I actually had a lot of fun writing this. Some experimental storytelling in here as well.
---
Navaron
"How do you feel, brother?"
"..."
"I wish I had your confidence. Sergeant Kevol looks grim about our prospects. He must know something that he can't tell us."
"..."
"Ha! True enough! Kevol always looks at things in the worst light. Still, he has the experience to back up such claims. I think staying close by his side for this one will be best. See if some of his luck rubs off on us."
"..."
"Sometimes I can't tell if you are stouthearted or rash when you say these things, ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏."
Every fiber of his being felt rigid as if time lagged within him. It was akin to navigating through dense ocean currents; each movement met with resistance and sluggishness. Had he ever swum in the vast expanse of the ocean? Fragmented memories floated to the surface, disjointed and fleeting, like scattered puzzle pieces lost in the vastness of his mind.
'I am Navaron, he repeated,' echoing into the void, a lifeline tethering him to reality. But who was Navaron? Was he a person, a concept, or merely a figment of his fractured consciousness? Each repetition felt familiar and foreign as if he were trying to grasp a slippery truth that inevitably fell through his fingers.
He grappled with the notion of self, the boundaries between identity and existence blurring into obscurity. Was Navaron a name, a label, or a semblance of purpose tethered to a fragile thread of meaning? In the depths of his confusion, he recognized the anomaly within him, an aberration in the fabric of his being.
Navaron was the anomaly and aberration. He was something that existed. What was Navaron?
It felt impossible to keep focus. Every movement was a struggle against the constraints of the body he inhabited—not his own body but a vessel—an empty shell housing the remnants of fragmented memories and displaced emotions. Like a vessel adrift in an ocean of uncertainty, its captain was lost amidst the swirling currents of consciousness and entropy.
Lost at sea, yet not engulfed by the tempest. 'I am Navaron,' he murmured, the words dissolving into the radiant darkness enveloping him. Frustration gnawed at him; there was something more he needed to articulate, wasn't there?
Reality's threads slipped through his fingers like fragile strands of silk. Navaron struggled to recalibrate his mind, to find his bearings amidst the swirling maelstrom of consciousness. Time and space blurred into insignificance, rendering his surroundings incomprehensible. Though his eyes still functioned, they beheld a vast expanse of nothingness.
Why had he begun speaking? The reason eluded him now, lost in the labyrinth of his mind. His memories were no longer his own, and his body was unable to push itself further. With each repetition of his name, Navaron felt himself drifting further into the abyss, a lone wanderer in an endless night.
'I am Navaron,' he whispered once more, a mantra clinging to the fringes of his fractured psyche. For a moment, he wondered if this was a sign that his mind was healing. He didn't want to imagine what the alternative might have been.
"We'll have to break through their lines. It's the only way out."
"..."
"You have to see that we don't have any other choice! Sergeant Kevol died to get us this far after we lost contact with command. I won't spit on his sacrifice so we can pretend we have a ghost of a chance at completing the mission."
"..."
"There is nothing left for us here. It's over. We lost. Our option now is to fall back and regroup with any surviving squads."
"..."
"...I don't like what you accuse me and the others of. You might have seniority here, but that doesn't give you the right to-"
"..."
"I know no fear, nor does death scare me."
"..."
"Fine…you've made your point. ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏, I'm trusting you to see us through this."
Suddenly, without warning, a solitary light flickered in the distance of his vision.
Its luminescence was a beacon amidst the boundless abyss. Its hue was a curious anomaly against the backdrop of endless darkness. It beckoned to Navaron with an irresistible pull.
'Navaron. Move,' echoed a newfound command in his mind, propelling him towards the otherworldly illumination. Though his body remained estranged from his consciousness, it yielded to his will with an eerie obedience.
Time lost its shape and meaning, stretching into an unmeasurable expanse as Navaron pressed onward. He reminded himself that no destination awaited him, only the boundless stretch of whatever cosmos he found himself in, yet he walked onward into these otherwise fleeting moments.
With each step, the distance to the beacon seemed to elongate, stretching infinitely before him. Despite the encroaching sense of absurdity and defeat, Navaron continued his relentless march.
Now seemingly driven by an inexplicable force, he propelled himself forward, each movement a testament to whatever will or spirit compelled him.
Like a solitary hand reaching out in the darkness, Navaron extended towards the pulsating beacon, guided by an instinctual pull. His footsteps traced a path of necessity, though the purpose remained elusive, concealed within his fragmented consciousness, he knew something awaited him at the end.
That was enough for Navaron to keep moving.
"You did what was necessary."
"..."
"Their deaths weren't your fault. Given enough time, corruption can bring down even the most stalwart of hearts. Could you have saved them? Perhaps, or perhaps you'd only get yourself killed."
"..."
"It's not ideal. I know. But what happened can't be undone. You are a good marine, ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏. I want you to know that. When the time comes, I'll find a position that fits you."
"..."
"Deep strike? You'd need to qualify for that along with a recommendation."
"..."
"⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏… you aren't considered an outcast by anyone."
"..."
"...I won't stop you, but you'd need to get a recommendation and qualify."
"..."
"If this is what you want, I wish you the best of luck. If you get in, all I can say is die well."
He reached his destination. How many steps it took, how much time it took, or if anything happened in between was meaningless to Navaron. The journey was over. Now was the time for judgment.
Before Navaron loomed a towering pillar of blazing light, its fiery orange hue reminiscent of blood and flame. It stood as a monolith of living fire, casting an ethereal glow that danced against the backdrop of the radiant darkness.
As he approached, he felt no heat or semblance of warmth, only the intense brilliance that illuminated the surrounding void. It seemed inviting, although it did not call toward him.
Navaron had only one choice now: step forward. Would this be the threshold of his demise? Would this otherworldly inferno consume him? The thought lingered in his mind, mingling with a strange sense of acceptance. If this fiery spectacle marked the culmination of his existence, then let it be his choice.
'I am Navaron. I choose this,' he declared, his voice resonating amidst the solemn stillness of the endless expanse. One that he wished to leave behind now.
His outstretched hands, now aglow with the same radiant essence as the pillar before him, betrayed the truth of his ethereal form. How peculiar, he mused, considering the rigid confines of his previous perception.
Did it matter? No. None of it did. Time had already become a matter of insignificance, leaving Navaron adrift in this place. Leaving it all behind seems appropriate.
As his fingers grazed the searing flames, a sensation unlike any other surged through his being. Ignoring the exquisite pain that coursed through him, Navaron pressed onward, allowing his entire being to be enveloped by the engulfing fire. Yet, instead of consuming him, it cleansed his spirit with an intensity that defied comprehension.
Why did this firestorm spare him? What purpose did it serve beyond the mere act of incineration? Such questions lingered in Navaron's consciousness, even as the blaze consumed his thoughts, and he became one with true darkness.
So, it should have ended Navaron once and for all.
"You aren't dead yet."
"..."
"I can say the same to you. It's good to see you are alive, though. You've made a name for yourself."
"..."
"You don't need to act so modest. It's not who you are. You might be an arrogant bastard, but that confidence seems to rub off on others."
"..."
"Yeah, I know. You've done good work, ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏. If the others were still around, they'd be proud of all you've done. I want you also to know that you've gotten the attention of some of the captains. How do you feel about maybe taking on a new assignment?"
"..."
"Don't worry, you'll still be on the frontlines. You'll just be doing something different but also extremely vital."
"..."
"Trust me. You'll like this."
The darkness receded.
Navaron opened his eyes to an unforgiving desert landscape stretching endlessly in every direction. The air hung heavy with the stifling heat of a thousand suns, tainted by the acrid scent of soot and smoke. It was a barren expanse, devoid of life and teeming with despair under the blood-red canopy of infinite stars.
Disappointment gnawed at Navaron as his senses adjusted to the harsh environment.
The firestorm had, against all expectations, failed to end his existence, and a bitter realization was tempered only by the grim acknowledgment that it could have been worse. Despite the hostile conditions that would suffocate any mortal soul, Navaron remained unaffected.
Yet, amidst the desolation, there was no beacon to guide him, no path to follow. The portal through which he had traversed to this realm had vanished without a trace, leaving Navaron stranded in this desolate wasteland, adrift in an endless sea of sand, smoke, and wind.
All the same, Navaron got moving. He just started walking forward. It wasn't like he'd get anywhere standing around.
His once stiff and rigid form now moved with an uncanny fluidity, a strange contrast to the hostile environment surrounding him. As the winds whipped around him, carrying grains of sand that should have stung like biting insects, Navaron pressed onward, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
The sky above, a tumultuous swirl of fiery hues mingled with the choking haze of soot and smoke, obscured his vision, making each step forward treacherous. Every aspect of this realm seemed designed to eradicate any semblance of life.
"I'm not alive," Navaron reminded himself, the words solemnly echoing in the desolate expanse. Casting a glance downward, he beheld his form, still ethereal and insubstantial, reminiscent of the being he had been before traversing the firestorm.
He didn't know whether the question of his existence or current location was more important now. Navaron figured the former could wait. If nothing else, he need not worry about if his life was in jeopardy.
Navaron trudged onward through the desolate expanse as time ebbed away, his journey stretching endlessly before him. In this realm where time held no sway, distances blurred into obscurity, leaving Navaron in a perpetual state of aimless wandering. No end marked the beginning, and no beginning marked the end, leaving Navaron lost amidst the smoke and sands.
