster chittered in the voice of my [Administration Organizer], "I picked up your language at some point."
"[Curse word]. [Curse word]. [Curse word]." I chittered, as my body instinctively released pheromones to cry for help, and sunk back, as far away from the creature as it could.
The monster laughed. "Apologies, Lord General. You do, at least, deserve to know what slays you. I am ᖲ⑥⑨ஞ ⛝ⓞ⑨ ➦၉ஞ❶③📄 ☜③ঞの② 👇⑤ⓞ⋞⋟⓿ ✗≼ ☒⋟≽ ☛⓿≽⑨⑤ঞ③ ⊘ঞ⑨ஞ≽⑤⑩." it spoke, as if that nonsense meant anything.
I paused, confusing outweighing fear for a moment before I gathered myself again, "What?" I demand, "What are you! Are you AI"
"No." the monster clicked back in clear displeasure at the accusation, "I am ⋟❶④ঞ⑤." the monster explained, "Or as you have taken to calling us: One of the Color-mans."
"No you're not! The Color-mans can't do…" I gestured around.
"Ahh. Forgive me, Lord General. I am of a….substrain of the Color-mans. A different type of Drone, if you will."
Fear clouded my voice, "Why have you not killed me yet?"
The monster stopped, and then shifted a little bit in a gesture I did not recognize. "Well," he started, "your people have a right to know what you are up against." the monster explained, "And you have a right to know what will kill you."
I felt a cold chill, like a knife at the back of my neck, or a crushing weight from above at that. That, even while it was talking to me, the Color-mans had already decided to kill me.
"Why me?" I asked, "Why not tell the others?"
"Forgive me." the Color-mans pled back, "But I had not realized I understood your language until now."
"How is that possible!" I yelled, shoving my gun forward with all the reckless abandon of a [Chrome] who knew he was going to die anyway.
"I can taste the memories of those I eat." the Color-mans admitted, its voice soft, and eerie, "Learn what they knew."
I blanched, not wanting to even imagine the horrors that would mean, "Then you should know why I'm here!" I accused, "That the Orks invaded our dimension! Drove us out! They-they're preparing Attack Moons to wash this galaxy away in a tide of green as we speak!"
The monster-I mean, the Color mans shook its head up and down, like it had some sort of brain injury, "I know."
"Then why are we fighting!" I shouted back, "Call off this attack!"
The color Mans moved his head side to side, as if he had some sort of brain issue, "I cannot do that." he chittered, "And even if my [Lord General, though in this case it was used to reference First Captain Oricarious] would listen to me, even were he to call off the attack, it has been going on for too long now. By the time everyone got the orders, and disengaged, the confusion of battle, sudden betrayals, and retreating without cover fire would claim more lives than if it were to run to its natural conclusion."
"Is… Is there really no hope?" My gun dropped from my mandibles, as slowly the realization sunk in that I led my men to their deaths. That the Color Mans would claim our Last Hope, destroy our ships, and move on no less than they were before we fought them. Such was the skill of their naval commander, and such was the monster that stood in front of me.
The monster shook its head head side to side again, "If you want, I can at least make sure my superiors hear your plight. Perhaps….give them your last words, if you order your men to stand aside."
I looked at the monster, staring into its charcoal gray eyes that reflected all the compassion of another, "And that would spare them?" I asked.
"No." the monster freely admitted, "But it might spare your people."
I turned back, looking at the [Voxcaster] that linked all the [Chrome] ships together. I thought about it, briefly, but I knew what would happen if we stood aside now. These genocidal maniacs would slaughter my species as surely as the orks would.
So I fought on in the only way I could right now.
Turning to the [Voxcaster], prepared to scream for my men to fight to the last. To bolster their spirits in the few words this monster would allow me. I grabbed the [Voxcaster], sneaking my hands near the button that would start the self destruct sequence, and-
Pain erupted in my neck, and I felt myself flying through the air, the world blurring all around me as I spun and, just as suddenly as it started, found myself yanked to stability staring down the dark hole to this monster's stomach as its teeth grated against my carapace, carving deep rivets into the bone plating.
And just as I realized that, the teeth chomped down.
And everything stopped.
~~Lord Sir Joaquin Abdul, The Black Knight Of The Eternal Warden's Perspective
"A shame." I, Lord Sir Joaquin Abdul The Black Knight Of The Eternal Wardens, and Pride Of The Library, sighed, my mouth reformed to its normal shape, and feeling odd and slightly numb as flesh knitted back to where it was supposed to be. Which, I suppose, was better than the immense pain that characterized so much of my early Biomancy, if not by much.
Thus saying, I turned to the ship's controls, the memories of Lord General, and my Warden training, telling me what each button did.
Idly, I rechecked which pockets of the ship still held resistance, and, realizing I could, vented the air of those sections into outer space. The effects were immediate, instantly quelling much of the ship's resistance as their breath was literally stolen to them, and in many cases they were pulled out into the vacuum.
