@Daemon Hunter To help put this into perspective, just how many favors of different levels (Minor/Major/Honorbound) did Roboute promise to each group that helped?
The Lost Primarch Quest
- Thread starter Daemon Hunter
- Start date
- Location
- Elsewhere
2 Honorbounds for Fulgrim and Ferrus
1 Minor for Venus
1 Minor for Morningstar
1 Major for the Eldar
October 28th, 2024 Omake Rewards
- Location
- Elsewhere
Individual Values - Alright, omakes. First up we have another fun omake covering Corvus and Sachmis with Eldrad doing some divination for what to expect from the Port. Overall it's a nice, well written omake and for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to Corvus' rolls for the turn
[] +10 to Sachmis' rolls for the turn
The Rune of Chaos. - Then we have an interesting omake on Kesar figuring out the Rune of Chaos. Overall I do like the vision within it, as well as Kesar outright calling out Chaos for trying to control him. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +1 runic action year next turn
[] Slightly increased trait gain for Kesar this turn
Welcome Back - Up next we have an excellent omake covering Orion returning to the Legion and him having a nice conversation with Oriacarius. I do like how it shows what he earned from his travels and I definitely appreciate the addition of the letter at the end. It fits perfectly with what I was hoping for. As for your reward:
[] +15 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to Orion's rolls for the turn
[] Slight increase to discoveries gained from the items Orion has recovered
The One Above All - Here we have a nice, fun omake covering the Emperor going deep into the realm of faith. It's a fun omake and I do like looking at these kinds of perspectives. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] Ask the GM a question and they shall answer (subject to veto)
[] +10 to select diplomacy rolls against the Emperor this turn
Unexpected Disconnect and Connection - Here we have an excellent omake covering some unexpected character drama that unfolded behind the scenes. It's very well written and I really enjoy how you translated the rolls into a fun narrative. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to Orion's rolls for the turn
[] +10 to Slayer's rolls for the turn
A Mutual Problem - Next up we have the return of Kazar, a Thousand Son that's been working with the Eldar for quite some time now. Man, seeing the comment of Kazar being in a relationship for 25 years made me realize just how long ago the relationship between Magnus and the Eldar began. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] Slight increase in research gains that make use of the Black Library next turn (most of them)
[] +10 to Eldar rolls when working with Wardens this turn
The Rune of Will. - And here we have the rune of will in an omake that's very well written. I do appreciate the ending section covering just how the flame was forged. As for your reward, that was already given:
*-1 year for the Rune of Will
The Forging of the Key to Primal Will - Up next we have the forging of the Primal Rune of Will, it's nice to see a return of the Starlight Basin in omakes and I do enjoy the descriptions here. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] -1 year for the creation of the Primal Rune when you meet the requirements for it
[] Ask the GM a question and they shall answer (subject to veto)
The Reborn Delta Factions (Part One) - Then we have the reborn Delta Factions, groups that have now been revived from the death with Mortarion's secession. I'm very glad to see these guys back, especially from a narrative perspective. All of them are just so fun. As for your reward, that was already provided:
*Reduced degree of escalation in the Desolation this turn
Awaken, The Rune of Anathema. - Then we have Kesar preparing for conflict all on his own. It's an interesting plan to have him face a daemonworld. And one that is risky, but the rewards are great. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to Kesar's compliance rolls this turn (his specifically)
[] -10 to daemonic reinforcement rolls for where Kesar is sent
War-Born - Here we have a fun omake covering the Red Tusks and their deployment to the Consolidation. It's a very nicely written omake and I enjoyed it greatly. It's always fun to see more proto heroes. As for your reward, that was already given:
*Increased chance for proto heroes heroing
+10 to rolls against the Tixburi
Worldfall - Then we have the Crystal Dragons landing on the world and having some very interesting rolls which results in them just moving the fortress following success by the IA. It's a fun omake and for your reward, that was already given:
*Reduced IA deaths during the conflict
First Blow - And here we have Ferrus having a grand old time and taking the Yangzi facilities, achieving the first blow in the invasion. I do enjoy the description of Dark Sky and the combat within the facility. As for your reward, that was already given:
*Slight increased trait gain for all involved
Situation Critical - And the last omake for the day is the Consolidation attempting to plan what to do next as well as their failsafes, some of which did get into working order such as NIGHTMARE and Dandelion albeit to a lesser degree. Overall I enjoyed the Tixburi perspective, and as with the other omakes, this was already rewarded:
*+10 to rolls against the Tixburi
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to Corvus' rolls for the turn
[] +10 to Sachmis' rolls for the turn
The Rune of Chaos. - Then we have an interesting omake on Kesar figuring out the Rune of Chaos. Overall I do like the vision within it, as well as Kesar outright calling out Chaos for trying to control him. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +1 runic action year next turn
[] Slightly increased trait gain for Kesar this turn
Welcome Back - Up next we have an excellent omake covering Orion returning to the Legion and him having a nice conversation with Oriacarius. I do like how it shows what he earned from his travels and I definitely appreciate the addition of the letter at the end. It fits perfectly with what I was hoping for. As for your reward:
[] +15 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to Orion's rolls for the turn
[] Slight increase to discoveries gained from the items Orion has recovered
The One Above All - Here we have a nice, fun omake covering the Emperor going deep into the realm of faith. It's a fun omake and I do like looking at these kinds of perspectives. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] Ask the GM a question and they shall answer (subject to veto)
[] +10 to select diplomacy rolls against the Emperor this turn
Unexpected Disconnect and Connection - Here we have an excellent omake covering some unexpected character drama that unfolded behind the scenes. It's very well written and I really enjoy how you translated the rolls into a fun narrative. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to Orion's rolls for the turn
[] +10 to Slayer's rolls for the turn
A Mutual Problem - Next up we have the return of Kazar, a Thousand Son that's been working with the Eldar for quite some time now. Man, seeing the comment of Kazar being in a relationship for 25 years made me realize just how long ago the relationship between Magnus and the Eldar began. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] Slight increase in research gains that make use of the Black Library next turn (most of them)
[] +10 to Eldar rolls when working with Wardens this turn
The Rune of Will. - And here we have the rune of will in an omake that's very well written. I do appreciate the ending section covering just how the flame was forged. As for your reward, that was already given:
*-1 year for the Rune of Will
The Forging of the Key to Primal Will - Up next we have the forging of the Primal Rune of Will, it's nice to see a return of the Starlight Basin in omakes and I do enjoy the descriptions here. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] -1 year for the creation of the Primal Rune when you meet the requirements for it
[] Ask the GM a question and they shall answer (subject to veto)
The Reborn Delta Factions (Part One) - Then we have the reborn Delta Factions, groups that have now been revived from the death with Mortarion's secession. I'm very glad to see these guys back, especially from a narrative perspective. All of them are just so fun. As for your reward, that was already provided:
*Reduced degree of escalation in the Desolation this turn
Awaken, The Rune of Anathema. - Then we have Kesar preparing for conflict all on his own. It's an interesting plan to have him face a daemonworld. And one that is risky, but the rewards are great. As for your reward:
[] +10 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to Kesar's compliance rolls this turn (his specifically)
[] -10 to daemonic reinforcement rolls for where Kesar is sent
War-Born - Here we have a fun omake covering the Red Tusks and their deployment to the Consolidation. It's a very nicely written omake and I enjoyed it greatly. It's always fun to see more proto heroes. As for your reward, that was already given:
*Increased chance for proto heroes heroing
+10 to rolls against the Tixburi
Worldfall - Then we have the Crystal Dragons landing on the world and having some very interesting rolls which results in them just moving the fortress following success by the IA. It's a fun omake and for your reward, that was already given:
*Reduced IA deaths during the conflict
First Blow - And here we have Ferrus having a grand old time and taking the Yangzi facilities, achieving the first blow in the invasion. I do enjoy the description of Dark Sky and the combat within the facility. As for your reward, that was already given:
*Slight increased trait gain for all involved
Situation Critical - And the last omake for the day is the Consolidation attempting to plan what to do next as well as their failsafes, some of which did get into working order such as NIGHTMARE and Dandelion albeit to a lesser degree. Overall I enjoyed the Tixburi perspective, and as with the other omakes, this was already rewarded:
*+10 to rolls against the Tixburi
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[] +10 to Corvus' rolls for the turn
[] +10 to Orion's rolls for the turn
[] +10 to Orion's rolls for the turn
[] Slight increase in research gains that make use of the Black Library next turn (most of them)
@Daemon Hunter [] Ask the GM a question and they shall answer (subject to veto)
"What could Kesar learn/use from Project Nightmare if Roboute gave it to him?"
[] +10 to Orion's rolls for the turn
[] +10 to Orion's rolls for the turn
[] Slight increase in research gains that make use of the Black Library next turn (most of them)
@Daemon Hunter [] Ask the GM a question and they shall answer (subject to veto)
"What could Kesar learn/use from Project Nightmare if Roboute gave it to him?"
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How do they keep people or things like that under control and not crazy?
- Location
- Elsewhere
For that, Kesar could learn a fair bit about memetic weapons and propagation of warp noise through minds and technology. It'd effectively allow him to create some terrifying memetic weapons almost immediately. As for less destructive things he'd learn from it, he'd figure out a method of creating weak memetics that can be used to train CR for average guardsmen.
For that, they generally use a combination of cybernetics and cryosleep to keep their activation times short. Additionally they had a limited pool of individuals capable of enduring the procedure and not start killing everyone around them or go on a megalomaniacal conquering spree.
Does that mean he can make his own memetic weapons? I mean if it is it would help with fighting non daemons for once. Me think.
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
This was a very fun time, glad you enjoyed it. Was thinking about extending it some more, but didn't want to basically do the same thing I did for Kesar's psychic awakening. Happy how it turned out, especially the intentionally abrupt ending.
I'll take the second reward, +1 runic action year next turn, as that seems fitting.
This was a really fun and cool omake, and very fitting for the Eternal Wardens. Especially now of all times! So glad this idea was considered and asked. Probably one of the best Runes we've made, certainly in terms of impact.
Man, I love the Rune of Anathema. Kesar Dorlin's first Primal Rune. And also the first time it'll actually be put to use. This is one of his best tools against armies of Chaos and now, finally, it will all come together. Hopefully, at least!
I'll take the second result, the +10 to Kesar's compliance rolls this turn, as that seems most fitting.
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- Location
- Elsewhere
Once he does the research for it he can yes. Just expect them to be considered WMDs in the setting.
Daemon also confirmed that this is a basic and then advanced research project.
- Location
- Elsewhere
[X] Plan No One and Tiny
- [X] None of them
-- [X] The Imperium is falling apart, the Emperor is causing civil war to erupt, and humanity cannot survive alone. Keeping secrets is the purview of your twin brothers, and to share them with those you trust is yours. *Kesar will share the Emperor's notes to Alpharius, and his dealings with the Eldar, and advise him to remain in the shadows for now.*
The vote is now closed. Overall, it's certainly a very fun option. Mainly in that it gives quite a few oppurtunities for shadow games in the future.
- [X] None of them
-- [X] The Imperium is falling apart, the Emperor is causing civil war to erupt, and humanity cannot survive alone. Keeping secrets is the purview of your twin brothers, and to share them with those you trust is yours. *Kesar will share the Emperor's notes to Alpharius, and his dealings with the Eldar, and advise him to remain in the shadows for now.*
The vote is now closed. Overall, it's certainly a very fun option. Mainly in that it gives quite a few oppurtunities for shadow games in the future.
'Primarch Genetics', an Apex of Kesar's Research.
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
Hiya! Decided to make another omake for Kesar's research, the penultimate one for a branch of Warp Genetic's he's nearly done, as I felt inspired to do so and think it'll be interesting when we get on with that. He's come a long way since he started first delving into gene-seed, huh?
-----
'Primarch Genetics', an Apex of Kesar's Research.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens and First Daemonsbane of Mankind, and you delve into the first true apex of Warp genetics.
The biological essence you and your twenty brothers shared, that were distilled and diluted through gene-seed to form the Astartes Legions. The Warp-augmented masterpiece from the Emperor of Mankind for bio-weaponry. Forged by the power of gods, from harvested human pantheons on a foundation built from a shattered Eldar warrior deity you had met two other pieces of.
Finally, after decades of study, you were going to directly examine the Primarch genome.
In the field of Warp-based biology, there are mountains beyond just studying the genetic lineage of your father's work. Some smaller yet more numerous and varied. Some far more complex and yet reduced in scope. Some that would take you centuries, perhaps millenia, to truly comprehend the full scope of.
The work of those who created the Orks, who uplifted the Aeldari, who manifested wonders and horrors that were so far beyond you that you felt like a child first opening its eyes as you tried to comprehend how such acts could be conceived let alone executed.
To fully understand Navigators, perhaps the strangest and yet most important sub-species of mankind. Or even those that were born with psychic capabilities and all the ways you could investigate that, not even just humans. Your own work with the Asura, the new type of supersoldiers that you had created.
This 'apex' was also just another stepping stone to digging into the mountain itself. From Astartes to Thunder Warriors to Custodes to you and your brothers, to fully map and decipher the Primarch genome alone would still not truly be done. Just how it worked with gene-seed could take endless years of experiments, research, direct modification, adjustment to the recruitment process, adding more organs and so much more.
But this was your personal mountain, a foundation to form your understanding for augmented humanity.
With samples of your own flesh and blood, research documents you had already written about the nature of Astartes and their connection to you, and,ith the Emperor's notes of both his genetic designs and his Warp knowledge before you, you dived into the arcane equations that formed… you.
The knowledge alone was worth a fortune beyond imagination. This height of bio-alchemy had been how the Great Crusade was waged. Instead of employing a relatively giant army of Custodes, absolutely loyal and unbreakable against so many opponents, the Ruler of the Imperium had chosen this path and had done so with great reason.
Of course, there were limits to what this would provide. You couldn't make 'another' Primarch with only the design, not without knowing how to forge divine essence from gods as well as somehow gaining enough of said resource to create even one such being.
You were also fairly sure that there wasn't anything you were willing to give to the Aeldari that would let you kill, spiritually lobotomise and recycle even the tiniest shard of Kaela Mensha Khaine that they possessed.
Even if you did such divine essence, it wouldn't be the end of the difficulties. There was the time, effort and material needed to safely incubate the body and growing its spirit while keeping it safe from outside interference. If the machinations of Chaos could cast you and your brothers across the galaxy, despite what must have been the best defences the Emperor could have possibly put into place, then it would be nothing but blind arrogance to think you would be safe from a similar fate without immense care.
The idea of truly creating a son, or a daughter for that matter, did float in your mind as you considered how Primarchs were made. But you were more than happy enough with the family you already possessed.
An 'empty' shell of a Primarch body did have its uses. While the Warp was the source of most of your strength, and that of your children, even a dead body could be an invaluable tool.
If one of your sons ever became severely injured again, on the brink of death… blood transfusions, organ transplants, even skin-grafts over destroyed flesh could be the difference between life and death. Or even the use of bionics or Dreadnought internment. It'd be an expensive procedure and rather time-consuming too, but if it could make the difference between recovery and loss it would be worth it.
You could also potentially be saved in a similar way. While your capability for enduring and recovering for injury was far beyond what most battles could do against you, there were times where you did engage in combat where you weren't sure if you would survive. The Battle of Three Stars on Aleph. The Ritual War of the Maelstrom. Facing the machine armies of Epsilon-354. Even against that first Lord of Change on Valhalla. You were far from infallible.
Although you'd have to ensure such bodies were well defended. Sympathetic rituals were meant to utilise something from a target's body, instead of a clone, but you weren't going to take any chances. For you or your sons.
Aside from that potential use, studying the Primarch genome could even be used to show you exactly what your father's genetics were, the man above all other men in power, the one who created you on Terra to lead the galaxy's dominion under his cold-iron will. To see the shape of his essence, its traits and its power. Knowing that could be useful for more than just helping in acts of creation and healing, but that was a thought for another day.
Of course, there was more than just the obvious sources you could examine to fully comprehend the scope of this work.
Fabius, the Master Apothecarion for the Emperor's Children, had shared multiple notes with you. His insight had helped accelerate your understanding of how Thunder Warriors worked, or rather how they did and didn't. His genius could not be denied and, in terms of drive and desire, he eclipsed you in just how dedicated he was to understanding how Primarchs worked.
Even dissecting and examining the bodies of Vulkan, Fulgrim, Konrad Curze and yourself. Also Alpharius Omegon, from what you managed to gleam about the 'Primarch cloning' that was happening with the Alpha Legion. But even while meeting in-person you weren't going to discuss such a secretive topic with him. Even with what he was doing, you didn't want to accidentally cause him to know something your twin brothers didn't want shared.
Isha, Gentle Mother of the Aeldari, was another example. While not focused on genetics as you were, instead having a far broader and deeper understanding of biology as a whole than you likely ever would, there was a staggering amount of insight that was available in the Black Library and the words of the Aeldari. You didn't have access to anything more than a small amount, but even mere legends were worth a lot for a divine pinnacle of understanding life.
The Flesh-Sculptors of the Aeldari, most notably with the Haemonculi in Commorragh, were another avenue. While you'd not want to get any of their number to directly assist your work, nor seek out training from one of those infamous madmen, there was a selection of books that detailed the horrors they had committed. While you shuddered at the depravity of such 'spectacles', you had to admit there were few other sources that truly combined psychic mastery, soul surgery and organic design as them.
Of course, the true help you received was with your own Apothecaries. Those brave warriors who dived into the worst hazards, battlefields and quarantine zones to diagnose and quickly treat all manners of injuries and sickness. With all your research on gene-seed, almost every single member contributed their own findings and analyses. Including any and all work on treating you in addition to an average Eternal Warden, or another Astartes from the exchange program. Collecting a colossal amount of data about gene-seed and your own genetics.
It would be them that would implement and understand your findings better than anyone else, adjust anything you declared needed to be done and ensure it all worked perfectly. Witnessing the tangible effects of your theories put into practice, further enhancing the capabilities of all your sons. Gene-seed brought to new levels. Perhaps even directly implanting your genome into recruits either alongside or without the use of surgically implanting organs.
You hoped your efforts would bear fruit for your sons, both present and future. Granting them greater strength, helping them against any disease or terrible mutation, helping ensure that they would survive the worst the galaxy and beyond would throw at them.
Perhaps the best thing you could do would be to further reduce how many die from gene-seed rejection, perhaps even one day eliminate the risks altogether. As you further understand yourself and your brothers, you would better know how to help and bolster Astartes as a whole.
No matter the results, this path would be walked by you and be done so to make the galaxy a better place. At least those you care for, using greater knowledge for greater might. Ending this path down where the Emperor had walked…
…and perhaps moving ahead to see what came next.
-----
'Primarch Genetics', an Apex of Kesar's Research.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens and First Daemonsbane of Mankind, and you delve into the first true apex of Warp genetics.
The biological essence you and your twenty brothers shared, that were distilled and diluted through gene-seed to form the Astartes Legions. The Warp-augmented masterpiece from the Emperor of Mankind for bio-weaponry. Forged by the power of gods, from harvested human pantheons on a foundation built from a shattered Eldar warrior deity you had met two other pieces of.
Finally, after decades of study, you were going to directly examine the Primarch genome.
In the field of Warp-based biology, there are mountains beyond just studying the genetic lineage of your father's work. Some smaller yet more numerous and varied. Some far more complex and yet reduced in scope. Some that would take you centuries, perhaps millenia, to truly comprehend the full scope of.
The work of those who created the Orks, who uplifted the Aeldari, who manifested wonders and horrors that were so far beyond you that you felt like a child first opening its eyes as you tried to comprehend how such acts could be conceived let alone executed.
To fully understand Navigators, perhaps the strangest and yet most important sub-species of mankind. Or even those that were born with psychic capabilities and all the ways you could investigate that, not even just humans. Your own work with the Asura, the new type of supersoldiers that you had created.
This 'apex' was also just another stepping stone to digging into the mountain itself. From Astartes to Thunder Warriors to Custodes to you and your brothers, to fully map and decipher the Primarch genome alone would still not truly be done. Just how it worked with gene-seed could take endless years of experiments, research, direct modification, adjustment to the recruitment process, adding more organs and so much more.
But this was your personal mountain, a foundation to form your understanding for augmented humanity.
With samples of your own flesh and blood, research documents you had already written about the nature of Astartes and their connection to you, and,ith the Emperor's notes of both his genetic designs and his Warp knowledge before you, you dived into the arcane equations that formed… you.
The knowledge alone was worth a fortune beyond imagination. This height of bio-alchemy had been how the Great Crusade was waged. Instead of employing a relatively giant army of Custodes, absolutely loyal and unbreakable against so many opponents, the Ruler of the Imperium had chosen this path and had done so with great reason.
Of course, there were limits to what this would provide. You couldn't make 'another' Primarch with only the design, not without knowing how to forge divine essence from gods as well as somehow gaining enough of said resource to create even one such being.
You were also fairly sure that there wasn't anything you were willing to give to the Aeldari that would let you kill, spiritually lobotomise and recycle even the tiniest shard of Kaela Mensha Khaine that they possessed.
Even if you did such divine essence, it wouldn't be the end of the difficulties. There was the time, effort and material needed to safely incubate the body and growing its spirit while keeping it safe from outside interference. If the machinations of Chaos could cast you and your brothers across the galaxy, despite what must have been the best defences the Emperor could have possibly put into place, then it would be nothing but blind arrogance to think you would be safe from a similar fate without immense care.
The idea of truly creating a son, or a daughter for that matter, did float in your mind as you considered how Primarchs were made. But you were more than happy enough with the family you already possessed.
An 'empty' shell of a Primarch body did have its uses. While the Warp was the source of most of your strength, and that of your children, even a dead body could be an invaluable tool.
If one of your sons ever became severely injured again, on the brink of death… blood transfusions, organ transplants, even skin-grafts over destroyed flesh could be the difference between life and death. Or even the use of bionics or Dreadnought internment. It'd be an expensive procedure and rather time-consuming too, but if it could make the difference between recovery and loss it would be worth it.
You could also potentially be saved in a similar way. While your capability for enduring and recovering for injury was far beyond what most battles could do against you, there were times where you did engage in combat where you weren't sure if you would survive. The Battle of Three Stars on Aleph. The Ritual War of the Maelstrom. Facing the machine armies of Epsilon-354. Even against that first Lord of Change on Valhalla. You were far from infallible.
Although you'd have to ensure such bodies were well defended. Sympathetic rituals were meant to utilise something from a target's body, instead of a clone, but you weren't going to take any chances. For you or your sons.
Aside from that potential use, studying the Primarch genome could even be used to show you exactly what your father's genetics were, the man above all other men in power, the one who created you on Terra to lead the galaxy's dominion under his cold-iron will. To see the shape of his essence, its traits and its power. Knowing that could be useful for more than just helping in acts of creation and healing, but that was a thought for another day.
Of course, there was more than just the obvious sources you could examine to fully comprehend the scope of this work.
Fabius, the Master Apothecarion for the Emperor's Children, had shared multiple notes with you. His insight had helped accelerate your understanding of how Thunder Warriors worked, or rather how they did and didn't. His genius could not be denied and, in terms of drive and desire, he eclipsed you in just how dedicated he was to understanding how Primarchs worked.
Even dissecting and examining the bodies of Vulkan, Fulgrim, Konrad Curze and yourself. Also Alpharius Omegon, from what you managed to gleam about the 'Primarch cloning' that was happening with the Alpha Legion. But even while meeting in-person you weren't going to discuss such a secretive topic with him. Even with what he was doing, you didn't want to accidentally cause him to know something your twin brothers didn't want shared.
Isha, Gentle Mother of the Aeldari, was another example. While not focused on genetics as you were, instead having a far broader and deeper understanding of biology as a whole than you likely ever would, there was a staggering amount of insight that was available in the Black Library and the words of the Aeldari. You didn't have access to anything more than a small amount, but even mere legends were worth a lot for a divine pinnacle of understanding life.
The Flesh-Sculptors of the Aeldari, most notably with the Haemonculi in Commorragh, were another avenue. While you'd not want to get any of their number to directly assist your work, nor seek out training from one of those infamous madmen, there was a selection of books that detailed the horrors they had committed. While you shuddered at the depravity of such 'spectacles', you had to admit there were few other sources that truly combined psychic mastery, soul surgery and organic design as them.
Of course, the true help you received was with your own Apothecaries. Those brave warriors who dived into the worst hazards, battlefields and quarantine zones to diagnose and quickly treat all manners of injuries and sickness. With all your research on gene-seed, almost every single member contributed their own findings and analyses. Including any and all work on treating you in addition to an average Eternal Warden, or another Astartes from the exchange program. Collecting a colossal amount of data about gene-seed and your own genetics.
It would be them that would implement and understand your findings better than anyone else, adjust anything you declared needed to be done and ensure it all worked perfectly. Witnessing the tangible effects of your theories put into practice, further enhancing the capabilities of all your sons. Gene-seed brought to new levels. Perhaps even directly implanting your genome into recruits either alongside or without the use of surgically implanting organs.
You hoped your efforts would bear fruit for your sons, both present and future. Granting them greater strength, helping them against any disease or terrible mutation, helping ensure that they would survive the worst the galaxy and beyond would throw at them.
Perhaps the best thing you could do would be to further reduce how many die from gene-seed rejection, perhaps even one day eliminate the risks altogether. As you further understand yourself and your brothers, you would better know how to help and bolster Astartes as a whole.
No matter the results, this path would be walked by you and be done so to make the galaxy a better place. At least those you care for, using greater knowledge for greater might. Ending this path down where the Emperor had walked…
…and perhaps moving ahead to see what came next.
Flashpoints: Post-Consolidation War I
Flashpoints: Post-Consolidation War I
Until Next Time…
The end of the Consolidation War should have warranted a victory parade, yet none was found.
Victory parades were a tradition for the Imperium when the Emperor liberated or conquered the techno-barbarian states of Terra. His sons would continue the tradition. Yet these days, it feels difficult to celebrate these compliances.
Most parades were staged in the crumbling ruins of a newly compliant world. Those spared from such horrors often invited the Imperial forces into the capital to hold a celebration. More than a simple show of goodwill, these displays were intended to help steady the local populace in the wake of conquest, reminding them that their conquerors also brought order. But above all else, the parades served as stark reminders that the Imperium had won.
If compliance was particularly brutal and costly, the Imperium would bring prisoners, traitors, or cowards out alongside the parades before they were executed or sent to a work camp. This was a rather malicious tradition, but it proved effective in getting the people to comply with the new order.
Few expected the Primarchs to carry out such an event, but Roboute chose to spare the Tixburians such an indignity—not out of sentiment but rather practicality. The end of the Consolidation War marked the dissolution of the coalition he'd carefully orchestrated. Not that the Primarch needed such a force now.
His brother, their sons, and his own were also not interested in holding a parade or anything of the sort. It wasn't like the Tixburians weren't resisting or needed to be punished. Besides, other matters required attention.
The Eldar left first, though before they did, Alcar, Menethanil, and the other Aeldari leaders offered Roboute their brief but genuine congratulations on a swift and decisive victory before cryptically remarking that they would call upon his aid soon enough.
By then, the human auxiliaries and Confederacy forces were also departing alongside their Eldar patrons. The Irregulars, Fire Hunters, Shamballans, and others each offered their farewells to Roboute and his brothers in their own ways. Roboute sensed that many were satisfied with how the war had been waged and ultimately concluded.
It was almost amusing to Roboute as it had taken years to arrange everything and everyone for this war, and now, a month after the fighting ended, everyone was taking off.
Most of these allied forces had taken their share of looted Consolidation equipment, resulting in thousands of battalions now armed with impressive spoils. The sight of so many diverse forces bearing the marks of their victory—a patchwork of gear and relics taken from the fallen enemy—was impressive.
A few had been given personal honors by the Primarchs or their respective leadership, but those were private affairs more than anything.
His own sons took their fair share; after all, it wasn't every day they could access weaponry and technology on par with what Mars itself guarded so closely. The Imperial Army contented itself with smaller, select pieces of advanced tech here and there. Roboute, however, ensured that Imperial forces—Astartes or otherwise—only looted from recovered or salvaged gear taken from former Consolidation regiments and battalions. He had no patience for any plundering from civilian sectors.
The Ixopon Accord prepared to depart, more than satisfied with how the conflict had concluded. Having achieved justice for their losses on Axilon, they bid the Primarch farewell, though not before quietly securing a few STCs as recompense for their troubles. Roboute knew their contribution warranted far more, particularly considering that their Patlabors had kept the Tixburian Titans at bay during the war's final days.
In the end, only the Imperium and, surprisingly, the Valoron Fortitude chose to remain to help garrison the site. The Valorons were interested in hands-on experience in post-war operations and eager to refine their hands-on experience. Roboute was impressed by the Valorons and imagined the rest of the coalition was, too. No doubt, the Fortitude will be getting more visitors in the future.
Soon enough, Venus and Morningstar also announced their plans to withdraw.
The Goddess of Love and War departed with her new "follower"—the Section 8 operative who had so fiercely opposed her. As she left, she threw Roboute a parting remark about seeing him soon for "a few weddings," leaving the Primarch slightly bewildered by her cryptic antics.
Meanwhile, Morningstar lingered in the system longer, arranging to escort several million newly converted followers. He had secured a pair of ships for the pilgrimage, ensuring that his devotees, won over during the campaign, would have safe passage under his watch.
Morningstar and Ferrus had exchanged a pair of finely crafted devices—gifts from the God of Dawn—that would alert Ferrus to Morningstar's approach and allow the Primarch to signal when he would accept the god's presence.
"We have much yet to discuss," Ferrus explained to Guilliman, his tone a mix of intent and caution. "But for now, I must keep these exchanges discreet." Ferrus had chosen to quietly welcome Morningstar's wisdom, an opportunity he evidently wasn't prepared to forgo.
Fulgrim, however, found himself in a unique quandary. "Venus has asked to meet with me," he confided, "to see that Aleph and I can sustain what we have... it's difficult to explain, but she wants assurance in our love. I'll honor her request, though, like Ferrus, I won't be publicizing this encounter anytime soon."
Both his brothers were warning Roboute without actually saying it. Terra would inevitably investigate the coalition he'd forged and its members, each alliance bound to provoke questions. Censure was inescapable.
But Roboute had entered this war with that risk in mind, prepared to weather the consequences of unorthodox alliances. The results, after all, spoke for themselves. If anything, it had revealed to the Primarch a "dangerous" truth. The Imperium could work with those it considered enemies or those unaligned with its goals. So, if that was true, what did that say about how the Great Crusade had been conducted?
Mistakes had been made—of that, there was no doubt. But they didn't have to be repeated. The future could hold a different course, one chosen with greater wisdom.
Honored Among Heroes…
Fulgrim was pleased with how the campaign had concluded—not only had it proven a valuable experience for his sons, but it had also avoided severe losses. He also noted Ferrus' growing camaraderie with Morningstar, which presented unexpected complications, though perhaps not as much as his own… arrangement with Venus.
Strange as it was to admit, the goddess of Love had been instrumental in helping Fulgrim untangle the threads of his relationship with Aleph. Thanks to several candid conversations Venus spurred, Aleph finally agreed to let the Phoenician court her. Though the relationship was still in its early stages, it was a relief to Fulgrim that Aleph was no longer keeping him at a distance.
This entire situation felt undeniably awkward to Fulgrim, partly because of the goddess' surprising role in it all. Venus had interjected herself into his personal life, facilitating the steps toward his relationship with Aleph. While Fulgrim found it difficult to view her actions as anything but helpful, he couldn't ignore that Venus had subtly steered events to his advantage—and in doing so, she had, in a way, made him beholden to her.
Venus had not asked for a favor in return, yet Fulgrim couldn't shake the feeling that she expected something, whether now or down the line. It was unusual for a god, even one as "magnanimous" as Venus, to intervene without some vested interest.
Still, it was hard to hold any suspicion against her, especially when she had seemed genuinely delighted by his success. Her happiness at seeing him make progress with Aleph struck Fulgrim as sincere—almost disarmingly so. It led him to wonder if love itself, beautiful as it was to Venus, could be a source of empowerment for her.
Perhaps it was best to distance himself from the goddess for a time. Thankfully, Venus seemed busy with other ventures and promptly disappeared soon after. Fulgrim intended to research her further, seeking confirmation on whether he was indeed being subtly manipulated, though this would be for another day.
He had more important matters to focus on anyway. The time had come for a grand ceremony honoring those from his legion and the Ultramarines and Iron Hands, who had displayed exceptional strength, courage, skill, and honor throughout the campaign. A celebration to reflect the triumph of individuals who had emerged to become heroes in their own right.
Hundreds of Astartes were to be honored, with many receiving the Honorifica Valourum or the Victorex Alpha, while others would earn promotions or be awarded finely crafted weapons or armor. This ceremony marked a defining moment for many within their legion. Yet among those recognized, two marines stood apart—one from the Iron Hands and another from Fulgrim's legion.
The first was Autek Mor, an Iron Father and one of the Terran-born veterans of the Xth Legion, making him notably "ancient" within their ranks. Fulgrim had heard mixed accounts about Mor: some praised his skill as a weaponsmith, suggesting he might one day apprentice directly under Ferrus himself, while others hinted at a darker side. Mor was reputed to be ruthless, even to the point of killing his brothers in duels, and he was known for being an unyielding taskmaster.
When Fulgrim raised this with Ferrus beforehand, the Gorgon's expression soured. While he respected the glory Mor had brought the Iron Hands, Ferrus admitted he held no love for the man—a sentiment widely shared within the Xth. Yet it was undeniable that Autek Mor had played a pivotal role in breaking the Tixburian lines during the initial landings, enabling the Iron Hands to exploit a weak point and advance decisively against their counter-offensive. A man hated by some yet deeply respected by others, Mor's contributions were undeniable. Fulgrim caught a faint, self-satisfied smirk on Mor's face as Ferrus adorned his chest plate with the Honorifica Valourum.
When it came time to recognize his son, Fulgrim's mood brightened. Captain Saul Tarvitz, a line officer, had performed outstandingly throughout the campaign. Unlike Mor, Tarvitz was widely beloved by both Astartes and Imperial soldiers. Early in the campaign, he'd distinguished himself by working closely with the Imperial Army, coordinating Astartes deployments to maximize mutual support while minimizing casualties. His efforts earned him high praise, especially following his role in the Battle of Megablock 372, where his leadership was crucial to the war effort.
As Fulgrim bestowed the honor of the Honorifica Valourum upon Tarvitz, a wave of pride swept through him. Saul embodied the ideals Fulgrim held closest for his sons: he commanded the respect of his troops, shared a natural camaraderie with his brothers, and understood the true meaning of honor. In his eyes, Tarvitz was a rare noble soul.
However, not all shared Fulgrim's sentiment. Among the more traditionalist officers, such qualities were seen with mixed favor. Eidolon, in particular, had voiced his belief that Tarvitz's compassion bordered on weakness, remarking that the Captain placed undue value on human lives in battle. "Too compassionate," some muttered.
Yet Fulgrim knew Tarvitz's empathy and consideration were strengths in the right instances. He would need to consider where to best utilize him, for he would soon need to be brought into the legion's inner circle.
After the ceremony had ended, Fulgrim sought a quiet moment with Tarvitz. "It's a great honor, Captain. You should be pleased."
"I am pleased," Saul replied, though his expression betrayed a weightier mood. Yet Fulgrim could see the pride that burned within him despite the tension. "But my thoughts keep returning to the situation down on Tixburi. Even if the population isn't openly resisting, they despise us. The Tixburians see us as something… other."
"They likely will for some time," Fulgrim replied, though he knew the truth was grimmer. The Tixburians would likely always see Astartes as something beyond human, but obedience was all that was required—and all that truly mattered. "But they will come around."
Fulgrim decided to probe Tarvitz's thoughts further. "Tell me, Captain, what would you have us do in this situation?"
Saul hesitated, then asked carefully, "Is that an order or just a passing question, my lord? I'm not one to critique strategies devised by the Primarchs."
Fulgrim gave a small, indulgent smile. "Then let's call it… a passing curiosity."
"If that's the case, I suggest handing things over to the Imperial Army from here," Saul recommended. "Let them oversee the transition while we resolve any remaining administrative issues. Ideally, we appoint someone within Imperial Command and support them with capable officers from our legions."
"And why, exactly, would that last part be necessary?"
"Because the Tixburians still see us as a threat," Saul replied, his expression showing his awareness of the uncomfortable truth. "Their distrust is stalling the transfer of authority. They'll feel more secure with a human visibly in command—a true leader, not just someone they suspect is a puppet for 'Skinwalker overlords.' And that leader should have a clear pro-Astartes stance even if it makes the Tixburians uncomfortable. Allowing anti-transhuman sentiment to spread among them could erode any goodwill we've built."
Fulgrim considered Saul's reasoning valid, understanding that this perspective wasn't appreciated by everyone in the legions or the Imperial Army. "That's a rather unconventional solution, but it has merit," he said.
"Thank you, Lord Primarch." Saul's tone conveyed more gratitude than satisfaction—he was glad his suggestion had been heard. "If it's no trouble, might I take responsibility for handling this situation?"
The Primarch smirked, amused. "Taking some initiative, are we?" He recognized this as a promising solution and a chance to test Tarvitz's leadership. It was unlikely that Eidolon or Lucius would be inclined to take on this particular assignment.
Fulgrim nodded approvingly. "You have my blessing, Captain. Conduct your inquiries, and when you have your findings, bring them to me. If your proposals are sound, I'll see to it that my brothers review and approve them."
Saul saluted, his gaze steady. "I won't disappoint you, my lord."
Fulgrim offered a small, confident smile. "I have no doubt that you won't."
To the Victor go the Spoils…
The Consolidation was a trove of technological wonders. Ferrus could only imagine the Martian Mechanicum's reaction if they had been here; the Mechanicum would likely have forbidden any from stepping foot on Tixburi, their possessiveness over ancient technology unmatched. Cataloging everything would take decades, and with much of it irreplaceable, Roboute had been wise not to resort to an Exterminatus.
Ferrus was poring over recovered schematics and prototype designs—each advanced enough to be classified as a potential STC. He quickly summoned a council of Iron Fathers, assigning them the task of prioritizing technology for immediate testing and replication. Yet, even with their combined expertise, there was almost too much to examine.
"Look at these machines," Gabriel remarked, his voice tinged with awe. "If we'd had access to such things at the beginning of the Great Crusade, it would've been much smoother." He gestured toward a device lying on the examination table—a servo-drone of remarkable design.
This was an Arachnid-Class Servo-Unit, a compact, unmanned reconnaissance and light-assault drone no larger than a large rucksack but bristling with utility. Spider-like in form, it had eight retractable, multi-jointed legs capable of navigating rough terrain or clinging to vertical surfaces. Each limb had magnetic clamps for scaling metal structures and was resistant to corrosive chemicals and acids. Remarkably, it could fold into a near-flat shape for storage or covert transport.
The Arachnid's full-spectrum scanner array included thermal and night vision and long-range optical zoom; it also featured retractable audio and infrared sensors to intercept comms and detect energy signatures. Though small, its arsenal was potent—a compact plasma cutter for close-range encounters or breaching obstacles and a haywire blaster capable of disrupting enemy equipment or creating diversions.
The Consolidation had used these drones extensively to track Astartes and Imperial Army movements in dense urban zones. Reports had even confirmed sightings of them operating in wilderness regions, each equipped with cameleoline coating for active camouflage. It wouldn't take much to reconfigure them for any environment.
"Do you think we could start production of these servo units?" Ferrus asked, addressing his council.
Gabriel nodded. "Without a doubt. Their technology integrates well with ours, though it'll require specialized forges to produce certain components. But in the long run, that shouldn't pose much of a challenge." He paused, his gaze shifting to a set of schematics nearby. "My real concern is something more complex—like the Skyclaw."
The Skyclaw, officially the Falcon-Class Light-Assault VTOL, bore a deceptively simple name, yet it was a masterpiece of warcraft. The Tixburians had employed it as a fast-attack vehicle, an impressive feat considering its arsenal—enough to weigh down any conventional Imperial gunship.
Its sleek, angular design featured swept-back wings and powerful downward-facing vertical thrusters, enabling rapid vertical takeoffs, landings, and highly effective strafing maneuvers. The chassis was forged from a crystalline alloy integrated with adamantium, an innovative blend Ferrus deemed worthy of further study.
Armed with dual-linked railgun cannons fixed beneath each wing, a nose-mounted rotating assault stubber, and retractable rocket bays along its belly for anti-armor and anti-infantry munitions, the Skyclaw was designed for versatile offensive capabilities. Yet, what truly set it apart was its remarkable capacity to operate at supersonic speeds—thanks to anti-gravity stabilizers, reactive armor, and a sophisticated machine spirit that actively monitored stress across the frame, recalibrating wing angles, thrust and airflow with incredible precision. Ferrus couldn't help but marvel; with such advancements, he wondered why this craft couldn't reach low orbit.
Fortunately, the Tixburians had reserved these aircraft for their elite drop units. Ferrus remembered spotting a few of them during the counter-offensive at the Yangzi Facilities. He could imagine plenty among the Imperial Army and the legions that would love to have a squadron of Skyclaws on standby.
Amadeus spoke up, "What about the Skirnir? If we can produce enough, it could become a powerful asset."
The Skirnir was a colossal vehicle, a heavy-tracked behemoth easily twice the size of a Baneblade, designed to deliver long-range indirect fire support with unparalleled destructive power. Producing one would likely cost as much as two or three super-heavies, but there was no denying its potential to decimate fortified positions and enemy armor alike.
Its primary armament was a massive rail cannon mounted on a rotating turret, capable of launching high-velocity, armor-piercing shells across staggering distances. The weapon's adaptive munitions system allowed it to switch between various shell types—anti-fortification, area denial, and anti-Titan rounds. One Skirnir had famously scored a mission-kill against an Imperial Warhound during the Battle for Mustering Point Charlie.
Though formidable, the Skirnir had a few significant drawbacks. Its immense size and heat output made it a conspicuous target, but the Tixburians—or perhaps even their ancient predecessors—had managed to incorporate a void shield generator into the design. This shielding provided exceptional durability but consumed a monstrous amount of power, rendering it impractical for prolonged engagements without significant logistical support.
Compared to the Basilisk, the Imperial Army's standard artillery workhorse, the Skirnir seemed prohibitively "rich" for most field commanders. Still, Ferrus could easily predict that many would clamor for a Skirnir, especially for siege operations where its firepower would be invaluable.
Amadeus drew the council's attention to several reports. "According to these findings, the Tixburi could produce a dozen units per month before the war. But now? Not until we get the factorums operational again and secure a team of qualified engineers."
Gabriel added grimly, "Too many are missing. Near the war's end, entire hab-blocks were being transformed into Redeemed or Repurposed, and whatever sorcery that entity Morningstar wielded drove tens of millions of Tixburians to turn on each other. Poor bastards. I'm almost surprised their morale didn't collapse entirely, with hardly any suicides reported after all that. That's something I can actually respect."
Ferrus didn't necessarily agree or disagree with Gabriel's sentiment, but he could appreciate the resilience of a people trying to rebuild their lives after so much horror. Fulgrim believed the Tixburians might eventually come around, while Roboute was willing to accept their distaste as long as they complied.
But Ferrus saw that neither of those approaches alone would suffice. "We'll give them purpose soon enough," he told his sons. "Their industry will be put to good use, as will their technologies. In time, they will be pulled into glory as all others brought to compliance. Until then, there's much work to do and many designs yet to examine."
Roboute had mentioned summoning Perturabo to assist with cataloging the technologies recovered from Tixburi, though Ferrus and Fulgrim would be long gone by then. He didn't need to start any problems, but he wasn't about to pretend to play nice around the Lord of Iron.
---
@Daemon Hunter Time for another round of omakes.
Until Next Time…
The end of the Consolidation War should have warranted a victory parade, yet none was found.
Victory parades were a tradition for the Imperium when the Emperor liberated or conquered the techno-barbarian states of Terra. His sons would continue the tradition. Yet these days, it feels difficult to celebrate these compliances.
Most parades were staged in the crumbling ruins of a newly compliant world. Those spared from such horrors often invited the Imperial forces into the capital to hold a celebration. More than a simple show of goodwill, these displays were intended to help steady the local populace in the wake of conquest, reminding them that their conquerors also brought order. But above all else, the parades served as stark reminders that the Imperium had won.
If compliance was particularly brutal and costly, the Imperium would bring prisoners, traitors, or cowards out alongside the parades before they were executed or sent to a work camp. This was a rather malicious tradition, but it proved effective in getting the people to comply with the new order.
Few expected the Primarchs to carry out such an event, but Roboute chose to spare the Tixburians such an indignity—not out of sentiment but rather practicality. The end of the Consolidation War marked the dissolution of the coalition he'd carefully orchestrated. Not that the Primarch needed such a force now.
His brother, their sons, and his own were also not interested in holding a parade or anything of the sort. It wasn't like the Tixburians weren't resisting or needed to be punished. Besides, other matters required attention.
The Eldar left first, though before they did, Alcar, Menethanil, and the other Aeldari leaders offered Roboute their brief but genuine congratulations on a swift and decisive victory before cryptically remarking that they would call upon his aid soon enough.
By then, the human auxiliaries and Confederacy forces were also departing alongside their Eldar patrons. The Irregulars, Fire Hunters, Shamballans, and others each offered their farewells to Roboute and his brothers in their own ways. Roboute sensed that many were satisfied with how the war had been waged and ultimately concluded.
It was almost amusing to Roboute as it had taken years to arrange everything and everyone for this war, and now, a month after the fighting ended, everyone was taking off.
Most of these allied forces had taken their share of looted Consolidation equipment, resulting in thousands of battalions now armed with impressive spoils. The sight of so many diverse forces bearing the marks of their victory—a patchwork of gear and relics taken from the fallen enemy—was impressive.
A few had been given personal honors by the Primarchs or their respective leadership, but those were private affairs more than anything.
His own sons took their fair share; after all, it wasn't every day they could access weaponry and technology on par with what Mars itself guarded so closely. The Imperial Army contented itself with smaller, select pieces of advanced tech here and there. Roboute, however, ensured that Imperial forces—Astartes or otherwise—only looted from recovered or salvaged gear taken from former Consolidation regiments and battalions. He had no patience for any plundering from civilian sectors.
The Ixopon Accord prepared to depart, more than satisfied with how the conflict had concluded. Having achieved justice for their losses on Axilon, they bid the Primarch farewell, though not before quietly securing a few STCs as recompense for their troubles. Roboute knew their contribution warranted far more, particularly considering that their Patlabors had kept the Tixburian Titans at bay during the war's final days.
In the end, only the Imperium and, surprisingly, the Valoron Fortitude chose to remain to help garrison the site. The Valorons were interested in hands-on experience in post-war operations and eager to refine their hands-on experience. Roboute was impressed by the Valorons and imagined the rest of the coalition was, too. No doubt, the Fortitude will be getting more visitors in the future.
Soon enough, Venus and Morningstar also announced their plans to withdraw.
The Goddess of Love and War departed with her new "follower"—the Section 8 operative who had so fiercely opposed her. As she left, she threw Roboute a parting remark about seeing him soon for "a few weddings," leaving the Primarch slightly bewildered by her cryptic antics.
Meanwhile, Morningstar lingered in the system longer, arranging to escort several million newly converted followers. He had secured a pair of ships for the pilgrimage, ensuring that his devotees, won over during the campaign, would have safe passage under his watch.
Morningstar and Ferrus had exchanged a pair of finely crafted devices—gifts from the God of Dawn—that would alert Ferrus to Morningstar's approach and allow the Primarch to signal when he would accept the god's presence.
"We have much yet to discuss," Ferrus explained to Guilliman, his tone a mix of intent and caution. "But for now, I must keep these exchanges discreet." Ferrus had chosen to quietly welcome Morningstar's wisdom, an opportunity he evidently wasn't prepared to forgo.
Fulgrim, however, found himself in a unique quandary. "Venus has asked to meet with me," he confided, "to see that Aleph and I can sustain what we have... it's difficult to explain, but she wants assurance in our love. I'll honor her request, though, like Ferrus, I won't be publicizing this encounter anytime soon."
Both his brothers were warning Roboute without actually saying it. Terra would inevitably investigate the coalition he'd forged and its members, each alliance bound to provoke questions. Censure was inescapable.
But Roboute had entered this war with that risk in mind, prepared to weather the consequences of unorthodox alliances. The results, after all, spoke for themselves. If anything, it had revealed to the Primarch a "dangerous" truth. The Imperium could work with those it considered enemies or those unaligned with its goals. So, if that was true, what did that say about how the Great Crusade had been conducted?
Mistakes had been made—of that, there was no doubt. But they didn't have to be repeated. The future could hold a different course, one chosen with greater wisdom.
Honored Among Heroes…
Fulgrim was pleased with how the campaign had concluded—not only had it proven a valuable experience for his sons, but it had also avoided severe losses. He also noted Ferrus' growing camaraderie with Morningstar, which presented unexpected complications, though perhaps not as much as his own… arrangement with Venus.
Strange as it was to admit, the goddess of Love had been instrumental in helping Fulgrim untangle the threads of his relationship with Aleph. Thanks to several candid conversations Venus spurred, Aleph finally agreed to let the Phoenician court her. Though the relationship was still in its early stages, it was a relief to Fulgrim that Aleph was no longer keeping him at a distance.
This entire situation felt undeniably awkward to Fulgrim, partly because of the goddess' surprising role in it all. Venus had interjected herself into his personal life, facilitating the steps toward his relationship with Aleph. While Fulgrim found it difficult to view her actions as anything but helpful, he couldn't ignore that Venus had subtly steered events to his advantage—and in doing so, she had, in a way, made him beholden to her.
Venus had not asked for a favor in return, yet Fulgrim couldn't shake the feeling that she expected something, whether now or down the line. It was unusual for a god, even one as "magnanimous" as Venus, to intervene without some vested interest.
Still, it was hard to hold any suspicion against her, especially when she had seemed genuinely delighted by his success. Her happiness at seeing him make progress with Aleph struck Fulgrim as sincere—almost disarmingly so. It led him to wonder if love itself, beautiful as it was to Venus, could be a source of empowerment for her.
Perhaps it was best to distance himself from the goddess for a time. Thankfully, Venus seemed busy with other ventures and promptly disappeared soon after. Fulgrim intended to research her further, seeking confirmation on whether he was indeed being subtly manipulated, though this would be for another day.
He had more important matters to focus on anyway. The time had come for a grand ceremony honoring those from his legion and the Ultramarines and Iron Hands, who had displayed exceptional strength, courage, skill, and honor throughout the campaign. A celebration to reflect the triumph of individuals who had emerged to become heroes in their own right.
Hundreds of Astartes were to be honored, with many receiving the Honorifica Valourum or the Victorex Alpha, while others would earn promotions or be awarded finely crafted weapons or armor. This ceremony marked a defining moment for many within their legion. Yet among those recognized, two marines stood apart—one from the Iron Hands and another from Fulgrim's legion.
The first was Autek Mor, an Iron Father and one of the Terran-born veterans of the Xth Legion, making him notably "ancient" within their ranks. Fulgrim had heard mixed accounts about Mor: some praised his skill as a weaponsmith, suggesting he might one day apprentice directly under Ferrus himself, while others hinted at a darker side. Mor was reputed to be ruthless, even to the point of killing his brothers in duels, and he was known for being an unyielding taskmaster.
When Fulgrim raised this with Ferrus beforehand, the Gorgon's expression soured. While he respected the glory Mor had brought the Iron Hands, Ferrus admitted he held no love for the man—a sentiment widely shared within the Xth. Yet it was undeniable that Autek Mor had played a pivotal role in breaking the Tixburian lines during the initial landings, enabling the Iron Hands to exploit a weak point and advance decisively against their counter-offensive. A man hated by some yet deeply respected by others, Mor's contributions were undeniable. Fulgrim caught a faint, self-satisfied smirk on Mor's face as Ferrus adorned his chest plate with the Honorifica Valourum.
When it came time to recognize his son, Fulgrim's mood brightened. Captain Saul Tarvitz, a line officer, had performed outstandingly throughout the campaign. Unlike Mor, Tarvitz was widely beloved by both Astartes and Imperial soldiers. Early in the campaign, he'd distinguished himself by working closely with the Imperial Army, coordinating Astartes deployments to maximize mutual support while minimizing casualties. His efforts earned him high praise, especially following his role in the Battle of Megablock 372, where his leadership was crucial to the war effort.
As Fulgrim bestowed the honor of the Honorifica Valourum upon Tarvitz, a wave of pride swept through him. Saul embodied the ideals Fulgrim held closest for his sons: he commanded the respect of his troops, shared a natural camaraderie with his brothers, and understood the true meaning of honor. In his eyes, Tarvitz was a rare noble soul.
However, not all shared Fulgrim's sentiment. Among the more traditionalist officers, such qualities were seen with mixed favor. Eidolon, in particular, had voiced his belief that Tarvitz's compassion bordered on weakness, remarking that the Captain placed undue value on human lives in battle. "Too compassionate," some muttered.
Yet Fulgrim knew Tarvitz's empathy and consideration were strengths in the right instances. He would need to consider where to best utilize him, for he would soon need to be brought into the legion's inner circle.
After the ceremony had ended, Fulgrim sought a quiet moment with Tarvitz. "It's a great honor, Captain. You should be pleased."
"I am pleased," Saul replied, though his expression betrayed a weightier mood. Yet Fulgrim could see the pride that burned within him despite the tension. "But my thoughts keep returning to the situation down on Tixburi. Even if the population isn't openly resisting, they despise us. The Tixburians see us as something… other."
"They likely will for some time," Fulgrim replied, though he knew the truth was grimmer. The Tixburians would likely always see Astartes as something beyond human, but obedience was all that was required—and all that truly mattered. "But they will come around."
Fulgrim decided to probe Tarvitz's thoughts further. "Tell me, Captain, what would you have us do in this situation?"