Gone was the infinite radiant blackness of before that had once enveloped him, replaced now by this relentless storm. The howling winds whipped at Navaron's form, tearing at his ethereal essence with a ferocity that mirrored the turmoil within.
"I am Navaron." The words echoed forth, lost in this blasted cacophony.
Beneath his feet, the ground shifted with each step, revealing a landscape as surreal as it was inhospitable. Navaron's gaze fell upon the sands below, only to discover that they were not mere grains of sand but rather grounded quartz crystals that shimmered in the dim light of the crimson sky.
How peculiar, he thought, to find such beauty amidst the desolation of this forsaken realm.
Amidst the tumultuous tempest, Navaron was drawn to a peculiar sight—a smooth, pale granite stone in the path before him. Its presence amidst the barren landscape struck a discordant note, a solitary anomaly amidst the vast expanse of nothingness. Could it be a road, a sign of civilization? Here in this realm?
Navaron's curiosity stirred, propelling him towards this enigmatic marker in the storm. A faint chance to find something was better than wandering around for nothing.
"How have you situated yourself within the program?"
"..."
"Different, right? Look at it this way, you're a trailblazer, ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏."
"..."
"But it feels like a good fit? Captain Noelin seems to think so."
"..."
"He's brash, but he's got a good head on his shoulders. Look, I wanted to speak to you privately because it concerns the next major campaign. It's going to be a difficult one for everyone involved. The First Captain wants to know if he can count on your commitment."
"..."
"No one is questioning it; rather, they want to verify that you are ready to take the next step."
"..."
"That's the enthusiasm I wanted to hear! Keep that fire stoked, and you'll go even farther, my friend. Anyway, keep an eye out for any new missives sent your way labeled 'hellbreaker' protocol. Once you see that, you'll know what to do."
A subtle shift rippled through the desolate landscape as the relentless windstorm finally abated, if only for a fleeting moment. Whether Navaron had endured its wrath or if the tempest had conceded defeat, the reason mattered little in the grand scheme of his solitary odyssey. What held significance was the sight that greeted him as the swirling smoke and billowing winds gave way to a momentary calm.
Before him, rising from the sands like a specter of forgotten grandeur stood a sprawling castle, its once-proud spires now crumbling in decay.
Made of stone and crystal, it bore the scars of time, its fractured façade casting an eerie silhouette against the crimson sky. Despite its dilapidated state, the castle exuded a haunting majesty, a relic of a forgotten era now consigned to the desolation of this forsaken realm.
Navaron's spirit quickened with a surge of hope as he beheld this surreal apparition amidst the barren expanse. He had dared to ask for a sign, a glimmer of life amidst the lifeless wasteland of crystal and sand, and the realm had answered in kind.
With caution in his steps, he set forth toward the crumbling fortress, his footsteps echoing against the desolate terrain as he sought answers amidst the ruins of a forgotten kingdom in this wretched place.
As Navaron drew closer to the castle's towering curtain wall, its imposing presence loomed above him like a sentinel of forgotten tales. The scars of ancient battles marred the stone, each jagged wound a testament to whatever violence occurred here, now etched into the very foundation of the fortress.
Navaron felt a pang of inexplicable sorrow as his eyes traced the weathered symbols adorning the walls. Ancient glyphs, faded with time yet still pulsating with a strange energy, seemed to whisper tales of bygone glory and unfathomable loss. This had been the home of people. The defenders likely fought bravely to the end.
He spotted remnants of once-mighty warriors, their weapons and armor discarded like the remnants of a forgotten age. Yet, there were no signs of their owners, no echoes of the valor that once rang through these halls. Only the wind lingered amidst the ruins.
Yet, amidst the eerie whispers that enveloped the ruins, another sound mingled with the howling wind—a rhythmic, laborious carving that echoed through the empty halls. The incongruity of hearing such a sound, clear and distinct amidst the rough winds, was baffling. But the rules of this realm didn't make any sense to begin with.
Navaron pressed onward, his footsteps echoing against the ancient stone as he ventured further into the castle's depths. With each passing moment, he became acutely aware of the signs of struggle that littered the corridors—the telltale remnants of a fierce and desperate battle waged within these hallowed halls.
But those echoes of valor and heroism were long gone. A palpable sense of unease lingered in their place, the only evidence now of the grim fate that had befallen whoever once called this place home. If Navaron wasn't careful, he might join their silent chorus.
"Do you reject the temptation of the daemon?"
"..."
"Will you abhor them with every fiber of your being?"
"..."
"And will you inspire others to do the same until your dying breath?"
"..."
"You have been found worthy, ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏. Let this be the last test of your faith in our mission and Primarch."
"..."
"Then arise, Hellbreaker. Arise and lead our kin into battle with hearts aligned and courage unwavering."
As Navaron delved deeper into the bowels of the ancient castle, a scene of grotesque horror unfolded before him—a mockery of life crafted from the remains of fallen warriors. The sight stirred a visceral hatred within him, a primal revulsion at the desecration of the fallen.
Only the depraved and deranged could conceive of such a macabre tableau, and Navaron felt the flames of fury ignite within his ethereal form. As his eyes fell upon the intricate carvings etched into the bones of the fallen, a sense of dread washed over him.
Runes—the word reverberated through Navaron's mind, a familiar echo of a forgotten language. Yet, the tools and script before him were tainted, defiled by the touch of malevolence. The sight of the profane carvings ignited a seething rage within Navaron, the flames of his essence burning with an intensity that mirrored the fury of his soul.
Amidst the oppressive silence, the rhythmic sound of carving persisted, a relentless reminder of the madness that lurked within these haunted halls. Navaron felt the tendrils of darkness coil around him with each echoing stroke, threatening to ensnare him in their suffocating embrace.
Instead, he allowed his disgust and outrage to fuel the flames of his spirit, incensing him further than he thought possible. Driven by a seemingly righteous fury that felt right, good, and
pure. It was a feeling of familiar pride.
As he went further into the castle, he came upon more empty halls and rooms, save for the skeletons placed in almost mocking instances of life. When he finally arrived at the source of the carving sound, he found what looked to be a throne room that now resembled a twisted theater of a deranged mind.
A thousand skeletal forms, arranged in a morbid circle, stared empty-eyed at the center stage where ornate chairs encircled a grand table. The air was thick with mold, decay, and dust mingling with the sickening sight of runes etched into every surface, their malevolent presence seeping into the very essence of the chamber.
At the heart of this grotesque spectacle stood the orchestrator of the madness, their back turned to Navaron as they worked tirelessly on their grim creation. Navaron's gaze fell upon their tattered garments, now stained with the decay of ages, and to his surprise, noticed the telltale signs of white fur protruding from the ruined fabric.
The malicious intent behind the meticulously arranged scene sent another wave of disgust and hatred through his ethereal form, the flame of his spirit growing hot once more. He then heard the sound of a gentle, pleasant humming originating from this creature, as if they were tending flowers or cooking something.
How could anyone revel in such depravity?
Drawing upon the flames of his essence, Navaron stepped forward, his ethereal form casting a looming light across the chamber. The figure at the center of the stage paused in their grisly work, their movements halting abruptly before erupting into a chilling peal of laughter that echoed through the chamber like a twisted symphony.
"Who dares intrude upon the sanctum of Las Noches?" The creature's voice rang out, a disturbing blend of derangement and regal authority. Navaron's gaze locked with theirs, and he beheld the unholy light gleaming in their eyes.
But then its eyes widened in glee, "A guest in the house of Las Noches!" The creature's words dripped with madness, their tone shifting between joviality and menace with unsettling ease. Navaron instinctively took a step back, his senses reeling in the presence of such palpable malevolence.
This being was not merely dangerous—it was a walking cataclysm, a force of chaos contained within the guise of a man. Every fiber of Navaron's being recoiled from the sight before him, sensing the inherent wrongness emanating from the creature's essence.
"A show is in order!" The creature's proclamation cut through the oppressive silence, its voice resonating with the authority of a dark monarch. Suddenly, their tattered remains reminded Navaron of a noble or general who had seen better days. With each step they took, Navaron could feel the weight of their power pressing down upon his spirit, almost suffocating in its intensity.
"Call upon the lords and ladies of Tier Harribel!" The creature's command echoed through the theater of the silent dead, its eyes gleaming with an abyssal darkness that seemed to devour the very light around them.
Now close enough, Navaron could also spot the inhuman features. Fang-like teeth protruded from its twisted maw, hinting at a hunger that transcended mortal appetites. Its limbs were elongated, fingers tipped with claws designed for rending flesh with savage efficiency.
But the faint glimmer of iridescent scales beneath tufts of stained white fur truly set the creature apart. Navaron's gaze lingered upon the otherworldly features—a monstrous amalgamation of beast and man.
As the madness in the creature's eyes momentarily receded upon fixing its gaze upon Navaron, a flicker of recognition flashed across its twisted features.
"What's this..." it muttered, its voice a strange blend of fascination and amusement. "You're real. You. Are. Real." Each word was enunciated with a chilling clarity before the creature erupted into a cacophony of mad laughter, the sound echoing through the chamber like a symphony of deranged delight.