With much of the flesh and blood I had captured from these Chromes freed from battle, I moved them to what systems I thought I might need to move, and pick up the Voxcaster.
For a moment, I toyed with the idea of reshaping my mouth again, figuring I could copy the Chrome's Lord General's voice and give out false orders for a bit before they caught on. But, knowing my Legion, considered that they would almost certainly have me tested for Blue Corruption if I did that, and instead changed the Voxcaster's channel from the Chrome's encrypted channels to my Legion's.
"Lord First Captain Oricarious," I hailed, "this is Lord Sir Joaqu-"
"ABDUL WHY ARE YOU IN THE ENEMY FLAGSHIP!" Lord First Captain Oricarious demanded.
I sighed, changing a half-dozen systems with precision neither Chromes nor humans could ever manage without Psykic might and began to sail the Chrome's flagship out of the battle, resigned to a stern talking to.
[Note: Abdul, you're not being cute by including your complaints in official reports.]
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Grandmaster of the Otherworld
Nicholas Brooks
Redeemer and Destroyer
- Location
- United States
Grandmaster of the Otherworld
The Waning Heart was silent. Her Legion Serfs spoke in hushed tones, her engines' roaring quieted to a barely perceptible hum, and every cogitator terminal in her halls had their auditory response functions disabled. An errant footstep would be as distinct as a boltgun being fired in the center of a feudal village in the midst of night. None dared break this atmosphere of inaudibility. None... save for one.
"Tag!" The scream echoed throughout the halls with all the deafening force of a plasma missile. Alongside this noise came a sight: a Space Marine in black armor falling from the ceiling of the void armsmen mess hall, limp. If the shout was a plasma missile, the reverberating clang of the Astartes' metal-clad body upon the floor was a cyclonic torpedo. Seconds passed, then minutes. Then, finally, after nearly quarter hour, a shadow from the corner of the room, near where the cooking facilities would lead into the cafeteria proper, moved. It was another Space Marine in a slightly different but similarly colored suit of armor, approaching the motionless transhuman.
"Come on now, Lero," whispered the upright Space Marine, whose pauldron could now be seen bearing a stylized silver bird on a black background. "Don't hold up the-" suddenly, the Astartes on the floor leapt up and pushed the speaking one back, nearly five full feet.
"Tag," spoke the now-upright Astartes, his armor bedecked in the names of the honored dead.
"...You will pay for that," growled the bird-bearing Astartes as he began to walk back towards his cousin, clenching his fists.
"Perhaps," responded Lero, hands now resting on his hips. "But as one who has known only defeat thus far, to taste victory just once is well worth the price."
"We shall see if you feel the same way after this is done," muttered the irate Space Marine, leaning in so close to his cousin's face that the fronts of their helmets almost touched. "You're just fortunate that I actually care about the rules, unlike you."
"If you can point me to where in the rules it says that one is not permitted to remain motionless in their spot until someone else approaches," Lero crowed. "I will personally take care of all your record-keeping for the next week." He knew that such a rule did not exist. He read through them every night before retiring to bed for nearly two standard Terran months now, all in preparation for this moment. After nearly a dozen of these exercises, the Pathfinder had not once managed to tag a son of Corvus Corax until that very moment. In fact, none of his brothers had managed it save for one other. Where the Raven Guard was right, however, was that the rules protected Lero in this moment. After all, it was forbidden for the current seeker to tag the seeker immediately before him.
"Tch," scoffed the Raven. "Fine. I'll just have to make sure that it is added after this round then." And with those words, he turned around and walked away before leaping upwards towards a ventilation entryway, his body becoming indistinct and then imperceptible within a fraction of a second.
"Always the uptight one, Mymus," muttered the Eternal Warden. "If I tagged Scinius he wouldn't have been so bothered. Might've even laughed..."
"I concur," said a voice from nowhere, making Lero leap to the main exit by reflex. It was him. The one other. And that always spelled trouble. A subtle, almost imperceptible feeling of Empyreal displacement confirmed to Lero that he had just narrowly managed to avoid being touched. Rolling out of the mess hall, he rapidly recovered and began to sprint as though there was a Shining Spear Exarch pursuing him. Hallway after hallway blurred by in an instant, and he more and more felt ethereal hands reaching towards him around corners, through walls, under the floor, and even directly in front of him, forcing him to leap up in order to dodge, refusing to abandon his momentum. In mere seconds, he crossed a distance equal to the length of a typical Olympian athletics amphitheater, and a maintenance door was just in sight.