Saul hesitated, then asked carefully, "Is that an order or just a passing question, my lord? I'm not one to critique strategies devised by the Primarchs."
Fulgrim gave a small, indulgent smile. "Then let's call it… a passing curiosity."
"If that's the case, I suggest handing things over to the Imperial Army from here," Saul recommended. "Let them oversee the transition while we resolve any remaining administrative issues. Ideally, we appoint someone within Imperial Command and support them with capable officers from our legions."
"And why, exactly, would that last part be necessary?"
"Because the Tixburians still see us as a threat," Saul replied, his expression showing his awareness of the uncomfortable truth. "Their distrust is stalling the transfer of authority. They'll feel more secure with a human visibly in command—a true leader, not just someone they suspect is a puppet for 'Skinwalker overlords.' And that leader should have a clear pro-Astartes stance even if it makes the Tixburians uncomfortable. Allowing anti-transhuman sentiment to spread among them could erode any goodwill we've built."
Fulgrim considered Saul's reasoning valid, understanding that this perspective wasn't appreciated by everyone in the legions or the Imperial Army. "That's a rather unconventional solution, but it has merit," he said.
"Thank you, Lord Primarch." Saul's tone conveyed more gratitude than satisfaction—he was glad his suggestion had been heard. "If it's no trouble, might I take responsibility for handling this situation?"
The Primarch smirked, amused. "Taking some initiative, are we?" He recognized this as a promising solution and a chance to test Tarvitz's leadership. It was unlikely that Eidolon or Lucius would be inclined to take on this particular assignment.
Fulgrim nodded approvingly. "You have my blessing, Captain. Conduct your inquiries, and when you have your findings, bring them to me. If your proposals are sound, I'll see to it that my brothers review and approve them."
Saul saluted, his gaze steady. "I won't disappoint you, my lord."
Fulgrim offered a small, confident smile. "I have no doubt that you won't."
To the Victor go the Spoils…
The Consolidation was a trove of technological wonders. Ferrus could only imagine the Martian Mechanicum's reaction if they had been here; the Mechanicum would likely have forbidden any from stepping foot on Tixburi, their possessiveness over ancient technology unmatched. Cataloging everything would take decades, and with much of it irreplaceable, Roboute had been wise not to resort to an Exterminatus.
Ferrus was poring over recovered schematics and prototype designs—each advanced enough to be classified as a potential STC. He quickly summoned a council of Iron Fathers, assigning them the task of prioritizing technology for immediate testing and replication. Yet, even with their combined expertise, there was almost too much to examine.
"Look at these machines," Gabriel remarked, his voice tinged with awe. "If we'd had access to such things at the beginning of the Great Crusade, it would've been much smoother." He gestured toward a device lying on the examination table—a servo-drone of remarkable design.
This was an Arachnid-Class Servo-Unit, a compact, unmanned reconnaissance and light-assault drone no larger than a large rucksack but bristling with utility. Spider-like in form, it had eight retractable, multi-jointed legs capable of navigating rough terrain or clinging to vertical surfaces. Each limb had magnetic clamps for scaling metal structures and was resistant to corrosive chemicals and acids. Remarkably, it could fold into a near-flat shape for storage or covert transport.
The Arachnid's full-spectrum scanner array included thermal and night vision and long-range optical zoom; it also featured retractable audio and infrared sensors to intercept comms and detect energy signatures. Though small, its arsenal was potent—a compact plasma cutter for close-range encounters or breaching obstacles and a haywire blaster capable of disrupting enemy equipment or creating diversions.
The Consolidation had used these drones extensively to track Astartes and Imperial Army movements in dense urban zones. Reports had even confirmed sightings of them operating in wilderness regions, each equipped with cameleoline coating for active camouflage. It wouldn't take much to reconfigure them for any environment.
"Do you think we could start production of these servo units?" Ferrus asked, addressing his council.
Gabriel nodded. "Without a doubt. Their technology integrates well with ours, though it'll require specialized forges to produce certain components. But in the long run, that shouldn't pose much of a challenge." He paused, his gaze shifting to a set of schematics nearby. "My real concern is something more complex—like the Skyclaw."
The Skyclaw, officially the Falcon-Class Light-Assault VTOL, bore a deceptively simple name, yet it was a masterpiece of warcraft. The Tixburians had employed it as a fast-attack vehicle, an impressive feat considering its arsenal—enough to weigh down any conventional Imperial gunship.
Its sleek, angular design featured swept-back wings and powerful downward-facing vertical thrusters, enabling rapid vertical takeoffs, landings, and highly effective strafing maneuvers. The chassis was forged from a crystalline alloy integrated with adamantium, an innovative blend Ferrus deemed worthy of further study.
Armed with dual-linked railgun cannons fixed beneath each wing, a nose-mounted rotating assault stubber, and retractable rocket bays along its belly for anti-armor and anti-infantry munitions, the Skyclaw was designed for versatile offensive capabilities. Yet, what truly set it apart was its remarkable capacity to operate at supersonic speeds—thanks to anti-gravity stabilizers, reactive armor, and a sophisticated machine spirit that actively monitored stress across the frame, recalibrating wing angles, thrust and airflow with incredible precision. Ferrus couldn't help but marvel; with such advancements, he wondered why this craft couldn't reach low orbit.
Fortunately, the Tixburians had reserved these aircraft for their elite drop units. Ferrus remembered spotting a few of them during the counter-offensive at the Yangzi Facilities. He could imagine plenty among the Imperial Army and the legions that would love to have a squadron of Skyclaws on standby.
Amadeus spoke up, "What about the Skirnir? If we can produce enough, it could become a powerful asset."
The Skirnir was a colossal vehicle, a heavy-tracked behemoth easily twice the size of a Baneblade, designed to deliver long-range indirect fire support with unparalleled destructive power. Producing one would likely cost as much as two or three super-heavies, but there was no denying its potential to decimate fortified positions and enemy armor alike.
Its primary armament was a massive rail cannon mounted on a rotating turret, capable of launching high-velocity, armor-piercing shells across staggering distances. The weapon's adaptive munitions system allowed it to switch between various shell types—anti-fortification, area denial, and anti-Titan rounds. One Skirnir had famously scored a mission-kill against an Imperial Warhound during the Battle for Mustering Point Charlie.
Though formidable, the Skirnir had a few significant drawbacks. Its immense size and heat output made it a conspicuous target, but the Tixburians—or perhaps even their ancient predecessors—had managed to incorporate a void shield generator into the design. This shielding provided exceptional durability but consumed a monstrous amount of power, rendering it impractical for prolonged engagements without significant logistical support.
Compared to the Basilisk, the Imperial Army's standard artillery workhorse, the Skirnir seemed prohibitively "rich" for most field commanders. Still, Ferrus could easily predict that many would clamor for a Skirnir, especially for siege operations where its firepower would be invaluable.
Amadeus drew the council's attention to several reports. "According to these findings, the Tixburi could produce a dozen units per month before the war. But now? Not until we get the factorums operational again and secure a team of qualified engineers."
Gabriel added grimly, "Too many are missing. Near the war's end, entire hab-blocks were being transformed into Redeemed or Repurposed, and whatever sorcery that entity Morningstar wielded drove tens of millions of Tixburians to turn on each other. Poor bastards. I'm almost surprised their morale didn't collapse entirely, with hardly any suicides reported after all that. That's something I can actually respect."
Ferrus didn't necessarily agree or disagree with Gabriel's sentiment, but he could appreciate the resilience of a people trying to rebuild their lives after so much horror. Fulgrim believed the Tixburians might eventually come around, while Roboute was willing to accept their distaste as long as they complied.
But Ferrus saw that neither of those approaches alone would suffice. "We'll give them purpose soon enough," he told his sons. "Their industry will be put to good use, as will their technologies. In time, they will be pulled into glory as all others brought to compliance. Until then, there's much work to do and many designs yet to examine."
Roboute had mentioned summoning Perturabo to assist with cataloging the technologies recovered from Tixburi, though Ferrus and Fulgrim would be long gone by then. He didn't need to start any problems, but he wasn't about to pretend to play nice around the Lord of Iron.
---
@Daemon Hunter Time for another round of omakes.
The Daemonsbane.
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
The Daemonsbane.
You enter the room.
It stretches and breaths like a person, a forest, a living tower. A perfect cube of reflective dimensions. You could blink and still see its shape layered over your eyes. It was a design that was so uniform, ordered, and precise that it would be beyond your abilities to fully replicate.
Yet it was not a cube. Its shape was something else. A familiar symbol.
You glance back to behind yourself, to the wall by your back. There is no entrance nor exit, no window nor open hole, nothing at all but a plain surface. You turn and there is more nondescript emptiness to be perceived. It almost shifts before your eyes as you tried to search for any anchor of meaning, eyes feeling grey fog obscuring the details that were there, but it doesn't for there is nothing.
The absence of detail extended towards the material itself. You could call it stone, metal, ceramic, glass, earth but none of those fit. Even reaching out and touching it did nothing Solid was the only word that truly came to mind, yet even that failed to encapsulate the entirety of what you saw. But to call it material at all would be a misnomer. This was a pale echo of something else that was used as a foundation. The empty parts of a canvas holding the real picture, waiting with anticipation.
You didn't question how you knew this, what any of this information meant. You only knew it to be right. You just wished you could understand what any of it really meant.
The room was waiting for you. A part of you wanted to resist it just because of that, an instinct to keep your mind free from influence so bone-deep that even in this state and this place did you feel cautious. As though you were in a cage.
But you weren't trapped here or taken against your will. You were invited and you allowed yourself in. You were meant to be here.
Moments pass and disappear. Time feels like it was raining down from above. The fluttering of wings. A fluid, fleeting sensation. You let it flow across your being as you try to decipher what was happening.
If this strange space was waiting for you, then what were you supposed to do? Something that was already done, already being done.
You take a step.
Something changes. Lucidity comes and goes. Your eyes inner and outer feel the breathing, shifting space flicker. 'Rotation' is the wrong word, and you know exactly how it is wrong, but that is the closet thing to what your perception is aware of. The cube folds, unfolds, expands and contracts. The empty material begins to sink itself into detail. It was aware of you now.
Or maybe you were now aware of it.
Belatedly, you realise that you were dreaming. The familiar feeling as you delved into the Warp, whether it was by your will or that of something within this infinite realm. Yet this felt stranger still, even more distant. You didn't recall trying to carve a new shape.
Like a whisper to a sleeping man, like an idle thought granted a pedestal, something speaks into yourself. You could say you were not really here at all. Or that you weren't yourself. But if that is the case then…
Why are you here?
You don't have an answer for this space, although something even deeper within feels like there should be. Not forgotten, but that there should have been a reason. An answer. A purpose that could no more be denied as the light and heat of an undying flame.
Are you the one known as Kesar Dorlin?
Yes, that is your name. Mingled thoughts oscillate between you and whatever else was here. It was your dream. Your power. Your existence.
But that is not what you are. You are not Kesar Dorlin.
You open your mouth to respond to that notion, ready to deny it as you have denied greater forces before, but nothing comes out. This was a place of thought and flow, not spoken words. You make your disagreement known regardless to the mysterious presence.
Do you remember? An edge to the question. One that tenses your back and makes you feel the weight of a blade form in your hands.
Remember what?
STRIKE.
You move before you fully register what you're even holding, before you feel the howling snow-winds or the burning heat of arcane rituals, and Epitaph meets the sword from the Lord of Change.
The monster had inflicted you with a wound that burned with the power of Chaos, a curse woven by the Ruinous Powers, a scar that would take decades to heal and truly purge from your body. Where you had been in a way similar to where you were now.
But here the twisted blade shatters to a thousand pieces, a sound like broken glass rippling across the battlefield, and in one movement you bring the still falling sword down upon your enemy.
There is barely a hint of resistance as you cleave into daemonic flesh, just slightly greater than swinging your blade through the air. The daemon of Tzeentch is cut into two before the timeless immortal can even react. Its eyes only beginning to contort in primal fear and dying confusion.
In this act of death, the battle had been won. Your homeworld freed and a new chapter ready to be written. A golden age compared to one of slow decline. Saviour, champion, hero.
You look down at its bleeding corpse on the ground of Valhalla. Seeing its blood drip from your greatsword, the gauntlets that wielded that had names crawling on it like centipedes. Looking up to the frigid expanse able to be built into a better place, a world that had won against your archenemy.
That wasn't what happened. The fight hadn't been so easy even if victory happened all the same. This was a distorted memory.
Yes, because you weren't Kesar Dorlin.
You look down again to the blood and the myriad sword fragments that had fallen, the way the crimson liquid pooled into the circle of shards. The eightfold wheel gazes vacantly into nothingness, the Star of Chaos in shape yet not in power. Because this had already happened. Because you had already removed the wound.
You take in a breath of Valhalla's cold air before you turn and, like nothing happened, find yourself in the room again.
You blink. The world shifts again. Your sword cleaves an enemy that had manifested from the empty space. The weapon on your arms, Sagita, fires its iron ammunition into the hordes of corrupted automatons. The world becomes both smaller and greater as you peer into the twisted abyss of metal and machinery.
Gehenna station, the first and most terrible crucible that your Legion had suffered as they joined you against Chaos. The Khornate robots from a bygone age of enlightenment and science, transformed into weapons for a nightmarish war against all life. Butchering over half your sons and nearly annihilating everyone you had first sent to this place.
Rage blossomed into your hearts stronger than your vision of Valhalla. How easily the sensation returned. Distant figures of Eternal Wardens dying filled your sight, your mind, your soul. You fought like death itself as you turned corrupted machine into scraps and dust by sheer force from your attacks.
A fist punching a hulking berserker into a wall as your sword cut down ten that surrounded you. Pin-point shots from every angle striking beating hearts and computational cores. The very Warp shaking against your defiant assault as you refused to cede one more son to the clutches of these beasts.
Your rampage is relentless as you rush through an army of madness, a giant fortress in the void shuddering underneath your hatred. Hundreds die in a second, thousands more in the next. Your are a storm and your wrath eclipses your enemy by several orders of magnitude.
Yet even with how real all this feels, far more than the brief moment of Valhalla's victory, you know that this is just another illusion. As real as the most vivid dreams, real enough to hurt or do other things for you, but it wouldn't bring back those who died here in reality.
Why? The question lingers even as you massacre the monsters before you. Why are you here on Gehenna? Why Valhalla again, that cursed wound?
Because it was a beginning.
A beginning of what?
For you? Nothing. But it could have been. Here, right here, a choice half-knowingly made.
Another vision occurs. A true one. The world around you distorts. Feeling is lost from your arms and legs as you witness yourself. Back as you were, before Epitaph and Sagita and even the many names you had engraved onto your armour. Fighting the last of the Gehenna abominations, just before what came next. So much younger and unknowing of what was to come, all that would be lost and all that would be worth fighting for.
It was here when you began to realise what the future might hold.
The nature of monsters is fear, the voice whispers to you. It is the instinct of almost all beings to fear a predator, to fear hungry oblivion and fates far worse than dissolution. These monsters are fear given form and strength. Fear of violence, of manipulation, of decay, of pain, of death. Immortal reflections of primal awareness, sharpened by sapience and ignited by countless conflicting yet harmonious thoughts, who have been cemented as the poisonous suzerains of this psychic realm.
The vision fades away into darkness.
What is the first true sign that they can be beaten?
The answer comes to you in that moment, as if a weight had fallen from your form.
When they too feel fear. When they fear pain, failure and true death. When they are no longer the almighty rulers of their battlefields.
Clad in the remains of horrors that had helped burn humanity itself, weapons that had turned the brightest golden age into the beginning of an ashen fall, the presence of Chaos was manifested into these drones. Armoured in such frames, in an unbreakable citadel, they could have doomed even an Anathema's child and those that followed him.
But the story turned against them, for their wild anger and senseless violence was no match for a hatred focused by loss. An enemy already known and now truly despised to a level they cannot overcome. Such hatred is the weapon of those that slay monsters, for their greatest strength is no longer theirs.
You look down and see yourself again. At all the floating, squirming lines of text that slowly settle into your plate and become firmly etched into your armour. Forming what you truly looked like.
Yet when hatred could have been taken up as a mantle, as your hearts were clawed by loss severe enough to break even an immortal, a different choice had been made.
Hatred was a strong emotion to wield against Chaos, for it was too familiar to them and when directed at them could not easily be swayed. To deny the strength of hatred would be akin to denying the strength of Chaos itself. Absurd even by the standards for the impossible waves and eddies of the Immaterium, something far more paradoxical than even a Chaos God that despised Chaos itself. Ruin begets ruin.
Yet hatred was denied. Not fully, for the love that spawns grief is the same that burns with hatred, but enough that it could not be wielded by you. Passion channelled towards sorrow, remembrance and grim determination. Fitting for a slayer of monsters, but not enough for complete alignment. You formed a shield when you could have been sharpened as a sword, alloyed your rage with your love to give it meaning.
That too was powerful, an impactful act for the self and for all those around you, but it delayed this beginning. There is an order to things and it did not start here.
Why not?
There is only one path. Rigid order was the path against Chaos. Without a stable foundation, the influence of ruin could seep into anything from anywhere.
You blink. The space shifts again to another scene. Not a full recollection of battle, no charging hordes foes or sudden blades lunging at you. Unable to move, breathe, or think. Only feel. A moment of frozen time, because only this moment mattered. The cusp of victory.
Here, this is where it happened. A giant rift into the Warp that burned by countless sacrifices and acts of cruel delight. An invasion denied on a world of humans cast back into the dirt, a place of kings and knights, a place that was ready to be wholly devoured by Chaos if not for the giant warriors that bore countless names and with each one a cold promise of just vengeance.
Velnias.
A semblance of understanding flickers into your being. Of this dream, this strange place, and your role in all of this. Your role.
Death! Death to the deathless! By the will of the Eternal Wardens, the rituals of the Thousand Sons, the strength of a Primarch. A champion of the Dark Prince and all their soldiers of excess burns into ash, scattered forever in the Sea of Souls, unable to reform. Their terrible screams were sounds that betrayed an agony impossible to find joy in.
Before the monsters were merely bested, broken, banished. An insult and maddening grievance for any being of Chaos that they would later wish to repay ten-thousandfold. But there would come no 'after' for these warriors. Their song is silenced as a new one rises up. Cast in hatred, in sorrow, in love.
A mortal who has lost both sense and self to their new masters, taken wholly by the Primordial Truth, cannot deny this new truth that has shattered such transcendent beings. Before you. Before all that you were.
The true beginning was here, on Velnias, in the words of this nameless wretch before they too faced death. Witness to the beginning of one who would challenge the gods and bring oblivion to their warriors. Unknowing voice to the Eightfold Path which recognised what they truly faced.
Daemonsbane.
That is who you are. This is what happened. The crystallised culmination.
The pristine moment of genesis, the declaration of a new monomyth the beginning of a journey towards ascension.
The first step of your journey.
Time remains still, but you do not. A body that was not there now is, something to clad your being, and you feel the air and smell of putrid blood. The weightless weight of your armour. The comforting presence of your sword.
You gaze around you and see your children and your enemies locked in battle, at the penultimate moment of this conflict. Afterwards would be years of careful searching for survivors before you all moved on towards more worlds. To more wars against the forces of Chaos.
But they are not quite your children, were they? For you were not quite what you were.
Kesar Dorlin, the words try to form on your lips and fail to materialise. Unable to be conjured, to be heard by anything. Primarch. Eternal Warden. Anathema, that one almost comes forward. There is only silence, for there is only one answer.
"Daemonsbane."
The word is whispered softly, in a voice that was both familiar and utterly alien to hear, yet it ignites the world like a spark to a lake of promethium. The battle rushes to its conclusion, to its aftermath, before a second can even begin passing. The untouched people of the world had survived as a tiny remnant to what they were before, but they were saved. The planet had its corruption ripped from every inch. Followers of the Dark Prince executed and destroyed.
This was where it began and it was with victory. Your victory that ripples and reflects across the Warp.
You are not Kesar Dorlin. You are not the source, the white-silver flame, the burning moon that stems the tide of Chaos. You are the reflection in the water.
You are the Daemonsbane.
In the site of the old battlefield, where your true self had stepped, you lift up the greatsword that looks so much like Epitaph. With eyes you did not have, you gaze into the shining edge and see your faceless head on the sword-mirror. Featureless as a mannequin. No mouth to speak, no ears to hear, no eyes to see. Such things were meaningless to you, for you were closer to the mind and heart.
You are the story. The myth. The legend. This was where you were born. Not this planet, but the victory. The fear. The glory.
This was only the first step. There was more than just what happened here. More that you had become.
You do not blink, but let yourself drift. As formless as this dream truly was. You appear back in the room, the shifting space that contained you. The walls showing depictions of Velnias and the triumph that spawned you. The closing rift, the true death brutally inflicted, the terror that struck the false hearts of your foe.
You look upwards, towards a higher plane than this. Moving your echoing form towards your next destination. The space unfolds like a great wheel turning, or a spiral extending itself. You take a step into a new scene, but halfway through you stop and turn. Another place had to be visited first before you reached the next stage.
Cadia was a planet that was steeped in the power of stories. A place that had been part of an ancient effort to seal the vast, wild ruptures into the Warp from the War in Heaven and then cast it away from the Materium. A world of stability next to the yawning abyss that was once where the Aeldari had ruled at their apex, and were cut down by the birth-scream of the youngest of the Four. Bristling with the black towers that would silence even the Primordial Annihilator.
Not that Kesar Dorlin or his brother Perturabo, Lord of Iron, had known about such things. To them, it was merely where Lorgar Aurelian, Urizen of Chaos, would be invited into cursed enlightenment. Where the Word Bearers would be broken and
More importantly, it was the site of another act of true death. Not that of a mere champion and their army, not the grand and awe-inspiring battle that had occurred here, but the death of one daemon.
In the infinite, myriad hordes of madness that made up the Chaos Gods there were those that stood above their cruel peers. While even the lowliest divine vestiges could bring doom to people, act as a stalking darkness that stole hearts or the first well of corruption to spawn a cult or something else, there were those of greater capability.
Those who had risen into or been created as the Exalted, beings that could damn the greatest empires by their idle whims and doom the strongest heroes when matched in combat. Most favoured of their dark masters, the purest expression of their cruelty and might.
Yet few even amongst such grand and terrible legends could compare to Kairos Fateweaver, the Vizir of Tzeentch, the Oracle of Eternity.
A being that had been cast into a place not even the greatest of gods would dare tread and survived. Able to achieve the terrible omniscience of creation itself. Split apart and yet whole as an wise, elderly seer. Able to divine the future and past so perfectly that even gods of fate could only bow to such mastery.
Until obfuscation descended upon the twin-headed fiend as it tried to glimpse victory against Kesar Dorlin.
Enraged and filled with an alien sense of dread, it had taken the life of one of his most beloved sons and cast a ritual it should have known was impossible. Mind clouded by pain, rage and deeper powers did it leave into the Warp until the ghost of its victim had dragged it back out.
Fuelled by righteous fury, by bone-crushing loss, by absolute hate and grief-filled love brought together into perfect union. The Primarch of the Eternal Wardens stood over one of the worst nightmares of Chaos and proved that even gods may die. Ending the life of Kairos Fateweaver in one strike.
The act had shaken the Sea of Souls. Marked one of the greatest victories against daemons that had ever been accomplished. Partially fulfilling a step of the path you walked, one of the Four's most infamous horrors brought to an end. Cadia becoming the grave of the greatest oracle to have ever lived.
Yet it was soon after that where another, even more tumultuous reaction occurred. A place where two gods, two brothers, brought forth Kesar Dorlin to what would be the greatest conflict he would have faced up until this point. A foe that had was legendary for performing impossible acts against the Old Four that ruled Chaos. A being that could accomplish almost anything to fulfil the endless plans to bring doom, despair and destruction.
You take a step. The world shatters. Flame fills the air, metal rains from above, the ground becomes a broken sea. Screams fill the Warp as the impossibilities wage war. Here on Aleph, an epic triumph emerges over three stars.
Three moments come up before you, layered over each other.
The Changeling in its myriad forms, from other Exalted champions of Chaos to the children of the First Anathema, locked in battle with the Twin Heads of the Hydra and Kesar Dorlin. As Tzeentch itself gazes with uncountable eyes from the heavens and refuses to allow another favoured servant to fall.
Lorgar Aurelian, Primarch of the Word Bearers, arriving in time for his execution. Trying to earn back the favour he had so tainted by his failure. Where the potential for spreading corruption across the galaxy once was, to guide and instruct countless souls into eternal service to the thirsting gods, there was only frustration and loss by those he had fallen to.
Aetaos'rau'keres, Distorter of Worlds, Lord of Hosts, Ashenwing, The Shadow of All Colours and None, Mad Satrap of Tzeentch, Render of Veils, Primordial One of Sorcery, Fallen God of the Arcane. The claimant of witchcraft had been hastily used, the already depleted power further diminished just to summon the chained tool as quickly as possible. The Headsman of Khorne sent to cleave the infamous sorcerer, the Night Haunter granted the most forbidden of secrets to deliver extinction to the apocalypse wielder.
Two steps had been achieved here as the battle was won. The second stage of this ascension was won by gaining the full attention from one of the Old Four, the Changer of Ways, and remaining triumphant against all their actions. The fourth from surviving against one of the mightiest tools in the divine arsenal of the Ruinous Powers, the deepest wells of narrative power shaped into infinite power, as the arrival of the Primordial One.
But only the second could truly flow through, around, into the form of Kesar Dorlin. A rigid order, a stable foundation. A path that had to be walked precisely. Things would be too delicate, too fragile against the indomitable presence of ruin. This ritual method required restrictions to truly enact.
To advance further, there would need to be another foe. Finality had touched the infinite servants of the Lord of Blood, of the Architect of Fate, of the Prince of Pleasure. Yet it was the Master of Pestilence that had remained untouched. The quadrants were not yet complete. To be opposed to Chaos, to slay all its monsters, was to oppose all its forms.
You take a step. The room breathes in and out. The endless walls shift from the fractured layers of Aleph into ice once more. While you were not Kesar Dorlin, you could feel a form of reminiscence here that went deeper than just the destruction of your enemies.
Chaos exists in all forms, including ones that were a conjunction of different motifs and powers. The essence of more than just one Ruinous Power flowing into these entities. Monsters that had been drowned into different ripples of endless screams. The Lord of Stagnation, of Tzeentch and Nurgle, was one such being.
The Undivided wielder of change and decay lurked within the heart of another frozen world, one similar yet distinct to Valhalla. Home of the wolves and endless winter, the insidious shadow was sent to poison the dens and twist its people to the will of stagnant rot. Breaking the will of Fenris as the corruption was made known.
Yet the deception is unearthed. The Eternal Wardens charge ahead with their father at the spear's tip. The hunt in one of its most favoured environments. In the cold, in the forest, in the moment the rushing animal is cornered.
Today it survives, not that the hunter knows it, but the same is not true for its own servants. Bile Horrors that were masses of viral flesh, shifting and churning through forms of infection, delivered to oblivion. The third stage is achieved as Nurgle's will is denied, the fourth is then freed to flow, the fifth is crowned in triumph of the Undivided brought to an end.
Almost halfway there, the one known as Kesar Dorlin. The First Daemonsbane of Man. Ascending further.
The next step… you pause for a moment. Taking time from these timeless moments. Even compared to what happened before, this would be something special. Worthy of being remembered for eternity. An achievement that was comparable to the greatest acts that could be imagined in this current era.
The room, which has always been shifting and folding and layering this dream-space into what and where it needed to be, stops. You look up and take a step and the cube blossoms like a fractal flower. The walls falling down like toppled monuments. The ceiling extends into the infinite cosmos as a distant memory. The floor falls into a swirling abyss.
A tapestry unveils itself before your gaze. It begins as the Anathema of Chaos, the only one that lived at this time, shares a vision and then shares a vision. The sight of one of the Ruinous Powers waging an unprecedented war, personally leading almost every single of their servants across time and space versus the only other gods of conflict that could truly satisfy bottomless rage and desire for spilt blood. This is the time of opportunity.
The Maelstrom, a rift between realms older than almost all else in the galaxy. Stable by the standards of its kin, it was a whirlwind that was filled with vast riches and terrible monsters on a level that could make or break the very future of mankind. Where an idle thought to take a handful of worlds began, now there is an idea to take entire pieces of this region back into the mortal plane.
A ritual. Purification on an unprecedented scale. A golden syzygy.
Kesar Dorlin, Daemonsbane against Chaos, states his spirited desire that would lead to the rift's destruction. With the Lord of Iron, the Great Khan and the Master of Ultramar at his side to dive into the depths of hell. Trillions upon trillions of soldiers marching to nightmares given form. Years dedicated to merely prepare for this conflict. The very authority of Chaos over the Warp about to be challenged.
You let eternity pass by in a moment. A hushed silence of anticipation. Respect given to what was to come, what had already happened.
The swirling vortex floods the area around you. Almost fifty different battlefields layer over one another, most of them dedicated to the foul putrescence of Nurgle. Billions of corpses are butchered, devoured and laid to rot over billions more underneath. Astartes from four different legions fighting, surviving, retreating, triumphing, dying against the very will of the Primordial Annihilator.
The future of the Imperium, of humanity, of the entire galaxy is at stake. The Warp already boils with this conflict and the infinite results that could spring from its conclusion. This is an era-defining moment in the long history of everything everywhere.
The ritual is carved into being on the daemon worlds and is challenged by the First Anathema, as he battles with the End of Empires in the hardest battle he has fought since the Great Crusade was waged. Exalted monstrosities, some of the greatest tools that the Plague Lord can wield, emerge across various worlds and bring apocalypse when unopposed.
Two match the Primarch that you were reflected from. An undying tree that comes precariously close to banishment, or a worse fate, before the god-devourer rides forth and comes to its aid. Another matches with the champion swordsman on an old void station corrupted by Chaos, a familiar battleground. Another takes command of all forces and would be faced by the father of Ultramarines.
At the risk of stoking the indomitable wrath from one of the Ruinous Powers, the direct presence of Nurgle itself arriving to the Maelstrom, the spectre of true death hovers over the fates of each legendary daemon. More progression to this path if done so, yet at too terrible a cost to pursue. It wasn't even likely, not until the apex of this war, but the fact it was there at all was damning enough to these immortal creatures.
Fear now lurks in the hearts of even the strongest, those that found it almost impossible to even consider being bested by anything now wonder about their demise. Finality and oblivion lingers in their thoughts as damnation and madness surge in their victims.
Years pass, the conflict rages. A celestial archipelago belonging to the Lord of Rage is dragged by brass chains into the Blood and Thunder War. The Great Schemer cackles as none of its own worlds are fought, as it empowers and directs Drach'nyen. The Prince of Pleasure shifting their attention against a minor world as agonisingly slow corruption and conquest becomes its latest obsession. All the while the Grandfather of Plagues had their anger rise to degrees that frightened many of their once cheerful children.
Just as losses mount up to levels that were worrying enough to question if this war could even be won, morale in mortals sinking to a festering abyss, as uncertainty filled both sides about what would happen… it is a servant of the Dark Prince that makes the biggest mistake of this entire war.
Joining two corrupted sons of Kesar Dorlin, the flagship of the Daemonsbane is boarded and a precious life is taken. Owning the world that said life had come from, having twisted it into their will so completely that the land itself obeyed every whim, the daemon prince known as Ira finds itself to be the latest target for a slayer of the deathless.
The rigid order of this path, the journey towards ascension, the shape of the Daemonsbane would have another step fulfilled. Yet it would not be the next step of the eleven required to achieve the pinnacle of one who would be the master of destroying Chaos. It could not be. It would not be.
And yet… and yet… and yet the Warp itself watched. The omnipresent, vacant gaze of the mindless Sea of Souls had centred its attention to the one that refused the will of the Dark Gods. Its endless waves and churning mass looked upon the one known as Kesar Dorlin.
The warrior who invaded the colossal palace and entered the throne room of the Shaper. Who heard one final, desperate plea from the daemon prince that spoke as the voice of Chaos, of temptation, of endless riches and power. A grave insult that is refused with a single strike.
The blade known as Epitaph taking the head of the world's master and ending their life in an instant.
The order of ascension shifts and turns against this act, against this wondrous glory and the weight of this act. To be unyielding is the nature of order. As cold as ice, as unmoving as a mountain, as strong as the immutable. The path is not meant to change its own rules, for that is to be like the fickle and frenzied path of Chaos.
And yet… what force of divine law, what pathway carved out, could compare to the victories of the one who walked them? He who carved his own path against the very will of the Dark Gods who tried to wound and bind him to their cruel service? Who better to decide this heavenly order, what would be his order, than himself?
The design of ascension bends itself to the will of its claimant. The seventh step becomes the sixth. The power flows through as the Daemonsbane reaches greater heights than thought possible.
As an inferno erupts across the dead monster's essence, spread out across the entire mountain of a domain, it explodes as a tempest that shines with an unyielding radiance. A light and flame that resonated with the energy of its killer. A burst of power that all nearby servants of Chaos think is a sign of death, the soul of the Primarch torn from his body and ready to be devoured.
An army of daemons charge into the palace and realises their mistake far too late. They have arrived in time for their demise. They have come to witness the triumph of Kesar Dorlin as he surpasses his own father in his violent dance.
To the horror of these hordes, to the disbelief and outrage of the very gods of Chaos, an army of madness that should have been strong enough to kill multiple Exalted champions was losing against one man. The distant spectre of true death comes in full force as the Primarch eradicated every single daemon.
The power that had flooded into Kesar Dorlin as he ascended another rank of his title, of being the Daemonsbane, had not stopped. It merely changed as he became not only a slayer of monsters, but one who challenged the Primordial Annihilator itself. One to defy the Chaos Gods directly and their authority.
The Warp itself shifts around this champion who single-handedly wins the conflict that determines the fate of the Maelstrom. Bestowing a mantle earned by a legendary deed in an epic war.
To become what was known as the Anathema.
With such a foundation, by achieving such storied power, this achievement had shifted the hold of the nature of 'Daemonsbane'. Where once it was tightly and carefully becoming bound to Kesar Dorlin, and only him, it was now as free and bright as the light of a star. Able to be taken by others once more, especially the Primarch's greatest sons.
For the first time in existence, the mantle of Anathema and ascension of Daemonsbane were joined together to one. Since the very beginning of Chaos and those that fought against it, from all prior champions great and small, one warrior might finally reach the end of the path and fully ascend.
As the Slayer of Chaos. Destroyer of Corruption. The Daemonsbane God.
That is what this dream represented. The purpose of all these memories. That is what you were.
With the Runes that were carved by Kesar Dorlin, the Runelord who delved into the power of concepts and their timeless reflections, he had etched himself twice-over. The Primal Rune of Anathema and the Grandmaster Rune of Daemonsbane. His own story that resonated deeply into his bones, his heart, his mind and his soul.
On some level, one so deep that perhaps nobody could ever find it, Kesar Dorlin had fully written down his own transcendent journey into divinity. To him, the journey was not yet over. Merely a premonition, a promise of what could be done.
To you?
It was as real as anything could be.
You are the echo, the dream, the reflection of Kesar Dorlin.
You are his story.
You are the will of a god.
You enter the room.
It stretches and breaths like a person, a forest, a living tower. A perfect cube of reflective dimensions. You could blink and still see its shape layered over your eyes. It was a design that was so uniform, ordered, and precise that it would be beyond your abilities to fully replicate.
Yet it was not a cube. Its shape was something else. A familiar symbol.
You glance back to behind yourself, to the wall by your back. There is no entrance nor exit, no window nor open hole, nothing at all but a plain surface. You turn and there is more nondescript emptiness to be perceived. It almost shifts before your eyes as you tried to search for any anchor of meaning, eyes feeling grey fog obscuring the details that were there, but it doesn't for there is nothing.
The absence of detail extended towards the material itself. You could call it stone, metal, ceramic, glass, earth but none of those fit. Even reaching out and touching it did nothing Solid was the only word that truly came to mind, yet even that failed to encapsulate the entirety of what you saw. But to call it material at all would be a misnomer. This was a pale echo of something else that was used as a foundation. The empty parts of a canvas holding the real picture, waiting with anticipation.
You didn't question how you knew this, what any of this information meant. You only knew it to be right. You just wished you could understand what any of it really meant.
The room was waiting for you. A part of you wanted to resist it just because of that, an instinct to keep your mind free from influence so bone-deep that even in this state and this place did you feel cautious. As though you were in a cage.
But you weren't trapped here or taken against your will. You were invited and you allowed yourself in. You were meant to be here.
Moments pass and disappear. Time feels like it was raining down from above. The fluttering of wings. A fluid, fleeting sensation. You let it flow across your being as you try to decipher what was happening.
If this strange space was waiting for you, then what were you supposed to do? Something that was already done, already being done.
You take a step.
Something changes. Lucidity comes and goes. Your eyes inner and outer feel the breathing, shifting space flicker. 'Rotation' is the wrong word, and you know exactly how it is wrong, but that is the closet thing to what your perception is aware of. The cube folds, unfolds, expands and contracts. The empty material begins to sink itself into detail. It was aware of you now.
Or maybe you were now aware of it.
Belatedly, you realise that you were dreaming. The familiar feeling as you delved into the Warp, whether it was by your will or that of something within this infinite realm. Yet this felt stranger still, even more distant. You didn't recall trying to carve a new shape.
Like a whisper to a sleeping man, like an idle thought granted a pedestal, something speaks into yourself. You could say you were not really here at all. Or that you weren't yourself. But if that is the case then…
Why are you here?
You don't have an answer for this space, although something even deeper within feels like there should be. Not forgotten, but that there should have been a reason. An answer. A purpose that could no more be denied as the light and heat of an undying flame.
Are you the one known as Kesar Dorlin?
Yes, that is your name. Mingled thoughts oscillate between you and whatever else was here. It was your dream. Your power. Your existence.
But that is not what you are. You are not Kesar Dorlin.
You open your mouth to respond to that notion, ready to deny it as you have denied greater forces before, but nothing comes out. This was a place of thought and flow, not spoken words. You make your disagreement known regardless to the mysterious presence.
Do you remember? An edge to the question. One that tenses your back and makes you feel the weight of a blade form in your hands.
Remember what?
STRIKE.
You move before you fully register what you're even holding, before you feel the howling snow-winds or the burning heat of arcane rituals, and Epitaph meets the sword from the Lord of Change.
The monster had inflicted you with a wound that burned with the power of Chaos, a curse woven by the Ruinous Powers, a scar that would take decades to heal and truly purge from your body. Where you had been in a way similar to where you were now.
But here the twisted blade shatters to a thousand pieces, a sound like broken glass rippling across the battlefield, and in one movement you bring the still falling sword down upon your enemy.
There is barely a hint of resistance as you cleave into daemonic flesh, just slightly greater than swinging your blade through the air. The daemon of Tzeentch is cut into two before the timeless immortal can even react. Its eyes only beginning to contort in primal fear and dying confusion.
In this act of death, the battle had been won. Your homeworld freed and a new chapter ready to be written. A golden age compared to one of slow decline. Saviour, champion, hero.
You look down at its bleeding corpse on the ground of Valhalla. Seeing its blood drip from your greatsword, the gauntlets that wielded that had names crawling on it like centipedes. Looking up to the frigid expanse able to be built into a better place, a world that had won against your archenemy.
That wasn't what happened. The fight hadn't been so easy even if victory happened all the same. This was a distorted memory.
Yes, because you weren't Kesar Dorlin.
You look down again to the blood and the myriad sword fragments that had fallen, the way the crimson liquid pooled into the circle of shards. The eightfold wheel gazes vacantly into nothingness, the Star of Chaos in shape yet not in power. Because this had already happened. Because you had already removed the wound.
You take in a breath of Valhalla's cold air before you turn and, like nothing happened, find yourself in the room again.
You blink. The world shifts again. Your sword cleaves an enemy that had manifested from the empty space. The weapon on your arms, Sagita, fires its iron ammunition into the hordes of corrupted automatons. The world becomes both smaller and greater as you peer into the twisted abyss of metal and machinery.
Gehenna station, the first and most terrible crucible that your Legion had suffered as they joined you against Chaos. The Khornate robots from a bygone age of enlightenment and science, transformed into weapons for a nightmarish war against all life. Butchering over half your sons and nearly annihilating everyone you had first sent to this place.
Rage blossomed into your hearts stronger than your vision of Valhalla. How easily the sensation returned. Distant figures of Eternal Wardens dying filled your sight, your mind, your soul. You fought like death itself as you turned corrupted machine into scraps and dust by sheer force from your attacks.
A fist punching a hulking berserker into a wall as your sword cut down ten that surrounded you. Pin-point shots from every angle striking beating hearts and computational cores. The very Warp shaking against your defiant assault as you refused to cede one more son to the clutches of these beasts.
Your rampage is relentless as you rush through an army of madness, a giant fortress in the void shuddering underneath your hatred. Hundreds die in a second, thousands more in the next. Your are a storm and your wrath eclipses your enemy by several orders of magnitude.
Yet even with how real all this feels, far more than the brief moment of Valhalla's victory, you know that this is just another illusion. As real as the most vivid dreams, real enough to hurt or do other things for you, but it wouldn't bring back those who died here in reality.
Why? The question lingers even as you massacre the monsters before you. Why are you here on Gehenna? Why Valhalla again, that cursed wound?
Because it was a beginning.
A beginning of what?
For you? Nothing. But it could have been. Here, right here, a choice half-knowingly made.
Another vision occurs. A true one. The world around you distorts. Feeling is lost from your arms and legs as you witness yourself. Back as you were, before Epitaph and Sagita and even the many names you had engraved onto your armour. Fighting the last of the Gehenna abominations, just before what came next. So much younger and unknowing of what was to come, all that would be lost and all that would be worth fighting for.
It was here when you began to realise what the future might hold.
The nature of monsters is fear, the voice whispers to you. It is the instinct of almost all beings to fear a predator, to fear hungry oblivion and fates far worse than dissolution. These monsters are fear given form and strength. Fear of violence, of manipulation, of decay, of pain, of death. Immortal reflections of primal awareness, sharpened by sapience and ignited by countless conflicting yet harmonious thoughts, who have been cemented as the poisonous suzerains of this psychic realm.
The vision fades away into darkness.
What is the first true sign that they can be beaten?
The answer comes to you in that moment, as if a weight had fallen from your form.
When they too feel fear. When they fear pain, failure and true death. When they are no longer the almighty rulers of their battlefields.
Clad in the remains of horrors that had helped burn humanity itself, weapons that had turned the brightest golden age into the beginning of an ashen fall, the presence of Chaos was manifested into these drones. Armoured in such frames, in an unbreakable citadel, they could have doomed even an Anathema's child and those that followed him.
But the story turned against them, for their wild anger and senseless violence was no match for a hatred focused by loss. An enemy already known and now truly despised to a level they cannot overcome. Such hatred is the weapon of those that slay monsters, for their greatest strength is no longer theirs.
You look down and see yourself again. At all the floating, squirming lines of text that slowly settle into your plate and become firmly etched into your armour. Forming what you truly looked like.
Yet when hatred could have been taken up as a mantle, as your hearts were clawed by loss severe enough to break even an immortal, a different choice had been made.
Hatred was a strong emotion to wield against Chaos, for it was too familiar to them and when directed at them could not easily be swayed. To deny the strength of hatred would be akin to denying the strength of Chaos itself. Absurd even by the standards for the impossible waves and eddies of the Immaterium, something far more paradoxical than even a Chaos God that despised Chaos itself. Ruin begets ruin.
Yet hatred was denied. Not fully, for the love that spawns grief is the same that burns with hatred, but enough that it could not be wielded by you. Passion channelled towards sorrow, remembrance and grim determination. Fitting for a slayer of monsters, but not enough for complete alignment. You formed a shield when you could have been sharpened as a sword, alloyed your rage with your love to give it meaning.
That too was powerful, an impactful act for the self and for all those around you, but it delayed this beginning. There is an order to things and it did not start here.
Why not?
There is only one path. Rigid order was the path against Chaos. Without a stable foundation, the influence of ruin could seep into anything from anywhere.
You blink. The space shifts again to another scene. Not a full recollection of battle, no charging hordes foes or sudden blades lunging at you. Unable to move, breathe, or think. Only feel. A moment of frozen time, because only this moment mattered. The cusp of victory.
Here, this is where it happened. A giant rift into the Warp that burned by countless sacrifices and acts of cruel delight. An invasion denied on a world of humans cast back into the dirt, a place of kings and knights, a place that was ready to be wholly devoured by Chaos if not for the giant warriors that bore countless names and with each one a cold promise of just vengeance.
Velnias.
A semblance of understanding flickers into your being. Of this dream, this strange place, and your role in all of this. Your role.
Death! Death to the deathless! By the will of the Eternal Wardens, the rituals of the Thousand Sons, the strength of a Primarch. A champion of the Dark Prince and all their soldiers of excess burns into ash, scattered forever in the Sea of Souls, unable to reform. Their terrible screams were sounds that betrayed an agony impossible to find joy in.
Before the monsters were merely bested, broken, banished. An insult and maddening grievance for any being of Chaos that they would later wish to repay ten-thousandfold. But there would come no 'after' for these warriors. Their song is silenced as a new one rises up. Cast in hatred, in sorrow, in love.
A mortal who has lost both sense and self to their new masters, taken wholly by the Primordial Truth, cannot deny this new truth that has shattered such transcendent beings. Before you. Before all that you were.
The true beginning was here, on Velnias, in the words of this nameless wretch before they too faced death. Witness to the beginning of one who would challenge the gods and bring oblivion to their warriors. Unknowing voice to the Eightfold Path which recognised what they truly faced.
Daemonsbane.
That is who you are. This is what happened. The crystallised culmination.
The pristine moment of genesis, the declaration of a new monomyth the beginning of a journey towards ascension.
The first step of your journey.
Time remains still, but you do not. A body that was not there now is, something to clad your being, and you feel the air and smell of putrid blood. The weightless weight of your armour. The comforting presence of your sword.
You gaze around you and see your children and your enemies locked in battle, at the penultimate moment of this conflict. Afterwards would be years of careful searching for survivors before you all moved on towards more worlds. To more wars against the forces of Chaos.
But they are not quite your children, were they? For you were not quite what you were.
Kesar Dorlin, the words try to form on your lips and fail to materialise. Unable to be conjured, to be heard by anything. Primarch. Eternal Warden. Anathema, that one almost comes forward. There is only silence, for there is only one answer.
"Daemonsbane."
The word is whispered softly, in a voice that was both familiar and utterly alien to hear, yet it ignites the world like a spark to a lake of promethium. The battle rushes to its conclusion, to its aftermath, before a second can even begin passing. The untouched people of the world had survived as a tiny remnant to what they were before, but they were saved. The planet had its corruption ripped from every inch. Followers of the Dark Prince executed and destroyed.
This was where it began and it was with victory. Your victory that ripples and reflects across the Warp.
You are not Kesar Dorlin. You are not the source, the white-silver flame, the burning moon that stems the tide of Chaos. You are the reflection in the water.
You are the Daemonsbane.
In the site of the old battlefield, where your true self had stepped, you lift up the greatsword that looks so much like Epitaph. With eyes you did not have, you gaze into the shining edge and see your faceless head on the sword-mirror. Featureless as a mannequin. No mouth to speak, no ears to hear, no eyes to see. Such things were meaningless to you, for you were closer to the mind and heart.
You are the story. The myth. The legend. This was where you were born. Not this planet, but the victory. The fear. The glory.
This was only the first step. There was more than just what happened here. More that you had become.
You do not blink, but let yourself drift. As formless as this dream truly was. You appear back in the room, the shifting space that contained you. The walls showing depictions of Velnias and the triumph that spawned you. The closing rift, the true death brutally inflicted, the terror that struck the false hearts of your foe.
You look upwards, towards a higher plane than this. Moving your echoing form towards your next destination. The space unfolds like a great wheel turning, or a spiral extending itself. You take a step into a new scene, but halfway through you stop and turn. Another place had to be visited first before you reached the next stage.
Cadia was a planet that was steeped in the power of stories. A place that had been part of an ancient effort to seal the vast, wild ruptures into the Warp from the War in Heaven and then cast it away from the Materium. A world of stability next to the yawning abyss that was once where the Aeldari had ruled at their apex, and were cut down by the birth-scream of the youngest of the Four. Bristling with the black towers that would silence even the Primordial Annihilator.
Not that Kesar Dorlin or his brother Perturabo, Lord of Iron, had known about such things. To them, it was merely where Lorgar Aurelian, Urizen of Chaos, would be invited into cursed enlightenment. Where the Word Bearers would be broken and
More importantly, it was the site of another act of true death. Not that of a mere champion and their army, not the grand and awe-inspiring battle that had occurred here, but the death of one daemon.
In the infinite, myriad hordes of madness that made up the Chaos Gods there were those that stood above their cruel peers. While even the lowliest divine vestiges could bring doom to people, act as a stalking darkness that stole hearts or the first well of corruption to spawn a cult or something else, there were those of greater capability.
Those who had risen into or been created as the Exalted, beings that could damn the greatest empires by their idle whims and doom the strongest heroes when matched in combat. Most favoured of their dark masters, the purest expression of their cruelty and might.
Yet few even amongst such grand and terrible legends could compare to Kairos Fateweaver, the Vizir of Tzeentch, the Oracle of Eternity.
A being that had been cast into a place not even the greatest of gods would dare tread and survived. Able to achieve the terrible omniscience of creation itself. Split apart and yet whole as an wise, elderly seer. Able to divine the future and past so perfectly that even gods of fate could only bow to such mastery.
Until obfuscation descended upon the twin-headed fiend as it tried to glimpse victory against Kesar Dorlin.
Enraged and filled with an alien sense of dread, it had taken the life of one of his most beloved sons and cast a ritual it should have known was impossible. Mind clouded by pain, rage and deeper powers did it leave into the Warp until the ghost of its victim had dragged it back out.
Fuelled by righteous fury, by bone-crushing loss, by absolute hate and grief-filled love brought together into perfect union. The Primarch of the Eternal Wardens stood over one of the worst nightmares of Chaos and proved that even gods may die. Ending the life of Kairos Fateweaver in one strike.
The act had shaken the Sea of Souls. Marked one of the greatest victories against daemons that had ever been accomplished. Partially fulfilling a step of the path you walked, one of the Four's most infamous horrors brought to an end. Cadia becoming the grave of the greatest oracle to have ever lived.
Yet it was soon after that where another, even more tumultuous reaction occurred. A place where two gods, two brothers, brought forth Kesar Dorlin to what would be the greatest conflict he would have faced up until this point. A foe that had was legendary for performing impossible acts against the Old Four that ruled Chaos. A being that could accomplish almost anything to fulfil the endless plans to bring doom, despair and destruction.
You take a step. The world shatters. Flame fills the air, metal rains from above, the ground becomes a broken sea. Screams fill the Warp as the impossibilities wage war. Here on Aleph, an epic triumph emerges over three stars.
Three moments come up before you, layered over each other.
The Changeling in its myriad forms, from other Exalted champions of Chaos to the children of the First Anathema, locked in battle with the Twin Heads of the Hydra and Kesar Dorlin. As Tzeentch itself gazes with uncountable eyes from the heavens and refuses to allow another favoured servant to fall.
Lorgar Aurelian, Primarch of the Word Bearers, arriving in time for his execution. Trying to earn back the favour he had so tainted by his failure. Where the potential for spreading corruption across the galaxy once was, to guide and instruct countless souls into eternal service to the thirsting gods, there was only frustration and loss by those he had fallen to.
Aetaos'rau'keres, Distorter of Worlds, Lord of Hosts, Ashenwing, The Shadow of All Colours and None, Mad Satrap of Tzeentch, Render of Veils, Primordial One of Sorcery, Fallen God of the Arcane. The claimant of witchcraft had been hastily used, the already depleted power further diminished just to summon the chained tool as quickly as possible. The Headsman of Khorne sent to cleave the infamous sorcerer, the Night Haunter granted the most forbidden of secrets to deliver extinction to the apocalypse wielder.
Two steps had been achieved here as the battle was won. The second stage of this ascension was won by gaining the full attention from one of the Old Four, the Changer of Ways, and remaining triumphant against all their actions. The fourth from surviving against one of the mightiest tools in the divine arsenal of the Ruinous Powers, the deepest wells of narrative power shaped into infinite power, as the arrival of the Primordial One.
But only the second could truly flow through, around, into the form of Kesar Dorlin. A rigid order, a stable foundation. A path that had to be walked precisely. Things would be too delicate, too fragile against the indomitable presence of ruin. This ritual method required restrictions to truly enact.
To advance further, there would need to be another foe. Finality had touched the infinite servants of the Lord of Blood, of the Architect of Fate, of the Prince of Pleasure. Yet it was the Master of Pestilence that had remained untouched. The quadrants were not yet complete. To be opposed to Chaos, to slay all its monsters, was to oppose all its forms.
You take a step. The room breathes in and out. The endless walls shift from the fractured layers of Aleph into ice once more. While you were not Kesar Dorlin, you could feel a form of reminiscence here that went deeper than just the destruction of your enemies.
Chaos exists in all forms, including ones that were a conjunction of different motifs and powers. The essence of more than just one Ruinous Power flowing into these entities. Monsters that had been drowned into different ripples of endless screams. The Lord of Stagnation, of Tzeentch and Nurgle, was one such being.
The Undivided wielder of change and decay lurked within the heart of another frozen world, one similar yet distinct to Valhalla. Home of the wolves and endless winter, the insidious shadow was sent to poison the dens and twist its people to the will of stagnant rot. Breaking the will of Fenris as the corruption was made known.
Yet the deception is unearthed. The Eternal Wardens charge ahead with their father at the spear's tip. The hunt in one of its most favoured environments. In the cold, in the forest, in the moment the rushing animal is cornered.
Today it survives, not that the hunter knows it, but the same is not true for its own servants. Bile Horrors that were masses of viral flesh, shifting and churning through forms of infection, delivered to oblivion. The third stage is achieved as Nurgle's will is denied, the fourth is then freed to flow, the fifth is crowned in triumph of the Undivided brought to an end.