Navaron felt a wave of revulsion wash over him as the creature's words dripped with a sickly sweetness tinged with the promise of slaughter and chaos. His ethereal form quivered with an instinctual urge to fight this unholy entity, even if it meant his death.
But before he could gather his wits, the creature gestured wildly to the crowd of skeletons, its demeanor shifting with unsettling fluidity. "Come now! Greet the stranger! Greet..." It paused, its gaze fixating on Navaron with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine. "What did you say your name was?"
Navaron hesitated momentarily before answering, the words tumbling from his lips with an ease that surprised him. "I am Navaron," he replied, his voice steady.
The beastly entity before him seemed intrigued, its twisted features contorting into a semblance of curiosity. "Navaron. Nav-ah-ron," it repeated as if savoring the taste of his name upon its tongue. "A name for a material creature. How... peculiar. You were certainly not born of the warp but are now of it. How exciting."
"I suppose." Navaron quietly remarked. He didn't know what possessed him to speak up, "Did you kill all these creatures and take this castle for yourself?"
The creature's twisted features contorted into a sinister grin at Navaron's inquiry, its eyes gleaming with a predatory glint. "Oh, they were dead long before I arrived," it replied, its voice dripping with macabre amusement. "I can still hear their death screams etched into the stones. The screams of the dying make for excellent catalysts."
It paused, savoring the echoes of past suffering before erupting into another fit of mad laughter. "Oh! It's so nice having a conversation after all these eons!"
Navaron fought to suppress a shudder at the creature's callous indifference to the suffering of others. The realization that he was now the subject of interest for this unholy being only deepened his unease.
"I see," Navaron replied quietly, his voice betraying nothing. He knew that he had to tread carefully in the presence of such malevolence. "And you are?"
The creature's smile was a twisted mockery of joy that seemed to tear at Navaron's soul. "I have many names. Currently, I am the custodian and guest of Las Noches. If my gracious hosts could say my name, they'd call me...Malal."
Navaron barely had a moment to process the name before a searing pain lanced through his spirit. The agony was all-encompassing, a visceral assault that left him reeling in its wake before then the flames of his spirit instantly cauterized this intrusion.
The creature's gaze lingered upon Navaron with a predatory gleam, its eyes alight with a sickening curiosity. "My, my, my, aren't you interesting?" Malal's voice dripped with amusement as he circled around Navaron, his every movement a predator playing with his meal.
"That you are still standing after hearing one of my lesser names is impressive. But what's more intriguing is your spirit."
Navaron's unease deepened at the creature's words. Now, Malal was intrigued. He knew that he was treading on dangerous ground in the presence of such a force as this.
"Is that so?" Navaron replied cautiously, his voice betraying nothing. But before the conversation could delve deeper, Malal erupted into another fit of laughter, his deranged cackles echoing through the chamber, rattling the skeletons.
Malal turned and sauntered back towards the theater stage. "Something about you tickles my bones, pardon the pun," the bestial entity remarked, his voice dripping with amusement. He gestured towards the table and the bodies, "Come closer. Because I want to hear your story, Navaron. I'm sure my compatriots do as well."
Navaron weighed his options carefully. Trapped in this realm with nowhere else to go, he realized that Malal could at least reveal something about where Navaron was or maybe even some direction out of here. With a resigned sigh, he stepped onto the stage, his eyes taking in the intricate runic carvings that adorned every surface. Unfamiliar words danced through his mind—purification, obliteration, dreaming—each one a glimpse into something important.
Who or what was this creature? What was it doing here?
And why did it suddenly seem interested in Navaron?
"What we are doing here requires absolute secrecy. You will take this secret with you upon death. A rather uncomplicated parameter, wouldn't you say?"
"..."
"Because not everyone would understand why we need the Hellbreakers. The legion is changing faster than some would prefer. It's not ideal, but you didn't undergo these trials for fame or glory."
"..."
"Subterfuge is necessary. We are fighting abominations that can worm their way into the hearts of good people. There is a purity in what we do and why we carry out our mission."
"..."
"Sacrifices are necessary; thankfully, only we pay the price so others don't have to."
"..."
"We'll let our victories speak for us when it comes time for judgment. Until then, we still have much work to do."
"I'd offer refreshments," Malal remarked with a twisted grin as he returned to carving into the body on the table. "But, well, you know. So instead, I shall offer my hospitality."
"Thank you," Navaron replied politely, though he couldn't suppress his grimace at the sight before him. "You wanted to hear my story?"
Malal nodded, his elongated and sharp fingernails carving effortlessly into the skeletal remains before him. "Although, I can take a guess about it: you were dumped here."
"Dumped?" Navaron furrowed his brow in confusion at the implication. "I... don't think so? I was moving through some endless void and came across a great mountain of fire and light." The memory of the radiant darkness and the beacon of light still lingered vividly in his mind. "Does that mean anything to you?"
"Ha!" Malal chortled, the sound like gnashing teeth as he continued his macabre work. "You encountered a crown of the Firetide. You are lucky to have survived with your spirit intact."
Navaron's interest was piqued at the mention of the Firetide. "The Firetide?"
"It's the cleansing force of the warp and all that lives inside it," Malal explained, his tone dripping with dark amusement. "If it could actually reach the realms of the Neverborn and the like." He paused, his gaze piercing through Navaron with an intensity that made him squirm. "I'll spare you the boring details, but all that approach is completely incinerated."
Navaron hesitated, uncertain if it was wise to reveal that he had not only survived the encounter but had also touched the Firetide and emerged unscathed. But he decided to take the risk with nothing else to go on.
"I survived," he admitted.
Surprisingly, Malal nodded in acknowledgment. "I noticed. Which is what interests me more than just you being here. Las Noches hasn't really seen anyone new for eons. Even I just recently arrived here a few thousand years ago."
Navaron's curiosity was piqued by Malal's revelation. "What happened to this place?" he asked, eager to learn more about Las Noches's history.
"Based on what the screams tell me," Malal began, his voice tinged with disturbing amusement, "It randomly arrived in the warp one day. Such things happen, you see, but they were quite unlucky. This point of interest is within the realm of the Blood God and close to where the Firetide hit some few billion years ago. You either have to escape through the Gate of Brass, which won't open unless you have the right 'key,' or use the old aperture in what the Neverborn call the Ashlands."
He smirked at Navaron, a twisted gleam in his eyes. "Take a wild guess about why they are called that."
Ignoring the comment, Navaron pressed on with his inquiries. "So the people of this place were all killed by daemons with nowhere to escape."
"Died to the last. So heroic..." Malal chortled, his tone dripping with disrespect. "Last stands are so poignant."
Malal continued, his voice laced with a perverse glee. "Anyway, a few groups were using this place as a base before they all left for the war against the greenskins. No one cleaned up their bodies, so I've used their bones as runic parts."
Glancing at the desecrated remains, Navaron shook his head disapprovingly. "Very improper."
"I'll say," Malal laughed, the sound echoing through the chamber with a sinister edge. "Terribly untuned for what I had in mind. These...Arrancar? Quincy? Hollows? I forget what they called themselves. The point is I don't have much choice. Beggers can't be choosers."
Navaron couldn't help but feel uneasy about Malal's cavalier attitude toward the desecrated remains. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly are you doing with the bodies?"
A predatory gleam flickered in Malal's eyes as he leaned closer to Navaron as if whispering his master plan: "The runic components will allow me to listen to the chatter of the red suns above and send kill melodies to them. Once that happens, a few suns should break apart, and their materials will fall upon this realm. I plan to use them as reagents in a few of my spells."
Navaron's interest was piqued by Malal's plan, and he leaned in closer, eager to learn more. "And then what?"
"I don't know," Malal replied curtly, his gaze distant as if lost in thought. "I have a few million years to consider my next escape attempt from my exile. But it's getting there." Suddenly, a spark of something akin to excitement flickered in his eyes, and he turned to Navaron with a mischievous grin. "Say, why don't we team up!"
Navaron was taken aback by the sudden proposal. "We just met...aren't you worried about me trying to sabotage you? I could be an enemy."
"Nonsense. I have no enemies. Only obstacles," Malal declared, his tone dismissive. He examined his handiwork with a critical eye before continuing, "Besides, I could help you get out of here."
"Really?" Navaron blinked in surprise at the offer. "And what would that cost me?"
Malal smirked as he turned to face Navaron fully. "Just an alliance! A pact, you could say."
Navaron looked unconvinced, his instincts warning him against trusting the creature before him. "I don't really feel that is in my best interests," he admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Nothing against you, but I am not sure I'd trust someone I just met."
"Trust is often a dangerous thing to reciprocate to someone," Malal remarked sagely, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone. "I've been humiliated and betrayed plenty of times because I trusted the wrong elements, but that doesn't mean we can always be mistrusting and suspicious of others."
Navaron reluctantly nodded in agreement, begrudgingly acknowledging the wisdom in Malal's words. "I suppose that is true," he conceded, though the lingering doubts remained.
Grabbing the skull of his current fixation, Malal glanced over at Navaron and said, "Tell you what. I'm going to help you get out of here anyway. Cooperation is an important factor in building trust, and perhaps you'll feel that after our journey together, you'll reconsider my offer. And I do have much to offer."
"But what are you going to get out of this?" Navaron couldn't shake the feeling of distrust gnawing at him. "You don't come across as the altruistic type."