Turning in an instant, Lero leapt flew through the door and scurried around from pathway to pathway as though by random, though random was the exact opposite of what these motions were. More turns, ascents up stairs, and descents down hatches came to an end with Lero suddenly sliding into a vacant medical storage crate, left there as a small favor by Brother-Apothecary Bormus before this game began, and becoming utterly still and silent. The ethereal sensation returned, intensified, and finally... dissipated. Lero was safe. Now he simply had to remain so for the next three hours. It seemed a simple task, but Lero knew that his current hiding spot would only last so long as no one else would bump into him, revealing the odd weight within. That was a risk he was unwilling to take, swiftly and silently, he climbed out of the maintenance tunnels and into one of the ship's redundant ventilation hubs, intending to make his way towards security room 19, where he had prepared another hiding spot, this time directly inside one of the walls, quietly hollowed out for him by Brother-Techmarine Lochtaine only a few days prior. His every move was nearly completely silent, and it seemed as though salvation was at hand. But...
KER-CLANG!
At just the wrong time, Lero placed just a hair too much of his weight upon the shaft section he had just moved towards, causing it to break beneath him, sending him tumbling towards the lowermost level of the Waning Heart's starboard macrocannon batteries at the ship's stern. His mind raced at speeds far exceeding his rate of falling. Where he could go, how to reach it, how to distract the seeker from following him to each given viable location, and more were considered, discarded, and focused upon before even falling halfway down. Now the thoughts running through his mind were on how to land and what response would place him in the least danger. Ultimately, however, all these well-laid plans proved to be in vain, for he would not land at all.
As suddenly as Lero began to fall, he stopped. His right foot was caught in something, and it had stopped his descent in an instant. A loose wire or cable perhaps? Such thoughts were dashed when the "cable" began to speak.
"I am impressed, brother," began the voice, and at the first syllable, Lero went limp. He knew he was through now. He only barely mustered up the courage to stare at the man that was keeping him from falling to the floor below. "It was something of a struggle to reach you, even with my powers." And what a power it was. To abandon this plane of existence and the next in succession as quickly and easily as a man might blink. Lero found himself fighting hard to not dismiss those words as empty complements, even as he internally groaned and had to resist the urge to sulk at the thought that his brother was toying with him the whole time.
"Just put me down," mumbled the Pathfinder. Without a word, Durante obliged and released his grip, allowing Lero to fall into a soft roll. Durante would do this often: tag himself off of another Astartes and enjoy chasing after his far less talented brothers and cousins for some time before once more allowing the exercise to naturally progress. He did this because none had ever been able to tag him themselves, and the thought of merely observing was unstimulating. Lero was certain that Mymus had done this: called Durante and tagged him so that the immeasurably experienced Warden could take swift revenge on Lero in Mymus' place. Looking to the corner, his suspicions were confirmed as Mymus leaned against the wall there, arms crossed.
Forgoing any notions of stealth, Lero marched to Mymus openly. "Really?" he said, irritated. "You could have waited more than a few seconds before deploying the Hellwalker against me."
"Now you know how I felt," retorted Mymus. "It is not a pleasant feeling to have made no mistakes and still be made to lose."
"I wouldn't have said no mistakes..."
"I suppose you're not wrong," admitted the Raven Guard. "I should have recognized your ploy from a light year away. Not even you can be that much of a spoilsport to refuse to participate just because things are going badly." Stepping away from the wall, Mymus pointed towards the passage leading to the center of the ship, where the game had begun. "Now, will you start to engage like a normal person again?"
"Fine. You have 5 seconds."
"More than enough." And with that, Mymus stepped through the door and in the blink of an eye became imperceptible.
"You know," started Durante. "On the battlefield, faking one's death is a far more dangerous proposition than in a training session like this. I should hope you won't grow accustomed to it."
"I won't, brother. I just wanted to win one over on the birds for a change." With those parting words, Lero departed, leaving Durante seemingly alone.
"He has potential," a womanly, ethereal voice began in Durante's mind. "He just needs experience."
"Experience has a habit of cutting potential short," retorted Durante internally. "You should know this all too well, Vergil."
"Fair enough. For now, however, I'd recommend seeing to your other trainees."
Then, in an instant, the Astartes was gone, shifted back into the Warp, watching over every lifeform on the ship like an invisible predator. His advantage over all the other Astartes he'd met, including these Raven Guard, was overwhelming. Any attempt to either catch or evade him was doomed to end in failure. However, it was this sort of impossibility that Durante himself had to face once, and he forced himself onward to surpass it. It was a vain hope indeed that one's enemies would allow you a chance to succeed against them, which was why one needed to create their own chances. If there was any skill that Durante could pass on, that would be the one most crucial.
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Years 46 - 50 Part 5 The Coup Begins
- Location
- Elsewhere
"It's too aggressive for my liking, but you've earned my trust." - Lord General Militant Karcer after First Captain Oriacarius proposed his deployment strategy.