Almost halfway there, the one known as Kesar Dorlin. The First Daemonsbane of Man. Ascending further.
The next step… you pause for a moment. Taking time from these timeless moments. Even compared to what happened before, this would be something special. Worthy of being remembered for eternity. An achievement that was comparable to the greatest acts that could be imagined in this current era.
The room, which has always been shifting and folding and layering this dream-space into what and where it needed to be, stops. You look up and take a step and the cube blossoms like a fractal flower. The walls falling down like toppled monuments. The ceiling extends into the infinite cosmos as a distant memory. The floor falls into a swirling abyss.
A tapestry unveils itself before your gaze. It begins as the Anathema of Chaos, the only one that lived at this time, shares a vision and then shares a vision. The sight of one of the Ruinous Powers waging an unprecedented war, personally leading almost every single of their servants across time and space versus the only other gods of conflict that could truly satisfy bottomless rage and desire for spilt blood. This is the time of opportunity.
The Maelstrom, a rift between realms older than almost all else in the galaxy. Stable by the standards of its kin, it was a whirlwind that was filled with vast riches and terrible monsters on a level that could make or break the very future of mankind. Where an idle thought to take a handful of worlds began, now there is an idea to take entire pieces of this region back into the mortal plane.
A ritual. Purification on an unprecedented scale. A golden syzygy.
Kesar Dorlin, Daemonsbane against Chaos, states his spirited desire that would lead to the rift's destruction. With the Lord of Iron, the Great Khan and the Master of Ultramar at his side to dive into the depths of hell. Trillions upon trillions of soldiers marching to nightmares given form. Years dedicated to merely prepare for this conflict. The very authority of Chaos over the Warp about to be challenged.
You let eternity pass by in a moment. A hushed silence of anticipation. Respect given to what was to come, what had already happened.
The swirling vortex floods the area around you. Almost fifty different battlefields layer over one another, most of them dedicated to the foul putrescence of Nurgle. Billions of corpses are butchered, devoured and laid to rot over billions more underneath. Astartes from four different legions fighting, surviving, retreating, triumphing, dying against the very will of the Primordial Annihilator.
The future of the Imperium, of humanity, of the entire galaxy is at stake. The Warp already boils with this conflict and the infinite results that could spring from its conclusion. This is an era-defining moment in the long history of everything everywhere.
The ritual is carved into being on the daemon worlds and is challenged by the First Anathema, as he battles with the End of Empires in the hardest battle he has fought since the Great Crusade was waged. Exalted monstrosities, some of the greatest tools that the Plague Lord can wield, emerge across various worlds and bring apocalypse when unopposed.
Two match the Primarch that you were reflected from. An undying tree that comes precariously close to banishment, or a worse fate, before the god-devourer rides forth and comes to its aid. Another matches with the champion swordsman on an old void station corrupted by Chaos, a familiar battleground. Another takes command of all forces and would be faced by the father of Ultramarines.
At the risk of stoking the indomitable wrath from one of the Ruinous Powers, the direct presence of Nurgle itself arriving to the Maelstrom, the spectre of true death hovers over the fates of each legendary daemon. More progression to this path if done so, yet at too terrible a cost to pursue. It wasn't even likely, not until the apex of this war, but the fact it was there at all was damning enough to these immortal creatures.
Fear now lurks in the hearts of even the strongest, those that found it almost impossible to even consider being bested by anything now wonder about their demise. Finality and oblivion lingers in their thoughts as damnation and madness surge in their victims.
Years pass, the conflict rages. A celestial archipelago belonging to the Lord of Rage is dragged by brass chains into the Blood and Thunder War. The Great Schemer cackles as none of its own worlds are fought, as it empowers and directs Drach'nyen. The Prince of Pleasure shifting their attention against a minor world as agonisingly slow corruption and conquest becomes its latest obsession. All the while the Grandfather of Plagues had their anger rise to degrees that frightened many of their once cheerful children.
Just as losses mount up to levels that were worrying enough to question if this war could even be won, morale in mortals sinking to a festering abyss, as uncertainty filled both sides about what would happen… it is a servant of the Dark Prince that makes the biggest mistake of this entire war.
Joining two corrupted sons of Kesar Dorlin, the flagship of the Daemonsbane is boarded and a precious life is taken. Owning the world that said life had come from, having twisted it into their will so completely that the land itself obeyed every whim, the daemon prince known as Ira finds itself to be the latest target for a slayer of the deathless.
The rigid order of this path, the journey towards ascension, the shape of the Daemonsbane would have another step fulfilled. Yet it would not be the next step of the eleven required to achieve the pinnacle of one who would be the master of destroying Chaos. It could not be. It would not be.
And yet… and yet… and yet the Warp itself watched. The omnipresent, vacant gaze of the mindless Sea of Souls had centred its attention to the one that refused the will of the Dark Gods. Its endless waves and churning mass looked upon the one known as Kesar Dorlin.
The warrior who invaded the colossal palace and entered the throne room of the Shaper. Who heard one final, desperate plea from the daemon prince that spoke as the voice of Chaos, of temptation, of endless riches and power. A grave insult that is refused with a single strike.
The blade known as Epitaph taking the head of the world's master and ending their life in an instant.
The order of ascension shifts and turns against this act, against this wondrous glory and the weight of this act. To be unyielding is the nature of order. As cold as ice, as unmoving as a mountain, as strong as the immutable. The path is not meant to change its own rules, for that is to be like the fickle and frenzied path of Chaos.
And yet… what force of divine law, what pathway carved out, could compare to the victories of the one who walked them? He who carved his own path against the very will of the Dark Gods who tried to wound and bind him to their cruel service? Who better to decide this heavenly order, what would be his order, than himself?
The design of ascension bends itself to the will of its claimant. The seventh step becomes the sixth. The power flows through as the Daemonsbane reaches greater heights than thought possible.
As an inferno erupts across the dead monster's essence, spread out across the entire mountain of a domain, it explodes as a tempest that shines with an unyielding radiance. A light and flame that resonated with the energy of its killer. A burst of power that all nearby servants of Chaos think is a sign of death, the soul of the Primarch torn from his body and ready to be devoured.
An army of daemons charge into the palace and realises their mistake far too late. They have arrived in time for their demise. They have come to witness the triumph of Kesar Dorlin as he surpasses his own father in his violent dance.
To the horror of these hordes, to the disbelief and outrage of the very gods of Chaos, an army of madness that should have been strong enough to kill multiple Exalted champions was losing against one man. The distant spectre of true death comes in full force as the Primarch eradicated every single daemon.
The power that had flooded into Kesar Dorlin as he ascended another rank of his title, of being the Daemonsbane, had not stopped. It merely changed as he became not only a slayer of monsters, but one who challenged the Primordial Annihilator itself. One to defy the Chaos Gods directly and their authority.
The Warp itself shifts around this champion who single-handedly wins the conflict that determines the fate of the Maelstrom. Bestowing a mantle earned by a legendary deed in an epic war.
To become what was known as the Anathema.
With such a foundation, by achieving such storied power, this achievement had shifted the hold of the nature of 'Daemonsbane'. Where once it was tightly and carefully becoming bound to Kesar Dorlin, and only him, it was now as free and bright as the light of a star. Able to be taken by others once more, especially the Primarch's greatest sons.
For the first time in existence, the mantle of Anathema and ascension of Daemonsbane were joined together to one. Since the very beginning of Chaos and those that fought against it, from all prior champions great and small, one warrior might finally reach the end of the path and fully ascend.
As the Slayer of Chaos. Destroyer of Corruption. The Daemonsbane God.
That is what this dream represented. The purpose of all these memories. That is what you were.
With the Runes that were carved by Kesar Dorlin, the Runelord who delved into the power of concepts and their timeless reflections, he had etched himself twice-over. The Primal Rune of Anathema and the Grandmaster Rune of Daemonsbane. His own story that resonated deeply into his bones, his heart, his mind and his soul.
On some level, one so deep that perhaps nobody could ever find it, Kesar Dorlin had fully written down his own transcendent journey into divinity. To him, the journey was not yet over. Merely a premonition, a promise of what could be done.
To you?
It was as real as anything could be.
You are the echo, the dream, the reflection of Kesar Dorlin.
You are his story.
You are the will of a god.
This kinda sounds like the birth of an exalted
Tzeentch is not gonna give us Hope without a greater fight. But need must. Khorne might be up for helping us if he has time that is.
Warp Harmonics.
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
Hiya! Decided to finally write out an idea I had for ages, and now recently have a lot more reason to check into! Memetic research is a cool concept in general, especially so for the 40k setting, and I'm excited to see just what kind of things Kesar Dorlin can do with this concept!
-----
Warp Harmonics.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens, and you look into the wonders and nightmares of memetic resonance.
It was a topic you had a lot of familiarity in from several angles and aspects, because to ignore such a thing while you regularly waged war against Chaos would be the height of idiocy.
The Warp itself was a place of thought, feeling, narrative and aesthetic power. Every idea made manifest, every dream a reality, every lie a truth and every metaphor a 'physical' presence. Every single living being, with the possible exception of blanks, influenced the Immaterium by merely living.
As you had experienced countless times, for both good and mostly ill, the opposite was also true.
Memetic resonance was a dangerous and very real threat while also being a powerful tool, often at the same time while wielded by the enemies of Chaos. Ideas were not meant to merely exist as free-floating concepts, they were meant to be thought. Considered. Debated. Shifted by countless perspectives and conflicting opinions. By the very nature of thought, ideas were meant to be shared.
Living ideas had the power to force themselves into people, as well as anything else they could reach. This was best seen in a physical sense by the corrupted individuals you had faced. Those that were essentially devoured by a living tide of countless thoughts, feelings, desires and energy that was the essence of Chaos. If caught early on, the soul and mind could still be saved if at some level of drained self that could fully recover at the lightest levels of contamination.
In most cases, an individual became a living puppet. Possible still retaining a semblance of their mind, but twisted entirely to the will of whatever force had subsumed them. Terribly 'enlightened' by the awe-inspiring, insidious touch of the worst the Warp had to offer. A cultist towards a dark god that existed in the collective consciousness of the galaxy, in countless variations using the same general motifs.
Of course, while one could focus on memetic psychic resonance purely through the lens of Chaos there was more than just your arch enemy to consider. Despite the claims of daemons about their omnipotent rule and omnipresence across the Sea of Soul, there was far more than just those terrible nightmares in the Warp.
Culture itself was an easy medium for memetic resonance to develop, especially when focused onto ways that could easily manifest following the laws of the Warp. From simple matters such as your homeworld's people ability to better resist Chaos after fighting it for so long, to what some psykers were able to accomplish by channelling the very ideals and legends of either a mythology or simple history of a group into tangible powers, to even creating new living beings in the Immaterium in response to such 'flows' of thought and emotion.
Divine entities were the most obvious examples of such things, able to wield or personify either conceptual powers shaped by a culture's interpretations and beliefs, existing domains that could be taken and repurposed under a new resonance or some combination of the above. Of course, not all of the deities you knew about were 'born' in the Warp, but in a way the power of memetic resonance was intertwined with all of them
There were the Eldar gods you had personally faced that could attest to how powerful they could be, even if their war god was in a rather sorry state in this day and age. Your twin brothers Alpharius and Omegon who had stolen divine concepts from Tzeentch, which was still baffling to think about, without being severely influenced by holding a once corrupted power. A few other gods that you knew, from the Timeless Watcher of Skysoph to the rebirth of the ancient Venus.
Memetic resonance could also be a tool wielded without requiring divine or mythological forces being involved, Chaos or otherwise. Ideas could be about anything, and thus could resonate or be wielded by theoretically anyone attuned to the Immaterium.
The 'hero' was the first such extreme example you had researched about, ages ago back when you still fought to reclaim Valhalla from the hands of cultists and daemons. One that exemplified a strength, cleverness or other such trait or combination of them that were capable of more than should be possible. Especially in regards to the Immaterium, where their very presence could have tangible ripples across the psychic space.
The idea of a hero was widespread and nearly universal. Almost every single human culture had such figures, real or made up or a distortion of both. The Aeldari had them. The Orks had them. The Hrud had them. Countless xenos species had such beliefs and idealisations, even the Rangda and Slaugth had such things from what you knew about the nightmarish creatures.
Other mantles existed than just being a hero. Daemonsbane, a title once solely held by you and then shared to your greatest sons, held an even deeper effect as proven during all battles against Chaos. Anathema, held by you and your creator, was yet an even greater showcase of just what was possible when memetic resonance could accomplish.
Yet there was some degree of interesting overlap between what was a 'meme' and what was a 'concept'. Memes were ideas, styles or other such aesthetic that were passed, spread and mutated across a culture or multiple cultures and thus had resonance in the Warp. Concepts were, at least in the sense of your studies, a purer expression of an idea that existed in the Warp. Vast conceptual domains that existed in the Sea of Souls and could be, in a sense, channelled through memetic patterns.
In a sense, the Runes you worked so hard on were a form of meme. A symbol that was sourced by a mixture of a pure conceptual gateway and your own perspective and ideals distilled into a shape, which was in a sense a type of memetic resonance given physical form. While difficult, even variations could be made by others using this framework.
Perspective was the key far more than even precision was, and unfortunately far more difficult to teach and master. The mindset, feeling and near meditative understanding were what was needed for a psyker to attain the ability to create any Runes. Without following yourself, your memes, then it'd either cause the Rune to be unable to be made or take a large amount of time to build one's own version. That more than anything was what lead to the time it took to finish your main efforts on Ogma.
Yet there more examples of how one could channel or utilise memetic resonance. Without even requiring the use of psychic capability. Ones far darker and terrible than a lot of weapons already in use in this day and age.
Your brother Konrad Curze had shared with you his Legion's recent experience facing a strange project from the Dark Age of Technology, a clone from an apparently exceptional commander that was both facing and apparently producing a memetic hazard that caused those infected to feel like they were fighting a terrible war against or perhaps alongside something known as the Raven Corp. With some psykers noting that the more those were infected, the stronger the memetic force became. Thankfully the clone was defeated by the actions of Jago Sevarion before anything worse could result.
The Black Library had mentioned various phenomena, weapons, self-propagating spells and curses. Some of them reminded you of things you had already encountered and hypothesised. Other examples made you horrified, to the point you felt deeply sickened reading a few highly-detained results. The Emperor of Mankind's notes had also shared various tragic anecdotes of memetic weapons, including the relatively recent Unheard War that exterminated the Azurites of Uranus as the Great Crusade began.
Yet the biggest point of research you found was about Project NIGHTMARE from the Tixburi Consolidation. A grand war that was recently won by Roboute Guilliman and a staggering plethora of allies he had brought to his side, against a foe that technologically rivalled Mars itself. Kept in an ancient facility, this superweapon was a horrific example of what else memetic resonance could be used for.
Safely delivered to you as a gift from your brother, using high-grade quarantine procedures that you had personally helped design with your First Captain for Chaos artefacts containing powerful daemonic entities, this superweapon would be a form of Exterminatus that was comparable in devastation to tearing open rifts to the Immaterium by wide-scale Vortex weapon bombardments.
It would spread through any medium once unleashed, from written words to speech, radio signals, psychic influence and anything else you could think of. Literally shredding souls by the presence of this hostile psychovore, spreading and burning everyone like a memetic version of spiritual phosphex, turning any afflicted populace into mutated hordes of maddened beasts.
Yet with all the notes available around Project NIGHTMARE's study, and all your pre-existing knowledge and other sources such as the Black Library or other infectious memetic hazards such as one of the hotspots in the Maelstrom, it had helped bring you a breakthrough in your studies on memetic resonance.
Namely, you know had the knowledge of how to design your own memetic resonance weapons. As well as how to utilise the minds of those infected and any machinery involved to keep 'broadcasting' the resonance to others, especially in the form of spiritual afflictions to your victims. As for how destructive your work could be…
By your nature and willpower, you could probably resist without any side-effects. A lot of your sons might suffer some form of symptom, akin to hearing a terrible noise constantly without effort. Everyone lacking that level of mental fortitude? Well, you didn't want to imagine it for a lot of reasons, but you could picture something darkly similar to the aftermath of a daemonic incursion. Only with more outright destruction than just corruption.
In a way, with an extreme amount of time and effort, you could form your own daemons using this research. You didn't enjoy having that idea.
But as you already knew with your work on Runes, and other examples you had read about that were sadly far smaller in available information compared to weapons, you knew that there were more than just tools of destruction you could make.
Memetic training tools that could be used to help test and develop a mind to resist hostile mental influence, not even just against a memetic weapon. Means to help prepare a person to deal with the traumas of war, or other nightmarish situations. The ability to share your own perspective to the many students that tried to learn your Runes, not able to advance production yet certainly able to reinforce stability with these various psykers. Perhaps even ways to help heal a mind afflicted by some minor forms of Warp-based influence.
For mechanical work, you could create a ritual for machine spirits to spread a memetic resonance of purity and protection against the influence of scrap-code or direct Chaos corruption. Malicious code unable to find purchase as it tried to breach a digital fortress of psychic origin.
With a lot more work and dedicated research, you could even try to find the memetic resonance of something like gene-seed. After all, the physical genetic element was only one part of how Astartes were made and why they were so strong and connected to their Primarch. Perhaps something like 'meme-seed' could be made at the end of this path.
You and your sons had faced against the forces of Chaos and their memetic influence, both warding against it from yourselves and those around you to slaying and counteracting their followers, and now the playing field could be evened out further with all this at your disposal.
You were Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens, and you would master the understanding and usage of memes.
-----
Warp Harmonics.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens, and you look into the wonders and nightmares of memetic resonance.
It was a topic you had a lot of familiarity in from several angles and aspects, because to ignore such a thing while you regularly waged war against Chaos would be the height of idiocy.
The Warp itself was a place of thought, feeling, narrative and aesthetic power. Every idea made manifest, every dream a reality, every lie a truth and every metaphor a 'physical' presence. Every single living being, with the possible exception of blanks, influenced the Immaterium by merely living.
As you had experienced countless times, for both good and mostly ill, the opposite was also true.
Memetic resonance was a dangerous and very real threat while also being a powerful tool, often at the same time while wielded by the enemies of Chaos. Ideas were not meant to merely exist as free-floating concepts, they were meant to be thought. Considered. Debated. Shifted by countless perspectives and conflicting opinions. By the very nature of thought, ideas were meant to be shared.
Living ideas had the power to force themselves into people, as well as anything else they could reach. This was best seen in a physical sense by the corrupted individuals you had faced. Those that were essentially devoured by a living tide of countless thoughts, feelings, desires and energy that was the essence of Chaos. If caught early on, the soul and mind could still be saved if at some level of drained self that could fully recover at the lightest levels of contamination.
In most cases, an individual became a living puppet. Possible still retaining a semblance of their mind, but twisted entirely to the will of whatever force had subsumed them. Terribly 'enlightened' by the awe-inspiring, insidious touch of the worst the Warp had to offer. A cultist towards a dark god that existed in the collective consciousness of the galaxy, in countless variations using the same general motifs.
Of course, while one could focus on memetic psychic resonance purely through the lens of Chaos there was more than just your arch enemy to consider. Despite the claims of daemons about their omnipotent rule and omnipresence across the Sea of Soul, there was far more than just those terrible nightmares in the Warp.
Culture itself was an easy medium for memetic resonance to develop, especially when focused onto ways that could easily manifest following the laws of the Warp. From simple matters such as your homeworld's people ability to better resist Chaos after fighting it for so long, to what some psykers were able to accomplish by channelling the very ideals and legends of either a mythology or simple history of a group into tangible powers, to even creating new living beings in the Immaterium in response to such 'flows' of thought and emotion.
Divine entities were the most obvious examples of such things, able to wield or personify either conceptual powers shaped by a culture's interpretations and beliefs, existing domains that could be taken and repurposed under a new resonance or some combination of the above. Of course, not all of the deities you knew about were 'born' in the Warp, but in a way the power of memetic resonance was intertwined with all of them
There were the Eldar gods you had personally faced that could attest to how powerful they could be, even if their war god was in a rather sorry state in this day and age. Your twin brothers Alpharius and Omegon who had stolen divine concepts from Tzeentch, which was still baffling to think about, without being severely influenced by holding a once corrupted power. A few other gods that you knew, from the Timeless Watcher of Skysoph to the rebirth of the ancient Venus.
Memetic resonance could also be a tool wielded without requiring divine or mythological forces being involved, Chaos or otherwise. Ideas could be about anything, and thus could resonate or be wielded by theoretically anyone attuned to the Immaterium.
The 'hero' was the first such extreme example you had researched about, ages ago back when you still fought to reclaim Valhalla from the hands of cultists and daemons. One that exemplified a strength, cleverness or other such trait or combination of them that were capable of more than should be possible. Especially in regards to the Immaterium, where their very presence could have tangible ripples across the psychic space.
The idea of a hero was widespread and nearly universal. Almost every single human culture had such figures, real or made up or a distortion of both. The Aeldari had them. The Orks had them. The Hrud had them. Countless xenos species had such beliefs and idealisations, even the Rangda and Slaugth had such things from what you knew about the nightmarish creatures.
Other mantles existed than just being a hero. Daemonsbane, a title once solely held by you and then shared to your greatest sons, held an even deeper effect as proven during all battles against Chaos. Anathema, held by you and your creator, was yet an even greater showcase of just what was possible when memetic resonance could accomplish.
Yet there was some degree of interesting overlap between what was a 'meme' and what was a 'concept'. Memes were ideas, styles or other such aesthetic that were passed, spread and mutated across a culture or multiple cultures and thus had resonance in the Warp. Concepts were, at least in the sense of your studies, a purer expression of an idea that existed in the Warp. Vast conceptual domains that existed in the Sea of Souls and could be, in a sense, channelled through memetic patterns.
In a sense, the Runes you worked so hard on were a form of meme. A symbol that was sourced by a mixture of a pure conceptual gateway and your own perspective and ideals distilled into a shape, which was in a sense a type of memetic resonance given physical form. While difficult, even variations could be made by others using this framework.
Perspective was the key far more than even precision was, and unfortunately far more difficult to teach and master. The mindset, feeling and near meditative understanding were what was needed for a psyker to attain the ability to create any Runes. Without following yourself, your memes, then it'd either cause the Rune to be unable to be made or take a large amount of time to build one's own version. That more than anything was what lead to the time it took to finish your main efforts on Ogma.
Yet there more examples of how one could channel or utilise memetic resonance. Without even requiring the use of psychic capability. Ones far darker and terrible than a lot of weapons already in use in this day and age.
Your brother Konrad Curze had shared with you his Legion's recent experience facing a strange project from the Dark Age of Technology, a clone from an apparently exceptional commander that was both facing and apparently producing a memetic hazard that caused those infected to feel like they were fighting a terrible war against or perhaps alongside something known as the Raven Corp. With some psykers noting that the more those were infected, the stronger the memetic force became. Thankfully the clone was defeated by the actions of Jago Sevarion before anything worse could result.
The Black Library had mentioned various phenomena, weapons, self-propagating spells and curses. Some of them reminded you of things you had already encountered and hypothesised. Other examples made you horrified, to the point you felt deeply sickened reading a few highly-detained results. The Emperor of Mankind's notes had also shared various tragic anecdotes of memetic weapons, including the relatively recent Unheard War that exterminated the Azurites of Uranus as the Great Crusade began.
Yet the biggest point of research you found was about Project NIGHTMARE from the Tixburi Consolidation. A grand war that was recently won by Roboute Guilliman and a staggering plethora of allies he had brought to his side, against a foe that technologically rivalled Mars itself. Kept in an ancient facility, this superweapon was a horrific example of what else memetic resonance could be used for.
Safely delivered to you as a gift from your brother, using high-grade quarantine procedures that you had personally helped design with your First Captain for Chaos artefacts containing powerful daemonic entities, this superweapon would be a form of Exterminatus that was comparable in devastation to tearing open rifts to the Immaterium by wide-scale Vortex weapon bombardments.
It would spread through any medium once unleashed, from written words to speech, radio signals, psychic influence and anything else you could think of. Literally shredding souls by the presence of this hostile psychovore, spreading and burning everyone like a memetic version of spiritual phosphex, turning any afflicted populace into mutated hordes of maddened beasts.
Yet with all the notes available around Project NIGHTMARE's study, and all your pre-existing knowledge and other sources such as the Black Library or other infectious memetic hazards such as one of the hotspots in the Maelstrom, it had helped bring you a breakthrough in your studies on memetic resonance.
Namely, you know had the knowledge of how to design your own memetic resonance weapons. As well as how to utilise the minds of those infected and any machinery involved to keep 'broadcasting' the resonance to others, especially in the form of spiritual afflictions to your victims. As for how destructive your work could be…
By your nature and willpower, you could probably resist without any side-effects. A lot of your sons might suffer some form of symptom, akin to hearing a terrible noise constantly without effort. Everyone lacking that level of mental fortitude? Well, you didn't want to imagine it for a lot of reasons, but you could picture something darkly similar to the aftermath of a daemonic incursion. Only with more outright destruction than just corruption.
In a way, with an extreme amount of time and effort, you could form your own daemons using this research. You didn't enjoy having that idea.
But as you already knew with your work on Runes, and other examples you had read about that were sadly far smaller in available information compared to weapons, you knew that there were more than just tools of destruction you could make.
Memetic training tools that could be used to help test and develop a mind to resist hostile mental influence, not even just against a memetic weapon. Means to help prepare a person to deal with the traumas of war, or other nightmarish situations. The ability to share your own perspective to the many students that tried to learn your Runes, not able to advance production yet certainly able to reinforce stability with these various psykers. Perhaps even ways to help heal a mind afflicted by some minor forms of Warp-based influence.
For mechanical work, you could create a ritual for machine spirits to spread a memetic resonance of purity and protection against the influence of scrap-code or direct Chaos corruption. Malicious code unable to find purchase as it tried to breach a digital fortress of psychic origin.
With a lot more work and dedicated research, you could even try to find the memetic resonance of something like gene-seed. After all, the physical genetic element was only one part of how Astartes were made and why they were so strong and connected to their Primarch. Perhaps something like 'meme-seed' could be made at the end of this path.
You and your sons had faced against the forces of Chaos and their memetic influence, both warding against it from yourselves and those around you to slaying and counteracting their followers, and now the playing field could be evened out further with all this at your disposal.
You were Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens, and you would master the understanding and usage of memes.
Flashpoints: Post-Consolidation War II (Must Read)
Flashpoints: Post-Consolidation War II
With Friends Like This…
The Consolidation War had concluded in an undeniable victory for the Imperium of Man, yet the triumph felt tainted. Their overwhelming success had not been earned solely through the Imperial Army's valor or the Legiones Astartes's might; instead, it had been made possible by the uneasy alliances forged with renegades, traitors, xenos, and other unaligned forces.
If that hadn't been insulting enough, the Primarchs had allowed these so-called allies to leave with a share of the spoils. Meanwhile, dozens of loyal regiments were still scrambling to scrounge enough gear and funds to keep themselves at respectable readiness.
For Lord Commander Eridian Drass, it was nothing short of an embarrassment. The Imperial Army, in all its dedication, would likely be remembered as little more than a support element in the annals of this victory. The lone exception might be Lord Admiral Stefan Ackerman, who'd received a personal commendation from Ferrus Manus.
"It's disgraceful, isn't it, Eridian?"
Eridian blinked, momentarily forgetting he wasn't alone. "Sorry—what was that, Verena?"
Across the room, his companions and trusted allies, Lord Commanders Tyron Aelric and Verena Kaso, exchanged amused glances at their friend's lapse. "I asked if you thought this situation was disgraceful."
"Is that a rhetorical question?" Eridian replied, raising his glass to take another sip of the fine whisky, trying to lose himself in the rare comfort of this secluded officers' retreat aboard the Hymn of Courage. He was quite fond of this place; it exuded a quiet, understated luxury. Polished ebony paneling and burnished brass accents created an atmosphere as dignified as the commanders themselves.
Tyron smirked, settling back into his deep leather armchair—no doubt a seat that cost more than a small trooper's lifetime wages. "Perhaps, but it's a question I've heard more than a few times lately. Some wonder if Primarch Guilliman's losing his mind."
Eridian sighed, standing to retrieve another rare bottle from the polished wooden cabinet along the wall—actual wood from Terra, no less. "You shouldn't speak so loosely, Tyron."
"Nonsense," Tyron shot back. "We're still free to speak our minds in here." The room's reinforced walls, discreetly bolstered as both a security measure and an anti-surveillance safeguard, reinforced the confidential nature of their gathering.
"That's not what I mean." Eridian returned with the bottle, pouring fresh whisky for himself and his companions. "Treasonous thoughts are safe enough in one's head—so long as they remain unspoken."
"Oh, don't be so obstinate, Eridian," Verena chided him. "You were thinking the same thing, weren't you?"
He sidestepped the question, taking a contemplative sip. "This is a fine spirit."
Verena sighed her expression a mix of impatience and disappointment. "Eridian... I thought we'd agreed to be honest with each other."
Eridian set his glass down and met her gaze with sincerity. "Verena, you and Tyron are my closest compatriots." The three had fought and schemed together for years, an unlikely alliance in the cutthroat world of the Imperial Army, with its ruthless politics and parade of theatrics and scheming. "But that doesn't mean I'm obligated to share my every thought. Surely a man's entitled to keep an opinion or two to himself?"
"Near treason?" Verena snorted, her tone laced with grim amusement. "It is treason. The Emperor and Sigillite won't overlook this breach. Guilliman will face consequences—punishment, likely. But our concern should be ensuring we don't get swept up in the backlash."
Tyron nodded, his gaze steady as he looked at Eridian. "Verena's right. Those ordered to follow this alliance will still face scrutiny—even if all we did was follow orders. And you, Eridian, are at the heart of it. You were in the thick of those meetings with the Archtraitor, that Eldar, and all the other renegades. It's not as if you can plead ignorance."
"I don't intend to," Eridian replied calmly, lifting his glass. "When the investigation starts, I'll cooperate fully. Stirring up a defense now would be a fool's errand."
Verena frowned, unconvinced. "But wouldn't it look better if we tried to take action to clean this up? We could easily order our ships to bomb their encampments. I doubt anyone would lose sleep over it."
"Except that we'd be signing our own death warrants," Eridian pointed out with only a hint of exasperation. "It's a waste of resources and would unnecessarily put us in the crosshairs."
Tyron leaned back, musing. "I understand your point, Eridian. Still, if we do nothing, we risk looking complicit. The question is whether Guilliman's gamble will hold or will we all be painted with the same traitor's brush when he falls."
Verena's brow furrowed. "Aren't you worried about your legacy, Eridian?"
In truth, he was. Eridian had invested years of steady, determined work to reach this position, building a record of solid successes and a pragmatic approach to warfare. He liked to think he was a competent commander, not just in the eyes of close allies like Verena and Tyron. His peers respected him for his shrewd, level-headed tactics and meticulous planning, trademarks of his reliable command.
Yet Eridian knew that "reliable" wasn't enough for the halls of military history. He was, at worst, a solid strategist; at best, an accomplished tactician—but middling enough to fade into obscurity if things remained as they were. The notion of being remembered for something bold, even infamous—like challenging a Primarch—had an odd appeal. It was dangerous, yet…it would be an endearing legacy.
"I am," he replied, setting his glass down with a faint smile. "But I know my strengths—and my limits."
Tyron leaned forward, intrigued. "So, does that mean you might consider something a bit more…unorthodox?"
Eridian's expression was unreadable. "It means that if I act, it won't be reckless." He took another slow sip. "Let's not rush into premature heroics."
Verena's smirk turned into a full smile, her eyes alight with intrigue. "I knew it. You always did have your own way of handling things."
Eridian offered no confirmation but allowed a faint grin to break his usual stoic demeanor. She was right, after all. His efforts weren't flashy or reckless; instead, they were carefully calculated, the type of subtle maneuver that could pay dividends if things turned against them. The recording device, undetectable to even the most skilled technicians, had been his silent witness in those closed meetings—a safeguard to expose the true actors behind questionable alliances.
"Let's save this for later," Eridian said, his tone firm but calm. He raised his glass, inviting his companions to follow suit. "Tonight, let's try to unwind. Tomorrow, there'll be time enough for the choices we'll need to make."
The others lifted their glasses, a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken bond they shared amid the swirling uncertainty. "But when this is all over," Eridian murmured, a hint of conviction underscoring his words, "I trust we'll all be vindicated."
The New Order…
Zhaoren Ryung found some comfort in being alive and unharmed, sitting in the quiet luxury of his home in the Elysium Suites. He knew he should probably feel more bitterness or resentment—after all, the Imperium had stripped him of his authority following his people's surrender.
But instead, he marveled at the Imperium's political acumen. Despite the brutality of the war, they had shown a surprising level of restraint and pragmatism when it came time to govern a conquered people. Then again, maybe their world had too much to offer to continue it.
Maybe Primarch Guilliman had the foresight to keep the Consolidation's governing council intact. Because now their purpose was reduced to rubber-stamping the official terms of unconditional surrender to the Imperium of Man.
Yet, it hadn't been entirely unconditional. Had Guilliman chosen to execute them all—including Chairman Yung—the remaining armies and people of their civilization would have fought to the death. And while the end would have likely resulted in a civil war amidst the Imperium's invasion, it would have been devastating for everyone.
No, the Primarch made the wiser choice, even if it still would have ended in their defeat. Zhaoren still couldn't fathom how the Imperium managed it, but nearly a third of their standing army had descended into madness, convinced their comrades were Skinwalkers. Lifelong friends or comrades in arms who had fought side by side for months suddenly turned on each other with terrifying conviction.
Chairman Yung was certain some kind of warp-based weapon had been used against them, possibly a repurposed Darksky, which sent their forces into paranoid chaos. Had the war continued after that point, Zhaoren wondered if their civilization would have survived mentally.
Yung must have realized this as well. His final, desperate plan had been to unleash NIGHTMARE and launch the Dandelions into space to escape. But their initial escape plan was doomed; the WHALE hadn't been located in time, and even if they made it to the subterranean network, they were too close to the surface to escape NIGHTMARE.
But while their prospects were grim, they still had a duty. The council agreed with the Chairman to enact NIGHTMARE. Unfortunately, Guilliman had intervened just before NIGHTMARE could be unleashed.
The Primarch made quick work of the Redeemed, effortlessly sweeping them aside, which made Zhaoren realize that had Edgerunners been present, that last fight would have gone quite differently, but now he was grateful it had gone the way it did.
Only the governing council stood between Guilliman and total victory when it was all over, but the fight had already left them. Chairman Yung, disheartened and weary, had no more strength for resistance. But even in his defeat, he refused to surrender the Consolidation to what he believed were Skinwalkers. That duty fell to Zhaoren and the rest of the council.
And as Zhaoren reflected upon it, he realized that surrender had been the only real option. It wasn't noble or heroic, but it was pragmatic. In his heart, he knew it had been the right choice, but it left a vile taste in his mouth. Undoubtedly, the feeling was mutual across the whole of the Consolidation.
For their part in the surrender, the council of ministers was effectively placed under house arrest, confined to their homes indefinitely. Their only remaining duty was to assist the Imperium's occupying authority until a permanent planetary governor could be appointed—a move that would officially dismantle the Consolidation and end any vestiges of their former power.
Zhaoren Ryung was quietly thankful he wouldn't face execution, and he assumed his colleagues shared the same relief. Even more surprising was the fate of their former Chairman.
Instead of a public trial or execution, he had been relegated to a quiet, forced retirement—a strange act of mercy in the wake of such a devastating defeat. But when Shai confided in Zhaoren later, she had a more cynical explanation. Guilliman wasn't sparing Yung out of compassion; the Primarch understood that killing him immediately would be too politically volatile.
According to Shai, Guilliman's plan was far more calculated. Yung's death was inevitable—whether tomorrow or a decade from now, the former Chairman would meet an untimely end, likely staged as an accident. It was simply a matter of when the Imperium deemed the time right to sever that last tie to the old regime. For now, Yung's life hung by a thread, a pawn in the larger political game, while Zhaoren and the others waited in uneasy limbo, knowing that their futures were just as precarious if they decided to try their luck.
Zhaoren wasn't about to act against Guilliman or the Imperium. After all, the Primarch held a silver bullet that could destroy the entire council—their unanimous decision to activate Project NIGHTMARE. If that information ever reached the general public, it would almost certainly end in their deaths at the hands of a furious mob.
That was the grim reality of the council's decision: while the Consolidation was prepared to fight to the bitter end, their surrender had been orchestrated not out of cowardice but for what the council believed was the greater good. Though reluctant, they had issued the order to stand down, and the people obeyed. But Project NIGHTMARE was a different matter. It had been extreme, perhaps even unnecessary, and Guilliman knew it.
If the Tixburians ever learned that their leaders had been willing to unleash such devastation on their own people, their loyalty would dissolve instantly, replaced by righteous fury directed at the council and who knows who else.
Zhaoren understood that, so he was more than willing to cooperate with the Imperium's occupation. There was simply no other choice. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he justified it as necessary for the survival of their world.
Better to keep Tixburians in charge of as much as possible for as long as possible, even if it meant complying with the new order. Perhaps, in a few generations, some might rise to challenge Imperial rule and reclaim their freedom. Or maybe the will for independence would fade entirely.
Like everything else, that was a question for a time long after Zhaoren would be dead and buried. For now, there wasn't much else left for him to do. He might spend the remainder of his days advising the future Imperial governor, playing the role of the dutiful servant. Or perhaps he would accept Jihan's offer to leave Tixburi altogether and try his luck in some distant world.
But Tixburi was his home. It didn't feel right to abandon it a second time. And so, despite the uncertainty of his future, Zhaoren knew he would stay even if allowed to one day leave.
Such was the fate of a patriot.
A Bittersweet Time…
The streets were a kaleidoscope of lights, polished metal, and vibrant displays, nearly blinding in their brightness and pristine cleanliness. The air buzzed with the energy of people going about their day, laughing, talking, and reveling in the endless diversions around them. It was surreal—almost disorienting.
At least, that was what Sergeant Dariel Vander thought as he and his squad strolled through this storm of light and sound. Just two months ago, he and his regiment fought tooth and nail against the Tixburians in the hellscape that was Megablock 372. Some of the most intense fighting that Dariel had ever seen in almost ten years of being within the Imperial Army.
Now? He and the rest of the 86th Malkarian Recon, dozens of Imperials, and even those Valoron marines were enjoying well-earned leave in one of the Tixburian cities. Life had a twisted sense of humor, he mused.
Just about everyone who had fought in the war had been given a week-long holiday leave to enjoy themselves on Tixburi. Dariel and his squad wandered the bustling, vibrant streets of Nu-Archeion, which had been completely untouched by the war.
Nu-Archeion was a small metropolis. It was touted as a "pleasure zone," a place where Tixburians came to unwind from their otherwise regimented lives.
Even the Tixburians, it seemed, needed to cut loose. The lively atmosphere reminded Dariel of his first time on a hive world, when he'd gotten lost in its labyrinthine mid-levels and narrowly avoided a mugging. Luckily, this time, he was having a far better experience.
But worlds like Tixburi always reminded Dariel of the stark contrasts within humanity's far-flung realms. His home, Malkaris, was where survival shaped nearly every facet of society, though, thankfully, it was no longer their only pursuit. The planet's untamed landscapes and erratic climate forced its people to adapt constantly, fostering a culture of resilience in the face of danger. The Imperium called Malkaris a "frontier" world, and Dariel thought that label was spot on.
Over his tours, he'd visited seven other unremarkable planets, save perhaps the hive world of Atolin IX. But nothing could compare to Tixburi's level of "advancement"—in industry, in luxury, and yes, even in recreation.
It was hard not to be impressed, or at least in awe, by Tixburian luxuries. Walking these streets, Dariel was reminded of the brutal campaign they'd fought, yet the Tixburians seemed willing to set aside any resentment, perhaps seeing the Imperials as just doing their duty. Surprisingly, he and his squad didn't attract any hostile glares as they strolled through Nu-Archeion's lively main square, where nearly everything looked like it had been crafted by the finest Mechanicum artificers.
They paused near a holo-display showing a high-speed drone race, where sleek hover-drones zipped across the screen, leaving dazzling trails. "Drone racing," Dariel scoffed, though his tone held a hint of intrigue. "They have whole arenas for these things like it's some grand sport."
Corporal Xavia nudged him, grinning. "Come on, Sarge, how many planets can pull off something like this? And look at those holo-theaters! Can you imagine a stage that projects anything you want?"
"Oh, I heard about those," chimed in PFC Farmer with a smirk. "Tixburians like to 'hunt' holo-creatures in full immersion. It's supposed to feel almost real."
Dariel chuckled as they passed an anti-gravity spa, the entrance glowing in cool blues and whites, giving it a reverent, almost shrine-like appearance. "Now, that looks more my speed," he muttered. "A whole floor where you float around in zero-g, getting massages. Bet these Tixburians forget which way's up half the time."
As they moved on, the group saw environmental domes—massive glass structures that replicated specific biomes. Some mimicked misty mountains, others were humid jungles, and still others lush valleys. "Everyday folk on Tixburi have access to luxuries that'd be reserved for nobility back home," Dariel mused. "And this? People treat it like a weekend getaway right here in the city."
"They even have botanical gardens that double as restaurants," Dariel said, eyeing one bustling spot. "Reminds me of the farmer's markets back home, just a lot fancier."
"Who cares about all that fancy stuff?" Xavia shrugged, pointing toward Nu-Archeion's crowning jewel: a towering casino flashing with sleek lines and brilliant lights. "Now that's what I came to see."
"A luxury casino where you gamble time instead of money," Dariel shook his head in amusement. "Tixburians wager hours or even days in crummy work positions instead of credits. Can't imagine wanting to gamble my leave time."
Dariel glanced around the glittering lights of Nu-Archeion and shrugged. "These people sure know how to live, though. Almost makes you wonder how they ever got a disciplined army together in the first place."
After everything he and the 86th Malkarian Recon had endured, Dariel didn't care much for the sights or distractions. The others could go live it up at the casino, but he was fine with finding a quieter place to unwind.
He was strolling past one of those impressive restaurants—the kind with botanical gardens inside, like a sanctuary within the city—when he spotted a bar nestled in the greenery. It was mostly empty, save for one patron who stood out: a Tixburian soldier, still in uniform, wearing a black armband and staring into his drink with the kind of quiet grief Dariel recognized all too well.
The smart thing would have been to keep walking. The last thing Dariel wanted was to spark a confrontation, especially on leave. But something drew him in; maybe it was just his desire to hear how someone they fought felt about everything. He didn't know if it was respect or sheer exhaustion, but he sat at the bar and ordered a drink.
Silence reigned for a few minutes. Dariel wondered if the Tixburian even noticed him. Well, at least he could enjoy a drink in silence. A moment passed, followed by another, before finally the Tixburian spoke.
"Are you enjoying the sights?" the Tixburian asked, not sounding too interested but maybe just wanting to see how Dariel responded.
Dariel slowly nodded, "It's lively."
"Nu-Archeion is a lively place."
An awkward silence returned. Dariel wasn't sure what else to really say here. Finally, he decided to be honest, "It's good that it was spared from the war."
The Tixburian gave a dry, humourous laugh, "Yes. I'm sure the people living here agree."
For a few moments, they lapsed into silence again, neither looking directly at each other. Dariel took a sip, letting the faint hum of the garden's artificial ecosystem fill the quiet. It was strange, being in a place so green and alive after the firestorms and debris clouds he'd come through, as though all that violence had happened in another lifetime. He wondered if this Tixburian felt the same.
The Tixburian's question cut through the hum of the garden. "So, where did your unit fight?"
Dariel felt his jaw tighten. For a moment, he stared into his glass as if the answer was buried somewhere in the amber depths. "Megablock 372," he finally replied, his voice low.
The Tixburian nodded solemnly. "A lot of brave patriots died there."
Images flickered through Dariel's mind—crumbling hab blocks, the thunderous echoes of artillery, the faces of men he'd fought beside, and the relentless resistance of the Tixburian defenders. The siege had claimed everything, but more than the destruction, he remembered the tenacity, the sheer grit, of those they'd faced.
He glanced around the serene bar, the lush greenery and quiet only underscoring the contrast to that brutal memory. Here he was, a man on leave in a city that had managed to survive intact, surrounded by a people who, against all odds, now welcomed them with what appeared to be open arms. It almost felt wrong.
"A lot of brave men fought to take it, too," Dariel said softly, as much to himself as the Tixburian. "All for naught. Command decided it wasn't worth sending more regiments to their deaths and leveled it."
"Wise move," the Tixburian replied with a bitter edge. "No point wasting lives on something that would always be destroyed. I heard your forces were more… selective with the foundries and spaceports, though."
Dariel could only nod. "Orders. Our superiors wanted to preserve anything of 'strategic value.'"
A shadow crossed the Tixburian's face, his gaze distant. "The Consolidation did the same. They let nine army groups and dozens of Redeemed companies perish with no backup. They must've figured it's better to lose Megablock 372 than a foundry or one of the spaceports." He looked back at Dariel, his eyes hollow. "I lost two brothers and my fiancée there. I was stationed at Blackhaven. I think your people called it Bunker 37."
"Blackhaven," Dariel echoed. He remembered that assault and how his regiment had tried to push through. "Hell of a fight."
The Tixburian's mouth twisted in a grim smile. "Yeah. We fought to the last, and still, it was all for nothing. Everyone around here has lost someone. Friends, family… whole blocks are just gone." He hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. "And for what?"
Dariel looked down, the weight of his own unanswered questions pressing on him. How many of his comrades, his friends, had been left on battlefields like that? How many would never see a place like Nu-Archeion, a city so vibrant it almost mocked the war-torn landscapes they'd known?
"I wish I could tell you," he finally said.
They fell silent, each man lost in his thoughts until Dariel raised his glass, meeting the Tixburian's gaze. They exchanged a faint nod, and without another word, their glasses clinked softly in a silent toast. They shared something beyond words in that instant—a simple, raw understanding.
"To the ones who didn't make it," Dariel murmured, his voice rougher than he expected.
"To those left behind," the Tixburian replied, a slight tremor betraying his composure. They drank, letting the bittersweet taste settle, honoring the ghosts of a war that had taken much and left them with even less.
---
@Daemon Hunter Wanted to get this posted so I can be done with it.
With Friends Like This…
The Consolidation War had concluded in an undeniable victory for the Imperium of Man, yet the triumph felt tainted. Their overwhelming success had not been earned solely through the Imperial Army's valor or the Legiones Astartes's might; instead, it had been made possible by the uneasy alliances forged with renegades, traitors, xenos, and other unaligned forces.
If that hadn't been insulting enough, the Primarchs had allowed these so-called allies to leave with a share of the spoils. Meanwhile, dozens of loyal regiments were still scrambling to scrounge enough gear and funds to keep themselves at respectable readiness.
For Lord Commander Eridian Drass, it was nothing short of an embarrassment. The Imperial Army, in all its dedication, would likely be remembered as little more than a support element in the annals of this victory. The lone exception might be Lord Admiral Stefan Ackerman, who'd received a personal commendation from Ferrus Manus.
"It's disgraceful, isn't it, Eridian?"
Eridian blinked, momentarily forgetting he wasn't alone. "Sorry—what was that, Verena?"
Across the room, his companions and trusted allies, Lord Commanders Tyron Aelric and Verena Kaso, exchanged amused glances at their friend's lapse. "I asked if you thought this situation was disgraceful."
"Is that a rhetorical question?" Eridian replied, raising his glass to take another sip of the fine whisky, trying to lose himself in the rare comfort of this secluded officers' retreat aboard the Hymn of Courage. He was quite fond of this place; it exuded a quiet, understated luxury. Polished ebony paneling and burnished brass accents created an atmosphere as dignified as the commanders themselves.
Tyron smirked, settling back into his deep leather armchair—no doubt a seat that cost more than a small trooper's lifetime wages. "Perhaps, but it's a question I've heard more than a few times lately. Some wonder if Primarch Guilliman's losing his mind."
Eridian sighed, standing to retrieve another rare bottle from the polished wooden cabinet along the wall—actual wood from Terra, no less. "You shouldn't speak so loosely, Tyron."
"Nonsense," Tyron shot back. "We're still free to speak our minds in here." The room's reinforced walls, discreetly bolstered as both a security measure and an anti-surveillance safeguard, reinforced the confidential nature of their gathering.
"That's not what I mean." Eridian returned with the bottle, pouring fresh whisky for himself and his companions. "Treasonous thoughts are safe enough in one's head—so long as they remain unspoken."
"Oh, don't be so obstinate, Eridian," Verena chided him. "You were thinking the same thing, weren't you?"
He sidestepped the question, taking a contemplative sip. "This is a fine spirit."
Verena sighed her expression a mix of impatience and disappointment. "Eridian... I thought we'd agreed to be honest with each other."
Eridian set his glass down and met her gaze with sincerity. "Verena, you and Tyron are my closest compatriots." The three had fought and schemed together for years, an unlikely alliance in the cutthroat world of the Imperial Army, with its ruthless politics and parade of theatrics and scheming. "But that doesn't mean I'm obligated to share my every thought. Surely a man's entitled to keep an opinion or two to himself?"
"Near treason?" Verena snorted, her tone laced with grim amusement. "It is treason. The Emperor and Sigillite won't overlook this breach. Guilliman will face consequences—punishment, likely. But our concern should be ensuring we don't get swept up in the backlash."
Tyron nodded, his gaze steady as he looked at Eridian. "Verena's right. Those ordered to follow this alliance will still face scrutiny—even if all we did was follow orders. And you, Eridian, are at the heart of it. You were in the thick of those meetings with the Archtraitor, that Eldar, and all the other renegades. It's not as if you can plead ignorance."
"I don't intend to," Eridian replied calmly, lifting his glass. "When the investigation starts, I'll cooperate fully. Stirring up a defense now would be a fool's errand."
Verena frowned, unconvinced. "But wouldn't it look better if we tried to take action to clean this up? We could easily order our ships to bomb their encampments. I doubt anyone would lose sleep over it."
"Except that we'd be signing our own death warrants," Eridian pointed out with only a hint of exasperation. "It's a waste of resources and would unnecessarily put us in the crosshairs."
Tyron leaned back, musing. "I understand your point, Eridian. Still, if we do nothing, we risk looking complicit. The question is whether Guilliman's gamble will hold or will we all be painted with the same traitor's brush when he falls."
Verena's brow furrowed. "Aren't you worried about your legacy, Eridian?"
In truth, he was. Eridian had invested years of steady, determined work to reach this position, building a record of solid successes and a pragmatic approach to warfare. He liked to think he was a competent commander, not just in the eyes of close allies like Verena and Tyron. His peers respected him for his shrewd, level-headed tactics and meticulous planning, trademarks of his reliable command.
Yet Eridian knew that "reliable" wasn't enough for the halls of military history. He was, at worst, a solid strategist; at best, an accomplished tactician—but middling enough to fade into obscurity if things remained as they were. The notion of being remembered for something bold, even infamous—like challenging a Primarch—had an odd appeal. It was dangerous, yet…it would be an endearing legacy.
"I am," he replied, setting his glass down with a faint smile. "But I know my strengths—and my limits."
Tyron leaned forward, intrigued. "So, does that mean you might consider something a bit more…unorthodox?"
Eridian's expression was unreadable. "It means that if I act, it won't be reckless." He took another slow sip. "Let's not rush into premature heroics."
Verena's smirk turned into a full smile, her eyes alight with intrigue. "I knew it. You always did have your own way of handling things."
Eridian offered no confirmation but allowed a faint grin to break his usual stoic demeanor. She was right, after all. His efforts weren't flashy or reckless; instead, they were carefully calculated, the type of subtle maneuver that could pay dividends if things turned against them. The recording device, undetectable to even the most skilled technicians, had been his silent witness in those closed meetings—a safeguard to expose the true actors behind questionable alliances.
"Let's save this for later," Eridian said, his tone firm but calm. He raised his glass, inviting his companions to follow suit. "Tonight, let's try to unwind. Tomorrow, there'll be time enough for the choices we'll need to make."
The others lifted their glasses, a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken bond they shared amid the swirling uncertainty. "But when this is all over," Eridian murmured, a hint of conviction underscoring his words, "I trust we'll all be vindicated."
The New Order…
Zhaoren Ryung found some comfort in being alive and unharmed, sitting in the quiet luxury of his home in the Elysium Suites. He knew he should probably feel more bitterness or resentment—after all, the Imperium had stripped him of his authority following his people's surrender.
But instead, he marveled at the Imperium's political acumen. Despite the brutality of the war, they had shown a surprising level of restraint and pragmatism when it came time to govern a conquered people. Then again, maybe their world had too much to offer to continue it.
Maybe Primarch Guilliman had the foresight to keep the Consolidation's governing council intact. Because now their purpose was reduced to rubber-stamping the official terms of unconditional surrender to the Imperium of Man.
Yet, it hadn't been entirely unconditional. Had Guilliman chosen to execute them all—including Chairman Yung—the remaining armies and people of their civilization would have fought to the death. And while the end would have likely resulted in a civil war amidst the Imperium's invasion, it would have been devastating for everyone.
No, the Primarch made the wiser choice, even if it still would have ended in their defeat. Zhaoren still couldn't fathom how the Imperium managed it, but nearly a third of their standing army had descended into madness, convinced their comrades were Skinwalkers. Lifelong friends or comrades in arms who had fought side by side for months suddenly turned on each other with terrifying conviction.
Chairman Yung was certain some kind of warp-based weapon had been used against them, possibly a repurposed Darksky, which sent their forces into paranoid chaos. Had the war continued after that point, Zhaoren wondered if their civilization would have survived mentally.
Yung must have realized this as well. His final, desperate plan had been to unleash NIGHTMARE and launch the Dandelions into space to escape. But their initial escape plan was doomed; the WHALE hadn't been located in time, and even if they made it to the subterranean network, they were too close to the surface to escape NIGHTMARE.