"That's because I'm not," Malal admitted with a sick smirk. "But I don't like pissing away my chances for a useful asset, let alone a potential ally. I don't have many of either. So why not take a gamble."
Navaron's gaze hardened as he met Malal's unsettling grin. "How long have you been alone?"
"A few eons. Why?" Malal's tone held a hint of curiosity.
"Because you want to be alone again, surrounded by silence and the dead," Navaron asserted, his voice tinged with suspicion. "I'm pretty sure you lost your mind when I found you."
Malal's laughter pierced the air once more, a cacophony of sound that echoed like the anguished cries of a hundred souls. "You are making very dangerous assumptions about me, Navaron," he rasped between bouts of laughter. "You think I'm crazy? No, my new friend, you'll come to find that I'm the sanest creature in the entire warp. Maybe even the only one that ever existed."
"I can't say I believe you," Navaron stated bluntly, his voice tinged with skepticism. "And I'd be a fool to not assume you aren't still using me for your own ends."
"Of course," Malal agreed with a twisted grin, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "But you don't have many options, do you?"
Navaron had to concede the point. His choices were limited, and trusting Malal was a risk he wasn't sure he wanted to take. Still, the allure of potential escape from this desolate realm was too tempting to ignore. "What exactly can you do to help me?" he pressed, his tone guarded.
Malal's grin widened as he leaned in, eager to share his plan. "There is a Firetide Crown in the Ashlands. I can't access it. No Neverborn can, but not only are you, not a Neverborn, but you seem to have gained a blessing from the Firetide. So…an opportunity presents itself for the two of us." His words held a hint of excitement as if the prospect of unlocking some secret lay at hand.
"This seems all very convenient," Navaron remarked skeptically.
Malal's grin widened into a demented smile. "Let's call it... serendipitous."
Despite the apparent opportunity, Navaron couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. This had to be a trap. "What about your little project here?" he pressed, his tone cautious.
But Malal seemed unfazed by Navaron's concerns. "It'll still be here. I have millions of years to wait before I get my revenge against those traitorous gods in the warp. Also, I could use a little time outside. Perhaps I might have gotten a case of something called cabin fever if you've ever heard of it." He dismissed the notion with a nonchalant wave of his hand.
Searching for any hint of deception in Malal's expression but finding none, Navaron still couldn't believe it. "How do I know you won't try to betray or kill me?" he challenged, his voice tinged with apprehension.
The monstrous creature merely shrugged, an unsettling indifference in his gaze. "You don't. You have to trust me."
Navaron considered his options carefully. "I can just walk away," he pointed out, hoping to test Malal's sincerity.
Malal nodded in agreement, gesturing towards the exit with a clawed hand. "That is true. And you are free to go wander the deserts of Las Noches."
He almost couldn't believe his luck. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Malal echoed, his grin widening into a sinister smirk. His eyes had a calculated gleam as if he knew something that Navaron didn't. The desert might not be entirely safe, and even if Navaron reached the Ashlands, he had no idea how to traverse such a treacherous place.
Despite the uncertainties, Navaron faced a difficult decision. He could either venture out into the unknown alone, risking the dangers of the desert, or he could reluctantly team up with the monstrous being before him. After a moment of deliberation, he made his choice.
"Fine," Navaron relented with a flicker of annoyance in his spirit. "When can we leave?"
Malal's toothy smile widened to an unnatural degree.
"This won't be easy. Everything we've been told about the Maelstrom hints that it will be the greatest endeavor carried out by the Imperium of Man and a challenge unlike any of us have ever faced. It will be a brutal and disheartening campaign. Thus, we of the Hellbreaker Company will need to see us through to victory."
"..."
"That's a good question, ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏. I need you to aid Captain Thule. He's one of our primary supporters. Make every effort to keep him alive. I know you are still adjusting to your entombment, but the tech-priests are confident you can help him carry out whatever assignment."
"..."
"Be ready for anything. Some of the planetary reports from the seers of the White Scars aren't instilling much confidence in everyone."
"..."
"That's what I like to hear! No enemy shall stand up against such valor, and it's good to know that our brothers will have you on the frontlines, ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏. Any warden who dies in the coming campaigns shall be hailed as a martyr to a magnificent cause."
"..."
"For Those We Cherish."
Their journey was a peculiar one, to say the least.
Within moments of agreeing to depart, they swiftly exited the castle, finding themselves once more engulfed by the howling winds of sand, ash, and smoke. Malal striding confidently ahead while Navaron kept a cautious distance, ensuring the creature remained within his line of sight.
To describe the experience as "pleasant" would be a gross understatement, given the relentless harshness of the realm they traversed. Yet, Navaron couldn't help but notice that Malal seemed to effortlessly create a protective barrier around them, warding off much of the swirling debris. It was a cheap display that still belied some control over the warp.
It also seemed to muffle the cacophony of the raging storm and create an eerie silence that hung between them. Despite the opportunity for conversation, neither felt compelled to break the quietude as they pressed onward through this endless wasteland.
They must have marched for what felt like days, enveloped in an eerie silence broken only by the relentless howling of the wind. Neither seemed affected by fatigue, rendering any notion of rest irrelevant.
Amidst the desolation, Malal occasionally halted, glancing around before either shaking his head or emitting a low chuckle. Evidently, he harbored knowledge, though he chose to keep Navaron in the dark.
However, on one particular day, something shifted. Malal signaled for Navaron to halt near what appeared to be an ancient, decrepit watch post. "We'll need to wait here for a bit," he declared, his tone unusually serious. "The weather is about to take a turn for the worse, and I'd rather not risk venturing forth."
"Is it something that can harm you?" Navaron inquired, his curiosity piqued.
Malal shook his head dismissively. "It would be more of an inconvenience, akin to enduring a rainstorm without an umbrella," he explained with a wicked smirk, gesturing toward his ragged, noble attire. "And I'd rather not ruin my good suit."
Navaron initially chose not to engage in conversation, opting to find a quiet spot to patiently wait out whatever impending threat lurked on the horizon. As he settled into his makeshift perch, he couldn't shake the growing d lingered in the silence between them.
Finally, Navaron decided he had enough. "So, what exactly does this worsening weather entail for us?" At least he could say that was a valid reason to break the silence. The prospect of impending danger piqued his curiosity. He couldn't help but wonder how the warp's influence manifested in this forsaken realm. These sandstorms were one thing, but whatever phenomenon lay beyond these conditions had to be extraordinary.
Malal's amusement was palpable as he received a question after their long journey. "It's not a natural occurrence," he explained with a hint of mischief in his tone, "but rather a recurring event that has become increasingly frequent in recent decades. The souls of fallen Neverborn will rain down upon this realm, lured by the false promise of salvation in the Ashlands."
"Because of the Firetide Crown?" Navaron ventured, earning a confirming nod from Malal. "Does this apply to all daemons that perish?"
"Not quite," Malal replied with a dismissive shake. "Only the real lesser Neverborn," he added, punctuating the term with a smirk. "The worthless dregs, the unwanted children of the warp, and so on. Real losers, if you ask me."
"And they'll come crashing down here, hoping to reach the Ashlands for salvation?" Navaron pressed further, intrigued by the implications of their conversation. "What about heading over to the Gate of Brass?"
Malal's response was swift and unequivocal. "The Blood God only desires winners in his ranks."
Malal smirked again, his expression wistful yet tinged with a hint of bitterness. "It does look like that from the outside, I will admit. But there is a reason and history to explain why." With one elongated claw, he began drawing intricate symbols in the sand between them, each stroke deliberate and purposeful.
"Long ago, I was part of a mission to shape the universe and beyond. We Neverborn were brought into this reality with names and purposes but no true beginning or end, like all creatures born of the warp."
Navaron watched, captivated, as the symbols seemed to dance and writhe in the shifting sands. "We didn't always see eye to eye," Malal continued, his tone tinged with nostalgia. "But we shared a bond akin to brothers. You don't get to choose your family, but I wanted to believe we had each other's best interests at heart."
"Clearly, something changed," Navaron interjected, his curiosity piqued. "What happened?"
"A disagreement," Malal confirmed with a solemn nod. "I believed that once our great work was complete, it would be best for us to fade away gracefully, content with our legacy. My brothers disagreed. I failed when I sought to take matters into my own hands." He paused, a shadow passing over his features. "My punishment was exile, for they could not bring themselves to destroy me."
The motivation was indeed perplexing. "And to repay their mercy, you plan to end the entire daemonic collective?" Navaron couldn't help but express a mix of awe and disbelief. "Quite the unconventional motivation for genociding your own people."
Malal's response was tinged with frustration, evident in the deep sigh that escaped him as he finished tracing patterns in the sand. "I don't expect you to understand. Few ever do," he admitted, his tone heavy with resignation. "But if there's one thing you can take away from it, it's that I haven't forgotten my nature and duty. I've never pretended otherwise."
"Sanest creature in the galaxy, right?" Navaron's ethereal form flared momentarily, betraying his growing agitation. "You know, you could go against your nature."
Malal's expression softened into one of weary wisdom. "Oh, believe me, I've tried," he conceded, a hint of sadness underlying his words. "But the Neverborn are bound by their very essence. There's no escaping what we are."
Suddenly, Malal's demeanor shifted, his attention drawn elsewhere. Navaron, annoyed that the conversation seemed to have ended, pressed for an explanation. "What is it?"