"Malcador will regret this, I swear Typhon." - Mortarion following the loss of over 125 thousand Death Guard
"Fine, I'll discuss it with the other Renegades first." - Mortarion during his conversation with Horus
"See if we can send Lion's spare forces against her, it should make for a suitable spectacle." - Lord Commander-Militant Eli following the discovery that Lord Commander Van Sterk was plotting a coup
"Execute, execute, execute." - Lord Commander Skullface begins his coup.
"Remember, no prisoners." The leader of the Night Watch spoke coldly, any care for the enemy washed away after decades of service.
Amelia had seen her original team die, then the second team, then the third. Now she was all that was left of her original regiment. She stood above them all, now leader of the Night Watch, and the one mortals looked to as someone to aspire to.
They were all idiots, she wasn't alive because she was the best fighter or commander. She was alive because she was the best survivor. Something she had been slowly instilling into the Night Watch.
As the force operated across a subsector, she herself had deployed to the most critical location, a Xenos outpost that the Imperial Army was struggling to take. After surveying the situation at hand, she found the solution simple. A rapid shock and awe campaign through the tower, combined with the psychological warfare of close-range flamers. Prisoners were not to be taken, for in her eyes, they would only slow the force down.
And it's not like she cared for them anyway. There was only her side and the enemy. And if the enemy died, she wouldn't.
She didn't understand why some of the Primarchs disagreed. Konrad in particular confused her. But it wasn't her place to complain. She just followed orders, and right now, she had been ordered to assist the Imperial Army.
And so she did, ensuring the genocide of a Xenos race. It wasn't the first she had participated in, nor would it be the last.
Bodin continued to catalog the findings from their expeditions with the Mechanicum. The three delves into the depths of the planet had yielded a significant quantity of relics, but the quality of said relics was rather low. Nonetheless, he had several ideas on what could be done. His analysis had determined that many of these relics covered a time period between 10M and 15M, albeit in a fairly narrow portion of Martian culture. A museum for the relics would certainly be useful, as well as being an excellent way to encourage further relations with the Mechanicum.
Bodin hummed, as he lifted his forgehammer. He may not have access to his personal forge at the moment, but the Warden vessel he was on would make do. There was work to be done.
Aurelian was given a task, to remove the pirates that infested his father's domain. The orders were clear, his resources plenty, his targets finite. Looking at the situation, it was clear what he had to do.
Using the Imperial Army as bait, the Astartes drew in the overconfident and foolish, those who sought the tantalizing prize of military gear and bragging rights. In response, they received nothing but death, as flotillas jumped in shortly afterward.
The bait ships rarely survived, their crews dead or dying by the time reinforcements often arrived. Yet the losses were within acceptable margins, a scant 80 million guardsmen perishing over the course of 5 years, in exchange for 20% of the pirates with Svarga. Aurelian smiled, losses were more than acceptable. For such a result, he would have easily sacrificed an order of magnitude more guardsmen.
His work continued when the Lord Commander Militant sent a request. While Eli hadn't sent him actual orders, thinking on the matter, encouraging a warm relationship between the Legion and the rear echelon commanders of the Imperium was a significant benefit. And Aurelian agreed with much of what Eli stated. Both of them disliked corrupt guardsmen, and both of them sought to remove renegade elements within the Imperium.
Via overwhelming force, from both loyal guard regiments and Astartes, Aurelian conducted his grim work, killing 200 regiments worth of guardsmen over the course of a half-decade. The Dark Angels certainly approved, even if the Ultramarines expressed their discontent with what they viewed as an excessive purge. Nonetheless, Aurelian would rate this deployment as a significant success.
Kesar couldn't help but feel nervous as he glanced at the Lunar night sky. Seeing Orban's fleet slowly angling towards Luna told him what they were planning to do. And he didn't like it.
Krole had ordered the void shield to be taken down for his experiments, after realizing there was a possibility of a cascading failure resulting in a minor warp rift within the Somnus Citadel. Her assistance in the experiment was invaluable, and the other Sisters clearly looked up to the blank.
"We're ready to begin," Kesar declared, releasing the safeties on his teleporter. "Krole, I recommend having another three Sisters with you. I don't doubt your skills, but there is safety in numbers."
The blank seemed amused, shaking her head as she drew her weapon.
"Very well, activating the teleporter." Kesar pressed the activation trigger. Then things went wrong immediately.
Three macro cannon airbursts detonated around the Somnus Citadel, followed immediately by multiple lance strikes on the Citadel's void shield generators, power grid, and anti-orbital weapons. The subsequent fluctuations within the power grid cascaded, triggering what Kesar described as the worst reasonable case possible.
Krole teleported, and Kesar snapped his gaze towards what should have been the exit. There was nothing, no hint of a successful teleport. Yet, the Sister of Silence had vanished, nowhere to be seen.
The Primarch sprinted towards the exit platform, rapidly keying in multiple inputs in succession. As anti-orbital fire began to haphazardly respond around him, Kesar attempted to pull Krole from the warp, backtracking her pathway through the highly dangerous, unstable teleportation.