But while their prospects were grim, they still had a duty. The council agreed with the Chairman to enact NIGHTMARE. Unfortunately, Guilliman had intervened just before NIGHTMARE could be unleashed.
The Primarch made quick work of the Redeemed, effortlessly sweeping them aside, which made Zhaoren realize that had Edgerunners been present, that last fight would have gone quite differently, but now he was grateful it had gone the way it did.
Only the governing council stood between Guilliman and total victory when it was all over, but the fight had already left them. Chairman Yung, disheartened and weary, had no more strength for resistance. But even in his defeat, he refused to surrender the Consolidation to what he believed were Skinwalkers. That duty fell to Zhaoren and the rest of the council.
And as Zhaoren reflected upon it, he realized that surrender had been the only real option. It wasn't noble or heroic, but it was pragmatic. In his heart, he knew it had been the right choice, but it left a vile taste in his mouth. Undoubtedly, the feeling was mutual across the whole of the Consolidation.
For their part in the surrender, the council of ministers was effectively placed under house arrest, confined to their homes indefinitely. Their only remaining duty was to assist the Imperium's occupying authority until a permanent planetary governor could be appointed—a move that would officially dismantle the Consolidation and end any vestiges of their former power.
Zhaoren Ryung was quietly thankful he wouldn't face execution, and he assumed his colleagues shared the same relief. Even more surprising was the fate of their former Chairman.
Instead of a public trial or execution, he had been relegated to a quiet, forced retirement—a strange act of mercy in the wake of such a devastating defeat. But when Shai confided in Zhaoren later, she had a more cynical explanation. Guilliman wasn't sparing Yung out of compassion; the Primarch understood that killing him immediately would be too politically volatile.
According to Shai, Guilliman's plan was far more calculated. Yung's death was inevitable—whether tomorrow or a decade from now, the former Chairman would meet an untimely end, likely staged as an accident. It was simply a matter of when the Imperium deemed the time right to sever that last tie to the old regime. For now, Yung's life hung by a thread, a pawn in the larger political game, while Zhaoren and the others waited in uneasy limbo, knowing that their futures were just as precarious if they decided to try their luck.
Zhaoren wasn't about to act against Guilliman or the Imperium. After all, the Primarch held a silver bullet that could destroy the entire council—their unanimous decision to activate Project NIGHTMARE. If that information ever reached the general public, it would almost certainly end in their deaths at the hands of a furious mob.
That was the grim reality of the council's decision: while the Consolidation was prepared to fight to the bitter end, their surrender had been orchestrated not out of cowardice but for what the council believed was the greater good. Though reluctant, they had issued the order to stand down, and the people obeyed. But Project NIGHTMARE was a different matter. It had been extreme, perhaps even unnecessary, and Guilliman knew it.
If the Tixburians ever learned that their leaders had been willing to unleash such devastation on their own people, their loyalty would dissolve instantly, replaced by righteous fury directed at the council and who knows who else.
Zhaoren understood that, so he was more than willing to cooperate with the Imperium's occupation. There was simply no other choice. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he justified it as necessary for the survival of their world.
Better to keep Tixburians in charge of as much as possible for as long as possible, even if it meant complying with the new order. Perhaps, in a few generations, some might rise to challenge Imperial rule and reclaim their freedom. Or maybe the will for independence would fade entirely.
Like everything else, that was a question for a time long after Zhaoren would be dead and buried. For now, there wasn't much else left for him to do. He might spend the remainder of his days advising the future Imperial governor, playing the role of the dutiful servant. Or perhaps he would accept Jihan's offer to leave Tixburi altogether and try his luck in some distant world.
But Tixburi was his home. It didn't feel right to abandon it a second time. And so, despite the uncertainty of his future, Zhaoren knew he would stay even if allowed to one day leave.
Such was the fate of a patriot.
A Bittersweet Time…
The streets were a kaleidoscope of lights, polished metal, and vibrant displays, nearly blinding in their brightness and pristine cleanliness. The air buzzed with the energy of people going about their day, laughing, talking, and reveling in the endless diversions around them. It was surreal—almost disorienting.
At least, that was what Sergeant Dariel Vander thought as he and his squad strolled through this storm of light and sound. Just two months ago, he and his regiment fought tooth and nail against the Tixburians in the hellscape that was Megablock 372. Some of the most intense fighting that Dariel had ever seen in almost ten years of being within the Imperial Army.
Now? He and the rest of the 86th Malkarian Recon, dozens of Imperials, and even those Valoron marines were enjoying well-earned leave in one of the Tixburian cities. Life had a twisted sense of humor, he mused.
Just about everyone who had fought in the war had been given a week-long holiday leave to enjoy themselves on Tixburi. Dariel and his squad wandered the bustling, vibrant streets of Nu-Archeion, which had been completely untouched by the war.
Nu-Archeion was a small metropolis. It was touted as a "pleasure zone," a place where Tixburians came to unwind from their otherwise regimented lives.
Even the Tixburians, it seemed, needed to cut loose. The lively atmosphere reminded Dariel of his first time on a hive world, when he'd gotten lost in its labyrinthine mid-levels and narrowly avoided a mugging. Luckily, this time, he was having a far better experience.
But worlds like Tixburi always reminded Dariel of the stark contrasts within humanity's far-flung realms. His home, Malkaris, was where survival shaped nearly every facet of society, though, thankfully, it was no longer their only pursuit. The planet's untamed landscapes and erratic climate forced its people to adapt constantly, fostering a culture of resilience in the face of danger. The Imperium called Malkaris a "frontier" world, and Dariel thought that label was spot on.
Over his tours, he'd visited seven other unremarkable planets, save perhaps the hive world of Atolin IX. But nothing could compare to Tixburi's level of "advancement"—in industry, in luxury, and yes, even in recreation.
It was hard not to be impressed, or at least in awe, by Tixburian luxuries. Walking these streets, Dariel was reminded of the brutal campaign they'd fought, yet the Tixburians seemed willing to set aside any resentment, perhaps seeing the Imperials as just doing their duty. Surprisingly, he and his squad didn't attract any hostile glares as they strolled through Nu-Archeion's lively main square, where nearly everything looked like it had been crafted by the finest Mechanicum artificers.
They paused near a holo-display showing a high-speed drone race, where sleek hover-drones zipped across the screen, leaving dazzling trails. "Drone racing," Dariel scoffed, though his tone held a hint of intrigue. "They have whole arenas for these things like it's some grand sport."
Corporal Xavia nudged him, grinning. "Come on, Sarge, how many planets can pull off something like this? And look at those holo-theaters! Can you imagine a stage that projects anything you want?"
"Oh, I heard about those," chimed in PFC Farmer with a smirk. "Tixburians like to 'hunt' holo-creatures in full immersion. It's supposed to feel almost real."
Dariel chuckled as they passed an anti-gravity spa, the entrance glowing in cool blues and whites, giving it a reverent, almost shrine-like appearance. "Now, that looks more my speed," he muttered. "A whole floor where you float around in zero-g, getting massages. Bet these Tixburians forget which way's up half the time."
As they moved on, the group saw environmental domes—massive glass structures that replicated specific biomes. Some mimicked misty mountains, others were humid jungles, and still others lush valleys. "Everyday folk on Tixburi have access to luxuries that'd be reserved for nobility back home," Dariel mused. "And this? People treat it like a weekend getaway right here in the city."
"They even have botanical gardens that double as restaurants," Dariel said, eyeing one bustling spot. "Reminds me of the farmer's markets back home, just a lot fancier."
"Who cares about all that fancy stuff?" Xavia shrugged, pointing toward Nu-Archeion's crowning jewel: a towering casino flashing with sleek lines and brilliant lights. "Now that's what I came to see."
"A luxury casino where you gamble time instead of money," Dariel shook his head in amusement. "Tixburians wager hours or even days in crummy work positions instead of credits. Can't imagine wanting to gamble my leave time."
Dariel glanced around the glittering lights of Nu-Archeion and shrugged. "These people sure know how to live, though. Almost makes you wonder how they ever got a disciplined army together in the first place."
After everything he and the 86th Malkarian Recon had endured, Dariel didn't care much for the sights or distractions. The others could go live it up at the casino, but he was fine with finding a quieter place to unwind.
He was strolling past one of those impressive restaurants—the kind with botanical gardens inside, like a sanctuary within the city—when he spotted a bar nestled in the greenery. It was mostly empty, save for one patron who stood out: a Tixburian soldier, still in uniform, wearing a black armband and staring into his drink with the kind of quiet grief Dariel recognized all too well.
The smart thing would have been to keep walking. The last thing Dariel wanted was to spark a confrontation, especially on leave. But something drew him in; maybe it was just his desire to hear how someone they fought felt about everything. He didn't know if it was respect or sheer exhaustion, but he sat at the bar and ordered a drink.
Silence reigned for a few minutes. Dariel wondered if the Tixburian even noticed him. Well, at least he could enjoy a drink in silence. A moment passed, followed by another, before finally the Tixburian spoke.
"Are you enjoying the sights?" the Tixburian asked, not sounding too interested but maybe just wanting to see how Dariel responded.
Dariel slowly nodded, "It's lively."
"Nu-Archeion is a lively place."
An awkward silence returned. Dariel wasn't sure what else to really say here. Finally, he decided to be honest, "It's good that it was spared from the war."
The Tixburian gave a dry, humourous laugh, "Yes. I'm sure the people living here agree."
For a few moments, they lapsed into silence again, neither looking directly at each other. Dariel took a sip, letting the faint hum of the garden's artificial ecosystem fill the quiet. It was strange, being in a place so green and alive after the firestorms and debris clouds he'd come through, as though all that violence had happened in another lifetime. He wondered if this Tixburian felt the same.
The Tixburian's question cut through the hum of the garden. "So, where did your unit fight?"
Dariel felt his jaw tighten. For a moment, he stared into his glass as if the answer was buried somewhere in the amber depths. "Megablock 372," he finally replied, his voice low.
The Tixburian nodded solemnly. "A lot of brave patriots died there."
Images flickered through Dariel's mind—crumbling hab blocks, the thunderous echoes of artillery, the faces of men he'd fought beside, and the relentless resistance of the Tixburian defenders. The siege had claimed everything, but more than the destruction, he remembered the tenacity, the sheer grit, of those they'd faced.
He glanced around the serene bar, the lush greenery and quiet only underscoring the contrast to that brutal memory. Here he was, a man on leave in a city that had managed to survive intact, surrounded by a people who, against all odds, now welcomed them with what appeared to be open arms. It almost felt wrong.
"A lot of brave men fought to take it, too," Dariel said softly, as much to himself as the Tixburian. "All for naught. Command decided it wasn't worth sending more regiments to their deaths and leveled it."
"Wise move," the Tixburian replied with a bitter edge. "No point wasting lives on something that would always be destroyed. I heard your forces were more… selective with the foundries and spaceports, though."
Dariel could only nod. "Orders. Our superiors wanted to preserve anything of 'strategic value.'"
A shadow crossed the Tixburian's face, his gaze distant. "The Consolidation did the same. They let nine army groups and dozens of Redeemed companies perish with no backup. They must've figured it's better to lose Megablock 372 than a foundry or one of the spaceports." He looked back at Dariel, his eyes hollow. "I lost two brothers and my fiancée there. I was stationed at Blackhaven. I think your people called it Bunker 37."
"Blackhaven," Dariel echoed. He remembered that assault and how his regiment had tried to push through. "Hell of a fight."
The Tixburian's mouth twisted in a grim smile. "Yeah. We fought to the last, and still, it was all for nothing. Everyone around here has lost someone. Friends, family… whole blocks are just gone." He hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. "And for what?"
Dariel looked down, the weight of his own unanswered questions pressing on him. How many of his comrades, his friends, had been left on battlefields like that? How many would never see a place like Nu-Archeion, a city so vibrant it almost mocked the war-torn landscapes they'd known?
"I wish I could tell you," he finally said.
They fell silent, each man lost in his thoughts until Dariel raised his glass, meeting the Tixburian's gaze. They exchanged a faint nod, and without another word, their glasses clinked softly in a silent toast. They shared something beyond words in that instant—a simple, raw understanding.
"To the ones who didn't make it," Dariel murmured, his voice rougher than he expected.
"To those left behind," the Tixburian replied, a slight tremor betraying his composure. They drank, letting the bittersweet taste settle, honoring the ghosts of a war that had taken much and left them with even less.
---
@Daemon Hunter Wanted to get this posted so I can be done with it.
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The Story of Shamballa (Must Read)
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
Hiya! After nearly three years in the making, I've finally written out an omake for one of the most legendary moments in the Discord server. The battle between Jain Zar, Phoenix Lord of the Howling Banshees, against Mathlann, who in this quest is an Eldar god who joined Chaos by taking a bunch of Craftworlds and offering them to Slaanesh to save their own skin in a grand betrayal. Hope you enjoy this epic tale!
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The Story of Shamballa.
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The Story of Shamballa.
You are Jain Zar, Phoenix Lord of the Howling Banshees, and you are adrift within the Warp surrounded by daemons.
Deep within the Sea of Souls, far beyond what any Aeldari would ever willingly dare enter without good reason. It was difficult to recall exactly what happened, but you felt the touch of Chaos had caused whatever this had been. Spirit-screams echoed around you just as it had during the Fall.
So many had died, from strangers and outsiders to allies and followers of your shrine. All were too many to count. There was no time for grief or sorrow, survival was paramount. You would carve and slay as many as you could in the name of the countless fallen.
The enemy of your kind fall like a tide around each surrounding space, the spawn of She Who Thirsts in armies and hordes. They accept your desire for retribution, readily coming for you as though you were but easy prey.
They all fall to your hands and voice. Their cries are silenced by your wailing death, their flesh burnt and cut by your weapons. Corpses serve as your fortress, daemonic ichor diffusing into to call more of their infernal kind to your presence. So ravenous that they ate one another as much as they grasped at the souls of Aeldari.
You dance between their claws and talons, proving the swiftest fighter of them all. Soon they name you with mockery where their attacks cannot reach. The quick death, the roaring end. This is what your fate will be, they claim. The fate of all Eldar, until all of you were wrought of all essence and pleasure.
You ignore their words, silencing their cries as you try to save as many wayward souls that you saw. There were but precious few, and too many of the monsters to stop. In time they were all devoured, torn away, granted torment beyond torment. And her presence beyond it all, looming above from such a vast distance.
But you would not be broken by such things. You had already survived one end by the Thirsting One's hand, you would survive another.
Time passes in screams and laughter. You were not sure how long you had fought, linear existence was a guideline rather than a rule within the Warp's expanse. It wasn't helped that the legions of madness demanded all attention, sometimes literally. You had to be focused at all times for every sight, moment, sound and vile spiritual presence.
But you recalled clearly when you heard a different noise within the cacophony. You had sliced through a glutinous Herald that wielded a spiked chalice, cutting them into five pieces, when a wordless song was sung. It seemed to briefly surprise even the soul-hungry beasts for but a moment.
There were many other noises than your battle-cries. There were the calls for your death and offers to join the corrupted, the sounds of ripping flesh and snapping claws, songs and music that defied the senses, devouring bodies upon the shifting landscape. But this one had a familiarity to it that you could not deny, for it was the sounds of your Banshees. A group of them calling in unified noise, distorted but recognisable.
You chased after it immediately. If it was a trick or mimicry then you would butcher the one who dared defile the image of your Shrine. If it were corrupted members then you would grant them peace. If it truly was your warriors, then perhaps they had found a way to reach you.
The hordes of daemons were pushed aside, the mountains of cadavers become ashen by your black flames and the champions skewered by your spear. The tides fought you, but you pushed them back. Forcing the lines to fray, to break. Your screams carved itself into the monsters around you and the land they walked on.
Your chase led you to a cliff, a pointed edge of bone and rock that overlooked a ravine filled with… a dark river, a thin ocean as black as starless nights. Still waters of stagnant abyss. The sight of it contrasted completely with the mayhem of colours and flesh behind you, that kept trying to kill you. The Banshee song echoed from somewhere deep within.
It stretched beyond the formless horizon, a serpent coiling around its prey or a worm burrowing deep into a carcass. In ways it is almost like a branch of the Webway, a tunnel through the Sea of Souls. But while it had similar shape and function, it could not look and feel more different. The protection of Wraithbone was exchanged with a shell of black liquid, putrid mass shaped like wet clay.
Muddy waters congealed to form a passage that blocked out what was outside. Oily blood seeping from a wound, filled with parasites. You could faintly see the shapes of twisted creatures that lurked underneath, limbs reaching just behind the surface. The reflection of claws alike the spawn of She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but different enough from their direct influence.
You suspected where these waters led, what laid within the black sea, and the fact you heard the cries of your Howling Banshees emanate from here could only mean one thing if you were correct.
But to plunge into the abyss before you was an idea that made you hesitate. To delve that far deep was a great risk. You could have turned away from its filthy clutches, fought your way through the armies once more to find an escape, but a glimpse of something shining in the river-sea stopped you. Granted you certainty of what you saw.
It was the outline of a Craftworld, its edges jagged and corroded, and it was one you had recognised. Iybraesil, ruled and protected by one's pact-bound to Morai-Heg, forced to follow the currents it was trapped in by the mad king that ruled its umbral waves.
You dove into the darkness, the armies and hordes not daring to follow you into the abyssal domain of a fallen deity.
Mathlann, Lord of the Deeps.
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The King of Storm and Sea was once a deity that existed within the pantheon of the Aeldari.
He had been the master of all ships and travel, he who ruled over the black ocean of stars and what voyaged across the galaxy's expanse. From scouting vessels to the Talismans of Vaul.
He had not faded in strength nearly as much as most of his kin had done since the War in Heaven, for in many ways was he still prayed to and praised until the very end of the Eldar Empire. It was still custom to follow his traditions and rites, even if only to a light extent, before and during a long voyage.
He had become a mere legend, but his myth persisted strongly enough to sustain him. The Wraithbone vessels still possessed a connection to his power, the ports possessing his shrines. By no means ascendant compared to his fellow gods, for he would never rival the likes of Khaine, Vaul or Cegorach, he nevertheless was fed while others starved.
Even as the Aeldari fell into corruption and decadence, Mathlann had been the last to be discarded. Ports such as Commorragh had become dens of pirates and the insane hedonists, and he had witnessed the strength behind their actions. The rise of the Dark Muses while the old gods faded, the decadent energy that festered within most Eldar into a growing nexus. Such tantalising potential.
When the time of apocalypse came, Mathlann had done what no other deity of the Aeldari had even considered to do. He bowed his head to the Golden Muse, the Thirsting Beast, the Great Serpent, the newborn Chaos God that slaughtered his family. Snatching away as many Craftworlds as he could with his power, anchoring them to the whirlwind, offering them up as tribute for a new master.
He had been cursed by his former family and the Eldar he had once protected, renamed as a traitor who deserved the cruelest punishments for his deeds. But no threats or iconoclasm against his faith could match the damnation he received at the Dark Prince's amused acceptance. Blood was shared and it seeped directly to the core, madness crystalized in that moment.
Echoes from the Golden Muse's voice moulded his flesh, distorting him into a bloated monster.
Desire from the Thirsting One's hunger twisting his mind, turning him into a vile beast.
Venom from the Great Serpent's fangs flowing across his waters, diffusing into his new domain and his first daemons.
The corruption of Slaanesh had formed him into a Chaos God, transformed his very being into something far different than he had once been. A daemon-king of immense might, a true abyssal creature that roamed the depths of ruin.
Legends claimed that he remained secluded within his kingdom of shipwrecks, the corrupted depths harbouring whatever souls the traitor-king had scrounged from their new master's conquests. Slowly devouring every piece of them.
Waiting to strike when the time was right, for when his storm would drown the galaxy in tides of corruption.
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You delve into the still, tranquil nightmare of Mathlann. The filth scalded your armour like acid, but it offered little resistance as you tried to swim through its mass.
The daemon-king had not considered the notion that a living soul would so readily enter its domain, few would ever possess the power and ability to even find access to it without the permission of the grand traitor.
But it had been looking for you, that was the purpose of its distorted song. Or at least part of it. There had to be more than coincidence that you would hear the call of Iybraesil and your Howling Banshees. This was no wandering horror, it was hunting for more prey. More offerings for She Who Thirsts and power for itself.
The inhabitants notice you in time. Your spirit glowed like a brilliant star within this darkness, no matter how small you were in here. Putrid daemons soaked in congealed corruption, half-formed monsters that dwelled in fevered dreams and twisted perception. Tendrils and claws, gills that breathed in psychic essence, hooves that rode across this space.
It was not quite water in here anymore than the 'land' you had walked on back in the wastelands of daemon armies, the Aether had merely reflected its properties more. It made you struggle for air where you had not done so before.
You struggled through the crushing depths, unseen attacks from every side parried and countered. Fire burned from your triskele, unable to be extinguished Despite how there was no land for you to walk on, you swam and tried to move by pushing against the corrupted creatures as your spear skewered their wriggling masses.
In the distance, close and far at the same time, Iybraesil sailed across the expanse of the river-sea. You could see it more clearly, even as the abyssal monsters surrounding you tried to rip you apart and blood clouded your space.
You could hear other Banshee cries than the distorted song. Fainter, further in the distance beyond this realm. The Craftworld was calling to others, luring them knowingly or not, just as it brought you here. It was drifting away to other waters, heading to them instead of you. Unacceptable.
As a crowd of aquatic horrors surrounds you, gaining definition as they come close to the light of your flame, a scream is unleashed by you against the dark waters. Your voice is carried louder than the song or the other calls, the waves make it louder and echo further. The strength behind your sudden scream is enough to burst the weaker creatures around you, weaken the stronger enough to butcher.
Whatever current of energy Iybraesil was dragged through immediately shifts course directly to you, the traitor-god hearing your challenge and recognising you as a potentially greater prize.
The momentary respite is broken as, surrounding the dim light of Wraithbone, you see swarms of Mathlann's beasts rush to devour you. Gigantic eels of razer-teeth, faint arcs of lightning across their maws. Crustacean giants with winged tendrils to ensnare and swim. Skittering abyss life, bloated forms, glowing flesh as stars within the dark, spines and poison.
You rush to meet the daemon-king's dregs, the bottom-feeding animals under his rule. The wild beasts are more ferocious than what you faced before, far easier to kill yet more numerous.
Despite the differences in form and master, you can see the same hunger that drove the creatures of the Great Serpent within them. Manifested in only a slightly different way, without masks of beauty and only the grotesque. Perhaps that was by design, to ensure nothing would challenge such 'perfection' that she wielded.
They die all the same against you. Legions, swarms, armies. All came to match your blades and proved the lesser, but you knew that this was only a shadow of what truly laid within here. Warriors without experience, beasts without weight to their forms.
If the traitor-god came, or even if they sent their greatest servants, then you knew that you would die here. Drowned in this abyssal hell. Yet you had to press onward, there was no other answer.
Iybraesil came closer. It might have been the influence of this domain, but for a moment it truly looked like another predator here. A great shark, a dragon in the waves. A ship of death. That's what it would all become if you didn't stop this somehow. The madness of dreams made manifest, a focal point to direct the river-sea.
Or even worse, given another offering to be given to what was the true master here.
The notion of it drove you forward to kill the beast before it took its first breath, even if it meant that you too would die here. Your roared out battle-cries that tore apart the tides of monsters around you, promises to end this nightmare rippling across the river-sea. It enforced your will here, however minutely.
It brought the Craftworld closer, goading it to approach you as it swam for you faster. The path towards it was cleared enough for you to head for it directly as you pushed through the waters, ripping through the daemonic beasts. The twisted song of Iybraesil grew louder as you approached, excited as you arrived by its edge.
You latch onto the vessel as it reaches you, ramming your spear into it so that you would lose your grip as it rushed through the sudden currents.
Iybraesil was no longer just a ship, it truly felt more alive as you touched it. You felt horror as you realised that you could see something like blood seep from the 'wound' you had made, billowing out from the wound your spear made.
You pressed onward, climbing forward. Cutting away putrid growths of flesh that you found, ichor bursting as you lanced their forms. Using your triskele whenever any enemy came close, still trying to devour you even as the corrupted vessel rushed ahead with such great speed.
You spent what felt like an entire day ascending the frame of the Craftworld to try finding an opening. Many were sealed by rubble and networks of flesh too strong to easily break, barriers of energy kept alive through a different source. You followed the distorted song to try finding where it truly came from, to cut out its heart.
An opening by the side is found, where more of the creatures and daemons nested within. They rush to devour you, the blood from the spear punctures your climbing, driving them into a frenzy. Their teeth were broken against your armour, their heads taken and burnt away by black flame. You pulled yourself in as you fought.
The inside of the Craftworld appeared no better than the outside, but there was a noticeable difference in feeling. No longer were there the driftless waves, there was stable land. The constant feeling of suffocation was gone. Iybraesil wasn't entirely corrupted yet, it was just wrapped and chained by the presence of Mathlann.
The halls before you were slick with briny water and blood, oily sludge and slithering tendrils of energy. The Wraithbone glowed with a sick light, but it was brighter than it appeared outside. Parts of it darker than others, were the daemonic presence was stronger. Statues were smashed, crude shrines and artwork of the traitor-god taking their place.
You smash all that you see into dust, denying your enemy any places of power. Doing so cleared the surrounding air, however slightly.
The layout of the vessel was familiar to you, but even with the lighter touch of corruption you knew at least some areas would be damaged beyond recognition. And there would be other Eldar inside to encounter, but the question was in what form they would be. Perhaps none could be saved in any way besides death.
It was answered sooner than you expected when you entered the first true room of the Craftworld. Before it had been a garden that was close to the edge of the ship's edge, so that a window out into the stars could be seen by those that tended to the greenery or merely wanted to appreciate its beauty. Verdant trees and hills of flowers, fruits growing to medicinal herbs. It was a place of peace.
The garden had been flooded. The soil drowned into mud-fields where strange lifeforms grew and made a nest. Swimming through the sludge, dream-animals manifesting from the corrupted brine. Worms, parasites, crawling horrors. They breathed and ate the filth.
And the former inhabitants of the Craftworld were scattered through the murk. Some were buried with their rotting forms almost unseen under the filth, some were corpses sacrificed with ritual daggers or half-eaten by the beasts. Others were alive, corrupted into servants to the daemon-king of the abyss. Some twisted by the dark power.
There were millions in prayer, creating a temple here. Icons of Isha, Asuryan, Morai-Heg and everyone else torn away. Scratched out. Twisted in shape. Mathlann was crowned as king here, his presence dominated Iybraesil now. His daemons given full view within the crude artwork, definition carved to grant strength. The shape of worship bound to their essence.
One stood above the rest. A daemon that guided the rest as a high priest. A greater shard of the traitor-god's being made manifest. No longer a confused image of misshapen nightmares, no longer even aquatic. It stood tall and regal over the Aeldari cultists with robes, armour, a trident and sceptre in its hands.
The priest-daemon wore a mask that resembled depictions of Mathlann before his betrayal, memories of old records and temples within the Crone Worlds, yet the mask and its body was feminine. Pieces of armour cracked and distorted but familiar.
It took seconds to realise, for how twisted and appalling the idea was, but it was a Howling Banshee, an Exarch of your Aspect Shrine. Their body had been possessed, their corpse used as a vehicle for one of Mathlann's greater servants. The formless mass of these daemons bound to a body, able to direct and uses its power more than it could before.
And, softly, it sang. The cries of the Howling Banshees turned into a song for the traitor-god, to spread their name and influence further. To draw more power for their vile cause. It whispers of strength and purpose, the path to reach it. To stand and fight to fully take the Craftworld, to stop those that resist the blessings from the Lord of the Deeps.
You stiffen at that, stopping yourself from rushing down from where you overlooked the former garden to annihilate the possessed Banshee. There were others here that were uncorrupted, or at least the possibility of it. You had to reach them if they were alive, not die here until you found them. Perhaps, as fleeting as that hope might be, something could be saved from Iybraesil.
You did not stay longer. The ways of lurking within the shadows were not your path, you would be seen if you were not careful. They would already know you were here from what you faced before, the shrines you had destroyed. But they hadn't all rushed for you yet, their master had not come.
The traitor-god was not within the Craftworld yet, that much was for certain. If he were, then you'd have already felt it. His rule was not total, not yet. You had to find whatever remained. You focused your senses, beyond mortal hearing, and tried to hear the cries of the untainted souls within Iybraesil.
There. A fleeting echo. Banshee screams against Mathlann.
You rush for what you hear, careful not to drag too many enemies towards the survivors you sough. You cull the numbers where you can. Wandering bands of followers, swarms of more beasts, daemons dragging away prey and artefacts to defile. The more you saw of Iybraesil, the more if truly reminded you of the Crone Worlds contained within a Craftworld.
The first living, uncorrupted Aeldari you find is an Exarch of your Aspect Shrine. Struggling within a tight cage of corrupted Wraithbone, mask broken and weapons taken away. Dragged by a hulking daemon, its shadowy form flickered against the light of the prison it carried. You saw eyes flowing on tis body, blood dripped from fresh wounds. Other guards of lesser strength surrounded it.
After slaying them you quickly freed the captive Banshee, and as her confines were broken she was in shock at the sight of you before you managed to get her to tell you where the rest were.
Ten thousand Howling Banshees and many Seers were barricaded within an armoury, walls hastily made by Bonesingers with great difficulty against the tides of Chaos. The situation was going bad quickly as corrupted Bonesingers began singing poison into the walls and floors, creating holes into their defences. You asked where they were and quickly sped away with the trapped Exarch.
You heard it moments later as you focused on what was said. The swing of blades. Shuriken fire. The sounds of conflict, the power of defiance. Screams of those fallen. You hastened yourself.
You hurl your triskele before you even turn the corner and see them, the black flames around the weapon cleave through groups of corrupted. The daemonic fell by your spear. You roared out a deafening cry against
The defenders by the walls, shooting and slicing through the holes, are stunned by your presence. Then they immediately fight harder, galvanised by your mere presence. You would bring victory or death, the forces of the traitor-god would bleed before they took more lives.
There were cries of 'the Phoenix Lord!' that spread to the rest of those inside, your voice recognised as it joined that of your warriors. Psychic screams resonate together, louder and greater than before. The daemons become further distorted, some dissipating against concentrated strikes. The corrupted are deafened and disoriented. The tide of battle turns.
A figure tries to stop your actions. One of the greater daemons, the possessed Exarch wielding a spear of lightning and a barbed hook that drips with blood and meat. It roars with thunder as it charges directly at you, eager to end your life in the name of its accursed master.
Your voice matches the beast, pushes back its followers from joining. The rest of the Howling Banshees join your shouts as you match blades with the creature. It displays great skill, fighting just as the greatest of your Aspect could do, but its style of battle is one you have mastered beyond any other. It is cut and cut again while you are unmarked.
Soul-energy flies from each wound, more than blood. Something similar to what ran through your own body. It is not just a singular being within this vessel, it is multiple daemons fed with the spirits of the fallen. Disgusting unity given a form, an answer to the weakness these creatures had.
But it was not answer enough, as you cut off the head with a throw of your Silent Death. The body stumbles, its neck blazing with flame, but its attempts to fight are weakened enough that it crumbles from the next blow. The sight of this easy victory, the sounds of your Banshees, causes the attackers to flee.
You turn to face the defenders, seeing celebration and veneration, but something cold strikes into your heart.
"Oh, you are not just another champion." A voice rings out, coming from the corpse of the corrupted Exarch. The others do not react, they do not hear it. You look down. Neither the body nor the head stir, there is no more life or inhabiting spirits, but the mask itself speaks.
The words resonate through the Wraithbone of the Craftworld, echoing across the room over all other noise with its dark power, but it goes farther than that. You feel it from the droplets that clung to your armour, ripple across the spilt blood, it echoes across the entire river-sea. The rushing of water, the thunder of a storm.
Mathlann had finally noticed you.
"You must be the one known as Jain Zar, inheritor of Asuryan and daughter of Morai-Heg. Blessed by Khaine, wielder of the Banshee voice. A Phoenix Lord. I did not think you would survive this long."
You crush the corrupted mask underneath your foot, blood and shards flow away. The sensation of the daemon-king's presence is still there, but it's somewhat lessened. You hear the voices of the other Eldar again and you turn to face them. Walking in through the doorway they open.
"I had thought you yet another mortal warrior, but you have proven yourself one worthy of something greater. Perhaps you need not be killed and dragged into the deep. Yes…"
You take stock of the situation. How many were alive here. Any other potential places that still held survivors. How many Howling Banshees, Seers, Warlocks, Bonesingers and other figures of interest. Where Mathlann's forces were, where ritual sites were. Places that could be taken back.
"Forgive me, I do not often entertain visitors that interest me. It has been aeons since I have properly met an Aeldari that was not a corpse. You deserve better than this."
The others still do not react, and it seems the same is true in turn. You wondered if this was a limitation to the traitor-god's power, blocked by wards and unpolluted Wraithbone, or if they were so conceited that they would not bother to gaze upon others.
"You are a master of death," the King of Storm and Sea continued. "That is the blessing of the Crone. You must know now that finality has arrived for the Aeldari's remnants. The Craftworlds are dead and taken. The Maiden Worlds soon to follow."
The knowledge that the rest of the Craftworlds, the Phoenix Lords, were all cast into the Warp as well gave you pause. You would not just trust the words of the betrayer, but the notion of it couldn't merely be dismissed. That just meant you had to find a way out of here in the name of all Eldar.
"Port Commorragh already serves the majesty of Chaos," Mathlann continued. "And now it shall be fully ours. Why fight inevitability when you can rise above with new life? That was how your kind ruled the galaxy and fought gods. It can be so again."
A few Wayseers came forward with a plan, those that were masters dedicated to the psychic arts of the Webway. They too had noted the similarities between it and this twisted nexus made in parody of it. With their power, joined by the might of others, a gateway out of here could be forged. Potentially back to the galaxy, away from the daemon-king's reach.
"Bow to me, swear your soul to my rule, and I will let you possess power beyond your wildest imagining. Beyond even the scope of what only I can provide. I can grant you audience with Slaanesh, so that you might be blessed by us both. You want a gift from her in-addition to mine? Name it now, and I shall make it so."
But to enact it in secret would be impossible. The Lord of the Deeps would know and respond in full-force. Without you to protect them, then there would be no chance of victory at all. Even with your presence, the efforts of all the Howling Banshees here united, it might not be enough to save even one soul.
"I will not ask again." Mathlann harshly whispered that echoed right into your ear. "Defy me and you will truly understand death. Just tell me what you desire."
"All I want from you is to see your own death, traitor." You reply in turn, quietly so that only the god could hear. Then you turned back to the Wayseers, the Aspect Warriors and all else around you and stated that it had to be done. And that together you would find a way out of this nightmare.
It is an endeavour filled with difficulty. Attempts to purify the surrounding area failed utterly, the corruptive energy of merely being within the river-sea was bad enough but the cult formed from most of the former inhabitants kept dragging more dark energy into the Craftworld. Just stemming the tide was arduous enough.
To fight the corrupted was a difficult prospect for many of the survivors you found, especially those that were not true warriors until this disaster. To face friends and family, or even just ones recognised from daily life, was an ordeal that tested the mind and soul deeply. Some fell to join their debased enemies, mercifully only a few.
But you stood to fight and protect as many as possible. Guiding them. Pushing through to other pockets of resistance. Growing your collective strength as you fought against this foe. You brought down the idols the corrupted made for Mathlann, you broke his daemons and scratched out his ritual circles.
Opposition steadily grew even as you fought relentlessly. More greater daemons were encountered, working in unison. Stronger corrupted, either from past skill to those that sported gruesome blessings. Sorcerors of madness. Runes of the nightmare sea. Yet it was only the beginnings of what could happen.
A storm was brewing within Iybraesil, you needed to achieve your goals before it could come to pass.
Eventually your army of remnants form eighty-thousand Howling Banshees and half a million other Aeldari. Your main stronghold being a former gateway to the Webway, a nexus point where other ships were meant to pass through. It was to be the focal point of the coming ritual.
Mathlann had talked to you again since you dismissed their offer. Threatening you, mocking you, stating that you would be a carved prize to She Who Thirsts. He wondered what he would receive for your head. He mocked you for trying to open the Webway to escape, stating that it would not reach his realm unless he willed it.
When the ritual had finally begun, he realised what you truly planned for. His anger boiled the surrounding waters of the river-sea. The brewing storm began to thunder across the Craftworld. He called for your immediate death.
Hordes of Mathlann's forces charged from all sides at every bastion you held. Corrupted Eldar, daemons of all shapes and forms, twisted vehicles empowered by Chaos. Waves of filthy brine washed against your walls, corrosive enough to melt Wraithbone into sludge. Bolts of lightning that incinerated anything into dust. The power of a hateful deity made manifest.
Webway portals and crude ritual circles opened across the Craftworld that led to the immediate outside. Black water flooded into the vessel, surging across room after room. Iybraesil would drown with the filthy brine, whatever prevented Mathlann from doing so before no longer mattered. It mixed with the blood spilt by both sides.
The battlefield shook from the combined might of your Aspect Shrine's cries, the psychic power behind your rage and defiance echoed and quaked the entire Craftworld. The corrupted songs of the others, the thunder of the daemon-king, could not compare. If it was to be the last stand of Iybraesil, then let it scar the river-sea forever.
Leading the armies of madness was a coven of five figures. Two were more possessed Exarchs that stood taller than others of their life, another two were powerful Seers that once served as advisors for the Craftworld as a whole with their capabilities. The final one was the corrupted Autarch, former war-leader of Iybraesil, bearing a Banshee Mask that marked her previous life as one of your order.
You fought through a constant tide of others to reach them. Any other notable element in this conflict on your way, Wraith constructs possessed by daemons and tanks covered in corrupted sigils, were decimated as you rush forward. Beyond what threat they represented, you could not allow such things to exist.
The Autarch demands your death, their voice booms with the storms. Servants rush without care for their lives. They die in droves by your blades, some barely able to orient themselves against the psychic screams. The floor cracks underneath your feet, water and putrid blood gush up. Tentacles and talons, beaks and claws. Daemons barely finish manifesting near you before they lunge.
The leading corrupted prepare for your assault as you reach them, barriers of psychic might enhanced by Chaos block your path. You shatter them with blade and voice. The possessed Exarchs seem to grow in size to face you, but that merely makes them bigger targets. They are struck by cannons from your defenders, tanks begin to focus on their bulky frames.
The Seers dodge away from your triskele as it comes for your heads, their souls burn as conduits of the traitor-god's reach. They distort with his image. Daemonic flesh and spirits mutate their forms. They care not for anything except power and your death, such is the will of Mathlann. Their eyes become holes into the river-sea, they are bloated by the waters as living portals to its crushing depths.
The Autarch lasts the longest. Her skill and strength were great before, she had been a good student of your Aspect before her fall. She is surrounded by other, lesser champions and hordes of followers. To reach her is to delve deepest into the army, beyond support, but you spent a short eternity fighting an endless swarm sent by She Who Thirsts. This is nothing in comparison, and here you are not alone.
The five leaders die either by your hand or due to your actions opening their weaknesses to your warriors. The unspeaking presence of Mathlann grows stronger each each death, more intense as his anger makes itself known. His eyes focus on you more than the rest. The attackers diverts attention to you, without command other than fury to guide them they are but berserkers lashing out. It eases the work of those focusing on the portal.
You dodge bolts of lightning that manifests directly around you, lashing out as serpents. The sound of battle and screams cracks the Wraithbone where it is weakest, where it is between corruption and purity. The dim material shatters and shards rain down against everyone as the battlefield begins to detonate, charged with electricity as it lands within the sludge poured from the surrounding domain. Blood runs around you.
You were surrounded by madness and death, the torrent from the river-sea and storms from Mathlann's rising anger are centred toward you. Death wakes as you burn the daemons and butcher the corrupted. The tide turns to you, and you answer with the voice of your Aspect Shrine united.
War calls, and you are herald its name. You name Kaela Mensha Khaine as your strength, you bring about Morai-Heg's memory to end the betrayer's forces. Let them come for you, let them die here.
You push through the tide, its waves ripple against you through the war-cries unleashed by the Howling Banshees. It stills the forceful impact from the billowing waves, shifting it away through the might of the harnessed voice. The Crone watches even in death, and Iybraesil's inhabitants are still under her protection. It will not be taken by a pathetic traitor, a decadent slug.
There is the sensation of change that strikes the entire battlefield. Air billowing in and out, shifting in weight and contamination. The water around you suddenly, violently surges away into the direction of the Webway gate that flickers with power. The river-sea carried by both the abrupt change and the will of Mathlann. The portal is already opening and it leads away from the traitor-god's domain. There is hope, and you refuse to allow its death.
The daemon-king orders your death, to destroy the gateway. His words morph the battlefield itself. Ritual circles both obvious and hidden ignite. A phantom limb, a hand large enough to crush an army, begins to manifest. You had to stop it.
You target the ritual-masters, the carved up practisers of twisted rites and vile power. The black flame of your triskele burns through flesh and armour, cuts through the circles of runes those that empower them. It's not enough to weaken the traitor-god's presence or stop him, but anything to delay for more time is needed now. Let him hate you the most, let his gaze focus only upon you.
Mathlann brings curses and corruption. Some of the defenders suddenly turn into traitors, from merely attacking and sabotaging to bursting out hidden daemons. There is mayhem at the brink of victory or defeat. Your Howling Banshees fight as one, an army dancing through the attacks as they brutalise those they face. The gateway must be saved, Iybraesil's remnants had to be protected with their lives.
For the promise of a future, they would die today.
The sounds of rushing water, snarling beasts, the thunder of lightning storms matched the combined battle-cries that were screamed by your Aspect Shrine. It was enough to deafen the monsters of Chaos, for the whole of the black river-sea to shudder around the Craftworld as the vessel continued to quake.
Statues crack and fall to pieces as the writhing limb from the King of Storm and Sea begins to strike. He tears down the images of the old gods, the dead remnants that he betrayed. An eye opens on his palm, tendrils forcing through ethereal skin. His form is as twisted as his daemons and followers. He is corrupted to the core, his very being distorted and monstrous.
You try to rush back to the defenders as they regroup against the intense focus they withstand, falling back to reach the portal as it opens. Even as the putrid water and malformed beasts try to stop you, to drag you under the waves, you can glimpse to the other side. Not back to the galaxy, as was most desired, but elsewhere in the Warp away from the direct presence of Chaos.
Already some Aeldari are out there, thousands able to live outside the sunken tomb.
Walls across the battlefield bend and crack under the weight of the river-sea as it tries to seep in. Iybraesil breaks more under the wrath of Mathlann than the direct efforts of your warriors. He tries to silence your cries and snuff your souls as he begins to flood everything, breaking down the barriers.
But it's too late. The Webway gate flares with life. Some Seers burn out their souls to ensure it remains open, risking damnation to keep the rift from closing. Spiritual fires flare out, detonating against the water and boiling it away. The explosions echo the screams, drown out the twisted songs and raging cries.
You reach back to your forces, witnessing thousands more rush to the other side. Cultists for the traitor-god teleport into battle, invisible attackers and figures that moved as blurs to even normal Aeldari senses. Blessings and power granted to stop this. The manifested limb touched their vile hearts, its influence spread out further.
The Howling Banshees fight against more corrupted members of their number, most not yet possessed by more daemons. Their voices are quite and drowned by their skills are enough to bleed and cut down what they face. You battle as a whirlwind against everything in your way, the strongest brought down. Unseen champions, Seers that spread corruption, those that threatened the gate.
Ten-thousand leave. Then twenty-thousand. The pace slows despite it being the core focus. How many can leave at once is limited by both the size of the Webway gate and the desperate, enraged attempts to stop them by the daemon-king. So many die to allow others to escape, as daemons and cultists surround all sides. Some areas of the battlefield are isolated, unable to push ahead to the portal. You do what you can, but so many die in every instant.
Your side get quieter with every death and absconded. The power of Mathlann conversely gets stronger. The still pure Wraithbone rapidly corrupted. The gateway itself begins to flicker with his energy.
To face a divine being, a figure that fought in the War in Heaven and lived past even the Fall with the strength of Chaos, was the height of madness. It was something that could not be directly done, even for a flickering manifestation of bit a part of his form. The notion of it would give pause to even the greatest heroes of ancient times.
Nevertheless, you fought him where you could. You challenged his influence over the gateway, assist those that kept the portal open. To the Seers that burnt their souls, flame manifesting as a ring around salvation against the touch of Mathlann, you threw your triskele. Not to kill them, but to add its flames to theirs.
One of their number catches it a moment away from it striking the portal, moving faster than ordinarily possible even with full focus with their power. The ring turns black with the focus that Jainas Mor grants them, searing away corruption.
You reach for a sword from a fallen member of your Howling Banshees and then proceed to directly lead the defenders, shouting commands over the din of combat as you fought right in the heart of the battle again. The hordes of madness were all to pleased to face you, numbering far beyond what you led.
You parry claws and swords, chop heads and tendrils, cry out loud enough to shatter bone and rip away flesh. You focus on rushing to where the defenders threaten to fall, to cracked walls and faded runes. Where the dark waters began to seep in, flooding away souls into impossible depths. Where champions arise to bring torment and end your hopes.
You do not look behind you. You do not even think about leaving here, to escape this battle. This was the pact of Morai-Heg, Iybraesil's ancestors were bound to your protection and that of your Aspect Shrine. You'd die here to ensure they'd survive. None should suffer this nightmare.
Rain begins to fall from above, in a cloudless sky. The ceiling cracks and weakens. Blood-rituals bring precipitation. Soon it will all wash away.
The battle is a losing one. No matter what, the gateway will soon break and Iybraesil will flood. Everyone left will either die or be corrupted. You just had to hold on longer. Exarchs speak to you, stating that a quarter of a million had already left to the other side. The loss in numbers both helps and hinders your efforts, less to protect and less to be protected.
You had to balance it, guide this escaping flow. And fight with every single mote of your strength and skill. The will to outlast death and banish the dark. Your blades are raised with that of your Howling Banshees. Whether you all die here or not, you herald the death of your enemies to fall with you.
Time passes in screams, the rush of water and psychic battle-cries. Lives are lost and lives are saved. Half a million saved. One million. Nearly two. There are hills of corpses now. The lines of conflict are withdrawn heavily. A once great area reduced to less than a tenth of its former size, with vastly less defenders.
You begin to struggle, faltering as you try to stem the constant tide from seeping into what you try to guard. Gaping cracks form around the portal, the floor breaking apart under the pressure forced upon it. It slowly sinks, as islands rise from the the bursts that lead to the river-sea. It seeps to the other side, forcing those to back away and leave it unprotected on that end. The flames protected the gate begin to be doused, its Seers beginning to drown.
Almost all of the living remnants get to the other side, from the youngest Guardians to all but the most experienced Howling Banshees. Exarchs fight by your side as all sides are surrounded, water billowing from below and above. The river-sea ensnares and restricts. You will die if you do not reach to the other side.
From behind you a wordless shout emerges. Your triskele is thrown back to you as the now burnt corpse of its previous wielder gives it back moments before death. The portal has lost what sustained it most.
You run, commanding the rest follow you. They last warriors within Iybraesil fall one by one, unable to do anything than die fighting as they are cut off from salvation. You do not turn back to save them. The portal already begins to fade. There is no time.
Claws try to hold your legs in place, shadowy tentacles materialise around your arms and neck. Cannons blast the ground in front of you. Ritual culminations of vile power. Sacrificed lives to end yours. Daemonic beings that swim around the waters you wade through. For a moment it truly feels that you are under the full, enraged attention of a god.
Your Exarchs and warriors beside you fall quiet, voices once loud brought to silence. There is only death-rattles and the noises of drowning souls. You feel each of them die.
The eyes of the traitor-god are reflected upon the waters, floating with the blood. Dark as the rest of the river-sea, given flowing definition. He whispers, echoes of distant yet close shouts. He says your name like a curse, a chant. Your death will be rewarded immensely. He reaches for your soul.
But your Aspect Warriors on the other side hold the way open. Psychic energy forming a barrier around your form, enhancing you enough to help. The waters are pushed away enough to form a path. They shoot those around you to push them away.
It is just barely enough. The portal cracks apart, held by thin threads as it loses all lustre and form. You leap through as it breaks, Mathalann screams in fury.
You are released from the daemon king's clutches, the nightmare abyss that wrapped around the now totally submerged Craftworld. You look around and see the others that escaped, finding land within the Sea of Souls. There appear to be so many, but it's barely any compared to how much life lived within Iybraesil.
Behind you there is not an opening, there is a shimmer of energy still there. A trickle of foul water. It's not over yet. Mathlann would find a way to open it again, or otherwise find you.
You take command of the Craftworlders once more. You had experience in facing the Warp at its worst. Facing down its nightmares without falling. You would teach and guide them to do the same. They needed a leader and only you could fit the role.
You could not stay here. You all had to move together ahead, away from here. The traitor-god would come for you all once more. Or the monsters from She Who Thirsts. Together you had to stay and find a way out of here. To find a way back to the galaxy.
The various Seers talked with you heavily, especially those with experience in venturing to the Crone Worlds. Their skill and wisdom was invaluable. They sensed corruption, safe paths to follow or be made, where there was likely to be danger and roughly when. They protected the remnants you led in general, while your Howling Banshees protected them physically.
The Bonesingers carefully sung to maintain what weapons, armour, vehicles and all else you had. Wraithbone was difficult to make within the Warp in large quantities without attracting the cruel denizens that lurked everywhere, but to repair and strengthen it was an easier task. Every advantage was required to withstand this hell.
You all move together, learning as you went on. The various dangers and risks with the most simple of movements, or even thoughts and feelings. How to face the grief and hardships. Prayers to the gods were made constantly, many to Khaine and Morai-Heg. While not easy to properly equip them, many had joined your Aspect Shrine to endure this struggle.
Mathlann had come sooner than expected. The sensation of rain soon to arrive felt strongly. Wetness in the air. Distant sounds of storms. His domain, the snaking darkness of his putrid river-sea, had become mobile. A giant tentacular beast from the abyss. It slithered toward you. Sluggishly it flowed across the twisted landscape, the colossal semi-solid nightmare dragging itself toward you. As a spider, a serpent, a web that spun itself.
The realm of the traitor-god was a relentless beast. Its rage made clear through its boiling weight, its desire made evident from how it writhed almost desperately. It seeped as a flood through valleys and mountains, a storm over deserts and forests, a creature prowling constantly.
Direction within this realm was difficult already, but the traitor-god's pursuit seemed to distort any psychic perception to reach outside. Some paths taken led back to the river-sea's direction, others shifted midway toward the foul waters. Divination was completely unreliable, but you had little else to guide you here.
Many had died in the journey, either falling to corruption or unable to continue on in this hell. Nearly an entire million Aeldari had perished one way or the other. So much death weighing over you all.
For ten years you led the remnants of Iybraesil through the Warp, chased by the looming death by Mathlann's hand, until a way out was finally found.
-----
Shamballa was a world colonised by mankind back during the Dark Age of Technology, one that survived the trials of the Old Night up to the present day.
When first found, it was a planet covered in deserts and forests. Great wastelands of sand and rock split apart where the soil bordered vast rivers and lakes, the fresh waters so clear that they shimmered beautifully the colourful life that laid within each morning.
The trees were strong, growing quickly and attaining strength to their bark as they weathered the howling winds that came so often. The native life were simple beasts, fairly harmless against humans even aside from the mechanical and scientific might they possessed. It was a perfect place to make a home.
Since the Age of Strife, which tore away the greatest wonders that the colonists brought with them, order was brought by the royal Kalkin family. Guiding the people as kings and queens, aided by their parliament, prosperity was once more regained from the tumult.
The years on Shamballa passed largely with calmness, but not naivety. Armies were maintained ready to face anything that would come against their beloved planet, wielding lasguns along with greater weapons used by its elite warriors.
Yet the millenia would pass with little issue, until the psychic storms that plagued the galaxy ceased and order was somewhat restored. There were plans made to perhaps one day expand out from just their world to others, to find other sources of human life that might have survived. Or to get ready to encounter those that might come to them.
But that would take much time and effort, to make the world such a gem within the sea of stars had already taken much work to accomplish. Yet the potential for more was there, and it was eagerly awaited as new heights were sought.
Then, suddenly, the Warp seemed to shift once more. From a dark shroud came something unexpected, figures from distant history that had become almost as myth to the people of Shamballa. The Eldar.
The planet cautiously regarded the aliens as they came to them, knowing the legends about their trickery and strange ways. Unaware of what was closely following them.
-----
A miracle happened at the end of the ten year journey.
It had been a long struggle, a painful ordeal that tested you and everyone you carried with you. This nightmare wasn't something you'd wish on anyone. It would wear down even the strongest wills.
But finally a gateway was found. A place where the veil was thin, able to be weakened further enough to use as an escape. To where exactly it would lead was not known, but there were extremely few places in the galaxy that could be worse than the domain of a corrupted god.
Immediately attempts to open up a rift were done. Before it would have taken too much time and energy, just spelling an early death for you all. Now there was a chance. Freedom and safety ready to be reached. And then the moment your Seers began to form a tunnel, excited news came.
More remnants of Iybraesil were on the other side, along with more Howling Banshees. The region of space had been close to where the Craftworld had first been taken, dragged away into the clutches of Mathlann. Now they were there, hearing and heeding your attempts for freedom. They came to assist.
A bridge was formed, a temporary channel carved across the realms. It wouldn't last long, but it'd last long enough. Immediately you all descend into the galaxy once more. A rush of colours and lights, the sensation of rising above a crushing sea.
You all arrive by great runic circles made by the Seers that were from the other side. They are so few, the scant amount of lives that were away from Iybraesil when it was taken. Aspect Warriors from other Craftworlds, from Biel-Tan to Ulthwé, surrounded your forces.
It was immediately celebrated. Escape from the traitor-god, survival against the daemon-king. You felt hope and relief burn within the very core of your being, until as the last remnants came through did it get extinguished.