"It's about to rain," Malal remarked, his tone oddly anticipatory. Then, with a slow smile, he turned to Navaron. "Want to see what it's like when Neverborn rain from the sky?"
"..."
"Yes, I am Captain Thule. Is everything alright, brother? Your summons sounded urgent. I must admit that I don't get many private missives delivered from a tech-marine."
"..."
"...I see. Yes, Master Sindrel has advised me on the status of the Hellbreaker Company. Is there a reason you didn't go through the normal channels?"
"..."
"Concerns over RP-06? You are right to be cautious, brother, but I believe we are still in a position to win that campaign. That said, have you brought these concerns to Sindrel?"
"..."
"That is worrisome. Do you believe he's not taking the risks seriously?"
"..."
"He thinks we can't win? Sindrel and the other founders didn't mention such things to me and the others. Unfortunately, I can't do much. Not only are my hands tied with directing warden operations, but you know that the Hellbreaker Company isn't exactly a sanctioned entity."
"..."
"⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏, if you believe that to be the case, please contact me if you suspect something has gone wrong. The lives of our brothers might be at stake. Maybe even the entire campaign on RP-06."
The pair departed from their small camp, venturing no further than perhaps a kilometer before reaching a vast dune of sand and crystal to stand on top of. Navaron sensed a shift in the air—a subtle anticipation laden with an ominous countdown.
As the windstorm ceased, the oppressive ash and soot began to disperse, unveiling the desert expanse beneath and, more significantly, the sky above. The myriad red stars gleamed with an intensified brilliance.
"Listen," Malal murmured, though Navaron detected nothing but an unsettling silence punctuated only by the distant rumble of thunder. Was it actually going to rain? Assuming this to be what Malal referred to, Navaron's unease mounted as the thunderous echoes grew louder, drawing nearer to their location.
Gazing upwards, Navaron beheld the blood stars seemingly fixating on him. He ignored the feeling. Then, it appeared—an ominous sight against the backdrop of the alien sky. Countless black specks dotted the crimson and orange canvas, resembling meteorites hurtling through the atmosphere.
Navaron's spirit surged, his focus honing in on the expanding mass of specks gathering momentum and size. What had seemed like a mere hundred now multiplied, a relentless wave converging upon them. The thunderous roar grew deafening, accompanied by the ominous descent of something upon Navaron's ethereal form.
"Blood?" He glanced at Malal, who responded with laughter and a twisted smile as it soon started raining blood.
"And thunder!" Malal's gesture was almost welcoming as if he were greeting an old friend as a small torrential downpour started within seconds. The field from Malal seemed to be safeguarding them from the worst of it.
This insanity wasn't stopping. Because Navaron's gaze returned skyward, where the burning black specks descended ominously closer. A pang of concern gripped Navaron for a moment as he contemplated seeking shelter with Malal, but the blood rain would have made it a bit more difficult to traverse the sands.
Adding to the chaos was the thunderous rumble beneath their feet, the ground trembling as these entities hurtled toward the surface like cosmic projectiles. With potentially millions of them descending like a relentless rain of destruction, Navaron couldn't help but wonder if their impact would tear the very land itself asunder.
As the rumbling intensified and the distant glow of reentry painted the horizon with fiery streaks, a chilling realization dawned on Navaron: the sky was literally falling—daemon-like entities descending upon them from above.
It was indeed raining Daemons.
As the daemons hurtled closer, Navaron's urgency reached its peak. "Malal, this is madness!" he shouted over the deafening cacophony of the approaching horde. "We need to move, now! We're about to have a literal army of daemons dropping on top of us!"
"Let them come!" Malal's voice boomed with exhilaration amidst the chaos. "It's been eons since I've had a partner in the dance of destruction! Embrace the moment, Navaron! Unleash your light!"
Navaron barely had time to process Malal's words before the first daemons crashed just meters away with the force of a 500-kilogram bomb. It was only thanks to Malal's field that they weren't blasted off their feet. The impact still sent shockwaves through the ground, and Navaron sneered at the sight of flaming masses of flesh descending like grotesque Drop Pods.
"How many of these things are going to land?!" Navaron's voice rose above the chaos, his concern bordering on panic.
Malal's laughter mingled with the roar of the crashing daemons. "I have no idea! Looks like the recent wars have been especially brutal!" With a flourish, he conjured weapons from the shadows, a sword and a pistol forged from bone and darkness. "We can't evade them. We'll have to fight our way to the Ashlands!"
The thought of such a daunting journey filled Navaron with dread. "I don't have any weapons!"
"Your soul is your weapon now!" Malal's words pierced through the chaos. "Be resourceful! Adapt! Embrace your power!"
Navaron felt the intensity of his inner fire surging as more daemons rained down around them. With the drop pods beginning to open, releasing their grotesque cargo, Navaron heeded Malal's advice, channeling every ounce of his fury and revulsion into the blazing core of his being.
A strange, silent calm enveloped Navaron as he felt the fire within himself and all around him, intermingling with the ash, smoke, and soot in the air. It was as if everything touched by the flames bowed to his will. Was he now a pyromancer? No, this sensation was different, inexplicable.
But there was no time to dwell on such thoughts. As Malal plunged into battle against the nightmarish horde of blood and thunder, Navaron followed closely behind. "Stay close, and don't lose sight of me!" Malal's command cut through the chaos.
Navaron knew his only hope of survival was keeping pace with Malal amid the tumult. Despite the surreal nature of the situation, a sense of familiarity washed over him, urging him onward.
The battle was soon joined. A madman and a lost soul against an army.
"RP06 is a miserable planet. I don't know what it will take to bring down that fortress, but Qin Xa seems convinced it is possible, and I believe him. We just need to hold the line."
"..."
"I'm aware that morale is faltering in some places. That was to be expected among the Imperial Army. The black brigades and witch hunters will handle that. I just need you and whatever other Hellbreakers are around to continue with keeping our brothers and cousins focused."
"..."
"Casualties are…so far acceptable. I hate to say it, but we underestimated the resilience of the defenders here. Still, victory will be within our grasp."
"..."
"You've done an extraordinary job leading from the front, as always, ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏."
"..."
"Nonsense. Just because you intimidate everyone doesn't mean you aren't beloved, either."
"..."
"Fear is needed, but from what I've seen, you embody what the Hellbreakers are all about: courage in the face of overwhelming odds."
A bright madness had taken control of Navaron. The fires of his spirit breathe life into the slaying of these monsters before him, purging everything in his path. His mind was ablaze, left to embrace the conflagration within him.
Navaron lost track of his surroundings, of time and place. He hadn't lost his mind but instead welcomed the bedlam. There was a common misconception about "battlefield dissociation," the notion that it often hindered a soldier's effectiveness. Combat was a complex, dynamic interplay of life and death, a delicate dance amid chaos.
But Navaron was no ordinary warrior now. He had been transformed, reshaped into something altogether different. A haze of fire and ash enveloped him as he and Malal seemingly engaged the daemonic hordes for what could have been hours or perhaps even years.
For Navaron, it mattered not. The flames were not just a force of nature; they were his to command. Malal had been right. All Navaron needed to do was unleash his light upon the battleground and wreak havoc upon the ceaseless horde before him.
The extent of his power was extraordinary. Navaron utilized the ash, soot, embers, fire, and smoke to his advantage, employing them in many devastating ways. He turned daemons into living bombs, suffocating them with choking fumes, incinerating them from within, and utilizing a myriad of equally grisly tactics.
All around him, the desert transformed into a wasteland of glass and embers. The blood raining on and around him evaporated into billowing clouds of steam, which Navaron soon harnessed as another weapon against his foes.
He was a cataclysm incarnate—a stellar inferno unleashed upon this plane, smiting all who dared to challenge him. It was a massacre, an unyielding assault against the progeny of blood and thunder.
Yet, despite his newfound might, Navaron couldn't shake the weariness seeping into his spirit. A firestorm only consumes, and Navaron knew that while he could sustain himself by incinerating the souls of the daemons around him, his concentration would wane, and eventually, he would falter.
Navaron's survival depended on Malal, whose savage and relentless assault surpassed his fiery onslaught. While Navaron tapped into the power of the Firetide, Malal unleashed his primal instincts and lethal skill to tear through their foes with brutal efficiency.
Malal's assault was relentless and merciless. Fangs, claws, sword, and pistol became extensions of his lethal will, carving through the daemonic horde ruthlessly. He moved with the precision of a predator and the brutality of a storm, laughing with manic glee as he dispatched foe after foe. It was clear that none of the daemons ever stood a chance against him.
A trial of bodies, blood, fire, and glass lay in their wake, yet Navaron couldn't discern if they were any closer to the Ashlands. The relentless onslaught of daemons was taking its toll, and Navaron became increasingly overwhelmed. Some of the daemons had begun to adapt their tactics, making the battle a test of willpower and cunning.
Navaron's strength began to wane as the daemonic horde pressed in from all sides. A squad of surprisingly tactical lesser daemons, clad in brass armor and wielding various weapons, began herding weaker hellspawn toward him. These sacrificial pawns absorbed Navaron's attacks, allowing the more formidable foes to close in and strike while he was occupied. Despite his fiery form's resilience to physical assaults, Navaron found himself beset on all fronts.