Nothing worked, as Kesar swore in frustration as he tried again and again new and more remote possibilities. Four hours passed in this way, until he was interrupted by one of the Sisters.
'We're launching a strike against the traitor forces, are you best used on Terra or the fleet above?'
[] Assist with the fleet as best you can, and hope the coup goes well otherwise
[] Assist on Terra as best you can
[] Lie, and say you think you can teleport Krole back, gaining a very useful combatant
[] Decline, and explain why you think Skullface should be supported
[] Write-in
Coup Status: Mercury has declared for Skullface. Venus is embroiled in a conflict between Skullface's and Eli's supporters. Mars remains neutral. Ceres is sending distress messages to the rest of the Imperium. Saturn has declared for Skullface. Skullface's forces have taken the Pluto warp point.
Status of Terra: Project GI prototypes have prevented Eli's capture. Eli is currently under siege within Fabius' lab. Thankfully the Astartes is there to just observe. 100 Custodes are confirmed KIA thanks to being caught off guard and isolated. 400 remain unaccounted for, along with Valdor. Skullface's forces have captured the Voice of the Mechanicum, Steward of the Imperium, Vandal, Voice of the Navigators, and Lord of Imperial Commerce. Tarasha remains unaccounted for. Sisters of Silence have linked up and held the guest quarters of the palace. They have attempted multiple unsuccessful breakouts. All secondary locations have been seized by coup forces. Erevan, Grandmaster of the Assassins is unaccounted for. As is the head of the OSS.
"Malcador will regret this, I swear Typhon." - Mortarion following the loss of over 125 thousand Death Guard
"Fine, I'll discuss it with the other Renegades first." - Mortarion during his conversation with Horus
"See if we can send Lion's spare forces against her, it should make for a suitable spectacle." - Lord Commander-Militant Eli following the discovery that Lord Commander Van Sterk was plotting a coup
"Execute, execute, execute." - Lord Commander Skullface begins his coup.
[X] Plan Run The Gauntlet
-[X] Ship-City 02-03-61 - An ancient remnant of mankind's first voyages into the Maelstrom, this ship is occupied by a Tzeentchian cult, with signs that there was previously conflict between Khornates and Tzeetchians. Disturbingly, the cult present has shown signs of elevated competence, supplementing blasphemous arts with mundane skill, and a multitude of defensive systems that rely both on mundane and magical methods. Threat Level: Maxima Extremis. "I don't know why you redacted the entire description, but if you felt the need to do it, I *highly* recommend it's taken care of."
--[X] 10000 Astartes + Oriacarius + Khalsa + Hektor + Assassin Execution Force + Vigilance
-[X] World 02-06-09 - The majority of this daemonworld's description contains multiple high-threat cognito-hazards. What we have been able to strip down into a readable format describes a planet covered in perpetual shadow filled with eldritch monsters. The Imperial Army scout force sent here deserted after delivering their report, and subsequent search teams found that all had killed themselves within a month of the report's delivery. Threat Level: Maxima Extremis. "Well, after seeing what it did to the scouts, I really think you should ensure this world is dealt with. Whatever the Imperial Army can provide you, I will ensure you get it if needed."
--[X] 10000 Astartes + Auro + Baldur + Titan Legion + Inverse Veil
-[X] Abominable Intelligence Epsilon-354 - An artificial intelligence with a rare known history, Epsilon-354 was initially in charge of a large warp experimentation site when Slaanesh was born. This broke it in as of yet unknown ways, causing it to exterminate all that get near its heavily fortified world of massed Knights, Titans, artillery, and mechanized vehicles. It is also notable for continuing its research. Threat Level: Maxima Extremis. "...I really hate that we could justify delaying this. Despite the rate at which AI can grow and adapt, making that normally a horrendous idea."
--[X] 17000 Astartes (15000 Eternal Wardens, 1000 Iron Warriors, and 1000 Death Guard) + Solarus + Scotty + Beltran + Cherished Son
-[X] The Maykrs - A Xenos species that resides upon several tainted worlds visited by a variety of unique daemons, they are led by an exiled daemon prince of Khorne. This has led to a number of atypical daemons present, including multiple hybrid daemonic forms that have been used in a variety of extermination campaigns against humans in the past. Threat Level: Maxima Extremis. "If I assign the Imperial Army, we could achieve victory eventually. But it would cost billions of lives over the course of decades. I would like to avoid that possibility."
--[X] 15000 Astartes + Doom Slayer + Maticus + Sergeant Lares + Lance Dorner + Relic Stormbird + Enbarr
-[X] Lahrens - A research world occupied by insane Squats who have been delving into some of the darkest non-Chaos arts. Initially expected to be a simple invasion, the Imperial Army was set upon by extremely mobile soldiers capable of precognition. In a desperate counterattack, a research lab was revealed that contained an Eldar with a number of Squat assistants. The survivors reported several shrines to known Eldar gods, which has deepened the mysteries at play. Threat Level: Maxima Extremis. "Regardless of strategic realities, politically, this world must be taken now."