The bridge was not closing, not even in a glacial rate. It remained open, attempts to close it proved to be more than difficult. The rim of power within the psychic circles grew darker and darker. The runes slowly shifting into something else, with vile energy slowly manifesting that you recognised. The feeling of rain about to fall, an unseen storm growing.
Mathlann had seen your escape and was prepared to follow you through into the physical realm.
There was immediate panic, for not even within the galaxy was there safety from the gods of ruin, but you brought order. Began to command everyone to find ways to escape.
The Webway could not be reached, it was blocked by his power. Travel through the Warp too dangerous, it could lead straight to the abyssal ocean. Traversing through the galaxy without any psychic means too slow to work. Ideas were brought up and dismissed rapidly. Retreat increasingly seen as the impossibility it was.
You would have to stay here and fight. Fortify your position. Drive back the incursion when it came, where the daemons would be weaker than in their own domain. The traitor-god himself wouldn't be able to emerge, not fully and not immediately. There was time, there was a chance.
The slowly corrupting runic circles were destroyed, the ship they were on abandoned and sent towards the star that was within the system you were in. Already you began to organize your warriors. Equipping those that joined the Howling Banshees over the course of the long journey with proper weapons and armour.
You prayed to Khaine and Morai-Heg. This would be an ordeal that would truly test you all. An end ready to arrive unless you could discover some way to push through it.
And a potential answer was found, from a nearby and unlikely source. Not other Eldar, but from a populated planet within the system you were in. A world known as Shamballa by its human inhabitants.
It was full of life, far beyond the numbers of your forces. Perhaps possessing greater numbers than the corrupted souls that formed Mathlann's followers within Iybraesil as well. Not merely tribes within ruins, they held decent weaponry by their race's current standards. With them on your side, the coming battles could go completely differently.
It was not too hard to argue involving them in this invasion. Resources and warriors were extremely limited, every precious life lost stuck a blow not only to these forces you swore to protect but the Aeldari race as a whole. And against the twisted forces of Chaos, to ally with mankind would not be seen at all as a poor decision even without these terrible circumstances.
But to get the humans to agree was an entirely different matter. Talks were not easy to even start, Shamballa's people were immensely cautious about the Aeldari from old stories. Distant figures of decadence and power, who did nothing as cataclysms came to humanity. They were fearful of your presence.
The ruling King, Dujom Kalkin, was thankfully a fair and reasonable monarch. Enough that he would allow you to enter his palace. A large structure built in the shape of a ring around the spire-peak of the capital hive-city, a fortress and royal home. It was a golden wonder. Decorated and ornate, yet protected well from any potential attack.
You descended on a small transport to the open gateway upon one of the connecting stations of the ringed palace. Cannons pointed on your position constantly. Elite soldiers, known as the Lion Fangs, that wielded primitive yet potent plasma weapons and were here to guard the royal family.
You had come with only a few Exarchs to join you, no more than needed to avoid aggravating tensions. If a fight broke out, there was a decent chance that they could die against the human forces. That was good, strength would be required to deal with what was rapidly coming.
King Dujom Kalkin greeted you in his meeting chambers, along with his guards and advisors. He saw the state you were in, the scratches upon your armour and the weariness of your voice as you spoke, but while he initially came to believe your claim that your world-ship was taken by an enemy and that you were desperate remnants of its people he became extremely sceptical when you tried to properly describe the threat that caused this.
Knowledge of the 'Outer realms' was limited for the Shamballans, and they had no understanding of Chaos or daemons aside from mythology and superstition. A few of his advisors assumed you were joking, others thought that this was a poor attempt at trickery. Such a strange enemy, one that might not exist, coming here? It seemed too fanciful and far too convenient. An excuse.
You spent hours trying to find ways to convince Shamballa that you were speaking only the truth, that this enemy would come for you and then assuredly come for them too, but nothing seemed to work. It was understandable, yet immensely frustrating.
And then the planet began to quake.
Not physically, not directly, but a heavy presence shook the entirety of Shamballa. The humans felt it alongside you, a stark change occurring as a wound upon reality manifested. A few thought it was because of you, some psychic display brought out by your forces, but they quickly realised the truth as it screamed across countless minds.
It was day just a few moments ago. Now night shrouded the world, a dark cloud that roiled over every landscape and blocked all outside light. Putrid black filth rained from the twisted heavens, a web wrapping across trapped prey. The river-sea seeping around the world as a rift to the abyssal nightmare, as old blood flowing from a wound upon existence. The only lights were the few ships in orbit, shooting against unseen foes.
Mathlann had come. He roared for your death, and the death of all that was in his way. He no longer cared to have you as a prize for the Thirsting One or for himself, even while cornered here with nowhere else to run this had become a war of extermination. He called for your corpse, he threatened all your Howling Banshees. There was no pretence of mercy.
The one benefit of the traitor-god's arrival, the presence and declarations of his forces, was that this was undeniable proof of your veracity to Shamballa. There were still initial hostility by a scant few members of the royal court and other people of the planet, but even that had been pushed aside for later. Now there were daemons to face, now survival was key above all.
Alliance was declared immediately. Most of your ships came closer to the world, a number of them docking by other hive-cities to allow your Aspect Warriors and Guardians to work with the forces and people there. It was difficult to initially work with and integrate war-efforts with the Lion Fangs and the regular military of the world, but a basic and loose cooperation was managed.
You stood at the front lines, directly against the daemon-king's warriors.
Without the presence of the Aeldari, you were sure that this entire world would be dead and drowned in blood within but a few months. The notion was somewhat mitigated due to how this only occurred due to you, but to be so unguarded against Chaos would have led to utter disaster if Shamballa had ever encountered it later.
They came from above and below. The rainfall brought the daemons, the bodies of filthy water became portals for them to manifest. Most were not strong enough to bring many at once, or to bring about the mightiest champions, but it allowed a constant deluge of nightmare beasts and lesser daemons to emerge everywhere around the planet.
From above came the corrupted servants, the former Aeldari of the Craftworld you escaped. The ten years you experienced, and however time flowed for them, had not been kind to many of their forms. Bloated with filthy brine in their bodies, bursting into more puddles of mire to spawn more beasts. Some were stretched into bony, crooked figures that constantly starved for flesh. Others displayed aquatic mutations, from pincer claws to bladed fins.
They mostly targeted your forces, especially the Howling Banshees, but they soon went berserk against all they faced. The rage and bloodthirst of Mathlann manifested in berserker rage, the wrath of an storm as it tore at everything in its path. Decimating hundreds of thousands Shamballans, tearing down their homes into rubble and crude sacrificial altars, every hive-city turned into a warzone.
The only thing that truly brought their attention was you. On every battlefield you were present in, the daemons and mad followers charged at you most of all. Sometimes even neighbouring warzone suddenly began to divert to you. They cried out your name in unparalleled hate. Within the storm, you were a lightning rod. Your voice brought the rain to fall heaviest on you.
At times you screamed your own name. The name of Mathlann. Curses and battle-cries. Luring them all to you.
It was difficult for your Aspect Warriors to use the power of their voices so closely to the humans without affecting them, and your own cries were the strongest of all. You solved that by diving deep into the vile armies. Here, even amidst places of saturated by their power, your psychic cries tore them apart far easier than before.
There was a strange desperation felt as they kept coming after you, just trying to do any damage when killing you was out of their possibilities. Just making you bleed had become the only thing of importance. Hurting you was all that mattered. Beyond rage, beyond hunger, it was a need stabbed into their very cores.
Many humans and Aeldari died despite best efforts, a number of mistakes caused by on both sides. The few Shamballans that became corrupted hid too easily when beyond Eldar perception, slowly wreaking havoc that could have been prevented. Some Howling Banshees had failed to protect their stations, mistaken views on human technology causing critical errors. Little misunderstandings and ignorance building into grave faults, but as each became known measures were put to fix them.
Yet beyond all other the threats that came, the hordes of beasts and mobs of cultists, was Mathlann's greatest prize. Newly forged as a true threat was Iybraesil, its corruption and transformation had reached the stage where it had become a flagship for the traitor-god's fleet. The only vessel that was largely intact, that possessed vasts amounts of power.
The Craftworld didn't look like a true ship anymore. It was hard to see the extent of its twisted form as it skirted the edge of the darkness, briefly lighting itself up as it fired its weapons upon the planet's surface, but it appeared organic. Great jagged fins of Wraithbone and scaled skin. A flash of razor teeth that could bite battleships in two. Unblinking eyes as a constellation implanted on the 'head'.
A gigantic predator from the abyss, almost draconic in its shrouded form.
The leviathan beast brought down bolts of lighting strong enough to shatter the earth and rains of boiling water that scorched what was left. Where it came, devastation followed. It called the tides and brought floods to the battlefield. It turned lakes into oceans and let loosed swarms of monsters lurking in the outer depths. It was a living symbol of the power wielded by the King of Storm and Sea.
It became known as 'Ro-Druk' in the tongue of the Shamballans. The Risen Dragon. The name was taken up by you. To call it Iybraesil was too painful, too insulting upon the memory of the former home that you had all lost.
It could not manifest continuously. It was too steeped in the energies of Chaos to freely emerge from the river-sea, and still resisted corruption enough that the Wraithbone had not fully taken upon its might to be used as a constant bridge between realms. The war would have been lost otherwise, the planet devoured by the leviathan.
Yet the Ro-Druk was devastation enough, its thunder roar was enough to destroy a fortress when focused. It galvanised the daemons, it drowned out your own voices, but you kept fighting all the same. For the dead and the living, you fought.
Months passed. The lingering tensions between your Eldar and the humans of Shamballa were slowly eroded, better collaboration found in the crucible of combat. Some of the lessons on Chaos took root within the people of the world, the mindset and strength of mankind better understood. The confusion and initial fear was lessened. A form of stability achieved.
The Shamballans before had been wary of the Aeldari, but with how the monsters focused on your Howling Banshees and how your warriors fought them all off… now they were seen as protectors. As guardians. The truth of their purpose made manifest in deeds, aided by their words of what you had survived to reach here.
They, more than anything, showed them that even with the nightmarish might of Chaos could be beaten.
And that was sorely required for the people as the war took a turn for the worse, shaking the spiritual core of their civilization.
On the fifth month of this conflict, as you were far in enemy lines banishing three champions and the forces that they came with, the capital city of the planet was struck from within its heart. The home of the king.
The palace had been heavily guarded by the Lion Fangs, some of the best defences the world possessed, and supported by Eldar you personally chose to assist in protecting this planet's leaders. It was warded by runes and psychic energy. It was meant to be safe, at least until the conflict heavily came to the hive it overlooked.
It wasn't known how it happened, perhaps brought by a corrupted either human or one of your own. Or it was a special curse carefully granted power by Mathlann. But the former Autarch of Iybraesil teleported inside with a retinue of lesser daemons. Transformed into a large, bloated figure sporting abyssal features. Claws and fangs.
The leading monster rushed past everything else and devoured Dujom Kalkin's head, their needle-fanged maw tearing the head away from the struggling body of their target. It shrieked a cry drenched with blood and hatred as it butchered everything else it found.
The ringed palace became swarmed with furies and corrupted warriors, blood and dark water flowed from the now overtaken structure and poured down into the rest of the hive. The screams of what occurred was broadcasted to the whole world, along with mad shouts over the vile glory and might that the traitor-god wielded.
The rule of Shamballa was shattered in an instant by this attack. The king and the queen were dead, as were many members of their advising parliament. Other members of the royal family had perished too in the attack. Leadership was in confusion, the system of government in flux as the capital city was attacked. Your forces unsure how to fully act in the face of this without causing further problems.
The hive underneath the torus-shaped royal home was forced to retaliate as the former palace threatened to become a base for Chaos, a conduit for it to manifest itself and spread. The flood of corruptive waters, portals into Mathlann's domains. A more mundane threat as its defence turrets turned from the sky to shoot down below, guided by possessive spirits. Terror and despair spread like wildfire in the attack.
Artillery teams led by the Shamballa military began to fire upon the spire of the capital city, shelling the palace under the reluctant orders of the Lion Fangs. The inhabitants inside having to fight from within against the attackers, supported by Aeldari that helped stem the rushing tide of death, as pieces of the spire fell down.
The furies took to the skies, the winged daemons bound under the traitor-god used as living shields to soak up attack. Bursting into caustic liquid to further rain down havoc. Corrupted soldiers trying to either convince others to lay down their arms and accept death, or bark out conflicting orders over the communicators.
The Autarch slaughtered most that was within its way. A trident of bone and abyssal metal in its hand, that looked as though it was taken by the remains of sunken ships. The leader-beast roared loud enough that its putrid voice echoed across the city's borders. Only leaving after half a billion lives were taken, their souls granted as offering to its master.
The hive was not completely ruined by the end of the sudden invasion, the infrastructure having been saved from irreparable damage by the sacrifice of hundreds of Howling Banshees and the efforts of thousands more Aeldari, but the palace was nothing but debris and the spire was a smouldering skeleton of its former self.
But the capital city was not the only one settlement affected by the loss of royalty and government, merely the most directly attacked. All other hives-cities were faced other attempts at besieging with this regicide-borne opportunity. Billions had perished in total.
You had tried to push toward a nearby hive when you heard what had occurred, one of the many lesser structures built on the lifeless deserts, but being so deep in the territory of the twisted had restricted your movements.
It was nearly a week before you managed to cut apart all the barriers that were against you, tearing the flesh and burning the bone. You reached the walls and climbed them, the rubble forming your stairs. It took days to go through the vast area that made up the lower sections of the hive.
The lesser champions, small mob of desperate fools and malformed daemons were slain. Their bodies burnt afterward, ash cast away under the harsh desert winds. The rooms and halls cleared of blood. The dead given their dues. It was only afterwards that you managed to learn about what had transpired, the death of the king.
The humans there, the leading figures for the city and the military there, asked you if facing down a true god was even possible. To generously describe the state they were in, it was that of those who suddenly realised their world could very well die soon.
You said it was possible. You had survived a calamity where gods had not. All the Aeldari that fought with you, and you yourself had especially known this. You were remnants of a shattered race, losing the worlds of your former empire and the grand vessel that had carried some of its people to safety away from such disaster. Even such apocalypses that could carve up the galaxy itself could be weathered.
Gods could bleed, gods could die. For all their strength, the idea that the daemon masters of Chaos were beyond death was wrong. Hear them scream in anger as they are cut. Hear the howl of beasts gone mad with starved desire. Hear the fear that lurked behind them as they fight, and know that this war would not be lost.
Victory was still possible. Even if all that remained was sand and dark oceans on this world, you could triumph against this nightmare. Together.
It might have sounded far-fetched, stories more suited to mythology than reality especially at a time like this, but you believed in what you said and that conviction meant something. It helped, for however little it mattered.
You told what Aeldari that remained in the city to do what they could to continue supporting the Shamballans, for now more than ever did you need each other to get through this. The initial reluctance or mistrust, either for their capability or primitive nature, had since burned away as this war continued to rage.
The measure of both parts on this side of the conflict were known enough. There was no obfuscation. It was the one source of light that shined in this dark time. Or, rather, a culmination of all of it.
You went across the world for the next few months. Heading to the worst battlefields. The locations of the strongest threats. Temples of abyssal bone. Whatever drew the ire of the Ro-Druk. A lot of the enemy forces came to you instead, led by greater servants and possessed Exarchs. All the better.
It was a blur of blades, claws, shrieks and spells. Twisted battlefields became your element. You heralded death and it was a constant tide. Cutting apart ritual circles, lake-portals and dodging the attacks sent by the heavens. You barely had time to hear what was happening to the rest of the planet, but the Seers did their best to send messages to your mind with their powers.
Change had occurred to you all by the crucible of this war. Shifting in perception. Ways of life. Even how to fight in these battles. The world itself had been transformed by the devastation it faced. Deserts flooded with putrid waters, mountains of sands turned into giant pieces of fulgurite by lightning strikes. Some forests were dying, stained with corrupted blood, mutated plants growing and strange creatures beginning to be born.
It was difficult to set alight the trees as the rain fell down to douse the attempts, but mankind was resourceful with flame.
With the loss of royalty, and the only remaining descendants being a couple of children completely unsuited for leadership, the populace of the planet was ruled by its military as it established a new order in this discord. The commanders and generals guiding each hive, the Lion Fangs from an elite army to the guardian-leaders. Broken yet rapidly sharpened into a new blade.
The war against the daemons escalated, even though the rate of deaths had slowed with the stabilisation of this new system. The humans were mostly a secondary target before, with the lives of Eldar obviously in preference. Now the hatred and desire that the traitor-god had for the demise of Iybraesil's remnants began to fully extent to the Shamballans.
The continued defiance had stoked the fury of the daemon-king, the mad hatred rippling across the shroud of darkness as it demanded absolute ruin. The Ro-Druk leviathan, the former Craftworld, began to emerge more often from the river-sea. It seemed to grow bigger, its flesh-coated form swelling with bloated life, or perhaps just closer.
A deluge of vile ichor was cast down from its maws to the various battlegrounds, granting succour to the beasts and corrupted and allowing more monsters to emerge. To seep into the environment populated by souls, an apex predator drooling in hunger for mankind.
But the tide of daemons was not the only thing that the leviathan delivered. The bombardment from its weaponry was still a deadly force, and as Mathlann's presence grew across Shamballa did another piece of its arsenal manifest. The storm spear.
Its thunder was brought by screams. People sacrificed by thousands, tens of thousands, to form ritual altars that acted as lightning rods. The grand beast opening its maw to unleash the full might of a storm, the energy of a divine being, to annihilate what it struck with deafening force. Enough to crack the landscape, shatter the shields that protected the hives.
Such power was only rarely seen, for these acts were quickly searched for and stopped by your Seers whenever it was attempted, but when it occurred it was bright enough that you could see it from near the other side of the world and loud enough that you felt it shake your very being.
You saw it turn an entire fortress into ash one time, the land glowing with molten earth and burning soul embers. No matter how much you killed, what lesser beings you brought low, it reminded you that this was truly a god you were directly facing.
Your Aspect Shrine had pulled back from the edges, the precipes of this conflict was now balanced within the civilization than outside it. This allowed the enemy to flourish on the borders, but it was a small price to pay to ensure it did not infest and destroy so easily while unseen.
The Howling Banshees kept proving themselves while you were away, as they purged the ritualists and helped guide the inhabitants of Shamballa, but they did not leave the lines untended for too long. Soon their blades and voiced tore apart all the roots and tendrils that lurked forward, trying to worm their way through the defences. All attempts thwarted.
With this trust and connection built, your Aspect Shrine then sought to guide something more than the present. They saw the future of this union, both for the war and what would come after if victory was achieved.
The next generation of warriors that would come, the armies raised by the humans, were taught by both the Lion Fangs and your Howling Banshees. Not soldiers meant to fight against just ordinary foes or just stand as guards to the vast city-structures and fortifications, but a force to face Chaos itself.
To shape the Aeldari-made lessons for the mindset of mankind, tactics and warnings, was still a difficult prospect to achieve. But even the smallest amount of knowledge properly distilled could mean the difference between life and death, and it was a determined process to find ways to engrave it properly.
The mind was a weapon that could not be underestimated, the soul a shield that could burn against the night. To this end, to find a way to make them understand the Eldar as a whole and the nature threat you faced, they were taught about your people's mythology and the history of Iybraesil. For with this loss and sacrifice you and the humans suffered, this knowledge could properly be understood.
They were taught about Morai-Heg, her stories and wisdom over fate. Kaela Mensha Khaine, his strength and mastery over war. Isha, Vaul, Asuryan, Kurnous, Cegorach, Lileath and the rest. From their rise against conflict that shattered the heavens to their fall. The betrayal of Mathlann. The birth of She Who Thirsts. The Phoenix Lords. And the weaknesses those of Chaos possessed.
The lessons were taken in quite well all things considered. Parts of it fit strangely well with the existing faith and mythologies of the Shamballans. Some hive-cities, especially the capital, began to build little shrines to the various gods and spirits. Even to the namesake of your Aspect Shrine, for indeed there was much death to be faced and souls left unprotected.
The King of Storm and Sea had evidently realised the budding danger that was carefully being nurtured, the icons of those he betrayed over the walls and beside the homes of his foes, and ordered the destruction of these newly instilled ideas and teachings. Unable to tolerate the presence of these icons and what it meant.
The facilities for teachings were built as fortresses, and some indeed were strongholds repurposed slightly into training grounds, so they would not fall easily. But with the directed rage of Mathlann, the daemonic aries put the existing strength your side held to the test.
Yet it was now that mankind truly began to prove the strength they held. The Lion Fangs rose up on each targeted fort and fought side-by-side with the Howling Banshees to push back the night directly, assisted with other soldiers and the trainee new bloods.
There is a shift to this conflict and it is one that you feel in your bones. The feeling of destiny, of desperation, of history being written as man and Eldar join hands and sing battle-cries together against a shared foe. The light that you had both lit was burning even as the darkness kept trying to douse it. Even as your people were without a home, your new companions without their royal leaders, none of you faltered. You fought together as one.
Blood runs, across the the world of Shamballa. Aeldari and human against daemon, ichor spilling and mixing into the putrid rain that kept falling from the drowned sky. So many had died by the hands of Mathlann, his name becoming a curse to the human populace as much as it had to the remnants of Iybraesil. With that grief comes focus, and it makes you bleed the nightmares that dare face you.
Anger rises, a generation of human soldiers rises up knowing an enemy that is beyond all other foes in its terrible nature, a reflection of darkness and mythical corruption. A grand god twisted into a profane traitor, a sudden nightmare that writhed over a once pristine world, and it was being defied again and again. However impotently it struck with its legions of hell, its rage matched your collective fury and could not find victory
Death wakes, countless people had died since you had arrived to this planet. You did not wish their deaths, no matter how you knew it helped bring your people together against this horrific enemy, but you would ensure that each would be avenged. Efforts taken by Seers to divine who had died, their names remembered, families contacted, spirits preserved and safeguarded from the fell influence of the god who abandoned everything to cling to a twisted life.
War calls, and your Aspect Shrine answered. The Shamballans answered underneath the Lion Fangs, from true soldiers to the various militia factions that had arisen from a now militant populace. The people of Iybraesil went from artists, gardeners, singers of Wraithbone, dreamers of beautiful fantasy, healers and priests into warriors who were becoming veterans of a war that would perhaps define the fate of the Aeldari as a whole. All answered.
You are Jain Zar, Phoenix Lord of the Howling Banshees, and you would challenge a divine monster and find victory.
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You are Mathlann, Chaos God of the devoured Aeldari Pantheon and the King of Storm and Sea, and you feel bottomless hatred for the war you should have won before it began.
Jain Zar, the worst of them all, you were ready to make her name forbidden to speak of after this war had finally ended. To take the misbegotten followers of the Crone into your champions had previously been mere indulgence, as much as it had been empowering to bridge unwilling host with your greatest spirits, yet now it became personal as you considered deeper vengeance.
You would break her Aspect Warriors apart and turn them truly into yours and yours alone, more than anything Morai-Heg, Khaine or Asuryan could make them. They would burn with greater fire, your very rage intertwined into their flesh, forging them into beasts and champions dedicated to your grace. An army that would be used to spread your majesty across a thousand other Mon-keigh worlds, for how they dared insult your existence by degrading themselves to be saved by such pathetic insects.
Those other mortals would suffer too for what had been done. You would drown them all, keep them alive with your power as their lungs grasped for air they would never attain, drag them into crushing depths that would turn skin and bone into distorted remains that would sink to the bottom of the caustic oceans you would leave. Worse fates blossomed in your mind as you considered your enemy, and listened to the cries of your servants who tried to please your bitter desires amidst their continued incompetence.
Hatred came so easily to you now in your current existence as one of the Primordial Truth. All negative emotions resonated with your core in ways that were as intoxicating as they were invigourating, nourishing as they were brought new vistas of potential. It gave you strength beyond the limits of the mortals you were once beholden to, the means to ascend into higher levels of existence, a power that only the true masters of the Warp could wield.
It wasn't enough power. Not yet.
You were ready for the moment that you could fully emerge and deal with this insufferable annoyance yourself, personally cutting down that accursed Banshee Queen and turning this damned world into a forgotten ruin drowned by your waters. You would flay each individual human soul over the agonising Warpflame of Slaanesh. You would crush each Aeldari skull between your teeth as you savoured your triumph to its fullest extent. You would drown the world until nothing, not even other daemons, could ever find it habitable again.
Yet the planet known as Shamballa, a name you would strip from all living memory, resisted you again and again. Instead of granting you total victory or even definite progress, your followers and daemons failed to do more than ensure that you merely weren't losing the overall conflict. Unable to gain enough sacrifices to call upon your full being into the galaxy, a trait carried over from your former life as a weapon-god, and unable to even wound the Phoenix Lord.
You were fully enraged when that portal within the Craftworld had activated and so many of the hapless, blind, foolish and loathsome mortals inside had escaped rather than accept you as their rightful master, but the idea that your transcendent legions and powers were somehow stymied by swarms of the ephemeral vermin known as humanity brought to you a rage beyond what Khaine had felt.
Frustration was felt in ways unprecedented. You had been part of a pantheon that had lived in triumph after the War in Heaven. Your kin had all fallen, too proud and sentimental to understand what had to be done to truly survive, but you had survived. Isha was trapped in a cage to be a victim for all eternity to her new master. Kaela Mensha Khaine had been broken into a thousand pieces as he utterly failed against the Dark Prince and the Blood God. Cegorach was always a coward and had hid away after the Dominion's Fall. The rest were screaming in eternal death within the maw of Slaanesh.
You were not like the deities you had once been a member of, having done what they could not. You were not like the other Chaos Gods either. Your mind was focused in ways that their vast, disjointed consciousnesses were unable to achieve. Your power was refined by your dead creators to the point that you could tear through the fabric of reality and emerge whole within the mortal plane, given enough sacrifice and ritual alignment.
You were wrought by a war that not even the Ruinous Powers had been a part of, being older and wiser in combat than they ever could be. You had faced the might of the Yngir, the devils that feasted upon the stars, and laid waste to their legions of undying metal and their fleets that brought forth singularities to tear the spiral arms of the galaxy. You were a daemon that stood beyond all else, greater than the petty demi-gods and minor deities that vied to take a true throne as a one of the grand rulers of Chaos itself.
Yet you were locked in a stalemate against the broken remnants that followed dead gods and the teeming horde of pathetic insects that they turned to in desperation. The fact that you weren't revelling the absolute victory you knew you should be enjoying infuriated you more than simple defiance, more than the fact that they called you a traitor and spat at your very existence.
You were willing to discard part of your own ancient domains, burn away your colossal essence to bring forth a storm that would tear apart a star, call upon the dark oath that you had forged with the Prince of Pleasure upon their calamitous birth to bring apocalypse to your detested enemy. Anything to finally lay waste to this planet, destroy the Mon-keigh upon it, and bring death to that accursed Jain Zar.
But while rage and hatred were your muses, your nature, your existence… you were no fool as the other lords and suzerains of the Primordial Truth had been. Your mind was a tool that was something beyond what the other Chaos Gods possessed, your experience in waging war a bottomless well of capability that you would not cast away in blind fury. Such anger refined your mind, not shackled it.
As you wove a storm of disruption around Shamballa, your dark domain of the abyss shrouding the planet from all outside sense and divination, you guided your armies and champions as best as you could with how removed your full presence was from the battle. Whispering into the minds of weak-willed humans to taint their souls with your presence, surprisingly difficult due to how far removed you were from such disgusting mortals. Guiding the Craftworld under psychic arrays that you personally directed the creation of, to leave lightning blasts that were augmented by your divine wrath.
It was still not enough, great but brief ripples cast over the many battlefields and fronts your warriors fought in, yet if the long game was forced to by played then you would show to all that going against a god who fought against the Yngir at their height that there was only one possible end that would fall upon such victims and vermin.
The Mon-keigh were the issue with how many of them there were, as much as you loathed to admit it. Dying to protect the Banshees as well as the rest of such pathetic remnants of the Aeldari you fought. They gave their lives with deluded tales of worth and glory to your dead kin, to these followers of a long forgotten example by the era of the Dominion. To raise up these insects had been a clever, if pathetic, course of action.
To root out the followers of Jain Zar while so many vermin protected them was a difficult matter, delaying your efforts by so much while they were given a chance to rest than continuously suffer. Such a strategy was to be expected of cowards, all spineless and gutless to face their doom, and would have taken you so much more time than otherwise needed.
Well, if they wished to make Mon-keigh their strength, then you would tear them down first as you rushed to bring about your vengeance. In a time where that Storm of Silence was busy facing a few aspiring champions, you had sent forth your greatest follower to the royal palace of the humans. The former military ruler of Craftworld Iybraesil, granted a blessed power to enact your will and a cursed form for their initial failure at stopping Jain Zar's escape.
Let it not be said that you could not offer redemption and even mercy if possible, in blood and souls reaped in your glorious name.
Their agonising screams had torn apart thousands of 'elite' guard, their maw had tore the petty king's head, most of the royal family torn by their claws. Your daemons and bound underlings wrecking havoc where they could, in all cities across the world, bringing your vengeance as you showed a small portion of your capability in warfare. Compared to the cold, living metal armies of old… this was not even a small skirmish.
The Howling Banshees and brutal artillery of the Mon-keigh, so akin to the debased Orks in their primitive focus of explosions, had pushed your Autarch back before she could accomplish total victory. Taking away the chance to bring back her splendid form, but you were pleased by what had happened. Billions had fallen by your daemons and the disorder they wrought, and soon the world would collapse as all cohesive resistance crumbled.
With this in mind, you focused all attention back to the Aspect Warriors who dared to escape your clutches. Unable to properly hide in defended fortresses, to be blamed for the destruction that had happened after running to this world, it would be the time for your victory to finally begin.
Yet the vermin reminded you that even the lowliest of bugs could still bite. After so short a time, likely aided by their new masters, the humans had reorganised into a fully militant rule. The remnants of the royal guard, whom your ascendant champion had failed to fully dispose of, had become the new rulers of the planet. Commanding all their soldiers to a capable enough degree that they pushed back your legions of servants and beasts, purging most of the few corrupted of their number, saving most of the Howling Banshees from the fate they deserved.
You shifted focus again to the humans, ensuring that the now bleeding animal would be brought down as it struggled against you. Ordering your lesser champions to lead a total conquest over the frontlines, to bring you a tally of bodies that would rise up as soaked mountains left to by devoured by your beasts. Your rain falling into torrents that acted as a gateway for your daemons to emerge from, as conduits to your realm, bringing down any and all that ventured outside their shielded cities and fortifications.
In this way, you had found greater success than expected. So driven by their desperate ploy that they had realised how tenuous their hold over the humans had been, the followers of Jain Zar has come forward to face your forces directly. Protecting various locations full of the Mon-keigh that couldn't be defended by enough soldiers. From healing centres, giant housing complexes, factories supplying the war and other smaller areas of conflict.
Hundred of millions more of the soldier pests died as the Eldar warriors fought you, being butchered where the Howling Banshees did not provide their assistance. Further bring down the teeming hordes of vermin as you weakened them slowly, all too slowly.
The sheer amount of these mortals was still enough to slow your tide, along with all the support that they received from their new masters. They bred so quickly compared to the mortals you were intimately familiar with, and cared so much for their worthless families and had grief transform into a focus against you. How typical of Morai-Heg's ways to talk about souls, fate and death while being an annoying thorn in a god's side.
On and on this went, as your armies faced your enemy again and again. Your losses were frustrating but ultimately meaningless, for daemons were all immortal and your cultists were but tools to be discarded unless one proved to be of sufficient worth, while your enemies were restrained by death. The idea of fighting for years, even decades, was an absurdity you almost entirely refused to entertain… but if it came down to it, if your warriors failed you so much, then at least you would win by sheer attrition.
Then something unexpected had occurred. Through the sight of your daemons, your Aeldari followers, your corrupted humans and your own view over Shamballa… you saw something that you initially believed to be a trick. A new course of action taken, with the large training facilities that existed across each of the major cities on this planet. Fortresses meant not to be used in direct war, but to teach a new generation of warriors. That was to be expected, and you had kept some attention on such things as critical targets.
What made you so baffled and then so furious was what the Aeldari heretics were doing. They weren't just sharing their knowledge of war and capability, better technology so they could survive longer with their fragile existences, but deeper things along with such things. They were educating the Mon-keigh on Chaos, on the Sea of Souls and finally upon the Pantheon their people had abandoned. They were preaching their faith to be accepted by these unworthy animals.
To build what were essentially temples to the gods you once called kin? Your old family had been cut off from your heart long ago, abandoned to die when they failed to see the truth, yet even you were shocked by how low that the Phoenix Lord you faced had fallen. To teach prayers to the short-lived pests, to tell them the mythology that defined the War in Heaven, all but ordaining some of their number as true followers? Were the Eldar you faced so desperate as to believe the dead gods would ever accept such creatures? Only Isha would ever take pity on these pathetic lifeforms.
Utter madness, an insult to every fallen god of the Aeldari pantheon as well as yourself. To think that they would do what even Slaanesh had not, if only to leave their first victory undiminished. The very notion left you sickened and further stoked your hatred. The foolish acts and scarliege of mortals had been well known to you, for that was how you ascended as a Chaos God as you bowed to the Prince of Pleasure, yet there were still new lows that could be done by your people.
What a disgrace, spitting in the names of all Aeldari across history. They were truly deserving of death than to become your servants. You ordered destruction upon these facilities and their temples, and torment for any Aspect Warrior that would be dragged out from their false ways.
To properly breach all these fortresses was to breach the cities, a strategy that was unable to be attempted by your foolish generals and warriors, so instead you did what you could to guide your forces to bring the neophyte soldiers out to be faced on the battlefield. Focusing on the battlefield to make it seem that some fronts were getting weakened enough, and critical ones heavily pushed, to let opportunity and desperation do their work.
When the time was right as the initial trainees began to engage in true battle, you struck both them and what training facilities you could. The reaction was immediate from the vermin, as they rushed to protect their next generation with the urgency expected of their short-lived kind. The Howling Banshees were left without support, becoming what should have been easy targets. Yet they fought well even when backed to corners, surrounded on all sides, facing greater strength and skill.
Meanwhile as the wider conflict went on, you focused your attention on Jain Zar. Hatred was well known to you due to her, to heights you had not felt for millions of years, and thus you knew how hate from another could be used to your advantage. Her pride and her rage would be her downfall.
Month after month now, you had sent your best champions to face her. In bodies that once belonged to her Aspect Warriors and Exarchs, used to house daemonic essence of a greater being, these possessed corpses had driven her to face them again and again. No matter how they died, they would come back soon by your dedicated power. With such capability to individually keep up with her might, in groups that would keep coming for her again and again, unable to be ignored by both threat and anger towards these possessed fighters.
You would whittle her down until she could no longer fight at all or as everything else around her died by your divine wrath. Then you would finally kill her, end her existence, deliver her into the pinnacle of torment that her people tried to achieve back when the Pleasure Cults ruled. The more time that went on, the more that you could consider what delightful fates that would await her.
Yet still… still she resisted. Her and her followers, her vermin she now commanded, the very battle itself defying your will. Perhaps it was the profane faith that she shared to the Mon-keigh, perhaps it was some insidious influence implanted within these foul ephemeral beasts, but they charge forward to save Jain Zar.
Tanks, artillery, missiles and more were launched against all that surrounded the accursed Phoenix Lord. Such weapons could not banish your whole army, certainly not your champions, but it distracted them. Forced their blades and claws away from battle, pained them more against the cuts and screams of their foe, buying more time until an entire group of the Howling Banshees had managed to join the fray and open a passage back to her damn allies.
Again the leader you wished to grind to dust escaped, her fate of infinite oblivion denied. This war was taking far, far longer than it deserved to be. You had lead forces in the War in Heaven. You had faced the star-borne wrath of the Yngir and triumphed against their fleets. You had faced the almighty terror of facing Slaanesh. How could this be so difficult?
The rage you were cultivating, so strong that it was causing your domain to boil with flames that could have melted the throne of Asuryan, was channelled towards your forces. Not enough to make them fall dead or injured, for you were no fool as to sabotage your own battles, but enough to make your immeasurably displeasure known to your followers. Especially those that should know better, that should have accomplished far more.
Screams echo across the Aeldari that you had blessed, the minds alight as they felt their blood boiling and their flesh crushed in your cold-iron grasp. They are touched by the raw fury of a god that deserved perfection and true focus, true worship. Only in victory would they feel absolution, your generous nature, your forgiveness for worms that had given you nothing in this damned war.
They charge towards the source of your rage, the beacon that outshined almost everything else that stoked your anger. Your blessed champions and followers fighting with hooked blades, barbed instruments to cleave flesh and metal. Chanting with your holy words that boiled the waters and called the waves, surging with lightning and abyssal darkness. Merged with your daemons, the lesser manifestations of your grace. Working together as one to bring down the Crone-Daughter.
Yet their blades are parried, their words silenced by her cries, the daemons banished and souls torn to pieces by Jain Zar's battle. Embolden by how long she had lasted against you, when she should have been dead long before she escaped Iybraesil, the audacious blasphemy continued. She called upon Khaine as she shoved her hand into the heart of a former Exarch, ripping it out and crushing it with black flame. She sang the songs of Morai-Heg as she butchered the ritual-spawn that was summoned versus her.
A tank-ship cast from the air and into the earth, the crew inside turned into bloody remains. A body with several of your spirits stitched inside torn to pieces in seconds, a waste of time and effort. A coven turned to ash, their consecrated ground burned to ash by plasma and Mon-keigh artillery.
For over a month did she turn the tide against your own champions and aspiring high priests, charging against them than allowing herself to be struck. Diving into the thick of the war while being supported again by all her servants, pushing the lines ot battle away from your influenced wherever she fought.
A family descended of nobles that had fled with the Craftworld and willingly joined your embrace, still possessing the the high-born blood of the old Aeldari Dominion, destroyed. Twin Seers that were gifted prodigies in reading the skein of fate, unable to find a path to escape when she came for their heads. A former Bonesinger that you had eternally call upon your storm-etched power into ritual weapons, their throat torn and mind shattered by the Storm of Silence again.
More and more of those you favoured were slain by the hands of the Phoenix Lord, from exquisite tools to wondrous servants to warriors that you knew were mighty and worthy of your blessings. Some had their very souls torn by her attacks, causing them to be banished deeply into your boiling domain. Some were so broken that they couldn't be fully restored by your efforts. A few were utterly destroyed, unable to even have their remains devoured to satiate the sudden emptiness.
The passage of time felt so infernally slow to your perception as veteran of the War in Heaven, as divine leader of a new age, as a king of Chaos. Such awareness and fluid thought, able to witness moments with an eternity of contemplation compared to the limitations of simple mortals, your rage only grew. How could you be losing your prized acolytes? How could anything other than triumph be yours? How could nothing stop that loathsome Jain Zar and her Howling Banshees, her Mon-keigh that she dared to covet for their brutish assistance?
As the days drag on further, you focus begins to shape around nothing else than the doom of the one who caused this war to exist at all. The false idol of a dead pantheon would be tolerated no longer. You summon and guide of your most skilled follower to slay this fluttering phoenix.
The Autarch, the war-leader, the commander who lead all your forces into this battle. While you had punished them for their failure, transforming their body and burning their mind for their insolence, they remained as a worthy figure to lead your blessed Aeldari. A beast in body, yet the true worth in all your followers were their spirits. After all, even before your ascension, this was the great power that allowed the Eldar to rule the galaxy.
They charge through a great lake that the Storm of Silence was taking battle in, the pool of water and blood formed from the destruction she wrought on your subjects. From their remains, from the rain that constantly fell around her stronger than any other, a small army arises. Daemons that had been felled before that were forced back into the Materium, allowed their vengeance by your shared rage. Priests, Seers and Exarchs leaping into battle. Leading them all, with an abyssal trident that was wreathed in lightning, the Autarch lumbered forth.
The Howling Banshees around her quickly all either die or are too injured to contribute, the pleasurable cruelty serving to force the wretched Crone-Daughter to either abandon her peons or fight in their defence than allowing her to advance or retreat. She dances past the touch of weapons thrust or sliced towards her, shifting through the flames and lightning, almost untouched by the very rain that fell. Yet here she remains limited as you order all nearby servants to begin surrounding her once more, this time ensuring there would be no escape.
Your champions silence the cries of the wounded Aspect Warriors, enforcing silence to be branded to their struggling forms, as even in the brink of death did they try to defy you and aid their infernal master. Without tiring, without faltering, the form of Jain Zar blurred as she fought every follower that you had brought forth. Seemingly uncaring of her encroaching demise, as though she had nothing to fear. But unlike her, you were a true immortal and knew victory when you saw it.
The blades come closer to scratching her armour, nearly cutting off pieces of her hair, her songs unable to pierce through the combined power of your blessed priests. It was here. It was now. You could feel it in your very bones, the tendrils that rippled across this space, your divine spirit radiant at this glory. Under the Eightfold Path you now walked, you once more felt the unrivalled thrill and joy upon seeing an enemy ground to dust. To heights further than you thought possible, but richly deserved.
Through the war-leader's eyes do you open your own. The flesh of your Autarch rippling, expanding, bloating as your press your visage through their body. Your mind and essence intermingling as you reached into the heart of your great servant. You would witness this death personally and drag her spirit away to show her exactly what you could do with your transcendent power.
You whisper directly into the half-mind you were connected with, your thoughts and feelings washing over the soul of this mortal body. Letting their body move faster, stronger, tougher than before. The blessed trident lunging for the neck of your foe. Lightning leaping from the frame of the weapon. Your many eyes looking at the Phoenix Lord as she stood her ground and-
There is a quiet moment as the near constant shrieks from Jain Zar stop. She moves forward instead of to the side or to back away from your war-leader's assault. She lifts her glaive and shifts its position so that its pointed towards your host's chest. It's too late to stop or shift your charge, so you direct your host to ensure that at least mutual destruction is achieved. An arm lashing out to strike a clawed hand to her head, muscles tearing with how fast the motion is-
She moved her head, a tiny adjustment to her torso, arms kept a little more to the side. Motions so small that it shouldn't have even mattered, only barely keeping away from the claws for a fraction of a second longer. Then she tenses and moves forward with a speed that was the pinnacle of what an Eldar could do without channelling the Sea of Souls, moving past the hand that would have taken hear head, and she unleashes her battle-cry with all her might.
The sound is so loud that it rips the flesh and bone of your Autarch, so psychically deafening that all nearby servants respond with screams of agony as they clutch heads or fall to the ground, Jain Zar rams the tip of her weapon straight through the heart of your most favoured mortal with the help of their own momentum. In one single motion she cleaves the body in half and already moves to the next closest foe.
Your gaze is ripped from the eyes you had opened across the war-leader's body as it rapidly began to break apart into nothingness. Able to still witness the Phoenix Lord as she butchered everyone close by. Decimating another group that should have at least kept her at bay, stopping her from ruining more of your plans.
You had lost the mortal leader of your followers. As well as almost every other Aeldari on your side that you could have considered elevating to a position like that. Most of your leading priest or corporeal champions had already been ripped from your grasp, or were proven too useless to keep their roles, or were so few and unskilled compared to those already fallen.
Throughout all of this, after over an entire year of this planet having passed since this war began, you hadn't even been able to see any of your daemons and servants inflict any injury at all upon Jain Zar.
For the first time since you ordered this conquest, you genuinely consider the idea that you were going to lose.
Suffering failure after failure against followers of dead gods that you deserved to rule, blasphemers that bowed to Mon-keigh, everything you had faltering against mere mortals who had fallen so far that they were nothing compare to their own meagre heights.
You had fought the Yngir ruled armies over entropic nebulas, fleets that could have annihilated the galaxy and brought apocalypse to the whole universe being brought down by your own ships and servants. You had survived the terrible strife from Khaine that earned him his eternal epithet as the Bloody-Handed, as the gods fought the gods and the Aeldari fought the Aeldari until Asuryan reinforced his ephemeral peace. You were the only deity of your pantheon to not only survive the birth of Slaanesh, but become far stronger than ever before
Yet you were going to lose… to this? Here on such a worthless planet? Against such a pitiful foe? After everything you had accomplished?
You are Mathlann, Chaos God of the devoured Aeldari Pantheon and King of Storm and Sea, and you erupt in rage so incandescent that the Warp itself burns around your divine form.
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You are Jain Zar, Phoenix Lord of the Howling Banshees, and you reel against the the scream that suddenly erupted everywhere.
Few beings could even come close to matching the power behind your psychic shrieks, the battle-cries that channelled the fury of Kaela Mensha Khaine and voice Morai-Heg through your very being. Even against the corrupted voices of from those possessed Exarchs, or the spawn of She Who Thirsts, you had dominated against them in this art.
The voice of the daemon-king was so loud that you fell to your knees and trembled for a few moments.
If the fallen god had been fully manifested itself into the mortal plane, then you knew that Shamballa as a whole would have been obliterated by the sheer force of this wrathful roar. Perhaps causing the nearby sun to detonate too, depending on how unfocused the burst of energy had been. The planet ripped to pieces by a deity pushed over the brink.
Despite everything, you nearly laugh as you slowly pushed yourself back up. Seeing the frenzied, berserk remnants of the group you were fighting. Sense ripped to pieces by sheer terror, by the backlash of force that had struck their very cores as their master's grip became a torturous mantle. Mindless vengeance becoming their only concern.
You were facing something straight from mythology, empowered by the force that had shattered the Eldar Empire, and you were winning to the point that an ancient deity was throwing a cosmic tantrum. You didn't think you'd live to see the day.
You pull back from the battle for a moment, away from the rising tides of Mathlann's incarnate wrath that tried to drown you into doom, and listen to what had happened towards other forces on the planet. It takes a few moments to get a coherent response, longer still to digest the meaning.
The scream had resonated across the populace of the whole planet. In some cases, mostly against the native humans, it had been a boon, the distraction of the followers and daemons felt as they suffered the brunt of their overlord's sudden rage. In others, against your Aspect Warriors, they became more feral and fought with a ferocity greater than before or were blasted to ash by the corrupted Craftworld. From what others were able to see from afar, an even larger amount of forces were converging onto your location.
Before you can pull back further and pivot towards a new battlefield, or ready yourself in a more advantageous position, something freezes you in place.
A new sound resonates within the rain. Instead of the primal fury that had resonated across the Warp, this was the voice of burning cold hatred that would pay any price to see that retribution was obtained. Daemons and followers that were once charging towards you stop dead in their tracks as they hear the storm's call. Laughter, screams, babbling nonsense. Some take out ritual blades and offer themselves or their captives to this madness. Blood pouring and mixing with the putrid water.
Your vision blurs. For a brief second, in a scene of abyssal darkness and writhing shapes, you see a hand take out a perfectly cut stone and crush it into a thousand fragments. A proof of an oath. A bargain to be called and kept. A divine contract for one who betrayed everything else for power.
You feel a pressure that sinks into your bones, your heart, your mind. It claws out into the skies that thunder with the roar of the Ro-Druk. Lightning strong enough to shatter a mountain strikes into a boiling lake. A gateway opens. A swilling vortex in the very earth, fed by a deity's wrath, faithful ichor and a cruel agreement between monstrous gods.
You had not felt something like this since you had witnessed the death cry of an empire, the Fall of the Aeldari Dominion, and when you had been first cast away into the Warp's drifting tides all too recently.
The voice of She Who Thirsts, the Dark Prince of Chaos, speaks through an entire army of daemons that crawl and fly and swim and march across the battlefield. The festering wound upon reality is a gaping doorway into hell. A few pieces of the stone you had seen are launched out, giant shards the size of towers, and are impaled in the borders of this portal to bind it to the world and keep it open. Songs, shrieks, roars and cacophonous words fill the air so strongly that the sounds of rain are destroyed.
You witness what could very well be the end of this war. What was already a grand struggle that you were only barely winning despite all the losses had now turned for the worse. An entire new enemy force, one that was worse for both Eldar and especially Shamballans in corruption and sheer unrelenting might. Mathlann's servants were mostly just twisted Aeldari and petty spirits, this legion belonged to a god far more powerful and dangerous. Victory might have faded away.
You give a signal to all nearby forces to what you were seeing and then you rush forward to this rift. Moving as though not only your life or the people of this world depended on it, but as if every single Eldar in the galaxy was at stake. Every human's too. The whole galaxy. The Rhana Dandra that would be waged at the end of everything. You move with the speed of one who cannot waste any single moment.
The clouds roil around you, bolts from above striking the ground you walked upon. Shadows fall as darkness rules the land. Artillery, cannons, aircraft fight on from somewhere distant. Close enough to achieve something. Too far and too slow to matter.
The army meets you in an embrace of death, yet even against a horde like this there was no room for mistakes. You had to pick your targets well or else billions of lives would die when they might have lived. You scream and silently beg to the gods to allow you to do so as long as possible, long enough to last against this madness.
You parry and manoeuvre through the daemonettes that try to lunge at you, a few of the weakest discombobulated at your empowered voice, only killing those before you when it was faster than trying to move past them. Dodging and weaving through the pincers of the heralds and champions that try to skewer you with swords. Arcane chains try to bind you in place but you slice through them as you reach what you needed to face, the leaders of this new assault.
Towering above all around the battlefield were the Keepers of Secrets, Feasters of Pain, the greater daemons of the Prince of Pleasure. Epitomes of that which mortals desired and were disgusted by, these lithe behemoths were the strongest warriors and commanded their lesser servants in both war and in torment. Several of them marched together, each a unique figure of revolting features and dominating presence, pride and standing demanding that they needed to be at the forefront of this conflict. That suited your purposes finely.
Jainas Mor is tossed towards the neck of one giant, the black flame triskele cleaving deeply into the neck of the beast before it flies back to your hand. In the other, you spin the glaive around to block a strike from a massive blade from another colossal daemon. Dodging from several smaller weapons that were swung or launched towards you by the encroaching horrors.
You leap forward to the Keeper that your thrown weapon had struck with your glaive, a disgusting form of pleasure evident on its bestial visage even on its decapitated head. The body falls and you move to the other, while a third rushes forward to take the glory of killing you. Psychic screams becoming the only reason you weren't immediately swarmed by everything, as you braved the roading tide of this gateway that was still flooding with monsters.
Zhai Morenn, your polearm, has its blade screams in protest as barbed scimitars scratch into its shimmering surface. The sound was so terrible and imbued with the energy of the fell god you were sworn to face. Yet you do not abate your attacks and do everything in your power to press onwards. Cutting into the body of one while burning another with your triskele's flame, parrying and riposting a hundred blows in a time measured between heart beats. Another head taken. The third Feaster of Pain falls just moments before a fourth emerges from the vortex.
You knew that more could be done, especially now at the delicate time when a daemon passed from one reality to the next, but three leaders having already fallen would already shift the course of this war and staying longer would just risk an early doom into the maws of two Chaos Gods. Lightly wounding the fourth leader, you pull back and ensure that absolutely everything blocking your way reaches oblivion against your blades.
Already you could see the dismaying sight of hundreds, thousands, yet more of these accursed creatures rushing out in all directions when they didn't focus upon you. Moving faster than even your own Howling Banshees on foot. Some flying on leathery wings or ones made out of radiant light and passionate flame. A few riding beasts as calvary in ground and sky, cackling madly as they promised nightmares and wonders in twin voices. Most around you simply called for your death, but you wouldn't grant anything to these loathsome monsters but their own.
You manage to push through the tide of madness and rush to the nearest group of allies forces, a mixed group of humans and Aeldari already in retreat from this new army and only stopping to ensure you leave with them. A jetbike piloted by one of your followers quickly swoops in and offers you the seat. You fly into the air as quickly as possible as all of you run.
Time passes in screams and mayhem. The vortex had reduced in power a day after the army had finished pouring out, no longer expanding or lashing out to the sky and earth with its wild power, but it was remained as a mark of what devastation had occurred. Empowering each daemon of She Who Thirsts to keep them within the Materium, a divine mandate that ensured that there would be none who were spared this dual wrath.
In little over a month, a billion human soldiers had died against and billions more non-combatants had also perished against this new madness. Some had fallen into corruption, becoming cultists of a frenzied cause where before such was an uncommon occurrence against the former Eldar god, and others had been simply cut apart by the swift blades or had minds broken by the terrible illusions of your enemies.
Your people did whatever they could to stem this tide of death, either in combat or with instructions on how to survive, but it was still a horrific blow to you all at just how many had fallen.
Tens of thousands had their homes taken and defiled into nightmarish depictions of what would happen if you had all failed, and even transporting a single family to safety was an ordeal when facing the constant assaults of Chaos.
The Ro-Druk, the twisted form of the Craftworld, had launched devastation upon the world under this time. Guided by divine will, it destroyed those caught under its baleful gaze and opened up holes in defences for the daemons to pour through. VIctims tapped by wrath and torment, unable to even trust that they'd be safe unless under an open sky.
Many had turned to prayer to cope with the loss, turning to the faith of the Aeldari Pantheon. The fury of Khaine and the wisdom of Morai-Heg helping most of all, as both deities were shown by your Aspect Shrine and yourself. You were holding up not just a world, but now the spirits of its people. The burden was not a light one, not with how much your people also lost.
Frustration mounted with how little you were able to accomplish. You had managed to run away from the initial attacks, against the full brunt of the new army, but you could not run forever. The rain-summoned followers of Mathlann and the quick monsters from the Prince of Pleasure surrounded you time and time again, doing everything in their combined power to keep you constrained in battle alone when you could have helped save others or been saved in turn. It was far harder to keep up the pace against two types of enemies, especially when they worked near perfectly together by the order of their deities than fall into typical daemonic in-fighting.
The fact that you were a Phoenix Lord was enough reason to become the target of the infernal spawn of the Dark Prince, their latest obsession to receive tremendous reward. Being the most hated individual under the traitor god's rampage also ensured that you had no drought of enemies that came against you. It was exhausting to maintain your fighting prowess against the constant attacks, yet you still managed to remain unharmed to the mounting anger of your foes. At times even able to escape from attack for a full day before you were beset on all sides again.