He prepared to unleash his final gambit, realizing he had no recourse. As he fended off the relentless assault, a swirling vortex of ash, fire, and smoke began to coalesce around him, gradually transforming into a raging tornado of flames.
The realm around Navaron seemed to contort and warp under the onslaught of his infernal power, consumed by a maelstrom of fire and destruction. The sand and blood melded together, twisting into a grotesque crimson glass that encased the charred remnants of the daemonic horde. The intense heat and pressure emanating from the flames would have swiftly snuffed out the life of any mortal unfortunate enough to be nearby, suffocating them in an instant.
In this moment, Navaron embodied the Cleansing Flame, the embodiment of Radiant Light's purity and the harbinger of the Firetide's absolution. His spirit consumed all in its path, reducing everything to ash and cinder.
And then, as the darkness closed in around him and exhaustion overcame his senses, Navaron succumbed to oblivion.
"The Coven of Storms removed whatever fleet assets we had left in orbit, along with our resupply. Calling our situation dire would be an understatement. Our efforts on RP06 are thoroughly undone."
"..."
"I wish I could maintain your enthusiasm, but valor and skill will not see us through this. The Imperial Army is running out of shells for their artillery, and we've already begun to ration food and medical supplies. Qin Xa believes our only hope is taking down this blasted fortress, and I agree. If we can break the warp's hold on this world, we should be able to hold out long enough for a relief force to arrive."
"..."
"No, I'm sorry, but I need you here. Morale within our encampments is plummeting, and there has been increased rebel and cult activity as well. If we aren't careful, we'll have a full rebellion on top of a daemonic counter-offensive."
"..."
"It's not ideal or a good use of your talents, but it is necessary. We're running out of time, ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏. This will be our last gambit. If we fail to take down the fortress, our only hope is to perform a fighting retreat."
"..."
"I never doubted you. A Hellbreaker shall never harbor doubts and act as a beacon for his brothers."
Navaron's memories painted a picture of a life filled with valor and duty, a path he took alongside comrades and heroes on the battlefield of Terra and beyond. He recalled the pride of serving as an Astartes and had the indomitable spirit of the Eternal Wardens coursing through his veins.
But even the mightiest warriors face moments of peril, and Navaron's journey took a darker turn when he nearly met his end. In some ways, he did. But duty never ends, not even in death. His brothers interred him within the confines of a Dreadnought. So that he could continue to wage war against the enemies of man.
He found a new place among the ranks of the Hellbreakers, a brotherhood bound hidden within the legion. Yet, amidst the chaos and turmoil of a great war, his fortunes shifted, and the threads of his fate began to unravel.
As Navaron grappled with fragmented memories and fleeting glimpses of consciousness, he was adrift like before in that great void of radiant black, drifting in and out. The boundaries between reality and dreams blur, leaving him to question the nature of his survival. Amidst the haze of confusion, one undeniable reality emerged—Malal had intervened to save him from the jaws of oblivion.
The details of how and why remained shrouded in uncertainty. Navaron's memories were fragmented, but he vividly recalled the intensity of battle before consciousness slipped away. During his brief moments of lucidity, he was carried on the back of an abhorrent creature with white fur and shimmering iridescent scales, hurtling through the landscape at breakneck speed.
Malal was conspicuously absent, yet Navaron couldn't shake the feeling that the creature was him. It wouldn't be that much of a stretch at this point. Perhaps it was a manifestation of his power via a transformation, but Navaron didn't really care.
As they journeyed towards what Navaron hoped were the Ashlands, his consciousness wavered again. Upon awakening, he found himself no longer astride the beast, and the familiar desert landscape had been replaced by a charred forest, still smoldering under a crimson sky.
"Ah, you're finally awake." Malal's voice cut through the haze as Navaron struggled to orient himself. The sight of the creature leaning against a scorched tree brought a mix of relief and wariness. "You're a tough one to keep alive," Malal remarked with a twisted grin, his fangs gleaming in the dim light.
Navaron regarded him with a cautious gaze, his ethereal eyes piercing through the haze of exhaustion. Despite his reservations, he accepted Malal's offered hand when the creature approached. Their touch was unnatural cold, and it felt like his spirit dimmed.
Malal either didn't notice or care, "And here I thought you'd refuse my aid. Dare I say, is this a glimmer of trust?"
"No," Navaron replied, his tone devoid of emotion. "I simply deemed you worthy of respect and gratitude." That was all he would divulge. "Where are we? Is this the Ashlands? What happened to the daemons attacking us? How did we end up here?"
"We're within the Ashlands, which addresses your first inquiries," Malal responded swiftly. "As for the Neverborn, your little stunt dispatched enough of them to deter the others. And as for our mode of arrival, I carried you."
All of that sounded right, "I remember riding some sort of creature."
"Hmm, yes. I'd rather you don't repeat that part of the story to anyone. I'm rather sensitive about people that see that form." Malal gave Navaron a bloody, wolfish grin. Well, Navaron wasn't about to tell anyone that he rode a daemon.
"So... I owe you my life," Navaron admitted, a hint of discomfort evident in his voice. "Thank you, Malal."
"Ah, but of course," Malal responded with a casual wave. "Consider it a gesture of my boundless generosity. Although, I must admit, stabilizing your spirit was no easy feat. You had nearly exhausted the Firetide within you."
Navaron absorbed the information, feeling a mix of gratitude and apprehension. "It felt like I was consuming everything in sight."
"You were," Malal confirmed, a touch of admiration in his tone. "You left quite the mark on the desert, a testament to our battle against the Neverborn as we made our way to the Ashlands. Quite impressive, well, at least considering your flicker soul."
Surveying the unfamiliar landscape, Navaron found himself in awe of this desolate expanse that was the Ashlands. It was as if the boundaries between worlds had blurred once more. How he got here was confusing enough as it is, but dwelling on such thoughts yielded no answers.
Malal's cryptic explanation lingered in Navaron's mind like a haunting echo. "How did you stabilize my soul exactly?" he pressed, a note of suspicion coloring his tone.
The demonic figure's smirk only deepened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I simply lent you a fraction of my essence, a small token to keep your light healthy." he explained, his words dripping with sinister amusement. Navaron's unease grew palpable, a flicker of alarm igniting within him.
"Don't worry," Malal reassured, though his tone held a hint of mischief. "I may have tested your resilience a bit with trying to corrupt you, but there's no need for concern. The attempt failed but I suppose I didn't really try either."
Navaron's anger surged, the flames of his soul burning brighter with each passing moment. "You dared to tamper with my soul?!" he seethed, his voice laced with fury.
Malal met his gaze with unrepentant amusement. "I simply explored the boundaries of possibility," he retorted, a sly grin playing on his lips.
A sudden wave of cold washed over Navaron, his spirit quivering with a sensation akin to frostbite. He collapsed to the ground, a cry of anguish tearing from his lips.
To his astonishment, Malal was at his side in an instant, offering a rare display of concern. "You've overexerted yourself," he observed, his tone surprisingly gentle. "Harness the power of these lands, let their infernal energy sustain you. You must act swiftly, or risk succumbing to the chill of oblivion."
As Navaron obeyed Malal's instructions, he felt the tendrils of flame and ash responding to his command, converging upon his soul in a swirling dance of power. The essence of the dead land answered his call, drawn to the flickering ember of his spirit.
In that moment, Navaron was engulfed by the flames that had consumed the flesh of daemons, the ash of a scorched afterlife, and the choking smoke of tormented souls. It was a sensation of both agony and ecstasy, a communion with the eternal flame that coursed through his being.
For Navaron, it was a moment that felt transcendent, a glimpse into what the Firetide.
"Ah, yes..." Malal's voice broke the silence, a note of disgusting satisfaction evident in his tone. "Embrace it. Savor it. Make it your own."
But Navaron knew better than to succumb completely to the intoxicating allure of the flames. With a force of will, he severed the connection, pulling himself back from the brink before he became ensnared by its seductive embrace.
Navaron returned to standing with renewed strength, "I don't know what just happened, but I feel better. However, don't think for a second that will make me forget that you tampered with my soul, Daemon."
Malal just waved off the complaint, "Yes, yes. I apologize for trying to corrupt you." He didn't sound sincere at all, "Now then, shall we head to the Crown and get you out of this place?"
"Yes." Navaron said, with some bitterness in his tone, "I'm quite done with this place and you."
"Hmph." Malal sounded amused, "You, Navaron, are a very distrustful person to someone who has taken quite the effort to aid you. I told you before: I'm not your enemy."
Navaron's gaze remained fixed on Malal, his expression guarded. "You're not my enemy, but you're not exactly my friend either."
Malal chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down Navaron's ethereal form. "Fair enough. But as I said before as well, I
do want to help you."
Navaron scoffed but chose not to press further. He had no choice but to accept Malal's help for now, no matter how begrudgingly. "Lead the way," he said, resigned to their temporary alliance.
With a wicked grin, Malal stepped forward, his silhouette casting eerie shadows against the desolate landscape. "Follow closely, my friend. There might still be enemies lurking, unlikely as that may be."
"Just…lead on."
"Qin Xa has fallen."
"I AM AWARE."
"We've lost the battle for this world. Most of the Imperial Army is gone, our kin and cousins are caught in isolated positions, and no help is coming. I dare say we are quite in a bad position."