--[X] 17000 Astartes (15000 Eternal Wardens, 1000 Raven Guard, and 1,000 Space Wolves) + Durante/Vergil + Abdul + All named Astartes not mentioned elsewhere
-[X] The Thestrals - A daemon moon around a gas giant, this moon is only lightly occupied by daemons, with the majority being unaligned chaos furies. The primary reason for this seems to be a narrative event in the past that stripped the moon of all useful resources, leaving only daemons bound to its service. Threat Level: Medium. "The Imperial Army could handle this alone, but they would be unhappy about it."
--[X] 5000 Astartes + Julian Hectus
-[X] The Cemetery - Abandon all hope is the national phrase of the denizens of this world. Under assault by four active warp rifts, the soldiers present have done an incredible job holding firm for centuries against daemons that have toyed with them for all that time. However, this has shattered their psyche, resulting in a planet that fights not to survive, nor for revenge. They fight because their fathers did, and their fathers before them. They fight because they know not what else to do. Threat Level: Hard. "The Imperial Army plans to bomb the warp rifts from orbit, which would kill all life on the planet. If there are Astartes available, that will change the calculus."
--[X] 6500 Astartes + Aengus + Triquetra
-[X] Domain Policing - With the boom in embezzlement and piracy in Svarga, it may be helpful to deploy a contingent of Wardens to try and reduce the current levels. It would also be rather popular among the domain as a whole, even if the average guardsmen may mutter some complaints. Threat Level: N/A. "I don't really have any opinion on that."
--[X] 5000 Astartes (3000 Eternal Wardens, 1000 Dark Angels, and 1000 Ultramarines) + Aurelian
-[X] World Eaters Legion Master Aid
--[X] 4000 Astartes + Bader + Dian
-[X] Aiding Martian Excavations
--[X] 3000 Astartes (2000 Eternal Wardens and 1000 Iron Hands) + Bodin
-[X] IA Support Requests
--[X] 7500 Astartes (4500 Eternal Wardens, 1000 Blood Angels, 1000 Luna Wolves, and 1000 Emperor's Children) + Knight House + Night Watch
-[X] Ship-City 02-03-61 - An ancient remnant of mankind's first voyages into the Maelstrom, this ship is occupied by a Tzeentchian cult, with signs that there was previously conflict between Khornates and Tzeetchians. Disturbingly, the cult present has shown signs of elevated competence, supplementing blasphemous arts with mundane skill, and a multitude of defensive systems that rely both on mundane and magical methods. Threat Level: Maxima Extremis. "I don't know why you redacted the entire description, but if you felt the need to do it, I *highly* recommend it's taken care of."
--[X] 10000 Astartes + Oriacarius + Khalsa + Hektor + Assassin Execution Force + Vigilance
-[X] World 02-06-09 - The majority of this daemonworld's description contains multiple high-threat cognito-hazards. What we have been able to strip down into a readable format describes a planet covered in perpetual shadow filled with eldritch monsters. The Imperial Army scout force sent here deserted after delivering their report, and subsequent search teams found that all had killed themselves within a month of the report's delivery. Threat Level: Maxima Extremis. "Well, after seeing what it did to the scouts, I really think you should ensure this world is dealt with. Whatever the Imperial Army can provide you, I will ensure you get it if needed."
--[X] 10000 Astartes + Auro + Baldur + Titan Legion + Inverse Veil
-[X] Abominable Intelligence Epsilon-354 - An artificial intelligence with a rare known history, Epsilon-354 was initially in charge of a large warp experimentation site when Slaanesh was born. This broke it in as of yet unknown ways, causing it to exterminate all that get near its heavily fortified world of massed Knights, Titans, artillery, and mechanized vehicles. It is also notable for continuing its research. Threat Level: Maxima Extremis. "...I really hate that we could justify delaying this. Despite the rate at which AI can grow and adapt, making that normally a horrendous idea."
--[X] 17000 Astartes (15000 Eternal Wardens, 1000 Iron Warriors, and 1000 Death Guard) + Solarus + Scotty + Beltran + Cherished Son
-[X] The Maykrs - A Xenos species that resides upon several tainted worlds visited by a variety of unique daemons, they are led by an exiled daemon prince of Khorne. This has led to a number of atypical daemons present, including multiple hybrid daemonic forms that have been used in a variety of extermination campaigns against humans in the past. Threat Level: Maxima Extremis. "If I assign the Imperial Army, we could achieve victory eventually. But it would cost billions of lives over the course of decades. I would like to avoid that possibility."