The invasion continued its path across the world as you fight for your life against the hordes that keep trying to end you. Battlefields erupting across Shamballa that end up slowly pushed back by the forces of Chaos, fortresses falling and supply lines disrupted. Another month passes and victories are few and far between, minor efforts that only delay what seems to be a collapse.
The sacrifice of the Howling Banshees is the main thing that brings hope to this hopeless time. Hundreds giving up their lives to ensure that millions of humans and thousands of Aeldari are kept alive, Exarchs duelling and distracting fell champions until they are utterly surrounded and fall to their dooms, so many that walk your path ready to give up everything to ensure even one more day is lived by their fellows. You weep for how many more of your order dies before another month ends.
One day you gazed over the landscape and saw a lost battleground that had once been a forest, a place where some of the humans here had often visited due to the natural beauty and flowers that bloomed here. After being told that, you looked over the flooded wasteland and wondered how long it'd take for the planet to heal even if true victory happened.
While you despaired over the loss, the valiant sacrifices of your order had helped achieved something that might just turn the tide of this conflict. Over twenty billion Shamballan soldiers had died, leaving only forty billion to wage a war against an enraged god of ruin. Yet with the militarised government, support from the Aeldari, and with your own efforts as so much attention was personally directed to your end, the new generation of soldiers was nearly ready to truly take to the battlefields. Taught with everything that could quickly be shared in how to fight Chaos by your kind, to ensure that both human and Aeldari could truly fight as one.
Morale rose up as, even in the face of this apocalyptic disaster, a full human year had already passed and people were still able to fight. Together with such different people, entirely different species and cultures, unified against a common threat.
There was something beautiful to that, something to cherish as this new army rose up.
Yet it was not just you and your people that knew what this could mean for the war, despite the endless anger that rose up against you the King of Storm and Sea still recognised the threat of these new soldiers. Despite the careful guidance and protection from both Howling Banshees as well as the Shamballans, a few corrupted members of humanity and followers of Mathlann had managed to sneak in and delayed efforts. Nothing too major, but it heavily restricted any potential momentum that this act could have brought.
Despite constant attempts to slow them, slay them, sway them to the whims of uncaring madness, billions of newly trained soldiers march across the world and defend areas under threat. The Lion Fangs opening a brief, closely guarded celebration that is broadcasted to the populace of their planet. The war seems like it could turn as you personally arrive to them and offer your own words of praise and advice for the battle to come.
Until one day disaster struck. A Keeper of Secrets had managed to emerge directly within the allied ground, right around countless new soldiers who suddenly lost cohesion against the assault. Close enough to be seen from a distant, as a towering and screaming giant that tore apart tanks and armoured carriers as though they were simple toys. Other lesser servants descend from cracks in reality, having followed their summoned master. Corrupted members who had brought forth this monster immediately attack in a frenzy, few in number but all the more deadly in this confusion.
You manage to rush towards the beast and bring it down in a short duel, and while the rest of the attackers were brought low by the surrounding soldiers the damage had been done. Morale had taken a terrible blow from this situation. Not just from the sudden incursion of hellish warriors or the presence of their corruptive influence, but also from the fact any cultists had managed to secretly infiltrate this deeply into Shamballa's military to cause this. Careful searches and loyalty checks had to be done, as well as spiritual reinforcements to each new soldier. It would delay matters significantly but in the worst case scenario… it needed to be done.
More time passes in the war as the fighting gets more fierce between both sides. You lead your champions to the very depths of the hellish conflict, banishing daemons and granting oblivion to a few that faced your full wrath. Billions of soldiers marked pure of heart and full of fury descend upon the corrupted monsters that had besieged their home, granted all support that they could possibly have to ensure triumph against divine armies.
Keepers of Secrets of She Who Thirsts and possessed Exarchs of Mathlann march to the battlefield, acting both as generals and living siege engines against any mortals they faced. While you had slain the former Autarch and had destroyed several leaders already, these terrible nightmares charged ahead as extensions of Chaos itself. Their order undeniable as they guided the mad hordes, fell beasts and twisted warriors.
Yet for all their strength, they could no longer simply push forwards as they had before. Resistance was faltering in places, but the truth became clear as another month passed. The war had gone from a slow loss into a brutal stalemate.
The planet had been torn and scarred in several places. Everything but the capital city had suffered a severe amount of damage, even from just the corrupted rain that constantly fell and flooded so much of the land. Projects had arisen from several Seers who charted the best ways to try to secure as much pure earth as possible, means to purify the general landscape during the war as much as possible, means to keep growing enough food and transport safe drinking water to keep the battle going on for years longer or even decades if it called for it.
But even the most optimistic outlook on what could be possible faltered under the face of just how many daemons and cultists still remained, especially on the Craftworld which had remained untouched. Iybraesil had only become more corrupted as time passed, looking like an abyssal horror that had been pulled up into the open sky. A mixture of crystal and flesh, teeth and storms, a creature from nightmares. As long as it stayed, resonating with the divine energies of the traitor god, then the war could theoretically go on for eternity.
Unless the Ro-Druk was taken out, then the war would likely end up taking everything from you all.
Seers and Aspect Warriors converse in sealed, warded meeting rooms to discuss the course of the war. Human commanders there to You also arrive there a few times to share your insight, to see what your own role would be. Ideas rise and fall in how to fight the terrible sea dragon or push back the armies of Chaos, what to sacrifice and what to keep.
Until a new idea is made one day that excites everyone The Lion Fangs come forth with a solution that could theoretically bring the Craftworld out of the equation, with a few minor adjustments after it was proposed. A risky plan that could very well doom the war if it failed, and possibly clutch victory if it worked.
You and a large force of your Howling Banshees would board the Craftworld and either damage it or even disable it, preferably killing as many high priests and notable figures inside, while one of your most skilled Exarchs would be dressed and armed like yourself and remain on the planet to divert attention long enough for it to work. All Shamballan soldiers pulling back and focusing purely on defensive actions the moment the trick was discovered and terrible retaliation followed.
There were countless things that could go wrong. Everyone sent to the Ro-Druk could die, including you. Any sabotage to the Craftworld or elite warriors slain could amount to near nothing. The forces of Chaos could just decimate everyone on the world, knowing that you weren't even on it. Yet after a lot of debate… it seemed like the only course of action that had any chance of working.
You personally selected and quickly trained the strongest, most skilled Exarch of your order. Knowing that time was precious and lives were being lost, to both ensure the deception was as accurate as possible and that the Howling Banshees would be lead by a worthy successor if things went wrong. Having already seen you fight and having already joined you in many conflicts, it didn't have to take long at all. Mostly you just had to wait for the new armour and weapons to be crafted.
As morning rose over the planet, the order was officially made. The path of Shamballa would be determined one way or another. A coven of Seers that had spent weeks together to chart the path of Iybraesil, using whatever relics and mementos they had as a divination link. An army of Howling Banshees boarding various transport craft, with you at the tip of the spear. Cloaked by every manner of stealth technology and psychic veils that you could use.
The vast leviathan surges across the clouds. Half within the realm of Mathlann, half within the skies of the world. A living beast that was so tainted with the power of the traitor god that you weren't sure that it would even be recognisable as a Craftworld if another year passed.
Word reaches your ear of your substitute fighting well on the frontlines of one conflict, acting close enough to fool the hordes around them judging from the babbling shrieks and promises of death that surrounded her. The ruse had worked for now. Here was the next step.
Electricity surged across the fins, flesh and scales of the gigantic monster. The dragon opened its terrible maw to launch the divine wrath of its master. Bright enough to outshine the sun, covered by the roiling clouds. It fires and its target is destroyed. In the next moment, your fleet rushes in by its terrible maw as it slowly closes.
From the ground, the giant siege weapon was bigger in the heavens than a moon. From a distance on your ships, it was a staggering sight that knived dread into your hearts. Up so close to the creature to see its titanic teeth, the vacant eyes that emerged across its pseudo-flesh, was to feel fear at witnessing a beast that should not be allowed to exist outside of nightmares.
Iybraesil was so defiled, much more so than you initially thought from seeing it transformed into this beast. The rage of its new master was so great and terrible that it even wounded its form, from the burn marks that covered the insides of its mouth. Yet where the crystal was broken by how much lightning was challenged and flesh was stretched over to lightly cover the gaps, there was your opportunity. The whole fleet managed to quickly fit in through the myriad holes.
Transports landed within the Ro-Druk and only faced minor resistance, the few daemonic entities and lowly followers that dared nest around the dangerous ground near the lightning-maw. Their screams and roars are silenced quickly, and you all quickly delve into the belly of the best. Killing everything in your way as you mapped out the baleful interior.
The realm was far more terrible than when you had last seen it, even when it wasn't submerged within the true domain of Mathlann. There were some temples that were dedicated to the traitor god, most of them formed from former sites of beauty or worship to other figures. A gallery of artwork that was torn and left to ruins, or burned up as sacrifices, where only misshapen idols to the King of Storm and Sea remained. A garden replaced with a pit of mud, where writhing water vermin thrived. A mass graveyard of those who resisted the new rule here, doubly as a feeding pit for mindless pets to be tamed.
Vengeance burned in all your hearts as you slaughter the few forces inside. Corrupted Eldar with gills and webbed fingers are butchered, some stretched and bloated like animals that were meant to live in the dark trenches by the ocean floor. Fewer than expected, with most having been taken out from their terrible home to fight and die on the world, but enough that you did face resistance as you tried to cleanse the halls of the Craftworld.
It could have been hours or days for all you knew, something distorted all attempts at outside communication. Time itself could have been passing differently in such a corrupted place that resonated with a daemon-king, when half-submerged in their own realm. Progress was measured in bodies and rooms. Towards a vague target that at first you weren't sure was there, but began to feel that it was.
All of you were coming closer and closer to a sound you did not even hear until your prayers to Khaine, the death and destruction wrought by your hands, helped you hear the answer. The war drums that all Aeldari knew. That which thrummed with passion and blood. The weakness.
A heartbeat. It wasn't just the appearance of flesh and blood that covered Iybraesil, the monster that the Craftworld had become was indeed alive. And what was alive could be slain, a heart taken to slay this beast. Its presence surged you with an energy that had began to wane with the sheer weight of this war, the idea that you could all actually do it.
Yet the delays you faced in your progress had done their damage, as the followers of Mathlann did their best to stop your invasion. Perhaps enough prayers had finally drawn the traitor god's attention, perhaps your body double had faltered or fallen. Whatever the case, as the entirety of the Ro-Druk shakes, you immediately knew the moment that the trick had ceased to work.
Visions manifest in your mind and the minds of others, striking lucid nightmares of the capital city transformed into a lifeless ruin dedicated with the symbols of Mathlann and She Who Thirsts across every single building. An ocean of blood that would forever contain the tortured souls of every human, while all Aeldari were flayed internally by the embrace of the Dark Prince. A promise of retribution for daring to invade this place, to first break this world and ensure that everyone who had come to Iybraesil would be trapped to suffer yet worse fates.
Not if you had anything to say about it.
Abandoning any pretence of subtlety, and knowing your true target beating inside the centre of this leviathan, you rush forward to the heart of the sea dragon.
Hordes of followers emerged from every single room in your way, in countless shapes and sizes from what you couldn't be sure were signs of blessings or curses. Water flooded into passageways that you tried to reach, trying to delay your advance, but you rushed through faster as you redirected into other halls. Barricades were erected and barely lasted seconds against your wrath.
A tower fell down to try to physically block a doorway, and a bundle of grenades gifted from the humans had been enough to remove enough of it. Psychic spells fired randomly from everywhere, perhaps discharged from the very flesh of the Craftworld, and while a few of your Aspect Warriors fell there was nothing that would have stopped your advance.
Louder and louder did the vast heart beat, as more and more did the environment around you all shift from Wraithbone to the abyssal flesh of a god. The fury of Khaine filled you all as you marched, voices screaming with the power of Morai-Heg, the strength of Asuryan's light shining against the fell influence of Chaos.
The visions of Shamballa's destruction that had manifested before kept flashing before your eyes again and again, perhaps in an effort to break your will. It only alloyed it with rage.
A blur of conflict passes as you and your dwindling group reach a deafening apex of psychic noise, the rage of the Bloody-Handed One reaching its apex against such an terrible thing. Possessed Wraithbone constructs charge to meet you across a temple gateway, the once pristine bodies leaking a thick mixture of blood and water. You physically tear off the arms of one giant warrior, whispering a word of prayer in the hopes that whatever soul inside met a peaceful end. Priest-guards charge to their doom as you offer only carnage to their wretched lives.
The doorway they guarded was, in contrast with everything else you had seen, almost beautiful. The pearl hidden away. Decorated with carved bones, you see the stone doors filled with depictions of Mathlann at their height on one side and their fall into Chaos. Both meant to display the strength and glory of the deity. Both of which disgusted you.
The doors were reinforced by both physical and psychic means, barricaded on the other side. A divine barrier erected to keep you out. With prayers of your own, calling on the battle-myths from the Lord of Murder and the power of fate from the Crone, everyone around you began to strike down the gate with everything you had. Your screams could have melted metal by sheer force, banish daemons by sheer strength, burn down an army by sheer fury.
Your glaive is raised up and comes down with all the strength you possessed, striking the wards across the stone and the stone itself. For a second there is resistance, the sound of a terrible scream rising up that tried to drown out your presence, but the moment passes and you cut deeply into the rock. The anger of the traitor god visibly rises up as you break part of the door.
Light floods out from the opening, baleful crimson shining with the power of a star. Blessed protectors surge forward with hooks, claws and barbed tridents wreathed with storms but you almost don't see them in the face of the giant orb that hovered in the centre. Bigger than a grav-tank, it was a stone sculpture that was almost completely covered in flesh stolen from what had to be thousands of victims. All of them were Howling Banshees that were crushed together into one form, stretched and flattened and yet still possessing enough life to suffer.
The beating heart of the leviathan, the putrid core of the Ro-Druk.
Surrounding it was a phalanx of warriors, and around them were crystal statues that each depicted Mathlann in a different state. In the beginning with the Eldar, in battle against the Yngir, his role in the conflict that Khaine had made his hands eternally blood-stained, and finally as he bowed and joined hands with the Dark Prince. Ritual-masters stood above in sacrificial circles, already channelling terrible curses to stopping whatever you planned.
Faster than anyone else can react, you strike the heart. Jainas Mor is thrown with all the might you can summon, the triskele flying across the room until it hits its mark. Black flame coursing across the flesh of your fallen followers, granting them the only freedom you could offer as the core of Mathlann's hold over Iybraesil bursts into fire and every cultists in the room immediately reacts with anger and absolute terror.
The abyssal flesh you stood on as you caught the bladed weapon in your hand again, the terrible organic material that covered or made up the walls and ceiling and countless areas in and around the Craftworld, shook violently. Parts erupting with the same black flame the core was now burning with, the living extension of the traitor god's power writhing in agony as it burned away before your eyes.
A roar echoes across Iybraesil, a low and terrible sound that was so loud that it ceased to be noise at all. An explosion of thunder that vibrated across the entire vessel, a desperate and primal noise of the dying beast. Echoed by the crystal its withering flesh was still attached to, and by the creature's terrible master who's horrified wailing pierced through everything. A sharp sound that scratched into your mind, into the minds of everything around you, that shook your very souls.
The warriors, priests and other followers within the chamber have all fallen. Channelled spells have either dissipated or backfired, holy symbols have been twisted and torn, near lifeless bodies fall to the ground in response to their worst nightmare was made manifest. Some of them were charred into ash, as the lightning of the Ro-Druk flailed.
Passing that is almost a feeling of relief. The weight of corruption was already beginning to lift from a heavy, brutal shroud into something more breathable. Clearer to think and feel. No longer ensnared into a hellish prison, the innards of a vast leviathan.
The relief is short-lived as two things happen at once.
The first was the sensation of falling. The Craftworld was caught betwixt realms and was now forced out of one and into the other, fully manifesting over the skies of Shamballa. Engines dead, systems sluggish, all anchors and functions bound to Chaos now becoming weak and powerless. Iybraesil fell into the planet.
A tidal wave of impossible hate crashes into you directly, bringing you to your knees as the rest of your Aspect Shrine crumbles and loses composure. Even to compare it to the fury you channelled from Kaela Mensha Khaine would be a mistaken a hill to the tallest mountain. The feeling of being consumed by a star, crushed by a black hole, struck directly by a god.
You were drowning. Drowning in the rage that echoed in the dying screams of the leviathan. A voice speaking above what had once been billions of worshippers, filling every absence with further anger. Something that would reduce even the greatest Aeldari into a panicked animal, shrivelling against the sheer intent that was focused on them and only them.
This is what it was to be one who became the nemesis of a deity.
A shadow emerges from your clenched eyes, as you tried and failed to stand. A vision of standing within the wild, writhing abyss. Ancient fleets broken and formed into a crown of shipwrecks on a figure that stood above and beyond everything inside. On a throne in the calm eye of the endless storms was a tall warrior, an ancient lord, a king of daemons.
The towering figure of Mathlann, King of Storm and Sea, stood up from the throne before you. Two eyes that were as burning moons gazing down, shaking with more fury than what even most spawn of Chaos could be capable of. Judgement ready to be announced to the very Sea of Souls as a massive hand slowly rose, a face appearing with teeth grinding down together in rictus madness, a finger pointing to your very heart.
"DEATH."
The command is given just in time for the giant ship to crash into the earth. The force of it is enough to shock you awake, and stir the fallen Aspect Warriors all around you. Communications come to life as the native humans, and all Aeldari that stayed behind, are able to contact you once more.
Billions upon billions had died due to the plan, with all the daemons and cultists on the world free to wreak mayhem with you and so many Howling Banshees having left the battlefields, but with the Craftworld fully disabled the war was already turning around. The warriors of the Dark Prince had remained as they were, but almost every single one of the traitor god's forces had pivoted away from whatever they were doing to head to one target. The fallen Iybraesil.
Or more accurately, to kill you.
Reinforcements would try to come as soon as possible but even with the major advantages most of the fighting now had, it'd still take time and effort to push against the forces still there and the flooded landscapes to reach your position. It could take months before anyone on your side even reaches the Craftworld, let alone manages to navigate an army inside.
The war was coming to an end and, now more than ever, you were facing the full fury of a god.
You do your best to organise what remained of the Aspect Warriors that had come with you to barricade the area. Sealing as many entrances as possible, forming choke points and kill boxes, plugging every crack you could find to buy as much time as possible. You didn't have to last forever, just long enough.
The rest of the corrupted inhabitants within the ship are the first to arrive. They fight not just in anger, with had driven them further to madness, but in palpable desperation. Abandoning reason and tactics, even any hint of self-preservation, as they charged in wildly and focused purely on you. Mobs of fanatic sea dwellers that screamed your name, your title, your existence against Mathlann. More beast than person, whipped and burned as they were let loose on you.
Dark spirits and nightmarish vermin manifest from the still dying flesh of the leviathan, blind worms and abyssal insects leaping up after burrowing through the mass of organic material to leap at you and those around you. Giant unfolding maws strong enough to tear a head from a body, sharp spines that could pierce through armour and withstand a sword's strike.
Daemons manifested through any and all corpses that were left behind from the assaults that kept rising in number and intensity, forcing their dead hosts to fight once more no matter how badly they were cut down. Headless bodies twisting up, muscles tearing and bones breaking to land even a single strike a little quicker.
A few creatures from She Who Thirsts appear alongside the sea monsters, unwilling to allow a soul like yours to be taken to another god than their own if they could do anything about it. Champions of excess rushing and rapidly fighting with an intensity that matched the greatest of your followers, but could not compare to your skills as an Asurya that were honed further across this entire conflict.
Days pass in bloodshed, losses and the echoing cacophony of what felt like an endless tide of madness. Rituals were used from a distance to cast bolts of lightning, winds strong enough to strip flesh from bone, to try flooding you out of your defences. Dispersed by the collective screams of your warriors, they nevertheless drained yet more time and attention to deal with. There was no rest, none to even no moment to do anything other than fight and fight and fight.
Weeks pass and exhaustion visibly hangs over most of your warriors. The armies of Chaos were only building up their attacks. Supplies had been readied for a long assault, clear water and energising food, but not for much longer than this. Careful rationing has to be planned out at a time when you barely had any opportunity to think. Medicine had almost run out too. You could barely even keep track of how many enemies you had felled since taking out the heart.
More than a month passes by, feeling so quick and so long in the same timeless sense of battle. Your memories are a blur between corrupted faces, the open mouths of monsters trying to devour you, the weapons that you parried and the spells you had dodged. Word had arrived that most territories of Shamballa were becoming secure, as regiment after regiment all tried to rush to your location. The rain was clearing up in most places, the putrid water had lost most of its power, scarred lands able to heal instead of getting constantly worse. Even the vortex that had summoned the Prince of Pleasure's army had shrunk down, yet artillery barrages and missile fire hadn't done more than inflict light damage upon it.
You all just had to hold out longer. With far less warriors than normal able to defend, being forced to take rotating shifts just to ensure that everyone didn't collapse or die from exhaustion. You staying fully focused and dedicated at all times to the art of combat. A prayer constantly spoken for your order. A scream constantly unleashed against your foes. You couldn't lose now.
Time further warps around your mind as you bring destruction and death to the countless warriors that came before you. You become as Morai-Heg as you judge the fate of the mortal followers of Mathlann, condemning each and every single one to death. You become as Khaine as you wield your weapons as an extension of yourself, edges burning with rage as your cry out your own frustration and hatred against these daemons. You look into the eyes of the traitor god and you tell him that he will lose here.
The billowing presence of Mathlann roars out that a full tenth of his own power, energy and strength that he had coveted more than remaining by his own deific kin or his Aeldari children willing to be given away if anyone took your head. The declaration brings a final element to the legions you faced, from the greatest of the priests to the most lowliest of beasts. An unparalleled hunger to mix with bottomless rage and terror of failure.
The declaration is heard by the daemons of the Dark Prince, and while not truly directed to them the idea is too enticing to dismiss. Reports call out a warning that most warriors called on by She Who Thirsts suddenly disappeared, moments before portals all across the Craftworld open up as they charge. Almost the full force of Chaos that fought against Shamballa now targeted you specifically.
An age of bloodshed passes. The tide of madness howls, roars, shrieks as you scream with the song of a fallen empire, a broken people, a shining light against the darkness. A wall fell and you faced hundreds at a time, the only reason more didn't come was due to physical space preventing each foe from having the opportunity. As a body falls, two more take its place. You decide to kill with strategy, ensuring that a weaker opponent stands between you and the strongest.
But the fleeting idea is a mistake, as it assumes that a creature of Chaos would care for its allies more than a grand prize. A trident that was coursing with electricity, made from storms woven into a physical shape, is shoved through three other followers of Mathlann before its three prongs impale themselves into your chest. The next moment is a blinding, thoughtless moment of agony as lightning buries itself into your being. The blood of corrupted souls seeping into the wound.
With one hand do you muster all your strength to grasp the terrible trident, further sending debilitating shocks through your body, and then with all the pain and rage you felt did you unleash a psychic scream into everyone around you. The force of the shockwave causing everyone around you to be hurled backwards, armour shattering and flesh burning. You pushed forward through the opening and cut down everything in your way. You just needed more time.
Communications flare up more and more. Soldiers were already marching into the Craftworld, exchanging fire with the immense crowds of daemons and followers that kept trying to enter the fallen ship to reach you. The broken labyrinth of the interior hindered the push inside, with entire sections having turned to rubble or been flooded by corruptive water. It was nearly the end.
The enemy knew that their moment was passing by too, and their increasingly desperate need to kill you had reached untold heights as they all roared as one at your injury. Your strength had waned, your skill had reached its limit, you were slowing down. They come as a tide of flesh and swords, spears and teeth coming down upon you.
The Howling Banshees around you stand firmly as the barricades fall and the monsters surge in from all directions. A portal forcibly opened in the ceiling. Things that came from shadows and glittering light. The smallest pools of water or blood acting as a gateway. The dead flesh of the Ro-Druk animated by the sheer hatred and desire that filled the air. Your voice shakes as you constantly express your psychic power in the harsh songs of the Crone.
The dark armies fight in a distorted frenzy, yet somehow retained enough cohesion to work together enough to come closer and closer. Aspect Warriors stepping backwards bit by bit, when they weren't falling over or being dragged away to the butchering horde. Blood and remains had caked every surface and filled the environment with the aura of violent madness that permeated the followers of Chaos. You personally felt the weight of a god press down on you each moment you remained alive.
Until finally, after what must have been days of mindless struggle, you hear something in the far distance echo other than the maddening black tongue or the screams of a cultist. Not just a noise broadcasted to you, true noise. Soldiers fighting against the terrible, writhing monsters of Iybraesil. Other Howling Banshees and Aeldari that had come to save you all.
Hope blossomed in your chest as if Isha herself had planted the flower, and as everyone of your order roared in triumph together you knew that this was the end of the constant hordes. The last major remnants of Mathlann and She Who Thirsts being beaten here. The final push for all your efforts here in resisting this massive incursion.
You charge as one to the mass of doom and destruction, no longer as defenders but as those ready to feel victory. Vile energy, twisted bodies, jagged blades and pincers all break under your revitalised assault. Closer now were the Shamballan soldiers, closer than even them were the first Exarchs that practically leapt into the fray.
Finally joined by reinforcements, the army of Chaos is beset on both sides and rapidly falters as the tide finally turns against them. Leaders cut down by your hand, all their followers brought low by your warriors. The rest scatter away around the Craftworld, either by foot or by psychic tears in reality. A welcome reprieve after so much combat and death
Many Aspect Warriors that had joined you in your mission fully collapse as the constant tension and focus abated, some unable to even remain conscious with how tired they had been. You kept yourself standing as you shared all your efforts in fallen Iybraesil, able to actually take stock of the situation, while news of the wider war is able to be digested.
Almost every single battlefield had been either won by the efforts of the Shamballans, or been reduced in intensity by several orders of magnitude at the very least. The skies were clear and efforts were already underway to purify the land and formerly clear water sources around major human settlements. Most of the remaining enemies were detected here in the fallen ship, aside from however many cultists old and new that were still hiding around the world.
While you ordered all your tired and injured followers to be taken back for rest and healing, those fallen to go with them so that they might be treated with respect, you stayed for a few days longer to lead efforts in fully retaking the Craftworld. Fighting, leading, navigating. You brought a quick end to the stragglers and animals that tried to run or put up a last stand when pushed to a corner..
A few corrupted Bonesingers had been doing their best to sabotage entire systems of the vast ship. Twisting Wraithbone and flesh imbued with Chaos energy, trying to reshape viscera of the leviathan-shell that you had burned away. A final act of spite in a losing war. To turn this place into an unsalvageable wreck. Perhaps having it collapse while you were all still inside. You had taken their heads and sliced their hearts before they could have a chance.
Nearly a week had passed since aid had arrived before you allowed yourself to finally leave this place, being the last of the initial group sent to board the ship-beast. Barely hearing reports that repairs could still be done to the fallen vessel. To have your armour mended, to have some rest after all the fighting, seemed like a wonderful idea. Something like sleep taking you as you rested on the transport craft.
In your half-dream, lucid and ready for battle even in this state, you caught another glimpse of the traitor god. The vast form shrouded by the dark sea, the tendrils of abyssal sludge that writhed in maddened hatred, the intense feeling of undying rage that was directed to you. Yet unlike every time before, it felt more distant. Just a vision rather than an overbearing presence.
The figure shifts before your eyes. A giant hand trying to reach you, to crush you or take you away, but it never seemed to truly come close. Grasping at empty air, only able to claw towards you.
You awaken to the roars of a crowd, hands to your weapons as you leapt up. Slowly relaxing as you realised they were the sounds of celebration, of two people united in the capital city.
Human flags flew in the wind. Music was practically dancing across the buildings. Broadcasts delivered in the native human tongue and then in Aeldari, impressively fluent considering how little time had passed to learn any of it.
Crowds of civilians that once had to hide away in their homes or in their work were now in the open. Not fearing corruption or a sudden attack from a daemon, no need to hide from the rain or the baleful wrath of the accursed storms. Soldiers stood at the ready for anything to happen, standing besides your Howling Banshees.
The fighting was not yet over, and perhaps it would be decades to fully cleanse the land and its people from the lingering taint of the incursion, but it was clear to everybody around you that the war was all but won. Despite all that was lost… you had all survived together.
You saw so many little pieces of life in the city, across the world, as the aircraft flew past. Shrines to Kaela Mensha Khaine, Morai-Heg, Asuryan, Isha and all the rest alongside the native temples that were build before this terrible incursion had happened. Food augmented by your people's science, able to provide the quality and quantity to keep everyone well-fed and happily so. Vibrant gardens that people were able to enjoy serene beauty, wellsprings of nature and life cultivated by two groups.
As transport landed and you stepped out to the world, seeing the celebrations emerge and feeling that joy and hope woven together, you felt something like peace in your heart.
Even though the war was almost over, the bonds it had forged were not. Shamballa and Iybraesil's people would walk whatever their future would be as one.
You are Jain Zar, Phoenix Lord of the Howling Banshees, and you witness the dawn of a new age.
Deep within the Sea of Souls, far beyond what any Aeldari would ever willingly dare enter without good reason. It was difficult to recall exactly what happened, but you felt the touch of Chaos had caused whatever this had been. Spirit-screams echoed around you just as it had during the Fall.
So many had died, from strangers and outsiders to allies and followers of your shrine. All were too many to count. There was no time for grief or sorrow, survival was paramount. You would carve and slay as many as you could in the name of the countless fallen.
The enemy of your kind fall like a tide around each surrounding space, the spawn of She Who Thirsts in armies and hordes. They accept your desire for retribution, readily coming for you as though you were but easy prey.
They all fall to your hands and voice. Their cries are silenced by your wailing death, their flesh burnt and cut by your weapons. Corpses serve as your fortress, daemonic ichor diffusing into to call more of their infernal kind to your presence. So ravenous that they ate one another as much as they grasped at the souls of Aeldari.
You dance between their claws and talons, proving the swiftest fighter of them all. Soon they name you with mockery where their attacks cannot reach. The quick death, the roaring end. This is what your fate will be, they claim. The fate of all Eldar, until all of you were wrought of all essence and pleasure.
You ignore their words, silencing their cries as you try to save as many wayward souls that you saw. There were but precious few, and too many of the monsters to stop. In time they were all devoured, torn away, granted torment beyond torment. And her presence beyond it all, looming above from such a vast distance.
But you would not be broken by such things. You had already survived one end by the Thirsting One's hand, you would survive another.
Time passes in screams and laughter. You were not sure how long you had fought, linear existence was a guideline rather than a rule within the Warp's expanse. It wasn't helped that the legions of madness demanded all attention, sometimes literally. You had to be focused at all times for every sight, moment, sound and vile spiritual presence.
But you recalled clearly when you heard a different noise within the cacophony. You had sliced through a glutinous Herald that wielded a spiked chalice, cutting them into five pieces, when a wordless song was sung. It seemed to briefly surprise even the soul-hungry beasts for but a moment.
There were many other noises than your battle-cries. There were the calls for your death and offers to join the corrupted, the sounds of ripping flesh and snapping claws, songs and music that defied the senses, devouring bodies upon the shifting landscape. But this one had a familiarity to it that you could not deny, for it was the sounds of your Banshees. A group of them calling in unified noise, distorted but recognisable.
You chased after it immediately. If it was a trick or mimicry then you would butcher the one who dared defile the image of your Shrine. If it were corrupted members then you would grant them peace. If it truly was your warriors, then perhaps they had found a way to reach you.
The hordes of daemons were pushed aside, the mountains of cadavers become ashen by your black flames and the champions skewered by your spear. The tides fought you, but you pushed them back. Forcing the lines to fray, to break. Your screams carved itself into the monsters around you and the land they walked on.
Your chase led you to a cliff, a pointed edge of bone and rock that overlooked a ravine filled with… a dark river, a thin ocean as black as starless nights. Still waters of stagnant abyss. The sight of it contrasted completely with the mayhem of colours and flesh behind you, that kept trying to kill you. The Banshee song echoed from somewhere deep within.
It stretched beyond the formless horizon, a serpent coiling around its prey or a worm burrowing deep into a carcass. In ways it is almost like a branch of the Webway, a tunnel through the Sea of Souls. But while it had similar shape and function, it could not look and feel more different. The protection of Wraithbone was exchanged with a shell of black liquid, putrid mass shaped like wet clay.
Muddy waters congealed to form a passage that blocked out what was outside. Oily blood seeping from a wound, filled with parasites. You could faintly see the shapes of twisted creatures that lurked underneath, limbs reaching just behind the surface. The reflection of claws alike the spawn of She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but different enough from their direct influence.
You suspected where these waters led, what laid within the black sea, and the fact you heard the cries of your Howling Banshees emanate from here could only mean one thing if you were correct.
But to plunge into the abyss before you was an idea that made you hesitate. To delve that far deep was a great risk. You could have turned away from its filthy clutches, fought your way through the armies once more to find an escape, but a glimpse of something shining in the river-sea stopped you. Granted you certainty of what you saw.
It was the outline of a Craftworld, its edges jagged and corroded, and it was one you had recognised. Iybraesil, ruled and protected by one's pact-bound to Morai-Heg, forced to follow the currents it was trapped in by the mad king that ruled its umbral waves.
You dove into the darkness, the armies and hordes not daring to follow you into the abyssal domain of a fallen deity.
Mathlann, Lord of the Deeps.
-----
The King of Storm and Sea was once a deity that existed within the pantheon of the Aeldari.
He had been the master of all ships and travel, he who ruled over the black ocean of stars and what voyaged across the galaxy's expanse. From scouting vessels to the Talismans of Vaul.
He had not faded in strength nearly as much as most of his kin had done since the War in Heaven, for in many ways was he still prayed to and praised until the very end of the Eldar Empire. It was still custom to follow his traditions and rites, even if only to a light extent, before and during a long voyage.
He had become a mere legend, but his myth persisted strongly enough to sustain him. The Wraithbone vessels still possessed a connection to his power, the ports possessing his shrines. By no means ascendant compared to his fellow gods, for he would never rival the likes of Khaine, Vaul or Cegorach, he nevertheless was fed while others starved.
Even as the Aeldari fell into corruption and decadence, Mathlann had been the last to be discarded. Ports such as Commorragh had become dens of pirates and the insane hedonists, and he had witnessed the strength behind their actions. The rise of the Dark Muses while the old gods faded, the decadent energy that festered within most Eldar into a growing nexus. Such tantalising potential.
When the time of apocalypse came, Mathlann had done what no other deity of the Aeldari had even considered to do. He bowed his head to the Golden Muse, the Thirsting Beast, the Great Serpent, the newborn Chaos God that slaughtered his family. Snatching away as many Craftworlds as he could with his power, anchoring them to the whirlwind, offering them up as tribute for a new master.
He had been cursed by his former family and the Eldar he had once protected, renamed as a traitor who deserved the cruelest punishments for his deeds. But no threats or iconoclasm against his faith could match the damnation he received at the Dark Prince's amused acceptance. Blood was shared and it seeped directly to the core, madness crystalized in that moment.
Echoes from the Golden Muse's voice moulded his flesh, distorting him into a bloated monster.
Desire from the Thirsting One's hunger twisting his mind, turning him into a vile beast.
Venom from the Great Serpent's fangs flowing across his waters, diffusing into his new domain and his first daemons.
The corruption of Slaanesh had formed him into a Chaos God, transformed his very being into something far different than he had once been. A daemon-king of immense might, a true abyssal creature that roamed the depths of ruin.
Legends claimed that he remained secluded within his kingdom of shipwrecks, the corrupted depths harbouring whatever souls the traitor-king had scrounged from their new master's conquests. Slowly devouring every piece of them.
Waiting to strike when the time was right, for when his storm would drown the galaxy in tides of corruption.
-----
You delve into the still, tranquil nightmare of Mathlann. The filth scalded your armour like acid, but it offered little resistance as you tried to swim through its mass.
The daemon-king had not considered the notion that a living soul would so readily enter its domain, few would ever possess the power and ability to even find access to it without the permission of the grand traitor.
But it had been looking for you, that was the purpose of its distorted song. Or at least part of it. There had to be more than coincidence that you would hear the call of Iybraesil and your Howling Banshees. This was no wandering horror, it was hunting for more prey. More offerings for She Who Thirsts and power for itself.
The inhabitants notice you in time. Your spirit glowed like a brilliant star within this darkness, no matter how small you were in here. Putrid daemons soaked in congealed corruption, half-formed monsters that dwelled in fevered dreams and twisted perception. Tendrils and claws, gills that breathed in psychic essence, hooves that rode across this space.
It was not quite water in here anymore than the 'land' you had walked on back in the wastelands of daemon armies, the Aether had merely reflected its properties more. It made you struggle for air where you had not done so before.
You struggled through the crushing depths, unseen attacks from every side parried and countered. Fire burned from your triskele, unable to be extinguished Despite how there was no land for you to walk on, you swam and tried to move by pushing against the corrupted creatures as your spear skewered their wriggling masses.
In the distance, close and far at the same time, Iybraesil sailed across the expanse of the river-sea. You could see it more clearly, even as the abyssal monsters surrounding you tried to rip you apart and blood clouded your space.
You could hear other Banshee cries than the distorted song. Fainter, further in the distance beyond this realm. The Craftworld was calling to others, luring them knowingly or not, just as it brought you here. It was drifting away to other waters, heading to them instead of you. Unacceptable.
As a crowd of aquatic horrors surrounds you, gaining definition as they come close to the light of your flame, a scream is unleashed by you against the dark waters. Your voice is carried louder than the song or the other calls, the waves make it louder and echo further. The strength behind your sudden scream is enough to burst the weaker creatures around you, weaken the stronger enough to butcher.
Whatever current of energy Iybraesil was dragged through immediately shifts course directly to you, the traitor-god hearing your challenge and recognising you as a potentially greater prize.
The momentary respite is broken as, surrounding the dim light of Wraithbone, you see swarms of Mathlann's beasts rush to devour you. Gigantic eels of razer-teeth, faint arcs of lightning across their maws. Crustacean giants with winged tendrils to ensnare and swim. Skittering abyss life, bloated forms, glowing flesh as stars within the dark, spines and poison.
You rush to meet the daemon-king's dregs, the bottom-feeding animals under his rule. The wild beasts are more ferocious than what you faced before, far easier to kill yet more numerous.
Despite the differences in form and master, you can see the same hunger that drove the creatures of the Great Serpent within them. Manifested in only a slightly different way, without masks of beauty and only the grotesque. Perhaps that was by design, to ensure nothing would challenge such 'perfection' that she wielded.
They die all the same against you. Legions, swarms, armies. All came to match your blades and proved the lesser, but you knew that this was only a shadow of what truly laid within here. Warriors without experience, beasts without weight to their forms.
If the traitor-god came, or even if they sent their greatest servants, then you knew that you would die here. Drowned in this abyssal hell. Yet you had to press onward, there was no other answer.
Iybraesil came closer. It might have been the influence of this domain, but for a moment it truly looked like another predator here. A great shark, a dragon in the waves. A ship of death. That's what it would all become if you didn't stop this somehow. The madness of dreams made manifest, a focal point to direct the river-sea.
Or even worse, given another offering to be given to what was the true master here.
The notion of it drove you forward to kill the beast before it took its first breath, even if it meant that you too would die here. Your roared out battle-cries that tore apart the tides of monsters around you, promises to end this nightmare rippling across the river-sea. It enforced your will here, however minutely.
It brought the Craftworld closer, goading it to approach you as it swam for you faster. The path towards it was cleared enough for you to head for it directly as you pushed through the waters, ripping through the daemonic beasts. The twisted song of Iybraesil grew louder as you approached, excited as you arrived by its edge.
You latch onto the vessel as it reaches you, ramming your spear into it so that you would lose your grip as it rushed through the sudden currents.
Iybraesil was no longer just a ship, it truly felt more alive as you touched it. You felt horror as you realised that you could see something like blood seep from the 'wound' you had made, billowing out from the wound your spear made.
You pressed onward, climbing forward. Cutting away putrid growths of flesh that you found, ichor bursting as you lanced their forms. Using your triskele whenever any enemy came close, still trying to devour you even as the corrupted vessel rushed ahead with such great speed.
You spent what felt like an entire day ascending the frame of the Craftworld to try finding an opening. Many were sealed by rubble and networks of flesh too strong to easily break, barriers of energy kept alive through a different source. You followed the distorted song to try finding where it truly came from, to cut out its heart.
An opening by the side is found, where more of the creatures and daemons nested within. They rush to devour you, the blood from the spear punctures your climbing, driving them into a frenzy. Their teeth were broken against your armour, their heads taken and burnt away by black flame. You pulled yourself in as you fought.
The inside of the Craftworld appeared no better than the outside, but there was a noticeable difference in feeling. No longer were there the driftless waves, there was stable land. The constant feeling of suffocation was gone. Iybraesil wasn't entirely corrupted yet, it was just wrapped and chained by the presence of Mathlann.
The halls before you were slick with briny water and blood, oily sludge and slithering tendrils of energy. The Wraithbone glowed with a sick light, but it was brighter than it appeared outside. Parts of it darker than others, were the daemonic presence was stronger. Statues were smashed, crude shrines and artwork of the traitor-god taking their place.
You smash all that you see into dust, denying your enemy any places of power. Doing so cleared the surrounding air, however slightly.
The layout of the vessel was familiar to you, but even with the lighter touch of corruption you knew at least some areas would be damaged beyond recognition. And there would be other Eldar inside to encounter, but the question was in what form they would be. Perhaps none could be saved in any way besides death.
It was answered sooner than you expected when you entered the first true room of the Craftworld. Before it had been a garden that was close to the edge of the ship's edge, so that a window out into the stars could be seen by those that tended to the greenery or merely wanted to appreciate its beauty. Verdant trees and hills of flowers, fruits growing to medicinal herbs. It was a place of peace.
The garden had been flooded. The soil drowned into mud-fields where strange lifeforms grew and made a nest. Swimming through the sludge, dream-animals manifesting from the corrupted brine. Worms, parasites, crawling horrors. They breathed and ate the filth.
And the former inhabitants of the Craftworld were scattered through the murk. Some were buried with their rotting forms almost unseen under the filth, some were corpses sacrificed with ritual daggers or half-eaten by the beasts. Others were alive, corrupted into servants to the daemon-king of the abyss. Some twisted by the dark power.
There were millions in prayer, creating a temple here. Icons of Isha, Asuryan, Morai-Heg and everyone else torn away. Scratched out. Twisted in shape. Mathlann was crowned as king here, his presence dominated Iybraesil now. His daemons given full view within the crude artwork, definition carved to grant strength. The shape of worship bound to their essence.
One stood above the rest. A daemon that guided the rest as a high priest. A greater shard of the traitor-god's being made manifest. No longer a confused image of misshapen nightmares, no longer even aquatic. It stood tall and regal over the Aeldari cultists with robes, armour, a trident and sceptre in its hands.
The priest-daemon wore a mask that resembled depictions of Mathlann before his betrayal, memories of old records and temples within the Crone Worlds, yet the mask and its body was feminine. Pieces of armour cracked and distorted but familiar.
It took seconds to realise, for how twisted and appalling the idea was, but it was a Howling Banshee, an Exarch of your Aspect Shrine. Their body had been possessed, their corpse used as a vehicle for one of Mathlann's greater servants. The formless mass of these daemons bound to a body, able to direct and uses its power more than it could before.
And, softly, it sang. The cries of the Howling Banshees turned into a song for the traitor-god, to spread their name and influence further. To draw more power for their vile cause. It whispers of strength and purpose, the path to reach it. To stand and fight to fully take the Craftworld, to stop those that resist the blessings from the Lord of the Deeps.
You stiffen at that, stopping yourself from rushing down from where you overlooked the former garden to annihilate the possessed Banshee. There were others here that were uncorrupted, or at least the possibility of it. You had to reach them if they were alive, not die here until you found them. Perhaps, as fleeting as that hope might be, something could be saved from Iybraesil.
You did not stay longer. The ways of lurking within the shadows were not your path, you would be seen if you were not careful. They would already know you were here from what you faced before, the shrines you had destroyed. But they hadn't all rushed for you yet, their master had not come.
The traitor-god was not within the Craftworld yet, that much was for certain. If he were, then you'd have already felt it. His rule was not total, not yet. You had to find whatever remained. You focused your senses, beyond mortal hearing, and tried to hear the cries of the untainted souls within Iybraesil.
There. A fleeting echo. Banshee screams against Mathlann.
You rush for what you hear, careful not to drag too many enemies towards the survivors you sough. You cull the numbers where you can. Wandering bands of followers, swarms of more beasts, daemons dragging away prey and artefacts to defile. The more you saw of Iybraesil, the more if truly reminded you of the Crone Worlds contained within a Craftworld.
The first living, uncorrupted Aeldari you find is an Exarch of your Aspect Shrine. Struggling within a tight cage of corrupted Wraithbone, mask broken and weapons taken away. Dragged by a hulking daemon, its shadowy form flickered against the light of the prison it carried. You saw eyes flowing on tis body, blood dripped from fresh wounds. Other guards of lesser strength surrounded it.
After slaying them you quickly freed the captive Banshee, and as her confines were broken she was in shock at the sight of you before you managed to get her to tell you where the rest were.
Ten thousand Howling Banshees and many Seers were barricaded within an armoury, walls hastily made by Bonesingers with great difficulty against the tides of Chaos. The situation was going bad quickly as corrupted Bonesingers began singing poison into the walls and floors, creating holes into their defences. You asked where they were and quickly sped away with the trapped Exarch.
You heard it moments later as you focused on what was said. The swing of blades. Shuriken fire. The sounds of conflict, the power of defiance. Screams of those fallen. You hastened yourself.
You hurl your triskele before you even turn the corner and see them, the black flames around the weapon cleave through groups of corrupted. The daemonic fell by your spear. You roared out a deafening cry against
The defenders by the walls, shooting and slicing through the holes, are stunned by your presence. Then they immediately fight harder, galvanised by your mere presence. You would bring victory or death, the forces of the traitor-god would bleed before they took more lives.
There were cries of 'the Phoenix Lord!' that spread to the rest of those inside, your voice recognised as it joined that of your warriors. Psychic screams resonate together, louder and greater than before. The daemons become further distorted, some dissipating against concentrated strikes. The corrupted are deafened and disoriented. The tide of battle turns.
A figure tries to stop your actions. One of the greater daemons, the possessed Exarch wielding a spear of lightning and a barbed hook that drips with blood and meat. It roars with thunder as it charges directly at you, eager to end your life in the name of its accursed master.
Your voice matches the beast, pushes back its followers from joining. The rest of the Howling Banshees join your shouts as you match blades with the creature. It displays great skill, fighting just as the greatest of your Aspect could do, but its style of battle is one you have mastered beyond any other. It is cut and cut again while you are unmarked.
Soul-energy flies from each wound, more than blood. Something similar to what ran through your own body. It is not just a singular being within this vessel, it is multiple daemons fed with the spirits of the fallen. Disgusting unity given a form, an answer to the weakness these creatures had.
But it was not answer enough, as you cut off the head with a throw of your Silent Death. The body stumbles, its neck blazing with flame, but its attempts to fight are weakened enough that it crumbles from the next blow. The sight of this easy victory, the sounds of your Banshees, causes the attackers to flee.
You turn to face the defenders, seeing celebration and veneration, but something cold strikes into your heart.
"Oh, you are not just another champion." A voice rings out, coming from the corpse of the corrupted Exarch. The others do not react, they do not hear it. You look down. Neither the body nor the head stir, there is no more life or inhabiting spirits, but the mask itself speaks.
The words resonate through the Wraithbone of the Craftworld, echoing across the room over all other noise with its dark power, but it goes farther than that. You feel it from the droplets that clung to your armour, ripple across the spilt blood, it echoes across the entire river-sea. The rushing of water, the thunder of a storm.
Mathlann had finally noticed you.
"You must be the one known as Jain Zar, inheritor of Asuryan and daughter of Morai-Heg. Blessed by Khaine, wielder of the Banshee voice. A Phoenix Lord. I did not think you would survive this long."
You crush the corrupted mask underneath your foot, blood and shards flow away. The sensation of the daemon-king's presence is still there, but it's somewhat lessened. You hear the voices of the other Eldar again and you turn to face them. Walking in through the doorway they open.
"I had thought you yet another mortal warrior, but you have proven yourself one worthy of something greater. Perhaps you need not be killed and dragged into the deep. Yes…"
You take stock of the situation. How many were alive here. Any other potential places that still held survivors. How many Howling Banshees, Seers, Warlocks, Bonesingers and other figures of interest. Where Mathlann's forces were, where ritual sites were. Places that could be taken back.
"Forgive me, I do not often entertain visitors that interest me. It has been aeons since I have properly met an Aeldari that was not a corpse. You deserve better than this."
The others still do not react, and it seems the same is true in turn. You wondered if this was a limitation to the traitor-god's power, blocked by wards and unpolluted Wraithbone, or if they were so conceited that they would not bother to gaze upon others.
"You are a master of death," the King of Storm and Sea continued. "That is the blessing of the Crone. You must know now that finality has arrived for the Aeldari's remnants. The Craftworlds are dead and taken. The Maiden Worlds soon to follow."
The knowledge that the rest of the Craftworlds, the Phoenix Lords, were all cast into the Warp as well gave you pause. You would not just trust the words of the betrayer, but the notion of it couldn't merely be dismissed. That just meant you had to find a way out of here in the name of all Eldar.
"Port Commorragh already serves the majesty of Chaos," Mathlann continued. "And now it shall be fully ours. Why fight inevitability when you can rise above with new life? That was how your kind ruled the galaxy and fought gods. It can be so again."
A few Wayseers came forward with a plan, those that were masters dedicated to the psychic arts of the Webway. They too had noted the similarities between it and this twisted nexus made in parody of it. With their power, joined by the might of others, a gateway out of here could be forged. Potentially back to the galaxy, away from the daemon-king's reach.
"Bow to me, swear your soul to my rule, and I will let you possess power beyond your wildest imagining. Beyond even the scope of what only I can provide. I can grant you audience with Slaanesh, so that you might be blessed by us both. You want a gift from her in-addition to mine? Name it now, and I shall make it so."
But to enact it in secret would be impossible. The Lord of the Deeps would know and respond in full-force. Without you to protect them, then there would be no chance of victory at all. Even with your presence, the efforts of all the Howling Banshees here united, it might not be enough to save even one soul.
"I will not ask again." Mathlann harshly whispered that echoed right into your ear. "Defy me and you will truly understand death. Just tell me what you desire."
"All I want from you is to see your own death, traitor." You reply in turn, quietly so that only the god could hear. Then you turned back to the Wayseers, the Aspect Warriors and all else around you and stated that it had to be done. And that together you would find a way out of this nightmare.
It is an endeavour filled with difficulty. Attempts to purify the surrounding area failed utterly, the corruptive energy of merely being within the river-sea was bad enough but the cult formed from most of the former inhabitants kept dragging more dark energy into the Craftworld. Just stemming the tide was arduous enough.
To fight the corrupted was a difficult prospect for many of the survivors you found, especially those that were not true warriors until this disaster. To face friends and family, or even just ones recognised from daily life, was an ordeal that tested the mind and soul deeply. Some fell to join their debased enemies, mercifully only a few.
But you stood to fight and protect as many as possible. Guiding them. Pushing through to other pockets of resistance. Growing your collective strength as you fought against this foe. You brought down the idols the corrupted made for Mathlann, you broke his daemons and scratched out his ritual circles.
Opposition steadily grew even as you fought relentlessly. More greater daemons were encountered, working in unison. Stronger corrupted, either from past skill to those that sported gruesome blessings. Sorcerors of madness. Runes of the nightmare sea. Yet it was only the beginnings of what could happen.
A storm was brewing within Iybraesil, you needed to achieve your goals before it could come to pass.
Eventually your army of remnants form eighty-thousand Howling Banshees and half a million other Aeldari. Your main stronghold being a former gateway to the Webway, a nexus point where other ships were meant to pass through. It was to be the focal point of the coming ritual.
Mathlann had talked to you again since you dismissed their offer. Threatening you, mocking you, stating that you would be a carved prize to She Who Thirsts. He wondered what he would receive for your head. He mocked you for trying to open the Webway to escape, stating that it would not reach his realm unless he willed it.
When the ritual had finally begun, he realised what you truly planned for. His anger boiled the surrounding waters of the river-sea. The brewing storm began to thunder across the Craftworld. He called for your immediate death.
Hordes of Mathlann's forces charged from all sides at every bastion you held. Corrupted Eldar, daemons of all shapes and forms, twisted vehicles empowered by Chaos. Waves of filthy brine washed against your walls, corrosive enough to melt Wraithbone into sludge. Bolts of lightning that incinerated anything into dust. The power of a hateful deity made manifest.
Webway portals and crude ritual circles opened across the Craftworld that led to the immediate outside. Black water flooded into the vessel, surging across room after room. Iybraesil would drown with the filthy brine, whatever prevented Mathlann from doing so before no longer mattered. It mixed with the blood spilt by both sides.
The battlefield shook from the combined might of your Aspect Shrine's cries, the psychic power behind your rage and defiance echoed and quaked the entire Craftworld. The corrupted songs of the others, the thunder of the daemon-king, could not compare. If it was to be the last stand of Iybraesil, then let it scar the river-sea forever.
Leading the armies of madness was a coven of five figures. Two were more possessed Exarchs that stood taller than others of their life, another two were powerful Seers that once served as advisors for the Craftworld as a whole with their capabilities. The final one was the corrupted Autarch, former war-leader of Iybraesil, bearing a Banshee Mask that marked her previous life as one of your order.
You fought through a constant tide of others to reach them. Any other notable element in this conflict on your way, Wraith constructs possessed by daemons and tanks covered in corrupted sigils, were decimated as you rush forward. Beyond what threat they represented, you could not allow such things to exist.
The Autarch demands your death, their voice booms with the storms. Servants rush without care for their lives. They die in droves by your blades, some barely able to orient themselves against the psychic screams. The floor cracks underneath your feet, water and putrid blood gush up. Tentacles and talons, beaks and claws. Daemons barely finish manifesting near you before they lunge.