"THERE IS NOTHING LEFT TO DO BUT FIGHT TO THE END."
"We'll hold at section 09-AF. That's the most entrenched position. The Iron Warriors have fortified as much as possible. Perhaps a miracle will arrive."
"PERHAPS."
"...I didn't expect things to go so wrong. I thought we could do better."
"WE DID OUR DUTY. THERE IS NOTHING SHAMEFUL IN THAT TRUTH. WE SHALL DIE HERE OR WE SHALL BE SAVED. I AM READY TO DIE. SO ARE THE OTHERS."
"Then I hope we die well, my friend."
"WE SHALL, BUT I ALSO HAVE HOPE FOR A RELIEF FORCE."
"Truly?"
"HOPE IS A DANGEROUS THING, BUT IT CAN NEVER BE DESTROYED. NEVER UNDONE BY THE NIGHTMARES ASSAILING US. THEY FEAR IT. RESENT IT. AND AS LONG WE HAVE IT, WE SHALL WIN."
"I suppose, if nothing else, we can hope our brothers will emerge victorious in this war."
"THAT I HAVE THE UTMOST CONFIDENCE IN."
The Ashlands unfolded before Navaron like a canvas of twisted beauty, a desolate landscape imbued with a strange allure. Whether it was his own perception or the influence of the Firetide's blessing, he found solace in this bleak realm, preferring it over the unforgiving desert they had traversed.
Once, this land might have flourished as a forest, teeming with life and vitality. Only charred tree remnants and dry riverbeds remained remnants of a past long consumed by the relentless flames of the Firetide. Despite its desolation, a certain grim majesty to the Ashlands captivated Navaron's senses.
The bones of fallen daemons littered the ground among the desolate landscape, a testament to the ferocity of battles long past. Malal seemed unperturbed by the sight, even finding amusement in occasionally kicking the sturdy remains. "Strength is etched in bone," he remarked, a hint of twisted dark pride in his voice as he led Navaron forward.
Time seemed to flow relatively normal here, its passage marked by the subtle shifts of the crimson sky above. Navaron estimated they had been walking for about an hour, although the concept of time felt abstract and fluid in this otherworldly landscape. Above them, the red stars cast their eerie glow, casting a ghostly light upon the desolate expanse of the Ashlands.
But what Navaron wanted to ascertain was the whereabouts of the Crown. "How close are we to finding the Crown?"
"Hmm," Malal mused aloud, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "That's a pertinent question. I should have sensed its presence by now, which is disconcerting."
"Why is that concerning?" Navaron inquired.
Malal weighed his words carefully. "It could indicate a waning of its power and radiance. As you've likely realized, the Firetide adheres to certain principles. It cannot endlessly consume all in its path. Sooner or later, it will deplete its fuel or smother itself."
"So the Crown could be fading?" Navaron's optimism waned. "Then our journey may have been in vain."
"Now, now," Malal interjected, his grin unsettling as he waved one elongated limb. "I never implied it's completely extinguished, only that its brilliance might be dimming. Nonetheless, I have a remedy if that's the case."
"A solution?" Navaron's interest piqued.
"You," Malal declared, his smile now predatory. "All it requires is a small 'spark' of power, something your soul possesses thanks to the blessing, and a bit of fuel, which you can acquire from the Ashlands as you already experienced."
Navaron found the concept intriguing. "Is it within my capabilities to craft something akin to the Crown?"
"Ha, hardly," Malal swiftly dismissed the notion. "That, my friend, exceeds the bounds of your blessing, at least for now. Circumstances may evolve naturally. However, you can ignite smaller manifestations of it, like little bonfires."
"Bonfires..." Navaron mulled over the idea momentarily before refocusing on their primary objective. "All right, our priority is to locate the Crown before it's compromised."
"Indeed," Malal agreed, scanning their surroundings, presumably attempting to discern the Crown's direction. "Now, what color was it again...?" he muttered, leaving Navaron puzzled.
They pressed onward, with Navaron trailing behind Malal, though he wasn't idle. With the prospect of potentially reigniting the Crown, Navaron began experimenting with his abilities, attempting to further commune with the Ashlands and perhaps gather some "fuel."
He sensed the land's dormant vitality, waiting for the day it might flourish in the absence of the Crown. Part of Navaron wished he could aid its revival, but he knew leaving it as a charred wasteland was a necessary sacrifice to prevent daemons from gaining an advantage.
Fire and ash now dominated the landscape, with the dead serving as morbid adornments to the Crown. It seemed fitting, considering even daemons feared the Firetide. Such power, and Navaron possessed a blessing from it. If only he could return to the Materium...
"There it is," Malal finally announced after what felt like hours. "As I suspected, it's considerably weaker now. Fortunately, it has you to rejuvenate it."
"Lucky me," Navaron muttered, another question on his mind. "How exactly will I use the Crown to escape this place?"
"The Crowns are conduits to the greater Firetide, which is connected to the broader warp," Malal explained. "Think of them as gateways. You've already traversed one to reach Las Noches, so it stands to reason you can replicate the feat."
Navaron expressed concern. "But won't it just transport me to another realm?"
"Indeed," Malal confirmed, appearing puzzled by the question. "Unless you can determine the exit point, you'll move randomly. However, fear not. I have a solution. I know you wish to return to the Materium, and I know how to make it happen."
Rather than displaying excitement or gratitude, Navaron remained skeptical. "Really? How convenient."
"Is that skepticism I detect?" Malal's expression held a hint of amusement. "Are you questioning my motives?"
"Yes," Navaron replied bluntly. "You're going to great lengths to assist a stranger."
"I am," Malal confirmed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Isn't that intriguing?"
"More ominous than intriguing," Navaron countered.
Malal raised a clawed finger. "Once again, I implore you to trust me. I'm not your enemy, as I keep telling you."
"You keep insisting that, yet I remain unconvinced."
If Navaron's skepticism bothered Malal, he didn't show it. Instead, he simply shrugged, a faintly bemused expression on his face. "I've brought you this far, Navaron. Your means of escape is within reach. While it's true that some things seem too good to be true, sometimes fortune favors the deserving."
Navaron's resolve hardened. "True, but good deeds often attract consequences."
"Indeed," Malal conceded before pressing on. "You're under no obligation to depart, you know? I wouldn't mind your company."
"I have no desire to remain here."
"Then place your trust in my intentions and solutions, and your escape is assured," Malal reiterated. The conversation ended. If Navaron had any other solutions, he wouldn't have seen them anywhere. Malal must have known that. Bastard had him trapped.
Navaron kept an eye on Malal, but shortly after their conversation, he felt a pulse of power originating from a direction. It was faint but quite familiar. A sensation he felt within the radiant black before interacting with the mountain of fire.
The crown was close by now.
"Not much time left! ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏ are the charges ready?"
"THEY ARE. THERE IS NOTHING LEFT TO DO NOW. THE DAEMONS HAVE ALREADY BREACHED SECTIONS GAMMA AND DELTA. TODAY IS THE DAY OF OUR DEATHS."
"This might not be the most glorious end I envisioned, but it shall be one that is of our own choosing."
"INDEED. LONG HAVE I AWAITED THIS DAY. I AM PLEASED IT SHALL BE AMONG HEROES."
"Die well, ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏."
"DIE WELL, CAPTAIN THULE."
They reached the Crown of the Ashlands at last.
Unlike the fiery peak in the void of the radiant black, the Crown resembled a swirling vortex of flames and light, like a pulsating orb of plasma suspended over a desolate pool of extinguished oil. It was encircled by wisps of ash and soot that danced around it like ethereal rings. Navaron observed its placement above a shattered archway constructed from obsidian and stone, indicating how this place was previously some sort of gateway.
It was both magnificent and haunting, possessing a beauty and power that left Navaron at a loss for words. Yet, its brilliance was waning, its essence fading. Navaron feared that had they not arrived when they did, it might have succumbed to oblivion.
"Well then," Malal began, breaking the silence, "Let's proceed. Rekindle your inner light and allow the Crown to draw upon it and the energy you've amassed. That should restore its stability."
"Understood," Navaron replied, steeling himself for what lay ahead. Despite the uncertainty, a flicker of excitement stirred within him at the prospect of finally escaping this twisted realm.
Navaron sensed its feeble pulsations as he approached the Crown, a faint acknowledgment of the Firetide blessing within him. It seemed to welcome him, reassuring him with its gentle presence. He knew instinctively that it posed no threat but instead embraced him.
With a surge of determination, Navaron felt his inner fire blaze brighter, calling out to the very essence of the Ashlands. In response, many elemental forces and spirits surged forth of this dead but still living realm, swirling around him in a tempest of fire, soot, ash, and smoke—the remnants of the infernos that had plagued this realm for epochs.
These elemental energies converged upon the Crown in a harmonious convergence, drawn by its beckoning call. With a breath of vitality akin to the breath of life itself, the Crown shimmered and ignited, bursting into renewed vitality. A radiant aura enveloped Navaron, a beacon of pure brilliance amidst the crimson haze of the Ashlands—a symbol of life amidst the desolation. It was a sight to behold, akin to dawn breaking in this realm of eternal twilight, casting its luminous glow over the ashen landscape.
Once again, the living symbol of the Firetide burned brightly, illuminating the path to Navaron's salvation.