--[X] 15000 Astartes + Doom Slayer + Maticus + Sergeant Lares + Lance Dorner + Relic Stormbird + Enbarr
-[X] Lahrens - A research world occupied by insane Squats who have been delving into some of the darkest non-Chaos arts. Initially expected to be a simple invasion, the Imperial Army was set upon by extremely mobile soldiers capable of precognition. In a desperate counterattack, a research lab was revealed that contained an Eldar with a number of Squat assistants. The survivors reported several shrines to known Eldar gods, which has deepened the mysteries at play. Threat Level: Maxima Extremis. "Regardless of strategic realities, politically, this world must be taken now."
--[X] 17000 Astartes (15000 Eternal Wardens, 1000 Raven Guard, and 1,000 Space Wolves) + Durante/Vergil + Abdul + All named Astartes not mentioned elsewhere
-[X] The Thestrals - A daemon moon around a gas giant, this moon is only lightly occupied by daemons, with the majority being unaligned chaos furies. The primary reason for this seems to be a narrative event in the past that stripped the moon of all useful resources, leaving only daemons bound to its service. Threat Level: Medium. "The Imperial Army could handle this alone, but they would be unhappy about it."
--[X] 5000 Astartes + Julian Hectus
-[X] The Cemetery - Abandon all hope is the national phrase of the denizens of this world. Under assault by four active warp rifts, the soldiers present have done an incredible job holding firm for centuries against daemons that have toyed with them for all that time. However, this has shattered their psyche, resulting in a planet that fights not to survive, nor for revenge. They fight because their fathers did, and their fathers before them. They fight because they know not what else to do. Threat Level: Hard. "The Imperial Army plans to bomb the warp rifts from orbit, which would kill all life on the planet. If there are Astartes available, that will change the calculus."
--[X] 6500 Astartes + Aengus + Triquetra
-[X] Domain Policing - With the boom in embezzlement and piracy in Svarga, it may be helpful to deploy a contingent of Wardens to try and reduce the current levels. It would also be rather popular among the domain as a whole, even if the average guardsmen may mutter some complaints. Threat Level: N/A. "I don't really have any opinion on that."
--[X] 5000 Astartes (3000 Eternal Wardens, 1000 Dark Angels, and 1000 Ultramarines) + Aurelian
-[X] World Eaters Legion Master Aid
--[X] 4000 Astartes + Bader + Dian
-[X] Aiding Martian Excavations
--[X] 3000 Astartes (2000 Eternal Wardens and 1000 Iron Hands) + Bodin
-[X] IA Support Requests
--[X] 7500 Astartes (4500 Eternal Wardens, 1000 Blood Angels, 1000 Luna Wolves, and 1000 Emperor's Children) + Knight House + Night Watch
"Remember, no prisoners." The leader of the Night Watch spoke coldly, any care for the enemy washed away after decades of service.
Amelia had seen her original team die, then the second team, then the third. Now she was all that was left of her original regiment. She stood above them all, now leader of the Night Watch, and the one mortals looked to as someone to aspire to.
They were all idiots, she wasn't alive because she was the best fighter or commander. She was alive because she was the best survivor. Something she had been slowly instilling into the Night Watch.
As the force operated across a subsector, she herself had deployed to the most critical location, a Xenos outpost that the Imperial Army was struggling to take. After surveying the situation at hand, she found the solution simple. A rapid shock and awe campaign through the tower, combined with the psychological warfare of close-range flamers. Prisoners were not to be taken, for in her eyes, they would only slow the force down.
And it's not like she cared for them anyway. There was only her side and the enemy. And if the enemy died, she wouldn't.
She didn't understand why some of the Primarchs disagreed. Konrad in particular confused her. But it wasn't her place to complain. She just followed orders, and right now, she had been ordered to assist the Imperial Army.
And so she did, ensuring the genocide of a Xenos race. It wasn't the first she had participated in, nor would it be the last.
Bodin continued to catalog the findings from their expeditions with the Mechanicum. The three delves into the depths of the planet had yielded a significant quantity of relics, but the quality of said relics was rather low. Nonetheless, he had several ideas on what could be done. His analysis had determined that many of these relics covered a time period between 10M and 15M, albeit in a fairly narrow portion of Martian culture. A museum for the relics would certainly be useful, as well as being an excellent way to encourage further relations with the Mechanicum.
Bodin hummed, as he lifted his forgehammer. He may not have access to his personal forge at the moment, but the Warden vessel he was on would make do. There was work to be done.
Aurelian was given a task, to remove the pirates that infested his father's domain. The orders were clear, his resources plenty, his targets finite. Looking at the situation, it was clear what he had to do.
Using the Imperial Army as bait, the Astartes drew in the overconfident and foolish, those who sought the tantalizing prize of military gear and bragging rights. In response, they received nothing but death, as flotillas jumped in shortly afterward.