The leading corrupted prepare for your assault as you reach them, barriers of psychic might enhanced by Chaos block your path. You shatter them with blade and voice. The possessed Exarchs seem to grow in size to face you, but that merely makes them bigger targets. They are struck by cannons from your defenders, tanks begin to focus on their bulky frames.
The Seers dodge away from your triskele as it comes for your heads, their souls burn as conduits of the traitor-god's reach. They distort with his image. Daemonic flesh and spirits mutate their forms. They care not for anything except power and your death, such is the will of Mathlann. Their eyes become holes into the river-sea, they are bloated by the waters as living portals to its crushing depths.
The Autarch lasts the longest. Her skill and strength were great before, she had been a good student of your Aspect before her fall. She is surrounded by other, lesser champions and hordes of followers. To reach her is to delve deepest into the army, beyond support, but you spent a short eternity fighting an endless swarm sent by She Who Thirsts. This is nothing in comparison, and here you are not alone.
The five leaders die either by your hand or due to your actions opening their weaknesses to your warriors. The unspeaking presence of Mathlann grows stronger each each death, more intense as his anger makes itself known. His eyes focus on you more than the rest. The attackers diverts attention to you, without command other than fury to guide them they are but berserkers lashing out. It eases the work of those focusing on the portal.
You dodge bolts of lightning that manifests directly around you, lashing out as serpents. The sound of battle and screams cracks the Wraithbone where it is weakest, where it is between corruption and purity. The dim material shatters and shards rain down against everyone as the battlefield begins to detonate, charged with electricity as it lands within the sludge poured from the surrounding domain. Blood runs around you.
You were surrounded by madness and death, the torrent from the river-sea and storms from Mathlann's rising anger are centred toward you. Death wakes as you burn the daemons and butcher the corrupted. The tide turns to you, and you answer with the voice of your Aspect Shrine united.
War calls, and you are herald its name. You name Kaela Mensha Khaine as your strength, you bring about Morai-Heg's memory to end the betrayer's forces. Let them come for you, let them die here.
You push through the tide, its waves ripple against you through the war-cries unleashed by the Howling Banshees. It stills the forceful impact from the billowing waves, shifting it away through the might of the harnessed voice. The Crone watches even in death, and Iybraesil's inhabitants are still under her protection. It will not be taken by a pathetic traitor, a decadent slug.
There is the sensation of change that strikes the entire battlefield. Air billowing in and out, shifting in weight and contamination. The water around you suddenly, violently surges away into the direction of the Webway gate that flickers with power. The river-sea carried by both the abrupt change and the will of Mathlann. The portal is already opening and it leads away from the traitor-god's domain. There is hope, and you refuse to allow its death.
The daemon-king orders your death, to destroy the gateway. His words morph the battlefield itself. Ritual circles both obvious and hidden ignite. A phantom limb, a hand large enough to crush an army, begins to manifest. You had to stop it.
You target the ritual-masters, the carved up practisers of twisted rites and vile power. The black flame of your triskele burns through flesh and armour, cuts through the circles of runes those that empower them. It's not enough to weaken the traitor-god's presence or stop him, but anything to delay for more time is needed now. Let him hate you the most, let his gaze focus only upon you.
Mathlann brings curses and corruption. Some of the defenders suddenly turn into traitors, from merely attacking and sabotaging to bursting out hidden daemons. There is mayhem at the brink of victory or defeat. Your Howling Banshees fight as one, an army dancing through the attacks as they brutalise those they face. The gateway must be saved, Iybraesil's remnants had to be protected with their lives.
For the promise of a future, they would die today.
The sounds of rushing water, snarling beasts, the thunder of lightning storms matched the combined battle-cries that were screamed by your Aspect Shrine. It was enough to deafen the monsters of Chaos, for the whole of the black river-sea to shudder around the Craftworld as the vessel continued to quake.
Statues crack and fall to pieces as the writhing limb from the King of Storm and Sea begins to strike. He tears down the images of the old gods, the dead remnants that he betrayed. An eye opens on his palm, tendrils forcing through ethereal skin. His form is as twisted as his daemons and followers. He is corrupted to the core, his very being distorted and monstrous.
You try to rush back to the defenders as they regroup against the intense focus they withstand, falling back to reach the portal as it opens. Even as the putrid water and malformed beasts try to stop you, to drag you under the waves, you can glimpse to the other side. Not back to the galaxy, as was most desired, but elsewhere in the Warp away from the direct presence of Chaos.
Already some Aeldari are out there, thousands able to live outside the sunken tomb.
Walls across the battlefield bend and crack under the weight of the river-sea as it tries to seep in. Iybraesil breaks more under the wrath of Mathlann than the direct efforts of your warriors. He tries to silence your cries and snuff your souls as he begins to flood everything, breaking down the barriers.
But it's too late. The Webway gate flares with life. Some Seers burn out their souls to ensure it remains open, risking damnation to keep the rift from closing. Spiritual fires flare out, detonating against the water and boiling it away. The explosions echo the screams, drown out the twisted songs and raging cries.
You reach back to your forces, witnessing thousands more rush to the other side. Cultists for the traitor-god teleport into battle, invisible attackers and figures that moved as blurs to even normal Aeldari senses. Blessings and power granted to stop this. The manifested limb touched their vile hearts, its influence spread out further.
The Howling Banshees fight against more corrupted members of their number, most not yet possessed by more daemons. Their voices are quite and drowned by their skills are enough to bleed and cut down what they face. You battle as a whirlwind against everything in your way, the strongest brought down. Unseen champions, Seers that spread corruption, those that threatened the gate.
Ten-thousand leave. Then twenty-thousand. The pace slows despite it being the core focus. How many can leave at once is limited by both the size of the Webway gate and the desperate, enraged attempts to stop them by the daemon-king. So many die to allow others to escape, as daemons and cultists surround all sides. Some areas of the battlefield are isolated, unable to push ahead to the portal. You do what you can, but so many die in every instant.
Your side get quieter with every death and absconded. The power of Mathlann conversely gets stronger. The still pure Wraithbone rapidly corrupted. The gateway itself begins to flicker with his energy.
To face a divine being, a figure that fought in the War in Heaven and lived past even the Fall with the strength of Chaos, was the height of madness. It was something that could not be directly done, even for a flickering manifestation of bit a part of his form. The notion of it would give pause to even the greatest heroes of ancient times.
Nevertheless, you fought him where you could. You challenged his influence over the gateway, assist those that kept the portal open. To the Seers that burnt their souls, flame manifesting as a ring around salvation against the touch of Mathlann, you threw your triskele. Not to kill them, but to add its flames to theirs.
One of their number catches it a moment away from it striking the portal, moving faster than ordinarily possible even with full focus with their power. The ring turns black with the focus that Jainas Mor grants them, searing away corruption.
You reach for a sword from a fallen member of your Howling Banshees and then proceed to directly lead the defenders, shouting commands over the din of combat as you fought right in the heart of the battle again. The hordes of madness were all to pleased to face you, numbering far beyond what you led.
You parry claws and swords, chop heads and tendrils, cry out loud enough to shatter bone and rip away flesh. You focus on rushing to where the defenders threaten to fall, to cracked walls and faded runes. Where the dark waters began to seep in, flooding away souls into impossible depths. Where champions arise to bring torment and end your hopes.
You do not look behind you. You do not even think about leaving here, to escape this battle. This was the pact of Morai-Heg, Iybraesil's ancestors were bound to your protection and that of your Aspect Shrine. You'd die here to ensure they'd survive. None should suffer this nightmare.
Rain begins to fall from above, in a cloudless sky. The ceiling cracks and weakens. Blood-rituals bring precipitation. Soon it will all wash away.
The battle is a losing one. No matter what, the gateway will soon break and Iybraesil will flood. Everyone left will either die or be corrupted. You just had to hold on longer. Exarchs speak to you, stating that a quarter of a million had already left to the other side. The loss in numbers both helps and hinders your efforts, less to protect and less to be protected.
You had to balance it, guide this escaping flow. And fight with every single mote of your strength and skill. The will to outlast death and banish the dark. Your blades are raised with that of your Howling Banshees. Whether you all die here or not, you herald the death of your enemies to fall with you.
Time passes in screams, the rush of water and psychic battle-cries. Lives are lost and lives are saved. Half a million saved. One million. Nearly two. There are hills of corpses now. The lines of conflict are withdrawn heavily. A once great area reduced to less than a tenth of its former size, with vastly less defenders.
You begin to struggle, faltering as you try to stem the constant tide from seeping into what you try to guard. Gaping cracks form around the portal, the floor breaking apart under the pressure forced upon it. It slowly sinks, as islands rise from the the bursts that lead to the river-sea. It seeps to the other side, forcing those to back away and leave it unprotected on that end. The flames protected the gate begin to be doused, its Seers beginning to drown.
Almost all of the living remnants get to the other side, from the youngest Guardians to all but the most experienced Howling Banshees. Exarchs fight by your side as all sides are surrounded, water billowing from below and above. The river-sea ensnares and restricts. You will die if you do not reach to the other side.
From behind you a wordless shout emerges. Your triskele is thrown back to you as the now burnt corpse of its previous wielder gives it back moments before death. The portal has lost what sustained it most.
You run, commanding the rest follow you. They last warriors within Iybraesil fall one by one, unable to do anything than die fighting as they are cut off from salvation. You do not turn back to save them. The portal already begins to fade. There is no time.
Claws try to hold your legs in place, shadowy tentacles materialise around your arms and neck. Cannons blast the ground in front of you. Ritual culminations of vile power. Sacrificed lives to end yours. Daemonic beings that swim around the waters you wade through. For a moment it truly feels that you are under the full, enraged attention of a god.
Your Exarchs and warriors beside you fall quiet, voices once loud brought to silence. There is only death-rattles and the noises of drowning souls. You feel each of them die.
The eyes of the traitor-god are reflected upon the waters, floating with the blood. Dark as the rest of the river-sea, given flowing definition. He whispers, echoes of distant yet close shouts. He says your name like a curse, a chant. Your death will be rewarded immensely. He reaches for your soul.
But your Aspect Warriors on the other side hold the way open. Psychic energy forming a barrier around your form, enhancing you enough to help. The waters are pushed away enough to form a path. They shoot those around you to push them away.
It is just barely enough. The portal cracks apart, held by thin threads as it loses all lustre and form. You leap through as it breaks, Mathalann screams in fury.
You are released from the daemon king's clutches, the nightmare abyss that wrapped around the now totally submerged Craftworld. You look around and see the others that escaped, finding land within the Sea of Souls. There appear to be so many, but it's barely any compared to how much life lived within Iybraesil.
Behind you there is not an opening, there is a shimmer of energy still there. A trickle of foul water. It's not over yet. Mathlann would find a way to open it again, or otherwise find you.
You take command of the Craftworlders once more. You had experience in facing the Warp at its worst. Facing down its nightmares without falling. You would teach and guide them to do the same. They needed a leader and only you could fit the role.
You could not stay here. You all had to move together ahead, away from here. The traitor-god would come for you all once more. Or the monsters from She Who Thirsts. Together you had to stay and find a way out of here. To find a way back to the galaxy.
The various Seers talked with you heavily, especially those with experience in venturing to the Crone Worlds. Their skill and wisdom was invaluable. They sensed corruption, safe paths to follow or be made, where there was likely to be danger and roughly when. They protected the remnants you led in general, while your Howling Banshees protected them physically.
The Bonesingers carefully sung to maintain what weapons, armour, vehicles and all else you had. Wraithbone was difficult to make within the Warp in large quantities without attracting the cruel denizens that lurked everywhere, but to repair and strengthen it was an easier task. Every advantage was required to withstand this hell.
You all move together, learning as you went on. The various dangers and risks with the most simple of movements, or even thoughts and feelings. How to face the grief and hardships. Prayers to the gods were made constantly, many to Khaine and Morai-Heg. While not easy to properly equip them, many had joined your Aspect Shrine to endure this struggle.
Mathlann had come sooner than expected. The sensation of rain soon to arrive felt strongly. Wetness in the air. Distant sounds of storms. His domain, the snaking darkness of his putrid river-sea, had become mobile. A giant tentacular beast from the abyss. It slithered toward you. Sluggishly it flowed across the twisted landscape, the colossal semi-solid nightmare dragging itself toward you. As a spider, a serpent, a web that spun itself.
The realm of the traitor-god was a relentless beast. Its rage made clear through its boiling weight, its desire made evident from how it writhed almost desperately. It seeped as a flood through valleys and mountains, a storm over deserts and forests, a creature prowling constantly.
Direction within this realm was difficult already, but the traitor-god's pursuit seemed to distort any psychic perception to reach outside. Some paths taken led back to the river-sea's direction, others shifted midway toward the foul waters. Divination was completely unreliable, but you had little else to guide you here.
Many had died in the journey, either falling to corruption or unable to continue on in this hell. Nearly an entire million Aeldari had perished one way or the other. So much death weighing over you all.
For ten years you led the remnants of Iybraesil through the Warp, chased by the looming death by Mathlann's hand, until a way out was finally found.
-----
Shamballa was a world colonised by mankind back during the Dark Age of Technology, one that survived the trials of the Old Night up to the present day.
When first found, it was a planet covered in deserts and forests. Great wastelands of sand and rock split apart where the soil bordered vast rivers and lakes, the fresh waters so clear that they shimmered beautifully the colourful life that laid within each morning.
The trees were strong, growing quickly and attaining strength to their bark as they weathered the howling winds that came so often. The native life were simple beasts, fairly harmless against humans even aside from the mechanical and scientific might they possessed. It was a perfect place to make a home.
Since the Age of Strife, which tore away the greatest wonders that the colonists brought with them, order was brought by the royal Kalkin family. Guiding the people as kings and queens, aided by their parliament, prosperity was once more regained from the tumult.
The years on Shamballa passed largely with calmness, but not naivety. Armies were maintained ready to face anything that would come against their beloved planet, wielding lasguns along with greater weapons used by its elite warriors.
Yet the millenia would pass with little issue, until the psychic storms that plagued the galaxy ceased and order was somewhat restored. There were plans made to perhaps one day expand out from just their world to others, to find other sources of human life that might have survived. Or to get ready to encounter those that might come to them.
But that would take much time and effort, to make the world such a gem within the sea of stars had already taken much work to accomplish. Yet the potential for more was there, and it was eagerly awaited as new heights were sought.
Then, suddenly, the Warp seemed to shift once more. From a dark shroud came something unexpected, figures from distant history that had become almost as myth to the people of Shamballa. The Eldar.
The planet cautiously regarded the aliens as they came to them, knowing the legends about their trickery and strange ways. Unaware of what was closely following them.
-----
A miracle happened at the end of the ten year journey.
It had been a long struggle, a painful ordeal that tested you and everyone you carried with you. This nightmare wasn't something you'd wish on anyone. It would wear down even the strongest wills.
But finally a gateway was found. A place where the veil was thin, able to be weakened further enough to use as an escape. To where exactly it would lead was not known, but there were extremely few places in the galaxy that could be worse than the domain of a corrupted god.
Immediately attempts to open up a rift were done. Before it would have taken too much time and energy, just spelling an early death for you all. Now there was a chance. Freedom and safety ready to be reached. And then the moment your Seers began to form a tunnel, excited news came.
More remnants of Iybraesil were on the other side, along with more Howling Banshees. The region of space had been close to where the Craftworld had first been taken, dragged away into the clutches of Mathlann. Now they were there, hearing and heeding your attempts for freedom. They came to assist.
A bridge was formed, a temporary channel carved across the realms. It wouldn't last long, but it'd last long enough. Immediately you all descend into the galaxy once more. A rush of colours and lights, the sensation of rising above a crushing sea.
You all arrive by great runic circles made by the Seers that were from the other side. They are so few, the scant amount of lives that were away from Iybraesil when it was taken. Aspect Warriors from other Craftworlds, from Biel-Tan to Ulthwé, surrounded your forces.
It was immediately celebrated. Escape from the traitor-god, survival against the daemon-king. You felt hope and relief burn within the very core of your being, until as the last remnants came through did it get extinguished.
The bridge was not closing, not even in a glacial rate. It remained open, attempts to close it proved to be more than difficult. The rim of power within the psychic circles grew darker and darker. The runes slowly shifting into something else, with vile energy slowly manifesting that you recognised. The feeling of rain about to fall, an unseen storm growing.
Mathlann had seen your escape and was prepared to follow you through into the physical realm.
There was immediate panic, for not even within the galaxy was there safety from the gods of ruin, but you brought order. Began to command everyone to find ways to escape.
The Webway could not be reached, it was blocked by his power. Travel through the Warp too dangerous, it could lead straight to the abyssal ocean. Traversing through the galaxy without any psychic means too slow to work. Ideas were brought up and dismissed rapidly. Retreat increasingly seen as the impossibility it was.
You would have to stay here and fight. Fortify your position. Drive back the incursion when it came, where the daemons would be weaker than in their own domain. The traitor-god himself wouldn't be able to emerge, not fully and not immediately. There was time, there was a chance.
The slowly corrupting runic circles were destroyed, the ship they were on abandoned and sent towards the star that was within the system you were in. Already you began to organize your warriors. Equipping those that joined the Howling Banshees over the course of the long journey with proper weapons and armour.
You prayed to Khaine and Morai-Heg. This would be an ordeal that would truly test you all. An end ready to arrive unless you could discover some way to push through it.
And a potential answer was found, from a nearby and unlikely source. Not other Eldar, but from a populated planet within the system you were in. A world known as Shamballa by its human inhabitants.
It was full of life, far beyond the numbers of your forces. Perhaps possessing greater numbers than the corrupted souls that formed Mathlann's followers within Iybraesil as well. Not merely tribes within ruins, they held decent weaponry by their race's current standards. With them on your side, the coming battles could go completely differently.
It was not too hard to argue involving them in this invasion. Resources and warriors were extremely limited, every precious life lost stuck a blow not only to these forces you swore to protect but the Aeldari race as a whole. And against the twisted forces of Chaos, to ally with mankind would not be seen at all as a poor decision even without these terrible circumstances.
But to get the humans to agree was an entirely different matter. Talks were not easy to even start, Shamballa's people were immensely cautious about the Aeldari from old stories. Distant figures of decadence and power, who did nothing as cataclysms came to humanity. They were fearful of your presence.
The ruling King, Dujom Kalkin, was thankfully a fair and reasonable monarch. Enough that he would allow you to enter his palace. A large structure built in the shape of a ring around the spire-peak of the capital hive-city, a fortress and royal home. It was a golden wonder. Decorated and ornate, yet protected well from any potential attack.
You descended on a small transport to the open gateway upon one of the connecting stations of the ringed palace. Cannons pointed on your position constantly. Elite soldiers, known as the Lion Fangs, that wielded primitive yet potent plasma weapons and were here to guard the royal family.
You had come with only a few Exarchs to join you, no more than needed to avoid aggravating tensions. If a fight broke out, there was a decent chance that they could die against the human forces. That was good, strength would be required to deal with what was rapidly coming.
King Dujom Kalkin greeted you in his meeting chambers, along with his guards and advisors. He saw the state you were in, the scratches upon your armour and the weariness of your voice as you spoke, but while he initially came to believe your claim that your world-ship was taken by an enemy and that you were desperate remnants of its people he became extremely sceptical when you tried to properly describe the threat that caused this.
Knowledge of the 'Outer realms' was limited for the Shamballans, and they had no understanding of Chaos or daemons aside from mythology and superstition. A few of his advisors assumed you were joking, others thought that this was a poor attempt at trickery. Such a strange enemy, one that might not exist, coming here? It seemed too fanciful and far too convenient. An excuse.
You spent hours trying to find ways to convince Shamballa that you were speaking only the truth, that this enemy would come for you and then assuredly come for them too, but nothing seemed to work. It was understandable, yet immensely frustrating.
And then the planet began to quake.
Not physically, not directly, but a heavy presence shook the entirety of Shamballa. The humans felt it alongside you, a stark change occurring as a wound upon reality manifested. A few thought it was because of you, some psychic display brought out by your forces, but they quickly realised the truth as it screamed across countless minds.
It was day just a few moments ago. Now night shrouded the world, a dark cloud that roiled over every landscape and blocked all outside light. Putrid black filth rained from the twisted heavens, a web wrapping across trapped prey. The river-sea seeping around the world as a rift to the abyssal nightmare, as old blood flowing from a wound upon existence. The only lights were the few ships in orbit, shooting against unseen foes.
Mathlann had come. He roared for your death, and the death of all that was in his way. He no longer cared to have you as a prize for the Thirsting One or for himself, even while cornered here with nowhere else to run this had become a war of extermination. He called for your corpse, he threatened all your Howling Banshees. There was no pretence of mercy.
The one benefit of the traitor-god's arrival, the presence and declarations of his forces, was that this was undeniable proof of your veracity to Shamballa. There were still initial hostility by a scant few members of the royal court and other people of the planet, but even that had been pushed aside for later. Now there were daemons to face, now survival was key above all.
Alliance was declared immediately. Most of your ships came closer to the world, a number of them docking by other hive-cities to allow your Aspect Warriors and Guardians to work with the forces and people there. It was difficult to initially work with and integrate war-efforts with the Lion Fangs and the regular military of the world, but a basic and loose cooperation was managed.
You stood at the front lines, directly against the daemon-king's warriors.
Without the presence of the Aeldari, you were sure that this entire world would be dead and drowned in blood within but a few months. The notion was somewhat mitigated due to how this only occurred due to you, but to be so unguarded against Chaos would have led to utter disaster if Shamballa had ever encountered it later.
They came from above and below. The rainfall brought the daemons, the bodies of filthy water became portals for them to manifest. Most were not strong enough to bring many at once, or to bring about the mightiest champions, but it allowed a constant deluge of nightmare beasts and lesser daemons to emerge everywhere around the planet.
From above came the corrupted servants, the former Aeldari of the Craftworld you escaped. The ten years you experienced, and however time flowed for them, had not been kind to many of their forms. Bloated with filthy brine in their bodies, bursting into more puddles of mire to spawn more beasts. Some were stretched into bony, crooked figures that constantly starved for flesh. Others displayed aquatic mutations, from pincer claws to bladed fins.
They mostly targeted your forces, especially the Howling Banshees, but they soon went berserk against all they faced. The rage and bloodthirst of Mathlann manifested in berserker rage, the wrath of an storm as it tore at everything in its path. Decimating hundreds of thousands Shamballans, tearing down their homes into rubble and crude sacrificial altars, every hive-city turned into a warzone.
The only thing that truly brought their attention was you. On every battlefield you were present in, the daemons and mad followers charged at you most of all. Sometimes even neighbouring warzone suddenly began to divert to you. They cried out your name in unparalleled hate. Within the storm, you were a lightning rod. Your voice brought the rain to fall heaviest on you.
At times you screamed your own name. The name of Mathlann. Curses and battle-cries. Luring them all to you.
It was difficult for your Aspect Warriors to use the power of their voices so closely to the humans without affecting them, and your own cries were the strongest of all. You solved that by diving deep into the vile armies. Here, even amidst places of saturated by their power, your psychic cries tore them apart far easier than before.
There was a strange desperation felt as they kept coming after you, just trying to do any damage when killing you was out of their possibilities. Just making you bleed had become the only thing of importance. Hurting you was all that mattered. Beyond rage, beyond hunger, it was a need stabbed into their very cores.
Many humans and Aeldari died despite best efforts, a number of mistakes caused by on both sides. The few Shamballans that became corrupted hid too easily when beyond Eldar perception, slowly wreaking havoc that could have been prevented. Some Howling Banshees had failed to protect their stations, mistaken views on human technology causing critical errors. Little misunderstandings and ignorance building into grave faults, but as each became known measures were put to fix them.
Yet beyond all other the threats that came, the hordes of beasts and mobs of cultists, was Mathlann's greatest prize. Newly forged as a true threat was Iybraesil, its corruption and transformation had reached the stage where it had become a flagship for the traitor-god's fleet. The only vessel that was largely intact, that possessed vasts amounts of power.
The Craftworld didn't look like a true ship anymore. It was hard to see the extent of its twisted form as it skirted the edge of the darkness, briefly lighting itself up as it fired its weapons upon the planet's surface, but it appeared organic. Great jagged fins of Wraithbone and scaled skin. A flash of razor teeth that could bite battleships in two. Unblinking eyes as a constellation implanted on the 'head'.
A gigantic predator from the abyss, almost draconic in its shrouded form.
The leviathan beast brought down bolts of lighting strong enough to shatter the earth and rains of boiling water that scorched what was left. Where it came, devastation followed. It called the tides and brought floods to the battlefield. It turned lakes into oceans and let loosed swarms of monsters lurking in the outer depths. It was a living symbol of the power wielded by the King of Storm and Sea.
It became known as 'Ro-Druk' in the tongue of the Shamballans. The Risen Dragon. The name was taken up by you. To call it Iybraesil was too painful, too insulting upon the memory of the former home that you had all lost.
It could not manifest continuously. It was too steeped in the energies of Chaos to freely emerge from the river-sea, and still resisted corruption enough that the Wraithbone had not fully taken upon its might to be used as a constant bridge between realms. The war would have been lost otherwise, the planet devoured by the leviathan.
Yet the Ro-Druk was devastation enough, its thunder roar was enough to destroy a fortress when focused. It galvanised the daemons, it drowned out your own voices, but you kept fighting all the same. For the dead and the living, you fought.
Months passed. The lingering tensions between your Eldar and the humans of Shamballa were slowly eroded, better collaboration found in the crucible of combat. Some of the lessons on Chaos took root within the people of the world, the mindset and strength of mankind better understood. The confusion and initial fear was lessened. A form of stability achieved.
The Shamballans before had been wary of the Aeldari, but with how the monsters focused on your Howling Banshees and how your warriors fought them all off… now they were seen as protectors. As guardians. The truth of their purpose made manifest in deeds, aided by their words of what you had survived to reach here.
They, more than anything, showed them that even with the nightmarish might of Chaos could be beaten.
And that was sorely required for the people as the war took a turn for the worse, shaking the spiritual core of their civilization.
On the fifth month of this conflict, as you were far in enemy lines banishing three champions and the forces that they came with, the capital city of the planet was struck from within its heart. The home of the king.
The palace had been heavily guarded by the Lion Fangs, some of the best defences the world possessed, and supported by Eldar you personally chose to assist in protecting this planet's leaders. It was warded by runes and psychic energy. It was meant to be safe, at least until the conflict heavily came to the hive it overlooked.
It wasn't known how it happened, perhaps brought by a corrupted either human or one of your own. Or it was a special curse carefully granted power by Mathlann. But the former Autarch of Iybraesil teleported inside with a retinue of lesser daemons. Transformed into a large, bloated figure sporting abyssal features. Claws and fangs.
The leading monster rushed past everything else and devoured Dujom Kalkin's head, their needle-fanged maw tearing the head away from the struggling body of their target. It shrieked a cry drenched with blood and hatred as it butchered everything else it found.
The ringed palace became swarmed with furies and corrupted warriors, blood and dark water flowed from the now overtaken structure and poured down into the rest of the hive. The screams of what occurred was broadcasted to the whole world, along with mad shouts over the vile glory and might that the traitor-god wielded.
The rule of Shamballa was shattered in an instant by this attack. The king and the queen were dead, as were many members of their advising parliament. Other members of the royal family had perished too in the attack. Leadership was in confusion, the system of government in flux as the capital city was attacked. Your forces unsure how to fully act in the face of this without causing further problems.
The hive underneath the torus-shaped royal home was forced to retaliate as the former palace threatened to become a base for Chaos, a conduit for it to manifest itself and spread. The flood of corruptive waters, portals into Mathlann's domains. A more mundane threat as its defence turrets turned from the sky to shoot down below, guided by possessive spirits. Terror and despair spread like wildfire in the attack.
Artillery teams led by the Shamballa military began to fire upon the spire of the capital city, shelling the palace under the reluctant orders of the Lion Fangs. The inhabitants inside having to fight from within against the attackers, supported by Aeldari that helped stem the rushing tide of death, as pieces of the spire fell down.
The furies took to the skies, the winged daemons bound under the traitor-god used as living shields to soak up attack. Bursting into caustic liquid to further rain down havoc. Corrupted soldiers trying to either convince others to lay down their arms and accept death, or bark out conflicting orders over the communicators.
The Autarch slaughtered most that was within its way. A trident of bone and abyssal metal in its hand, that looked as though it was taken by the remains of sunken ships. The leader-beast roared loud enough that its putrid voice echoed across the city's borders. Only leaving after half a billion lives were taken, their souls granted as offering to its master.
The hive was not completely ruined by the end of the sudden invasion, the infrastructure having been saved from irreparable damage by the sacrifice of hundreds of Howling Banshees and the efforts of thousands more Aeldari, but the palace was nothing but debris and the spire was a smouldering skeleton of its former self.
But the capital city was not the only one settlement affected by the loss of royalty and government, merely the most directly attacked. All other hives-cities were faced other attempts at besieging with this regicide-borne opportunity. Billions had perished in total.
You had tried to push toward a nearby hive when you heard what had occurred, one of the many lesser structures built on the lifeless deserts, but being so deep in the territory of the twisted had restricted your movements.
It was nearly a week before you managed to cut apart all the barriers that were against you, tearing the flesh and burning the bone. You reached the walls and climbed them, the rubble forming your stairs. It took days to go through the vast area that made up the lower sections of the hive.
The lesser champions, small mob of desperate fools and malformed daemons were slain. Their bodies burnt afterward, ash cast away under the harsh desert winds. The rooms and halls cleared of blood. The dead given their dues. It was only afterwards that you managed to learn about what had transpired, the death of the king.
The humans there, the leading figures for the city and the military there, asked you if facing down a true god was even possible. To generously describe the state they were in, it was that of those who suddenly realised their world could very well die soon.
You said it was possible. You had survived a calamity where gods had not. All the Aeldari that fought with you, and you yourself had especially known this. You were remnants of a shattered race, losing the worlds of your former empire and the grand vessel that had carried some of its people to safety away from such disaster. Even such apocalypses that could carve up the galaxy itself could be weathered.
Gods could bleed, gods could die. For all their strength, the idea that the daemon masters of Chaos were beyond death was wrong. Hear them scream in anger as they are cut. Hear the howl of beasts gone mad with starved desire. Hear the fear that lurked behind them as they fight, and know that this war would not be lost.
Victory was still possible. Even if all that remained was sand and dark oceans on this world, you could triumph against this nightmare. Together.
It might have sounded far-fetched, stories more suited to mythology than reality especially at a time like this, but you believed in what you said and that conviction meant something. It helped, for however little it mattered.
You told what Aeldari that remained in the city to do what they could to continue supporting the Shamballans, for now more than ever did you need each other to get through this. The initial reluctance or mistrust, either for their capability or primitive nature, had since burned away as this war continued to rage.
The measure of both parts on this side of the conflict were known enough. There was no obfuscation. It was the one source of light that shined in this dark time. Or, rather, a culmination of all of it.
You went across the world for the next few months. Heading to the worst battlefields. The locations of the strongest threats. Temples of abyssal bone. Whatever drew the ire of the Ro-Druk. A lot of the enemy forces came to you instead, led by greater servants and possessed Exarchs. All the better.
It was a blur of blades, claws, shrieks and spells. Twisted battlefields became your element. You heralded death and it was a constant tide. Cutting apart ritual circles, lake-portals and dodging the attacks sent by the heavens. You barely had time to hear what was happening to the rest of the planet, but the Seers did their best to send messages to your mind with their powers.
Change had occurred to you all by the crucible of this war. Shifting in perception. Ways of life. Even how to fight in these battles. The world itself had been transformed by the devastation it faced. Deserts flooded with putrid waters, mountains of sands turned into giant pieces of fulgurite by lightning strikes. Some forests were dying, stained with corrupted blood, mutated plants growing and strange creatures beginning to be born.
It was difficult to set alight the trees as the rain fell down to douse the attempts, but mankind was resourceful with flame.
With the loss of royalty, and the only remaining descendants being a couple of children completely unsuited for leadership, the populace of the planet was ruled by its military as it established a new order in this discord. The commanders and generals guiding each hive, the Lion Fangs from an elite army to the guardian-leaders. Broken yet rapidly sharpened into a new blade.
The war against the daemons escalated, even though the rate of deaths had slowed with the stabilisation of this new system. The humans were mostly a secondary target before, with the lives of Eldar obviously in preference. Now the hatred and desire that the traitor-god had for the demise of Iybraesil's remnants began to fully extent to the Shamballans.
The continued defiance had stoked the fury of the daemon-king, the mad hatred rippling across the shroud of darkness as it demanded absolute ruin. The Ro-Druk leviathan, the former Craftworld, began to emerge more often from the river-sea. It seemed to grow bigger, its flesh-coated form swelling with bloated life, or perhaps just closer.
A deluge of vile ichor was cast down from its maws to the various battlegrounds, granting succour to the beasts and corrupted and allowing more monsters to emerge. To seep into the environment populated by souls, an apex predator drooling in hunger for mankind.
But the tide of daemons was not the only thing that the leviathan delivered. The bombardment from its weaponry was still a deadly force, and as Mathlann's presence grew across Shamballa did another piece of its arsenal manifest. The storm spear.
Its thunder was brought by screams. People sacrificed by thousands, tens of thousands, to form ritual altars that acted as lightning rods. The grand beast opening its maw to unleash the full might of a storm, the energy of a divine being, to annihilate what it struck with deafening force. Enough to crack the landscape, shatter the shields that protected the hives.
Such power was only rarely seen, for these acts were quickly searched for and stopped by your Seers whenever it was attempted, but when it occurred it was bright enough that you could see it from near the other side of the world and loud enough that you felt it shake your very being.
You saw it turn an entire fortress into ash one time, the land glowing with molten earth and burning soul embers. No matter how much you killed, what lesser beings you brought low, it reminded you that this was truly a god you were directly facing.
Your Aspect Shrine had pulled back from the edges, the precipes of this conflict was now balanced within the civilization than outside it. This allowed the enemy to flourish on the borders, but it was a small price to pay to ensure it did not infest and destroy so easily while unseen.
The Howling Banshees kept proving themselves while you were away, as they purged the ritualists and helped guide the inhabitants of Shamballa, but they did not leave the lines untended for too long. Soon their blades and voiced tore apart all the roots and tendrils that lurked forward, trying to worm their way through the defences. All attempts thwarted.
With this trust and connection built, your Aspect Shrine then sought to guide something more than the present. They saw the future of this union, both for the war and what would come after if victory was achieved.
The next generation of warriors that would come, the armies raised by the humans, were taught by both the Lion Fangs and your Howling Banshees. Not soldiers meant to fight against just ordinary foes or just stand as guards to the vast city-structures and fortifications, but a force to face Chaos itself.
To shape the Aeldari-made lessons for the mindset of mankind, tactics and warnings, was still a difficult prospect to achieve. But even the smallest amount of knowledge properly distilled could mean the difference between life and death, and it was a determined process to find ways to engrave it properly.
The mind was a weapon that could not be underestimated, the soul a shield that could burn against the night. To this end, to find a way to make them understand the Eldar as a whole and the nature threat you faced, they were taught about your people's mythology and the history of Iybraesil. For with this loss and sacrifice you and the humans suffered, this knowledge could properly be understood.
They were taught about Morai-Heg, her stories and wisdom over fate. Kaela Mensha Khaine, his strength and mastery over war. Isha, Vaul, Asuryan, Kurnous, Cegorach, Lileath and the rest. From their rise against conflict that shattered the heavens to their fall. The betrayal of Mathlann. The birth of She Who Thirsts. The Phoenix Lords. And the weaknesses those of Chaos possessed.
The lessons were taken in quite well all things considered. Parts of it fit strangely well with the existing faith and mythologies of the Shamballans. Some hive-cities, especially the capital, began to build little shrines to the various gods and spirits. Even to the namesake of your Aspect Shrine, for indeed there was much death to be faced and souls left unprotected.
The King of Storm and Sea had evidently realised the budding danger that was carefully being nurtured, the icons of those he betrayed over the walls and beside the homes of his foes, and ordered the destruction of these newly instilled ideas and teachings. Unable to tolerate the presence of these icons and what it meant.
The facilities for teachings were built as fortresses, and some indeed were strongholds repurposed slightly into training grounds, so they would not fall easily. But with the directed rage of Mathlann, the daemonic aries put the existing strength your side held to the test.
Yet it was now that mankind truly began to prove the strength they held. The Lion Fangs rose up on each targeted fort and fought side-by-side with the Howling Banshees to push back the night directly, assisted with other soldiers and the trainee new bloods.
There is a shift to this conflict and it is one that you feel in your bones. The feeling of destiny, of desperation, of history being written as man and Eldar join hands and sing battle-cries together against a shared foe. The light that you had both lit was burning even as the darkness kept trying to douse it. Even as your people were without a home, your new companions without their royal leaders, none of you faltered. You fought together as one.
Blood runs, across the the world of Shamballa. Aeldari and human against daemon, ichor spilling and mixing into the putrid rain that kept falling from the drowned sky. So many had died by the hands of Mathlann, his name becoming a curse to the human populace as much as it had to the remnants of Iybraesil. With that grief comes focus, and it makes you bleed the nightmares that dare face you.
Anger rises, a generation of human soldiers rises up knowing an enemy that is beyond all other foes in its terrible nature, a reflection of darkness and mythical corruption. A grand god twisted into a profane traitor, a sudden nightmare that writhed over a once pristine world, and it was being defied again and again. However impotently it struck with its legions of hell, its rage matched your collective fury and could not find victory
Death wakes, countless people had died since you had arrived to this planet. You did not wish their deaths, no matter how you knew it helped bring your people together against this horrific enemy, but you would ensure that each would be avenged. Efforts taken by Seers to divine who had died, their names remembered, families contacted, spirits preserved and safeguarded from the fell influence of the god who abandoned everything to cling to a twisted life.
War calls, and your Aspect Shrine answered. The Shamballans answered underneath the Lion Fangs, from true soldiers to the various militia factions that had arisen from a now militant populace. The people of Iybraesil went from artists, gardeners, singers of Wraithbone, dreamers of beautiful fantasy, healers and priests into warriors who were becoming veterans of a war that would perhaps define the fate of the Aeldari as a whole. All answered.
You are Jain Zar, Phoenix Lord of the Howling Banshees, and you would challenge a divine monster and find victory.
-----
You are Mathlann, Chaos God of the devoured Aeldari Pantheon and the King of Storm and Sea, and you feel bottomless hatred for the war you should have won before it began.
Jain Zar, the worst of them all, you were ready to make her name forbidden to speak of after this war had finally ended. To take the misbegotten followers of the Crone into your champions had previously been mere indulgence, as much as it had been empowering to bridge unwilling host with your greatest spirits, yet now it became personal as you considered deeper vengeance.
You would break her Aspect Warriors apart and turn them truly into yours and yours alone, more than anything Morai-Heg, Khaine or Asuryan could make them. They would burn with greater fire, your very rage intertwined into their flesh, forging them into beasts and champions dedicated to your grace. An army that would be used to spread your majesty across a thousand other Mon-keigh worlds, for how they dared insult your existence by degrading themselves to be saved by such pathetic insects.
Those other mortals would suffer too for what had been done. You would drown them all, keep them alive with your power as their lungs grasped for air they would never attain, drag them into crushing depths that would turn skin and bone into distorted remains that would sink to the bottom of the caustic oceans you would leave. Worse fates blossomed in your mind as you considered your enemy, and listened to the cries of your servants who tried to please your bitter desires amidst their continued incompetence.
Hatred came so easily to you now in your current existence as one of the Primordial Truth. All negative emotions resonated with your core in ways that were as intoxicating as they were invigourating, nourishing as they were brought new vistas of potential. It gave you strength beyond the limits of the mortals you were once beholden to, the means to ascend into higher levels of existence, a power that only the true masters of the Warp could wield.
It wasn't enough power. Not yet.
You were ready for the moment that you could fully emerge and deal with this insufferable annoyance yourself, personally cutting down that accursed Banshee Queen and turning this damned world into a forgotten ruin drowned by your waters. You would flay each individual human soul over the agonising Warpflame of Slaanesh. You would crush each Aeldari skull between your teeth as you savoured your triumph to its fullest extent. You would drown the world until nothing, not even other daemons, could ever find it habitable again.
Yet the planet known as Shamballa, a name you would strip from all living memory, resisted you again and again. Instead of granting you total victory or even definite progress, your followers and daemons failed to do more than ensure that you merely weren't losing the overall conflict. Unable to gain enough sacrifices to call upon your full being into the galaxy, a trait carried over from your former life as a weapon-god, and unable to even wound the Phoenix Lord.
You were fully enraged when that portal within the Craftworld had activated and so many of the hapless, blind, foolish and loathsome mortals inside had escaped rather than accept you as their rightful master, but the idea that your transcendent legions and powers were somehow stymied by swarms of the ephemeral vermin known as humanity brought to you a rage beyond what Khaine had felt.
Frustration was felt in ways unprecedented. You had been part of a pantheon that had lived in triumph after the War in Heaven. Your kin had all fallen, too proud and sentimental to understand what had to be done to truly survive, but you had survived. Isha was trapped in a cage to be a victim for all eternity to her new master. Kaela Mensha Khaine had been broken into a thousand pieces as he utterly failed against the Dark Prince and the Blood God. Cegorach was always a coward and had hid away after the Dominion's Fall. The rest were screaming in eternal death within the maw of Slaanesh.
You were not like the deities you had once been a member of, having done what they could not. You were not like the other Chaos Gods either. Your mind was focused in ways that their vast, disjointed consciousnesses were unable to achieve. Your power was refined by your dead creators to the point that you could tear through the fabric of reality and emerge whole within the mortal plane, given enough sacrifice and ritual alignment.
You were wrought by a war that not even the Ruinous Powers had been a part of, being older and wiser in combat than they ever could be. You had faced the might of the Yngir, the devils that feasted upon the stars, and laid waste to their legions of undying metal and their fleets that brought forth singularities to tear the spiral arms of the galaxy. You were a daemon that stood beyond all else, greater than the petty demi-gods and minor deities that vied to take a true throne as a one of the grand rulers of Chaos itself.
Yet you were locked in a stalemate against the broken remnants that followed dead gods and the teeming horde of pathetic insects that they turned to in desperation. The fact that you weren't revelling the absolute victory you knew you should be enjoying infuriated you more than simple defiance, more than the fact that they called you a traitor and spat at your very existence.
You were willing to discard part of your own ancient domains, burn away your colossal essence to bring forth a storm that would tear apart a star, call upon the dark oath that you had forged with the Prince of Pleasure upon their calamitous birth to bring apocalypse to your detested enemy. Anything to finally lay waste to this planet, destroy the Mon-keigh upon it, and bring death to that accursed Jain Zar.
But while rage and hatred were your muses, your nature, your existence… you were no fool as the other lords and suzerains of the Primordial Truth had been. Your mind was a tool that was something beyond what the other Chaos Gods possessed, your experience in waging war a bottomless well of capability that you would not cast away in blind fury. Such anger refined your mind, not shackled it.
As you wove a storm of disruption around Shamballa, your dark domain of the abyss shrouding the planet from all outside sense and divination, you guided your armies and champions as best as you could with how removed your full presence was from the battle. Whispering into the minds of weak-willed humans to taint their souls with your presence, surprisingly difficult due to how far removed you were from such disgusting mortals. Guiding the Craftworld under psychic arrays that you personally directed the creation of, to leave lightning blasts that were augmented by your divine wrath.
It was still not enough, great but brief ripples cast over the many battlefields and fronts your warriors fought in, yet if the long game was forced to by played then you would show to all that going against a god who fought against the Yngir at their height that there was only one possible end that would fall upon such victims and vermin.
The Mon-keigh were the issue with how many of them there were, as much as you loathed to admit it. Dying to protect the Banshees as well as the rest of such pathetic remnants of the Aeldari you fought. They gave their lives with deluded tales of worth and glory to your dead kin, to these followers of a long forgotten example by the era of the Dominion. To raise up these insects had been a clever, if pathetic, course of action.
To root out the followers of Jain Zar while so many vermin protected them was a difficult matter, delaying your efforts by so much while they were given a chance to rest than continuously suffer. Such a strategy was to be expected of cowards, all spineless and gutless to face their doom, and would have taken you so much more time than otherwise needed.
Well, if they wished to make Mon-keigh their strength, then you would tear them down first as you rushed to bring about your vengeance. In a time where that Storm of Silence was busy facing a few aspiring champions, you had sent forth your greatest follower to the royal palace of the humans. The former military ruler of Craftworld Iybraesil, granted a blessed power to enact your will and a cursed form for their initial failure at stopping Jain Zar's escape.
Let it not be said that you could not offer redemption and even mercy if possible, in blood and souls reaped in your glorious name.
Their agonising screams had torn apart thousands of 'elite' guard, their maw had tore the petty king's head, most of the royal family torn by their claws. Your daemons and bound underlings wrecking havoc where they could, in all cities across the world, bringing your vengeance as you showed a small portion of your capability in warfare. Compared to the cold, living metal armies of old… this was not even a small skirmish.
The Howling Banshees and brutal artillery of the Mon-keigh, so akin to the debased Orks in their primitive focus of explosions, had pushed your Autarch back before she could accomplish total victory. Taking away the chance to bring back her splendid form, but you were pleased by what had happened. Billions had fallen by your daemons and the disorder they wrought, and soon the world would collapse as all cohesive resistance crumbled.
With this in mind, you focused all attention back to the Aspect Warriors who dared to escape your clutches. Unable to properly hide in defended fortresses, to be blamed for the destruction that had happened after running to this world, it would be the time for your victory to finally begin.
Yet the vermin reminded you that even the lowliest of bugs could still bite. After so short a time, likely aided by their new masters, the humans had reorganised into a fully militant rule. The remnants of the royal guard, whom your ascendant champion had failed to fully dispose of, had become the new rulers of the planet. Commanding all their soldiers to a capable enough degree that they pushed back your legions of servants and beasts, purging most of the few corrupted of their number, saving most of the Howling Banshees from the fate they deserved.
You shifted focus again to the humans, ensuring that the now bleeding animal would be brought down as it struggled against you. Ordering your lesser champions to lead a total conquest over the frontlines, to bring you a tally of bodies that would rise up as soaked mountains left to by devoured by your beasts. Your rain falling into torrents that acted as a gateway for your daemons to emerge from, as conduits to your realm, bringing down any and all that ventured outside their shielded cities and fortifications.
In this way, you had found greater success than expected. So driven by their desperate ploy that they had realised how tenuous their hold over the humans had been, the followers of Jain Zar has come forward to face your forces directly. Protecting various locations full of the Mon-keigh that couldn't be defended by enough soldiers. From healing centres, giant housing complexes, factories supplying the war and other smaller areas of conflict.
Hundred of millions more of the soldier pests died as the Eldar warriors fought you, being butchered where the Howling Banshees did not provide their assistance. Further bring down the teeming hordes of vermin as you weakened them slowly, all too slowly.
The sheer amount of these mortals was still enough to slow your tide, along with all the support that they received from their new masters. They bred so quickly compared to the mortals you were intimately familiar with, and cared so much for their worthless families and had grief transform into a focus against you. How typical of Morai-Heg's ways to talk about souls, fate and death while being an annoying thorn in a god's side.
On and on this went, as your armies faced your enemy again and again. Your losses were frustrating but ultimately meaningless, for daemons were all immortal and your cultists were but tools to be discarded unless one proved to be of sufficient worth, while your enemies were restrained by death. The idea of fighting for years, even decades, was an absurdity you almost entirely refused to entertain… but if it came down to it, if your warriors failed you so much, then at least you would win by sheer attrition.
Then something unexpected had occurred. Through the sight of your daemons, your Aeldari followers, your corrupted humans and your own view over Shamballa… you saw something that you initially believed to be a trick. A new course of action taken, with the large training facilities that existed across each of the major cities on this planet. Fortresses meant not to be used in direct war, but to teach a new generation of warriors. That was to be expected, and you had kept some attention on such things as critical targets.
What made you so baffled and then so furious was what the Aeldari heretics were doing. They weren't just sharing their knowledge of war and capability, better technology so they could survive longer with their fragile existences, but deeper things along with such things. They were educating the Mon-keigh on Chaos, on the Sea of Souls and finally upon the Pantheon their people had abandoned. They were preaching their faith to be accepted by these unworthy animals.
To build what were essentially temples to the gods you once called kin? Your old family had been cut off from your heart long ago, abandoned to die when they failed to see the truth, yet even you were shocked by how low that the Phoenix Lord you faced had fallen. To teach prayers to the short-lived pests, to tell them the mythology that defined the War in Heaven, all but ordaining some of their number as true followers? Were the Eldar you faced so desperate as to believe the dead gods would ever accept such creatures? Only Isha would ever take pity on these pathetic lifeforms.
Utter madness, an insult to every fallen god of the Aeldari pantheon as well as yourself. To think that they would do what even Slaanesh had not, if only to leave their first victory undiminished. The very notion left you sickened and further stoked your hatred. The foolish acts and scarliege of mortals had been well known to you, for that was how you ascended as a Chaos God as you bowed to the Prince of Pleasure, yet there were still new lows that could be done by your people.
What a disgrace, spitting in the names of all Aeldari across history. They were truly deserving of death than to become your servants. You ordered destruction upon these facilities and their temples, and torment for any Aspect Warrior that would be dragged out from their false ways.
To properly breach all these fortresses was to breach the cities, a strategy that was unable to be attempted by your foolish generals and warriors, so instead you did what you could to guide your forces to bring the neophyte soldiers out to be faced on the battlefield. Focusing on the battlefield to make it seem that some fronts were getting weakened enough, and critical ones heavily pushed, to let opportunity and desperation do their work.
When the time was right as the initial trainees began to engage in true battle, you struck both them and what training facilities you could. The reaction was immediate from the vermin, as they rushed to protect their next generation with the urgency expected of their short-lived kind. The Howling Banshees were left without support, becoming what should have been easy targets. Yet they fought well even when backed to corners, surrounded on all sides, facing greater strength and skill.
Meanwhile as the wider conflict went on, you focused your attention on Jain Zar. Hatred was well known to you due to her, to heights you had not felt for millions of years, and thus you knew how hate from another could be used to your advantage. Her pride and her rage would be her downfall.
Month after month now, you had sent your best champions to face her. In bodies that once belonged to her Aspect Warriors and Exarchs, used to house daemonic essence of a greater being, these possessed corpses had driven her to face them again and again. No matter how they died, they would come back soon by your dedicated power. With such capability to individually keep up with her might, in groups that would keep coming for her again and again, unable to be ignored by both threat and anger towards these possessed fighters.
You would whittle her down until she could no longer fight at all or as everything else around her died by your divine wrath. Then you would finally kill her, end her existence, deliver her into the pinnacle of torment that her people tried to achieve back when the Pleasure Cults ruled. The more time that went on, the more that you could consider what delightful fates that would await her.
Yet still… still she resisted. Her and her followers, her vermin she now commanded, the very battle itself defying your will. Perhaps it was the profane faith that she shared to the Mon-keigh, perhaps it was some insidious influence implanted within these foul ephemeral beasts, but they charge forward to save Jain Zar.
Tanks, artillery, missiles and more were launched against all that surrounded the accursed Phoenix Lord. Such weapons could not banish your whole army, certainly not your champions, but it distracted them. Forced their blades and claws away from battle, pained them more against the cuts and screams of their foe, buying more time until an entire group of the Howling Banshees had managed to join the fray and open a passage back to her damn allies.
Again the leader you wished to grind to dust escaped, her fate of infinite oblivion denied. This war was taking far, far longer than it deserved to be. You had lead forces in the War in Heaven. You had faced the star-borne wrath of the Yngir and triumphed against their fleets. You had faced the almighty terror of facing Slaanesh. How could this be so difficult?
The rage you were cultivating, so strong that it was causing your domain to boil with flames that could have melted the throne of Asuryan, was channelled towards your forces. Not enough to make them fall dead or injured, for you were no fool as to sabotage your own battles, but enough to make your immeasurably displeasure known to your followers. Especially those that should know better, that should have accomplished far more.
Screams echo across the Aeldari that you had blessed, the minds alight as they felt their blood boiling and their flesh crushed in your cold-iron grasp. They are touched by the raw fury of a god that deserved perfection and true focus, true worship. Only in victory would they feel absolution, your generous nature, your forgiveness for worms that had given you nothing in this damned war.
They charge towards the source of your rage, the beacon that outshined almost everything else that stoked your anger. Your blessed champions and followers fighting with hooked blades, barbed instruments to cleave flesh and metal. Chanting with your holy words that boiled the waters and called the waves, surging with lightning and abyssal darkness. Merged with your daemons, the lesser manifestations of your grace. Working together as one to bring down the Crone-Daughter.
Yet their blades are parried, their words silenced by her cries, the daemons banished and souls torn to pieces by Jain Zar's battle. Embolden by how long she had lasted against you, when she should have been dead long before she escaped Iybraesil, the audacious blasphemy continued. She called upon Khaine as she shoved her hand into the heart of a former Exarch, ripping it out and crushing it with black flame. She sang the songs of Morai-Heg as she butchered the ritual-spawn that was summoned versus her.
A tank-ship cast from the air and into the earth, the crew inside turned into bloody remains. A body with several of your spirits stitched inside torn to pieces in seconds, a waste of time and effort. A coven turned to ash, their consecrated ground burned to ash by plasma and Mon-keigh artillery.
For over a month did she turn the tide against your own champions and aspiring high priests, charging against them than allowing herself to be struck. Diving into the thick of the war while being supported again by all her servants, pushing the lines ot battle away from your influenced wherever she fought.
A family descended of nobles that had fled with the Craftworld and willingly joined your embrace, still possessing the the high-born blood of the old Aeldari Dominion, destroyed. Twin Seers that were gifted prodigies in reading the skein of fate, unable to find a path to escape when she came for their heads. A former Bonesinger that you had eternally call upon your storm-etched power into ritual weapons, their throat torn and mind shattered by the Storm of Silence again.