Navaron stood in awe before the activated Crown and heard clapping behind him. Malal approached with a smirk. "I had faith in you. Truly remarkable. You should take pride in your achievement."
Navaron glanced at the Crown, then back at Malal, a puzzled expression on his face. "I'm surprised it's not attempting to incinerate you."
"Ah, it knows better than to try," Malal replied with a confident grin. "But enough about that. It's time to fulfill my promise." He produced a small chunk of obsidian, reminiscent of the material comprising the archway beneath the Crown. "Before we proceed, have you reconsidered my proposal?"
Navaron paused, recalling their earlier conversation. "An alliance?" He shook his head. "I appreciate what you've done, but I can't commit to anything like that."
"Not even after everything we've endured together? No trust whatsoever?" Malal's disappointment was evident in his voice.
Navaron remained steadfast. "You may possess a form of honor, albeit twisted, but it's not enough for me to trust you."
Malal nodded, seemingly resigned to Navaron's decision. "Very well... I can't say I didn't try." With a sudden, swift movement, Malal's hand darted forward, thrusting the obsidian shard directly into Navaron's soul, defying all conventional speed.
A chill, malevolent sensation flooded Navaron's being, a venomous surge that eclipsed even the comforting embrace of his blessing, leaving him momentarily stunned and powerless. Surprisingly, it was Malal who steadied him, his twisted smirk belying his true intentions.
"Easy now..." Malal's voice dripped with false reassurance. "You might feel discomfort now...but you'll feel incredible later. Just allow your light to envelop that sensation. Embrace it."
"You..." Navaron's voice faltered, his fury unable to break the hold of Malal's influence. He was utterly at the daemon's mercy.
"That's just a part of my essence getting comfortable," Malal explained casually. "That obsidian shard is an extension of me, as is the gateway you're about to traverse. This place used to be mine, you know. Don't fret; the Firetide won't begrudge you possessing it."
Navaron's soul felt tainted, its once vibrant hues dimmed by an ominous presence, yet a perverse strength seemed to burgeon within him. "What...have you done?!"
"Don't be so incredulous," Malal retorted, his laughter tinged with malice. "You should be grateful. I've bestowed upon you a gift, free of charge. It'll make you exceptionally proficient at dispatching Neverborn. And that's precisely what I want. You, Navaron, annihilating them permanently while I...reap the rewards of their demise."
Recalling their earlier conversation, Navaron could only muster a single question: "Why?"
"Why?" Malal's laughter grew manic. "Why not?! I've told you, Navaron, I'm not your adversary! We share a common objective. We both seek to see Chaos vanquished! You've gained everything you desired and more without compromising your mission to humanity!"
With a feral gleam in his eyes, Malal's bestial nature resurfaced. "It's brilliant! It's a mutual exchange! It's the dawn of a new partnership! Malal and Navaron! Oh, the possibilities are endless." He flashed Navaron a wicked smirk. "And it's more than you deserve, imposter."
Navaron's mind reeled with disbelief. "Imposter?"
Malal reveled in Navaron's bewilderment. "Oh, dear Navaron, you truly don't comprehend your essence, do you?"
Spreading his arms wide to encompass the blazing woods, Malal declared, "Witness...Navaron the Martyr! The Ghost! The Blessed! The Enkindled! And now, the Chosen of Malice! But beneath all those titles...you are but an impostor, my friend."
Lowering himself to Navaron's level, Malal's smile turned sinister. "But fret not, for in the grand scheme, we are all impostors. You have a choice. More significantly, you possess a destiny!"
He refused to believe any of this, "I AM Navaron!" Despite the agony, Navaron's spirit surged forth, fortifying his resolve. "I am an Eternal Warden! I am Hellbreaker! I fought alongside the Daemonsbane and his champions! Whatever else I may be now, it does not alter my past deeds!"
Navaron's defiance only served to fuel Malal's amusement, his laughter echoing through the fiery landscape like the cackle of a madman. "You don't get it! You aren't real! You are an amalgamation forged by forces beyond your comprehension. And yet, you've stolen another man's soul and identity, and that is the extent of your existence! To assume the guises of others! You have no history, no future, save for the one I grant you now!"
Eyes alight with fervor, Malal reveled in the chaos he had wrought. "Oh, this is glorious! I've acquired a formidable asset, and the possibilities are endless! Everything is falling into place, dear Navaron! Everything is coming up, Malice!"
Navaron attempted to harness the power of the Firetide, driven by defiance toward Malal, but he found himself overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the creature's essence. "Then I'll meet my demise upon my return."
"You have every right to make that choice!" Malal countered. "But in doing so, you'd squander the gift of fire, the legacy of Navaron the Martyr, and the sacrifices of those who fought alongside you. Your options are simple now: to perish or to battle. A classic conclusion for heroes."
Turning his attention momentarily away from Navaron, Malal approached the Crown and summoned a peculiar force, causing it to transform into a searing tear in reality.
"But I've monopolized enough of your time," Malal's tone grew somber. "It's time for you to return home. Reunite with your kin and resume your duty of eradicating the Neverborn. You serve as my conduit. Therefore, do me the favor of targeting the mightiest adversaries. I've grown weary of dealing with the insignificant fodder of Blood and Thunder."
The weight upon Navaron's soul dissipated, prompting him to launch an attack against Malal in a fit of frustration and anger. Yet, Malal effortlessly dodged or deflected each blow before delivering a forceful strike to the core of Navaron's being, causing him to fall to the ground.
"That's the spirit," Malal cheered, unfazed by Navaron's futile resistance. "The fire within you, both literal and metaphorical, shall bring me great pride."
Navaron, humiliated and seething with resentment, remained grounded, his spirit battered. "I refuse to be your pawn." The words felt so pathetic.
"You were a pawn long before you stumbled upon my doorstep," Malal retorted bluntly. "Do you believe the Firetide or the Nomad World offered you a choice? No, you'd have been their automaton."
Approaching the subdued Navaron once more, Malal extended his hand. "I'm extending you an opportunity. Does that opportunity include attempting to end my existence at a later time? Perhaps. So if you feel so strongly about killing me, then I strongly advise you to reconsider your next course of action and get on your way."
Navaron reluctantly clasped Malal's hand, his fingers curling around the daemon's cold grip. The sensation, once foreign, now felt eerily familiar, sending a shiver down his spine. "I will end you..."
Malal's smile widened a glint of anticipation in his eyes. "And I will bring about the downfall of my kin and the Neverborn. Remember what I said? I aim for a graceful exit. So, do us both a favor and eliminate them all before seeking me out, understood?"
"You and I..." Navaron's voice was determined, a resolve forged in the fires of his indignation. "We are not allies. Don't ever presume to call upon me."
"I won't," Malal affirmed solemnly. "Rest assured, I offer no fortune or favors, only doom. Your actions from this moment forth are your own. As I said, the choice is yours."
"You ensnared me."
Malal nodded, acknowledging the truth. "Indeed, I did. And now...I shall reap the rewards." He then gestured to the Crown, "Now. It's time for you to go."
Navaron's heart churned with conflicting emotions as he stood before the Crown, grappling with the unsettling revelation of his identity. The memories of his past as a Warden clashed with the disconcerting notion that he might be something else entirely—an impostor, as Malal claimed.
With a heavy heart, Navaron steeled himself, determined to escape this twisted realm and confront the enigma of his existence. As he prepared to embark on his journey back to the Materium, Malal's ominous words echoed through the clearing, casting a pall over his resolve.
"Good luck," Malal's voice carried a sinister undertone, his looming presence casting a shadow over Navaron's path. "And if you meet your end...die well, Hellbreaker."
Navaron clenched his fists, pushing aside the doubts and uncertainties clouding his mind. With one final glance at the looming figure of Malal, he summoned his courage and stepped into the fiery embrace of the Crown, embracing its warmth. Wherever he ended up next…it wouldn't matter now.
Malal's taint would follow him.
The last thing ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏ remembered on RP06 was fighting a breach within the last line of defense before getting overrun and activating the satchel charges around his position, which ended his life—a brilliant end.
His soul passed on to the abyss, as had the hundreds of billions of others that died within the Maelstrom. Not all of which would end up in safe hands. ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏ was, unfortunately, one such soul.
The Nomad World, Tumultus, snatched it before any daemon could and attempted to recreate the one known as Navaron, but it was destroyed before having any chance to use it. The soul was left adrift ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏ instead of Navaron, yet ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏ slowly assumed the form and memories of Navaron.
A ghost that caught the attention of the Firetide for whatever otherworldly reason. Perhaps it was simply looking to curb the spread of lost souls from the recent wars, especially the one between the Blood God and Gork and Mork, or maybe it was simply "curious" in that respect.
⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏ was, beyond all things, an anomaly. Too useful or maybe just too strange to kill.
The blessing of the Firetide made it easier for ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏ it to become the concept of Navaron. Left to its own devices, it would have been a powerful asset in due time, but the fates had other plans in store for ⋏⏃⎐⏃⍀⍜⋏.
Such was often the case.
Whoever Navaron was, had been, or would be was a pointless endeavor. For all the cruelties of the one known as Malice, they at least adhered to one constant: Chaos had to die. If nothing else, that was something Navaron the Martyr, the Blessed, the Ghost, the Enkindled, and Chosen could at least abide by.
---
@Daemon Hunter Alright, done.