The bait ships rarely survived, their crews dead or dying by the time reinforcements often arrived. Yet the losses were within acceptable margins, a scant 80 million guardsmen perishing over the course of 5 years, in exchange for 20% of the pirates with Svarga. Aurelian smiled, losses were more than acceptable. For such a result, he would have easily sacrificed an order of magnitude more guardsmen.
His work continued when the Lord Commander Militant sent a request. While Eli hadn't sent him actual orders, thinking on the matter, encouraging a warm relationship between the Legion and the rear echelon commanders of the Imperium was a significant benefit. And Aurelian agreed with much of what Eli stated. Both of them disliked corrupt guardsmen, and both of them sought to remove renegade elements within the Imperium.
Via overwhelming force, from both loyal guard regiments and Astartes, Aurelian conducted his grim work, killing 200 regiments worth of guardsmen over the course of a half-decade. The Dark Angels certainly approved, even if the Ultramarines expressed their discontent with what they viewed as an excessive purge. Nonetheless, Aurelian would rate this deployment as a significant success.
Kesar couldn't help but feel nervous as he glanced at the Lunar night sky. Seeing Orban's fleet slowly angling towards Luna told him what they were planning to do. And he didn't like it.
Krole had ordered the void shield to be taken down for his experiments, after realizing there was a possibility of a cascading failure resulting in a minor warp rift within the Somnus Citadel. Her assistance in the experiment was invaluable, and the other Sisters clearly looked up to the blank.
"We're ready to begin," Kesar declared, releasing the safeties on his teleporter. "Krole, I recommend having another three Sisters with you. I don't doubt your skills, but there is safety in numbers."
The blank seemed amused, shaking her head as she drew her weapon.
"Very well, activating the teleporter." Kesar pressed the activation trigger. Then things went wrong immediately.
Three macro cannon airbursts detonated around the Somnus Citadel, followed immediately by multiple lance strikes on the Citadel's void shield generators, power grid, and anti-orbital weapons. The subsequent fluctuations within the power grid cascaded, triggering what Kesar described as the worst reasonable case possible.
Krole teleported, and Kesar snapped his gaze towards what should have been the exit. There was nothing, no hint of a successful teleport. Yet, the Sister of Silence had vanished, nowhere to be seen.
The Primarch sprinted towards the exit platform, rapidly keying in multiple inputs in succession. As anti-orbital fire began to haphazardly respond around him, Kesar attempted to pull Krole from the warp, backtracking her pathway through the highly dangerous, unstable teleportation.
Nothing worked, as Kesar swore in frustration as he tried again and again new and more remote possibilities. Four hours passed in this way, until he was interrupted by one of the Sisters.
'We're launching a strike against the traitor forces, are you best used on Terra or the fleet above?'
[] Assist with the fleet as best you can, and hope the coup goes well otherwise
[] Assist on Terra as best you can
[] Lie, and say you think you can teleport Krole back, gaining a very useful combatant
[] Decline, and explain why you think Skullface should be supported
[] Write-in
Coup Status: Mercury has declared for Skullface. Venus is embroiled in a conflict between Skullface's and Eli's supporters. Mars remains neutral. Ceres is sending distress messages to the rest of the Imperium. Saturn has declared for Skullface. Skullface's forces have taken the Pluto warp point.
Status of Terra: Project GI prototypes have prevented Eli's capture. Eli is currently under siege within Fabius' lab. Thankfully the Astartes is there to just observe. 100 Custodes are confirmed KIA thanks to being caught off guard and isolated. 400 remain unaccounted for, along with Valdor. Skullface's forces have captured the Voice of the Mechanicum, Steward of the Imperium, Vandal, Voice of the Navigators, and Lord of Imperial Commerce. Tarasha remains unaccounted for. Sisters of Silence have linked up and held the guest quarters of the palace. They have attempted multiple unsuccessful breakouts. All secondary locations have been seized by coup forces. Erevan, Grandmaster of the Assassins is unaccounted for. As is the head of the OSS.
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@Daemon Hunter Already asked in discord, but might as well ask here, how important is our involvement at this junction of the coup?
- Location
- Elsewhere
Extremely, whichever side you choose will get a notable boost. And even staying neutral will help the coup, as then the Sisters have to create a new plan, as they didn't even consider the posibility that Kesar wouldn't help them put down the coup.
- Location
- Elsewhere
That is a possibility, although do be aware that it does require the Consilium to cooperate.
Kesar deploys Talk No Jutsu
I take it we need to have some backdoor dealings to make something work?
Lol and we worried Kesar would only get involved indirectly.
I know for a fact that Skullface will agree to the attempt because he just wants to put this shit forward and ask the Consilium plainly, "If you have any humanity or sanity left in you, you'll agree that this situation occurred because there has been a serious failure in leadership that needs addressing. Thankfully, we have a Primarch (Roboute) that can at least make an earnest attempt at addressing this issue, and he's not as fallible as the rest of us."
Mal gonna groan that once again Kesar overturn his plan without even knowing it.