More and more of those you favoured were slain by the hands of the Phoenix Lord, from exquisite tools to wondrous servants to warriors that you knew were mighty and worthy of your blessings. Some had their very souls torn by her attacks, causing them to be banished deeply into your boiling domain. Some were so broken that they couldn't be fully restored by your efforts. A few were utterly destroyed, unable to even have their remains devoured to satiate the sudden emptiness.
The passage of time felt so infernally slow to your perception as veteran of the War in Heaven, as divine leader of a new age, as a king of Chaos. Such awareness and fluid thought, able to witness moments with an eternity of contemplation compared to the limitations of simple mortals, your rage only grew. How could you be losing your prized acolytes? How could anything other than triumph be yours? How could nothing stop that loathsome Jain Zar and her Howling Banshees, her Mon-keigh that she dared to covet for their brutish assistance?
As the days drag on further, you focus begins to shape around nothing else than the doom of the one who caused this war to exist at all. The false idol of a dead pantheon would be tolerated no longer. You summon and guide of your most skilled follower to slay this fluttering phoenix.
The Autarch, the war-leader, the commander who lead all your forces into this battle. While you had punished them for their failure, transforming their body and burning their mind for their insolence, they remained as a worthy figure to lead your blessed Aeldari. A beast in body, yet the true worth in all your followers were their spirits. After all, even before your ascension, this was the great power that allowed the Eldar to rule the galaxy.
They charge through a great lake that the Storm of Silence was taking battle in, the pool of water and blood formed from the destruction she wrought on your subjects. From their remains, from the rain that constantly fell around her stronger than any other, a small army arises. Daemons that had been felled before that were forced back into the Materium, allowed their vengeance by your shared rage. Priests, Seers and Exarchs leaping into battle. Leading them all, with an abyssal trident that was wreathed in lightning, the Autarch lumbered forth.
The Howling Banshees around her quickly all either die or are too injured to contribute, the pleasurable cruelty serving to force the wretched Crone-Daughter to either abandon her peons or fight in their defence than allowing her to advance or retreat. She dances past the touch of weapons thrust or sliced towards her, shifting through the flames and lightning, almost untouched by the very rain that fell. Yet here she remains limited as you order all nearby servants to begin surrounding her once more, this time ensuring there would be no escape.
Your champions silence the cries of the wounded Aspect Warriors, enforcing silence to be branded to their struggling forms, as even in the brink of death did they try to defy you and aid their infernal master. Without tiring, without faltering, the form of Jain Zar blurred as she fought every follower that you had brought forth. Seemingly uncaring of her encroaching demise, as though she had nothing to fear. But unlike her, you were a true immortal and knew victory when you saw it.
The blades come closer to scratching her armour, nearly cutting off pieces of her hair, her songs unable to pierce through the combined power of your blessed priests. It was here. It was now. You could feel it in your very bones, the tendrils that rippled across this space, your divine spirit radiant at this glory. Under the Eightfold Path you now walked, you once more felt the unrivalled thrill and joy upon seeing an enemy ground to dust. To heights further than you thought possible, but richly deserved.
Through the war-leader's eyes do you open your own. The flesh of your Autarch rippling, expanding, bloating as your press your visage through their body. Your mind and essence intermingling as you reached into the heart of your great servant. You would witness this death personally and drag her spirit away to show her exactly what you could do with your transcendent power.
You whisper directly into the half-mind you were connected with, your thoughts and feelings washing over the soul of this mortal body. Letting their body move faster, stronger, tougher than before. The blessed trident lunging for the neck of your foe. Lightning leaping from the frame of the weapon. Your many eyes looking at the Phoenix Lord as she stood her ground and-
There is a quiet moment as the near constant shrieks from Jain Zar stop. She moves forward instead of to the side or to back away from your war-leader's assault. She lifts her glaive and shifts its position so that its pointed towards your host's chest. It's too late to stop or shift your charge, so you direct your host to ensure that at least mutual destruction is achieved. An arm lashing out to strike a clawed hand to her head, muscles tearing with how fast the motion is-
She moved her head, a tiny adjustment to her torso, arms kept a little more to the side. Motions so small that it shouldn't have even mattered, only barely keeping away from the claws for a fraction of a second longer. Then she tenses and moves forward with a speed that was the pinnacle of what an Eldar could do without channelling the Sea of Souls, moving past the hand that would have taken hear head, and she unleashes her battle-cry with all her might.
The sound is so loud that it rips the flesh and bone of your Autarch, so psychically deafening that all nearby servants respond with screams of agony as they clutch heads or fall to the ground, Jain Zar rams the tip of her weapon straight through the heart of your most favoured mortal with the help of their own momentum. In one single motion she cleaves the body in half and already moves to the next closest foe.
Your gaze is ripped from the eyes you had opened across the war-leader's body as it rapidly began to break apart into nothingness. Able to still witness the Phoenix Lord as she butchered everyone close by. Decimating another group that should have at least kept her at bay, stopping her from ruining more of your plans.
You had lost the mortal leader of your followers. As well as almost every other Aeldari on your side that you could have considered elevating to a position like that. Most of your leading priest or corporeal champions had already been ripped from your grasp, or were proven too useless to keep their roles, or were so few and unskilled compared to those already fallen.
Throughout all of this, after over an entire year of this planet having passed since this war began, you hadn't even been able to see any of your daemons and servants inflict any injury at all upon Jain Zar.
For the first time since you ordered this conquest, you genuinely consider the idea that you were going to lose.
Suffering failure after failure against followers of dead gods that you deserved to rule, blasphemers that bowed to Mon-keigh, everything you had faltering against mere mortals who had fallen so far that they were nothing compare to their own meagre heights.
You had fought the Yngir ruled armies over entropic nebulas, fleets that could have annihilated the galaxy and brought apocalypse to the whole universe being brought down by your own ships and servants. You had survived the terrible strife from Khaine that earned him his eternal epithet as the Bloody-Handed, as the gods fought the gods and the Aeldari fought the Aeldari until Asuryan reinforced his ephemeral peace. You were the only deity of your pantheon to not only survive the birth of Slaanesh, but become far stronger than ever before
Yet you were going to lose… to this? Here on such a worthless planet? Against such a pitiful foe? After everything you had accomplished?
You are Mathlann, Chaos God of the devoured Aeldari Pantheon and King of Storm and Sea, and you erupt in rage so incandescent that the Warp itself burns around your divine form.
-----
You are Jain Zar, Phoenix Lord of the Howling Banshees, and you reel against the the scream that suddenly erupted everywhere.
Few beings could even come close to matching the power behind your psychic shrieks, the battle-cries that channelled the fury of Kaela Mensha Khaine and voice Morai-Heg through your very being. Even against the corrupted voices of from those possessed Exarchs, or the spawn of She Who Thirsts, you had dominated against them in this art.
The voice of the daemon-king was so loud that you fell to your knees and trembled for a few moments.
If the fallen god had been fully manifested itself into the mortal plane, then you knew that Shamballa as a whole would have been obliterated by the sheer force of this wrathful roar. Perhaps causing the nearby sun to detonate too, depending on how unfocused the burst of energy had been. The planet ripped to pieces by a deity pushed over the brink.
Despite everything, you nearly laugh as you slowly pushed yourself back up. Seeing the frenzied, berserk remnants of the group you were fighting. Sense ripped to pieces by sheer terror, by the backlash of force that had struck their very cores as their master's grip became a torturous mantle. Mindless vengeance becoming their only concern.
You were facing something straight from mythology, empowered by the force that had shattered the Eldar Empire, and you were winning to the point that an ancient deity was throwing a cosmic tantrum. You didn't think you'd live to see the day.
You pull back from the battle for a moment, away from the rising tides of Mathlann's incarnate wrath that tried to drown you into doom, and listen to what had happened towards other forces on the planet. It takes a few moments to get a coherent response, longer still to digest the meaning.
The scream had resonated across the populace of the whole planet. In some cases, mostly against the native humans, it had been a boon, the distraction of the followers and daemons felt as they suffered the brunt of their overlord's sudden rage. In others, against your Aspect Warriors, they became more feral and fought with a ferocity greater than before or were blasted to ash by the corrupted Craftworld. From what others were able to see from afar, an even larger amount of forces were converging onto your location.
Before you can pull back further and pivot towards a new battlefield, or ready yourself in a more advantageous position, something freezes you in place.
A new sound resonates within the rain. Instead of the primal fury that had resonated across the Warp, this was the voice of burning cold hatred that would pay any price to see that retribution was obtained. Daemons and followers that were once charging towards you stop dead in their tracks as they hear the storm's call. Laughter, screams, babbling nonsense. Some take out ritual blades and offer themselves or their captives to this madness. Blood pouring and mixing with the putrid water.
Your vision blurs. For a brief second, in a scene of abyssal darkness and writhing shapes, you see a hand take out a perfectly cut stone and crush it into a thousand fragments. A proof of an oath. A bargain to be called and kept. A divine contract for one who betrayed everything else for power.
You feel a pressure that sinks into your bones, your heart, your mind. It claws out into the skies that thunder with the roar of the Ro-Druk. Lightning strong enough to shatter a mountain strikes into a boiling lake. A gateway opens. A swilling vortex in the very earth, fed by a deity's wrath, faithful ichor and a cruel agreement between monstrous gods.
You had not felt something like this since you had witnessed the death cry of an empire, the Fall of the Aeldari Dominion, and when you had been first cast away into the Warp's drifting tides all too recently.
The voice of She Who Thirsts, the Dark Prince of Chaos, speaks through an entire army of daemons that crawl and fly and swim and march across the battlefield. The festering wound upon reality is a gaping doorway into hell. A few pieces of the stone you had seen are launched out, giant shards the size of towers, and are impaled in the borders of this portal to bind it to the world and keep it open. Songs, shrieks, roars and cacophonous words fill the air so strongly that the sounds of rain are destroyed.
You witness what could very well be the end of this war. What was already a grand struggle that you were only barely winning despite all the losses had now turned for the worse. An entire new enemy force, one that was worse for both Eldar and especially Shamballans in corruption and sheer unrelenting might. Mathlann's servants were mostly just twisted Aeldari and petty spirits, this legion belonged to a god far more powerful and dangerous. Victory might have faded away.
You give a signal to all nearby forces to what you were seeing and then you rush forward to this rift. Moving as though not only your life or the people of this world depended on it, but as if every single Eldar in the galaxy was at stake. Every human's too. The whole galaxy. The Rhana Dandra that would be waged at the end of everything. You move with the speed of one who cannot waste any single moment.
The clouds roil around you, bolts from above striking the ground you walked upon. Shadows fall as darkness rules the land. Artillery, cannons, aircraft fight on from somewhere distant. Close enough to achieve something. Too far and too slow to matter.
The army meets you in an embrace of death, yet even against a horde like this there was no room for mistakes. You had to pick your targets well or else billions of lives would die when they might have lived. You scream and silently beg to the gods to allow you to do so as long as possible, long enough to last against this madness.
You parry and manoeuvre through the daemonettes that try to lunge at you, a few of the weakest discombobulated at your empowered voice, only killing those before you when it was faster than trying to move past them. Dodging and weaving through the pincers of the heralds and champions that try to skewer you with swords. Arcane chains try to bind you in place but you slice through them as you reach what you needed to face, the leaders of this new assault.
Towering above all around the battlefield were the Keepers of Secrets, Feasters of Pain, the greater daemons of the Prince of Pleasure. Epitomes of that which mortals desired and were disgusted by, these lithe behemoths were the strongest warriors and commanded their lesser servants in both war and in torment. Several of them marched together, each a unique figure of revolting features and dominating presence, pride and standing demanding that they needed to be at the forefront of this conflict. That suited your purposes finely.
Jainas Mor is tossed towards the neck of one giant, the black flame triskele cleaving deeply into the neck of the beast before it flies back to your hand. In the other, you spin the glaive around to block a strike from a massive blade from another colossal daemon. Dodging from several smaller weapons that were swung or launched towards you by the encroaching horrors.
You leap forward to the Keeper that your thrown weapon had struck with your glaive, a disgusting form of pleasure evident on its bestial visage even on its decapitated head. The body falls and you move to the other, while a third rushes forward to take the glory of killing you. Psychic screams becoming the only reason you weren't immediately swarmed by everything, as you braved the roading tide of this gateway that was still flooding with monsters.
Zhai Morenn, your polearm, has its blade screams in protest as barbed scimitars scratch into its shimmering surface. The sound was so terrible and imbued with the energy of the fell god you were sworn to face. Yet you do not abate your attacks and do everything in your power to press onwards. Cutting into the body of one while burning another with your triskele's flame, parrying and riposting a hundred blows in a time measured between heart beats. Another head taken. The third Feaster of Pain falls just moments before a fourth emerges from the vortex.
You knew that more could be done, especially now at the delicate time when a daemon passed from one reality to the next, but three leaders having already fallen would already shift the course of this war and staying longer would just risk an early doom into the maws of two Chaos Gods. Lightly wounding the fourth leader, you pull back and ensure that absolutely everything blocking your way reaches oblivion against your blades.
Already you could see the dismaying sight of hundreds, thousands, yet more of these accursed creatures rushing out in all directions when they didn't focus upon you. Moving faster than even your own Howling Banshees on foot. Some flying on leathery wings or ones made out of radiant light and passionate flame. A few riding beasts as calvary in ground and sky, cackling madly as they promised nightmares and wonders in twin voices. Most around you simply called for your death, but you wouldn't grant anything to these loathsome monsters but their own.
You manage to push through the tide of madness and rush to the nearest group of allies forces, a mixed group of humans and Aeldari already in retreat from this new army and only stopping to ensure you leave with them. A jetbike piloted by one of your followers quickly swoops in and offers you the seat. You fly into the air as quickly as possible as all of you run.
Time passes in screams and mayhem. The vortex had reduced in power a day after the army had finished pouring out, no longer expanding or lashing out to the sky and earth with its wild power, but it was remained as a mark of what devastation had occurred. Empowering each daemon of She Who Thirsts to keep them within the Materium, a divine mandate that ensured that there would be none who were spared this dual wrath.
In little over a month, a billion human soldiers had died against and billions more non-combatants had also perished against this new madness. Some had fallen into corruption, becoming cultists of a frenzied cause where before such was an uncommon occurrence against the former Eldar god, and others had been simply cut apart by the swift blades or had minds broken by the terrible illusions of your enemies.
Your people did whatever they could to stem this tide of death, either in combat or with instructions on how to survive, but it was still a horrific blow to you all at just how many had fallen.
Tens of thousands had their homes taken and defiled into nightmarish depictions of what would happen if you had all failed, and even transporting a single family to safety was an ordeal when facing the constant assaults of Chaos.
The Ro-Druk, the twisted form of the Craftworld, had launched devastation upon the world under this time. Guided by divine will, it destroyed those caught under its baleful gaze and opened up holes in defences for the daemons to pour through. VIctims tapped by wrath and torment, unable to even trust that they'd be safe unless under an open sky.
Many had turned to prayer to cope with the loss, turning to the faith of the Aeldari Pantheon. The fury of Khaine and the wisdom of Morai-Heg helping most of all, as both deities were shown by your Aspect Shrine and yourself. You were holding up not just a world, but now the spirits of its people. The burden was not a light one, not with how much your people also lost.
Frustration mounted with how little you were able to accomplish. You had managed to run away from the initial attacks, against the full brunt of the new army, but you could not run forever. The rain-summoned followers of Mathlann and the quick monsters from the Prince of Pleasure surrounded you time and time again, doing everything in their combined power to keep you constrained in battle alone when you could have helped save others or been saved in turn. It was far harder to keep up the pace against two types of enemies, especially when they worked near perfectly together by the order of their deities than fall into typical daemonic in-fighting.
The fact that you were a Phoenix Lord was enough reason to become the target of the infernal spawn of the Dark Prince, their latest obsession to receive tremendous reward. Being the most hated individual under the traitor god's rampage also ensured that you had no drought of enemies that came against you. It was exhausting to maintain your fighting prowess against the constant attacks, yet you still managed to remain unharmed to the mounting anger of your foes. At times even able to escape from attack for a full day before you were beset on all sides again.
The invasion continued its path across the world as you fight for your life against the hordes that keep trying to end you. Battlefields erupting across Shamballa that end up slowly pushed back by the forces of Chaos, fortresses falling and supply lines disrupted. Another month passes and victories are few and far between, minor efforts that only delay what seems to be a collapse.
The sacrifice of the Howling Banshees is the main thing that brings hope to this hopeless time. Hundreds giving up their lives to ensure that millions of humans and thousands of Aeldari are kept alive, Exarchs duelling and distracting fell champions until they are utterly surrounded and fall to their dooms, so many that walk your path ready to give up everything to ensure even one more day is lived by their fellows. You weep for how many more of your order dies before another month ends.
One day you gazed over the landscape and saw a lost battleground that had once been a forest, a place where some of the humans here had often visited due to the natural beauty and flowers that bloomed here. After being told that, you looked over the flooded wasteland and wondered how long it'd take for the planet to heal even if true victory happened.
While you despaired over the loss, the valiant sacrifices of your order had helped achieved something that might just turn the tide of this conflict. Over twenty billion Shamballan soldiers had died, leaving only forty billion to wage a war against an enraged god of ruin. Yet with the militarised government, support from the Aeldari, and with your own efforts as so much attention was personally directed to your end, the new generation of soldiers was nearly ready to truly take to the battlefields. Taught with everything that could quickly be shared in how to fight Chaos by your kind, to ensure that both human and Aeldari could truly fight as one.
Morale rose up as, even in the face of this apocalyptic disaster, a full human year had already passed and people were still able to fight. Together with such different people, entirely different species and cultures, unified against a common threat.
There was something beautiful to that, something to cherish as this new army rose up.
Yet it was not just you and your people that knew what this could mean for the war, despite the endless anger that rose up against you the King of Storm and Sea still recognised the threat of these new soldiers. Despite the careful guidance and protection from both Howling Banshees as well as the Shamballans, a few corrupted members of humanity and followers of Mathlann had managed to sneak in and delayed efforts. Nothing too major, but it heavily restricted any potential momentum that this act could have brought.
Despite constant attempts to slow them, slay them, sway them to the whims of uncaring madness, billions of newly trained soldiers march across the world and defend areas under threat. The Lion Fangs opening a brief, closely guarded celebration that is broadcasted to the populace of their planet. The war seems like it could turn as you personally arrive to them and offer your own words of praise and advice for the battle to come.
Until one day disaster struck. A Keeper of Secrets had managed to emerge directly within the allied ground, right around countless new soldiers who suddenly lost cohesion against the assault. Close enough to be seen from a distant, as a towering and screaming giant that tore apart tanks and armoured carriers as though they were simple toys. Other lesser servants descend from cracks in reality, having followed their summoned master. Corrupted members who had brought forth this monster immediately attack in a frenzy, few in number but all the more deadly in this confusion.
You manage to rush towards the beast and bring it down in a short duel, and while the rest of the attackers were brought low by the surrounding soldiers the damage had been done. Morale had taken a terrible blow from this situation. Not just from the sudden incursion of hellish warriors or the presence of their corruptive influence, but also from the fact any cultists had managed to secretly infiltrate this deeply into Shamballa's military to cause this. Careful searches and loyalty checks had to be done, as well as spiritual reinforcements to each new soldier. It would delay matters significantly but in the worst case scenario… it needed to be done.
More time passes in the war as the fighting gets more fierce between both sides. You lead your champions to the very depths of the hellish conflict, banishing daemons and granting oblivion to a few that faced your full wrath. Billions of soldiers marked pure of heart and full of fury descend upon the corrupted monsters that had besieged their home, granted all support that they could possibly have to ensure triumph against divine armies.
Keepers of Secrets of She Who Thirsts and possessed Exarchs of Mathlann march to the battlefield, acting both as generals and living siege engines against any mortals they faced. While you had slain the former Autarch and had destroyed several leaders already, these terrible nightmares charged ahead as extensions of Chaos itself. Their order undeniable as they guided the mad hordes, fell beasts and twisted warriors.
Yet for all their strength, they could no longer simply push forwards as they had before. Resistance was faltering in places, but the truth became clear as another month passed. The war had gone from a slow loss into a brutal stalemate.
The planet had been torn and scarred in several places. Everything but the capital city had suffered a severe amount of damage, even from just the corrupted rain that constantly fell and flooded so much of the land. Projects had arisen from several Seers who charted the best ways to try to secure as much pure earth as possible, means to purify the general landscape during the war as much as possible, means to keep growing enough food and transport safe drinking water to keep the battle going on for years longer or even decades if it called for it.
But even the most optimistic outlook on what could be possible faltered under the face of just how many daemons and cultists still remained, especially on the Craftworld which had remained untouched. Iybraesil had only become more corrupted as time passed, looking like an abyssal horror that had been pulled up into the open sky. A mixture of crystal and flesh, teeth and storms, a creature from nightmares. As long as it stayed, resonating with the divine energies of the traitor god, then the war could theoretically go on for eternity.
Unless the Ro-Druk was taken out, then the war would likely end up taking everything from you all.
Seers and Aspect Warriors converse in sealed, warded meeting rooms to discuss the course of the war. Human commanders there to You also arrive there a few times to share your insight, to see what your own role would be. Ideas rise and fall in how to fight the terrible sea dragon or push back the armies of Chaos, what to sacrifice and what to keep.
Until a new idea is made one day that excites everyone The Lion Fangs come forth with a solution that could theoretically bring the Craftworld out of the equation, with a few minor adjustments after it was proposed. A risky plan that could very well doom the war if it failed, and possibly clutch victory if it worked.
You and a large force of your Howling Banshees would board the Craftworld and either damage it or even disable it, preferably killing as many high priests and notable figures inside, while one of your most skilled Exarchs would be dressed and armed like yourself and remain on the planet to divert attention long enough for it to work. All Shamballan soldiers pulling back and focusing purely on defensive actions the moment the trick was discovered and terrible retaliation followed.
There were countless things that could go wrong. Everyone sent to the Ro-Druk could die, including you. Any sabotage to the Craftworld or elite warriors slain could amount to near nothing. The forces of Chaos could just decimate everyone on the world, knowing that you weren't even on it. Yet after a lot of debate… it seemed like the only course of action that had any chance of working.
You personally selected and quickly trained the strongest, most skilled Exarch of your order. Knowing that time was precious and lives were being lost, to both ensure the deception was as accurate as possible and that the Howling Banshees would be lead by a worthy successor if things went wrong. Having already seen you fight and having already joined you in many conflicts, it didn't have to take long at all. Mostly you just had to wait for the new armour and weapons to be crafted.
As morning rose over the planet, the order was officially made. The path of Shamballa would be determined one way or another. A coven of Seers that had spent weeks together to chart the path of Iybraesil, using whatever relics and mementos they had as a divination link. An army of Howling Banshees boarding various transport craft, with you at the tip of the spear. Cloaked by every manner of stealth technology and psychic veils that you could use.
The vast leviathan surges across the clouds. Half within the realm of Mathlann, half within the skies of the world. A living beast that was so tainted with the power of the traitor god that you weren't sure that it would even be recognisable as a Craftworld if another year passed.
Word reaches your ear of your substitute fighting well on the frontlines of one conflict, acting close enough to fool the hordes around them judging from the babbling shrieks and promises of death that surrounded her. The ruse had worked for now. Here was the next step.
Electricity surged across the fins, flesh and scales of the gigantic monster. The dragon opened its terrible maw to launch the divine wrath of its master. Bright enough to outshine the sun, covered by the roiling clouds. It fires and its target is destroyed. In the next moment, your fleet rushes in by its terrible maw as it slowly closes.
From the ground, the giant siege weapon was bigger in the heavens than a moon. From a distance on your ships, it was a staggering sight that knived dread into your hearts. Up so close to the creature to see its titanic teeth, the vacant eyes that emerged across its pseudo-flesh, was to feel fear at witnessing a beast that should not be allowed to exist outside of nightmares.
Iybraesil was so defiled, much more so than you initially thought from seeing it transformed into this beast. The rage of its new master was so great and terrible that it even wounded its form, from the burn marks that covered the insides of its mouth. Yet where the crystal was broken by how much lightning was challenged and flesh was stretched over to lightly cover the gaps, there was your opportunity. The whole fleet managed to quickly fit in through the myriad holes.
Transports landed within the Ro-Druk and only faced minor resistance, the few daemonic entities and lowly followers that dared nest around the dangerous ground near the lightning-maw. Their screams and roars are silenced quickly, and you all quickly delve into the belly of the best. Killing everything in your way as you mapped out the baleful interior.
The realm was far more terrible than when you had last seen it, even when it wasn't submerged within the true domain of Mathlann. There were some temples that were dedicated to the traitor god, most of them formed from former sites of beauty or worship to other figures. A gallery of artwork that was torn and left to ruins, or burned up as sacrifices, where only misshapen idols to the King of Storm and Sea remained. A garden replaced with a pit of mud, where writhing water vermin thrived. A mass graveyard of those who resisted the new rule here, doubly as a feeding pit for mindless pets to be tamed.
Vengeance burned in all your hearts as you slaughter the few forces inside. Corrupted Eldar with gills and webbed fingers are butchered, some stretched and bloated like animals that were meant to live in the dark trenches by the ocean floor. Fewer than expected, with most having been taken out from their terrible home to fight and die on the world, but enough that you did face resistance as you tried to cleanse the halls of the Craftworld.
It could have been hours or days for all you knew, something distorted all attempts at outside communication. Time itself could have been passing differently in such a corrupted place that resonated with a daemon-king, when half-submerged in their own realm. Progress was measured in bodies and rooms. Towards a vague target that at first you weren't sure was there, but began to feel that it was.
All of you were coming closer and closer to a sound you did not even hear until your prayers to Khaine, the death and destruction wrought by your hands, helped you hear the answer. The war drums that all Aeldari knew. That which thrummed with passion and blood. The weakness.
A heartbeat. It wasn't just the appearance of flesh and blood that covered Iybraesil, the monster that the Craftworld had become was indeed alive. And what was alive could be slain, a heart taken to slay this beast. Its presence surged you with an energy that had began to wane with the sheer weight of this war, the idea that you could all actually do it.
Yet the delays you faced in your progress had done their damage, as the followers of Mathlann did their best to stop your invasion. Perhaps enough prayers had finally drawn the traitor god's attention, perhaps your body double had faltered or fallen. Whatever the case, as the entirety of the Ro-Druk shakes, you immediately knew the moment that the trick had ceased to work.
Visions manifest in your mind and the minds of others, striking lucid nightmares of the capital city transformed into a lifeless ruin dedicated with the symbols of Mathlann and She Who Thirsts across every single building. An ocean of blood that would forever contain the tortured souls of every human, while all Aeldari were flayed internally by the embrace of the Dark Prince. A promise of retribution for daring to invade this place, to first break this world and ensure that everyone who had come to Iybraesil would be trapped to suffer yet worse fates.
Not if you had anything to say about it.
Abandoning any pretence of subtlety, and knowing your true target beating inside the centre of this leviathan, you rush forward to the heart of the sea dragon.
Hordes of followers emerged from every single room in your way, in countless shapes and sizes from what you couldn't be sure were signs of blessings or curses. Water flooded into passageways that you tried to reach, trying to delay your advance, but you rushed through faster as you redirected into other halls. Barricades were erected and barely lasted seconds against your wrath.
A tower fell down to try to physically block a doorway, and a bundle of grenades gifted from the humans had been enough to remove enough of it. Psychic spells fired randomly from everywhere, perhaps discharged from the very flesh of the Craftworld, and while a few of your Aspect Warriors fell there was nothing that would have stopped your advance.
Louder and louder did the vast heart beat, as more and more did the environment around you all shift from Wraithbone to the abyssal flesh of a god. The fury of Khaine filled you all as you marched, voices screaming with the power of Morai-Heg, the strength of Asuryan's light shining against the fell influence of Chaos.
The visions of Shamballa's destruction that had manifested before kept flashing before your eyes again and again, perhaps in an effort to break your will. It only alloyed it with rage.
A blur of conflict passes as you and your dwindling group reach a deafening apex of psychic noise, the rage of the Bloody-Handed One reaching its apex against such an terrible thing. Possessed Wraithbone constructs charge to meet you across a temple gateway, the once pristine bodies leaking a thick mixture of blood and water. You physically tear off the arms of one giant warrior, whispering a word of prayer in the hopes that whatever soul inside met a peaceful end. Priest-guards charge to their doom as you offer only carnage to their wretched lives.
The doorway they guarded was, in contrast with everything else you had seen, almost beautiful. The pearl hidden away. Decorated with carved bones, you see the stone doors filled with depictions of Mathlann at their height on one side and their fall into Chaos. Both meant to display the strength and glory of the deity. Both of which disgusted you.
The doors were reinforced by both physical and psychic means, barricaded on the other side. A divine barrier erected to keep you out. With prayers of your own, calling on the battle-myths from the Lord of Murder and the power of fate from the Crone, everyone around you began to strike down the gate with everything you had. Your screams could have melted metal by sheer force, banish daemons by sheer strength, burn down an army by sheer fury.
Your glaive is raised up and comes down with all the strength you possessed, striking the wards across the stone and the stone itself. For a second there is resistance, the sound of a terrible scream rising up that tried to drown out your presence, but the moment passes and you cut deeply into the rock. The anger of the traitor god visibly rises up as you break part of the door.
Light floods out from the opening, baleful crimson shining with the power of a star. Blessed protectors surge forward with hooks, claws and barbed tridents wreathed with storms but you almost don't see them in the face of the giant orb that hovered in the centre. Bigger than a grav-tank, it was a stone sculpture that was almost completely covered in flesh stolen from what had to be thousands of victims. All of them were Howling Banshees that were crushed together into one form, stretched and flattened and yet still possessing enough life to suffer.
The beating heart of the leviathan, the putrid core of the Ro-Druk.
Surrounding it was a phalanx of warriors, and around them were crystal statues that each depicted Mathlann in a different state. In the beginning with the Eldar, in battle against the Yngir, his role in the conflict that Khaine had made his hands eternally blood-stained, and finally as he bowed and joined hands with the Dark Prince. Ritual-masters stood above in sacrificial circles, already channelling terrible curses to stopping whatever you planned.
Faster than anyone else can react, you strike the heart. Jainas Mor is thrown with all the might you can summon, the triskele flying across the room until it hits its mark. Black flame coursing across the flesh of your fallen followers, granting them the only freedom you could offer as the core of Mathlann's hold over Iybraesil bursts into fire and every cultists in the room immediately reacts with anger and absolute terror.
The abyssal flesh you stood on as you caught the bladed weapon in your hand again, the terrible organic material that covered or made up the walls and ceiling and countless areas in and around the Craftworld, shook violently. Parts erupting with the same black flame the core was now burning with, the living extension of the traitor god's power writhing in agony as it burned away before your eyes.
A roar echoes across Iybraesil, a low and terrible sound that was so loud that it ceased to be noise at all. An explosion of thunder that vibrated across the entire vessel, a desperate and primal noise of the dying beast. Echoed by the crystal its withering flesh was still attached to, and by the creature's terrible master who's horrified wailing pierced through everything. A sharp sound that scratched into your mind, into the minds of everything around you, that shook your very souls.
The warriors, priests and other followers within the chamber have all fallen. Channelled spells have either dissipated or backfired, holy symbols have been twisted and torn, near lifeless bodies fall to the ground in response to their worst nightmare was made manifest. Some of them were charred into ash, as the lightning of the Ro-Druk flailed.
Passing that is almost a feeling of relief. The weight of corruption was already beginning to lift from a heavy, brutal shroud into something more breathable. Clearer to think and feel. No longer ensnared into a hellish prison, the innards of a vast leviathan.
The relief is short-lived as two things happen at once.
The first was the sensation of falling. The Craftworld was caught betwixt realms and was now forced out of one and into the other, fully manifesting over the skies of Shamballa. Engines dead, systems sluggish, all anchors and functions bound to Chaos now becoming weak and powerless. Iybraesil fell into the planet.
A tidal wave of impossible hate crashes into you directly, bringing you to your knees as the rest of your Aspect Shrine crumbles and loses composure. Even to compare it to the fury you channelled from Kaela Mensha Khaine would be a mistaken a hill to the tallest mountain. The feeling of being consumed by a star, crushed by a black hole, struck directly by a god.
You were drowning. Drowning in the rage that echoed in the dying screams of the leviathan. A voice speaking above what had once been billions of worshippers, filling every absence with further anger. Something that would reduce even the greatest Aeldari into a panicked animal, shrivelling against the sheer intent that was focused on them and only them.
This is what it was to be one who became the nemesis of a deity.
A shadow emerges from your clenched eyes, as you tried and failed to stand. A vision of standing within the wild, writhing abyss. Ancient fleets broken and formed into a crown of shipwrecks on a figure that stood above and beyond everything inside. On a throne in the calm eye of the endless storms was a tall warrior, an ancient lord, a king of daemons.
The towering figure of Mathlann, King of Storm and Sea, stood up from the throne before you. Two eyes that were as burning moons gazing down, shaking with more fury than what even most spawn of Chaos could be capable of. Judgement ready to be announced to the very Sea of Souls as a massive hand slowly rose, a face appearing with teeth grinding down together in rictus madness, a finger pointing to your very heart.
"DEATH."
The command is given just in time for the giant ship to crash into the earth. The force of it is enough to shock you awake, and stir the fallen Aspect Warriors all around you. Communications come to life as the native humans, and all Aeldari that stayed behind, are able to contact you once more.
Billions upon billions had died due to the plan, with all the daemons and cultists on the world free to wreak mayhem with you and so many Howling Banshees having left the battlefields, but with the Craftworld fully disabled the war was already turning around. The warriors of the Dark Prince had remained as they were, but almost every single one of the traitor god's forces had pivoted away from whatever they were doing to head to one target. The fallen Iybraesil.
Or more accurately, to kill you.
Reinforcements would try to come as soon as possible but even with the major advantages most of the fighting now had, it'd still take time and effort to push against the forces still there and the flooded landscapes to reach your position. It could take months before anyone on your side even reaches the Craftworld, let alone manages to navigate an army inside.
The war was coming to an end and, now more than ever, you were facing the full fury of a god.
You do your best to organise what remained of the Aspect Warriors that had come with you to barricade the area. Sealing as many entrances as possible, forming choke points and kill boxes, plugging every crack you could find to buy as much time as possible. You didn't have to last forever, just long enough.
The rest of the corrupted inhabitants within the ship are the first to arrive. They fight not just in anger, with had driven them further to madness, but in palpable desperation. Abandoning reason and tactics, even any hint of self-preservation, as they charged in wildly and focused purely on you. Mobs of fanatic sea dwellers that screamed your name, your title, your existence against Mathlann. More beast than person, whipped and burned as they were let loose on you.
Dark spirits and nightmarish vermin manifest from the still dying flesh of the leviathan, blind worms and abyssal insects leaping up after burrowing through the mass of organic material to leap at you and those around you. Giant unfolding maws strong enough to tear a head from a body, sharp spines that could pierce through armour and withstand a sword's strike.
Daemons manifested through any and all corpses that were left behind from the assaults that kept rising in number and intensity, forcing their dead hosts to fight once more no matter how badly they were cut down. Headless bodies twisting up, muscles tearing and bones breaking to land even a single strike a little quicker.
A few creatures from She Who Thirsts appear alongside the sea monsters, unwilling to allow a soul like yours to be taken to another god than their own if they could do anything about it. Champions of excess rushing and rapidly fighting with an intensity that matched the greatest of your followers, but could not compare to your skills as an Asurya that were honed further across this entire conflict.
Days pass in bloodshed, losses and the echoing cacophony of what felt like an endless tide of madness. Rituals were used from a distance to cast bolts of lightning, winds strong enough to strip flesh from bone, to try flooding you out of your defences. Dispersed by the collective screams of your warriors, they nevertheless drained yet more time and attention to deal with. There was no rest, none to even no moment to do anything other than fight and fight and fight.
Weeks pass and exhaustion visibly hangs over most of your warriors. The armies of Chaos were only building up their attacks. Supplies had been readied for a long assault, clear water and energising food, but not for much longer than this. Careful rationing has to be planned out at a time when you barely had any opportunity to think. Medicine had almost run out too. You could barely even keep track of how many enemies you had felled since taking out the heart.
More than a month passes by, feeling so quick and so long in the same timeless sense of battle. Your memories are a blur between corrupted faces, the open mouths of monsters trying to devour you, the weapons that you parried and the spells you had dodged. Word had arrived that most territories of Shamballa were becoming secure, as regiment after regiment all tried to rush to your location. The rain was clearing up in most places, the putrid water had lost most of its power, scarred lands able to heal instead of getting constantly worse. Even the vortex that had summoned the Prince of Pleasure's army had shrunk down, yet artillery barrages and missile fire hadn't done more than inflict light damage upon it.
You all just had to hold out longer. With far less warriors than normal able to defend, being forced to take rotating shifts just to ensure that everyone didn't collapse or die from exhaustion. You staying fully focused and dedicated at all times to the art of combat. A prayer constantly spoken for your order. A scream constantly unleashed against your foes. You couldn't lose now.
Time further warps around your mind as you bring destruction and death to the countless warriors that came before you. You become as Morai-Heg as you judge the fate of the mortal followers of Mathlann, condemning each and every single one to death. You become as Khaine as you wield your weapons as an extension of yourself, edges burning with rage as your cry out your own frustration and hatred against these daemons. You look into the eyes of the traitor god and you tell him that he will lose here.
The billowing presence of Mathlann roars out that a full tenth of his own power, energy and strength that he had coveted more than remaining by his own deific kin or his Aeldari children willing to be given away if anyone took your head. The declaration brings a final element to the legions you faced, from the greatest of the priests to the most lowliest of beasts. An unparalleled hunger to mix with bottomless rage and terror of failure.
The declaration is heard by the daemons of the Dark Prince, and while not truly directed to them the idea is too enticing to dismiss. Reports call out a warning that most warriors called on by She Who Thirsts suddenly disappeared, moments before portals all across the Craftworld open up as they charge. Almost the full force of Chaos that fought against Shamballa now targeted you specifically.
An age of bloodshed passes. The tide of madness howls, roars, shrieks as you scream with the song of a fallen empire, a broken people, a shining light against the darkness. A wall fell and you faced hundreds at a time, the only reason more didn't come was due to physical space preventing each foe from having the opportunity. As a body falls, two more take its place. You decide to kill with strategy, ensuring that a weaker opponent stands between you and the strongest.
But the fleeting idea is a mistake, as it assumes that a creature of Chaos would care for its allies more than a grand prize. A trident that was coursing with electricity, made from storms woven into a physical shape, is shoved through three other followers of Mathlann before its three prongs impale themselves into your chest. The next moment is a blinding, thoughtless moment of agony as lightning buries itself into your being. The blood of corrupted souls seeping into the wound.
With one hand do you muster all your strength to grasp the terrible trident, further sending debilitating shocks through your body, and then with all the pain and rage you felt did you unleash a psychic scream into everyone around you. The force of the shockwave causing everyone around you to be hurled backwards, armour shattering and flesh burning. You pushed forward through the opening and cut down everything in your way. You just needed more time.
Communications flare up more and more. Soldiers were already marching into the Craftworld, exchanging fire with the immense crowds of daemons and followers that kept trying to enter the fallen ship to reach you. The broken labyrinth of the interior hindered the push inside, with entire sections having turned to rubble or been flooded by corruptive water. It was nearly the end.
The enemy knew that their moment was passing by too, and their increasingly desperate need to kill you had reached untold heights as they all roared as one at your injury. Your strength had waned, your skill had reached its limit, you were slowing down. They come as a tide of flesh and swords, spears and teeth coming down upon you.
The Howling Banshees around you stand firmly as the barricades fall and the monsters surge in from all directions. A portal forcibly opened in the ceiling. Things that came from shadows and glittering light. The smallest pools of water or blood acting as a gateway. The dead flesh of the Ro-Druk animated by the sheer hatred and desire that filled the air. Your voice shakes as you constantly express your psychic power in the harsh songs of the Crone.
The dark armies fight in a distorted frenzy, yet somehow retained enough cohesion to work together enough to come closer and closer. Aspect Warriors stepping backwards bit by bit, when they weren't falling over or being dragged away to the butchering horde. Blood and remains had caked every surface and filled the environment with the aura of violent madness that permeated the followers of Chaos. You personally felt the weight of a god press down on you each moment you remained alive.
Until finally, after what must have been days of mindless struggle, you hear something in the far distance echo other than the maddening black tongue or the screams of a cultist. Not just a noise broadcasted to you, true noise. Soldiers fighting against the terrible, writhing monsters of Iybraesil. Other Howling Banshees and Aeldari that had come to save you all.
Hope blossomed in your chest as if Isha herself had planted the flower, and as everyone of your order roared in triumph together you knew that this was the end of the constant hordes. The last major remnants of Mathlann and She Who Thirsts being beaten here. The final push for all your efforts here in resisting this massive incursion.
You charge as one to the mass of doom and destruction, no longer as defenders but as those ready to feel victory. Vile energy, twisted bodies, jagged blades and pincers all break under your revitalised assault. Closer now were the Shamballan soldiers, closer than even them were the first Exarchs that practically leapt into the fray.
Finally joined by reinforcements, the army of Chaos is beset on both sides and rapidly falters as the tide finally turns against them. Leaders cut down by your hand, all their followers brought low by your warriors. The rest scatter away around the Craftworld, either by foot or by psychic tears in reality. A welcome reprieve after so much combat and death
Many Aspect Warriors that had joined you in your mission fully collapse as the constant tension and focus abated, some unable to even remain conscious with how tired they had been. You kept yourself standing as you shared all your efforts in fallen Iybraesil, able to actually take stock of the situation, while news of the wider war is able to be digested.
Almost every single battlefield had been either won by the efforts of the Shamballans, or been reduced in intensity by several orders of magnitude at the very least. The skies were clear and efforts were already underway to purify the land and formerly clear water sources around major human settlements. Most of the remaining enemies were detected here in the fallen ship, aside from however many cultists old and new that were still hiding around the world.
While you ordered all your tired and injured followers to be taken back for rest and healing, those fallen to go with them so that they might be treated with respect, you stayed for a few days longer to lead efforts in fully retaking the Craftworld. Fighting, leading, navigating. You brought a quick end to the stragglers and animals that tried to run or put up a last stand when pushed to a corner..
A few corrupted Bonesingers had been doing their best to sabotage entire systems of the vast ship. Twisting Wraithbone and flesh imbued with Chaos energy, trying to reshape viscera of the leviathan-shell that you had burned away. A final act of spite in a losing war. To turn this place into an unsalvageable wreck. Perhaps having it collapse while you were all still inside. You had taken their heads and sliced their hearts before they could have a chance.
Nearly a week had passed since aid had arrived before you allowed yourself to finally leave this place, being the last of the initial group sent to board the ship-beast. Barely hearing reports that repairs could still be done to the fallen vessel. To have your armour mended, to have some rest after all the fighting, seemed like a wonderful idea. Something like sleep taking you as you rested on the transport craft.
In your half-dream, lucid and ready for battle even in this state, you caught another glimpse of the traitor god. The vast form shrouded by the dark sea, the tendrils of abyssal sludge that writhed in maddened hatred, the intense feeling of undying rage that was directed to you. Yet unlike every time before, it felt more distant. Just a vision rather than an overbearing presence.
The figure shifts before your eyes. A giant hand trying to reach you, to crush you or take you away, but it never seemed to truly come close. Grasping at empty air, only able to claw towards you.
You awaken to the roars of a crowd, hands to your weapons as you leapt up. Slowly relaxing as you realised they were the sounds of celebration, of two people united in the capital city.
Human flags flew in the wind. Music was practically dancing across the buildings. Broadcasts delivered in the native human tongue and then in Aeldari, impressively fluent considering how little time had passed to learn any of it.
Crowds of civilians that once had to hide away in their homes or in their work were now in the open. Not fearing corruption or a sudden attack from a daemon, no need to hide from the rain or the baleful wrath of the accursed storms. Soldiers stood at the ready for anything to happen, standing besides your Howling Banshees.
The fighting was not yet over, and perhaps it would be decades to fully cleanse the land and its people from the lingering taint of the incursion, but it was clear to everybody around you that the war was all but won. Despite all that was lost… you had all survived together.
You saw so many little pieces of life in the city, across the world, as the aircraft flew past. Shrines to Kaela Mensha Khaine, Morai-Heg, Asuryan, Isha and all the rest alongside the native temples that were build before this terrible incursion had happened. Food augmented by your people's science, able to provide the quality and quantity to keep everyone well-fed and happily so. Vibrant gardens that people were able to enjoy serene beauty, wellsprings of nature and life cultivated by two groups.
As transport landed and you stepped out to the world, seeing the celebrations emerge and feeling that joy and hope woven together, you felt something like peace in your heart.
Even though the war was almost over, the bonds it had forged were not. Shamballa and Iybraesil's people would walk whatever their future would be as one.
You are Jain Zar, Phoenix Lord of the Howling Banshees, and you witness the dawn of a new age.
1Holy sh!t this is a AWESOME epic in it's own right
2 now I'm honestly confused how Jain zar didn't become a daemonsbane in her own right after all the crazy stuff she did with how she managed to beat both Mathlann and even Slaanesh at the end
Though now I'm curious how and when did the Phoenix Lords even end up in the Warp ?
Also now that I'm thinking about it I wonder how strong the Phoenix Lords of this quest are compared to their Cannon timeline self's
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TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
Basically, the main reason is Kesar Dorlin. Due to already possessing the mantle of Daemonsbane, the requirements for anyone else to get it became astronomically unlikely as he did everything he was doing until he became Anathema at the end of the Maelstrom war, whereupon the requirements went right down due to Kesar no longer being 'absurdly good Daemonsbane' and more 'absurdly good Anathema who is also a Daemonsbane'. That's why all his greatest sons were also able to become Daemonsbanes too.
Unfortunately for Jain Zar, and Fuegan, this happened after they had already accomplished their amazing victories against Chaos. The only Phoenix Lord likely to gain Daemonsbane right now is Asurmen himself, assuming he manages to break free from Tzeentch's realm.
That is also, much more indirectly, because of Kesar Dorlin (and Alpharius Omegon, Perturabo etc. etc.) due to causing Tzeentch a massive amount of trouble. Due to losing a critical amount of energy to the point where they were legitimately at risk of no longer being a major player, the Chaos God used one of their 'special super abilities that they cannot restore upon use' (emergency buttons). This one specifically allowed the Changer of Ways to retcon almost anything (within reason).
This retcon ability turned a very powerful, influential Farseer who was Eldrad's rival, known as Baraban who was already an absolute jerk. This caused most Craftworlds and a lot of Exodite Worlds to then become filled with other Eldar corrupted by Baraban which let said worlds become directly taken into the Warp and most souls straight to Tzeentch. The Phoenix Lords happened to be on said Craftworlds/affected by this Second Fall of the Eldar.
Sidenote, this is why Asurmen is in Tzeentch's realm.
If I may ask like how unlikely are we talking?
Like what kind of Grand feet would they have had to accomplish?
. . . Now I'm really curious how archetypes work in this quest
wait does that mean as his sons become more powerful as daemonsbanes
will it become harder and harder for new daemonsbanes to appear?
And how would a daemonsbane getting corrupted by chaos effect this sort of thing?
. . . I wonder if the clown knows about this and if he holds a grudge (I'm joking . . . Mostly)
If I may ask How many Phoenix Lords are still trapped in the warp?
Honestly I wonder how that would affect the warp and which chaos God would be in the best position to become the new major player
I'm honestly curious if there's a lore explanation in this quest on how they got these abilities and why they are not able to get them back
Are they agreements between the chaos Gods allowing them to call on each other's power like how Mathlann had an agreement with Slaanesh?
This actually reminds me of something I've been wondering about are there any maiden world's left?
Or have they all been destroyed or corrupted?
And are there any uncorrupted craft worlds left besides Ulthwé?
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
While I'm not DaemonHunter, I think the best way to put it is imagine what Kesar had to do to become Anathema, and that's basically how hard it was for anyone else to gain Daemonsbane while Kesar already had it.
No, his sons being more powerful won't really affect anything. The domain has already spread for now. Can't have a dam matter much when everything is flooded, so to speak.
For a Chaos Daemonsbane... likely the effect would be a: this no longer counts for people like it did before. Chaos plays by its own rules, which is not great for the most part but for something like this would probably not affect much due to the narrative of 'someone against Chaos' can't be fully held by Chaos.
Well, actually, I suppose right now it opens more opportunities for future Chaos Daemonsbanes, but given how the Eternal Wardens who gain that already have Narrative CR and the other most likely people to gain it are the Phoenix Lords or someone like Eldrad? I'd say we're fine.
Honestly, this would require a full post to go into everything that happened to each of them. As well as explaining each of the original created ones, or expanded canon ones that have next to know information on them.
For just the ones in the Warp right now:
Asurmen, the Hand of Asuryan. Founder of the Asurya, those who would become the Phoenix Lords, and master of the Dire Avengers. Believing himself and his order to be essentially the last of the Aeldari, due to the trickery of Tzeentch, he now wages a last stand of vengeance against the Changer of Ways as he invades the Chaos God's domain with an army of Dire Avengers, a dozen Shards of Khaine and himself.
-The Chaos God has decided to use Asurmen in a similar way to how the Well of Eternity was used, i.e. sending various Lords of Change against him to die with the survivors getting stronger and stronger until one finally takes him down.
Baharroth, Cry of the Wind. Founder of the Swooping Hawks. Trapped in the Eye of Terror, his Craftworld was quickly lost under the invasion of a Khornate Berserker known as Trarkh who took over the ship. Except the entire Craftworld was a trap from Baharroth, turning the whole thing into a specially created battlefield where him and his Aspect Shrine killed every daemon inside aside from Trarkh who managed to escape with an Eldar relic. Baharroth proceeded to hunt down, repeatedly banish to the point the daemon regretted everything it did and then finally inflict true death on Trarkh in half a year. Currently focused on repairing their Craftworld now.
-Trarkh in canon appears to be a Chaos Space Marine leader, who in here is a daemon instead? And may have already killed Baharroth's home Craftworld? Timeline is a little unclear.
Irillyth, the Shade of Twilight. Founder of the Shadow Spectres. Was attacked by Baraban and four other Eldar Honoured Daemon Princes of Tzeentch. Died along with their Aspect Shrine after killing one of the Honoured Daemon Princes. While able to be revived if somebody finds him, the act must be done on a daemon world.
-Had a conversation with Asurmen as he died. This has unfortunately only reinforced the determination of the latter in their assault.
Maugan Ra, the Harvester of Souls. Founder of the Dark Reapers. Currently he's trapped in the Eye of Terror's edge, in some sort of time vortex, and is barely outrunning it as it seeks to take him.
Amon Harakht, Warboss of Kunnin'. Founder of the Eagle Pilots. Trapped in the Blood and Thunder War, he has been subjective centuries fighting unending tides of Khornates and then unending tides of Orks. Had repeatedly died and then been resurrected by the Eldar around him. Craftworld was destroyed over the course of the battle. This constant struggle suddenly shifted when Gharkul Blackfang, one of the two Apex Orks at the time and second strongest Ork alive and already strong enough to beat back three Astartes Legions and their Primarchs in canon, suddenly arrived to see what was happening with rumours of some undying Eldar and if it would be a fun fight.
With Gharkul Blackfang indeed finding it fun as, while fighting them, Amon kept redirecting massive hordes of Khornates against the Ork, which was considered to be an amazing display of friendship. Then, later on, Br'Odural the Headsman (the same Exalted of Khorne that attacked Aetaos'rau'keres during the Battle of Three Stars) arrived to attack the Apex Ork. After beaten Blackfang to near death, miraculously the Ork managed to win right at the end and banish the daemon back into the Warp. However with him being so injured, and the war in general being so heavily matched on both sides on the world, Amon rushed in and killed Gharkul Blackfang which dispersed his Waaagh to various different parties... including, very minorly, the Phoenix Lord himself!
-Amon's Waaagh is currently made up of 20,000 Kommandos.
Lhykosidae, the Wraith Spider. Founder of the Warp Spiders. Craftworld landed in the Blood and Thunder War and suffered a temporal ritual that distorted time to the point it ripped apart almost everyone inside, and caused almost all other survivors to be killed by daemons. The Craftworld itself is intact, but landed in an extremely 'deep' part of the Warp that is beyond the sight of Eldrad and Cegorach, while the Phoenix Lord believes they might genuinely be the last Eldar alive. Ork looters constantly invade the Craftworld to try stealing whatever, and are constantly butchered by the Phoenix Lord.
-At least one Gretchin is kept alive, purely to help clean the Craftworld.
The Crimson Hunters Shrine. Probably has a Phoenix Lord, not really mentioned? Landed in the Brass Citadel of Khorne during an emergency escape manoeuvre to stop Lords of Change from taking the Infinity Circuit. Heavily decimated by the daemons, including a brief visit from Skulltaker himself, they seem to still be alive for now.
Aein Layr, the Implacable Vortex. Founder of the Slashing Serpents (which doesn't have an omake, but the idea was written about and carefully crafted in the Discord server and was thus accepted). An exceptional duellist focused on the purity of combat, to be untouchable, to basically be the guy from Sekiro. Nearly getting caught into a grand plan of Tzeentch, the Craftworld instead landed into the Garden of Nurgle. After butchering many Great Unclean Ones, she ends up matching an Exalted of Nurgle known as Bubondubon during the Ritual War (thanks for the help!), Nurgle himself personally took an interest and ended up capturing and trapping her besides Isha as a gift (secondary test subject) who will suffer just as Isha does.
-Assuming Isha breaks out, and Aein Layr joins her, the Phoenix Lord would likely become something akin to a (heavily militant) Everqueen of Isha.
Halya Anariel, the Radiance of Dusk. Founder of the Sovereign Slayers (an Aspect Shrine invented by Leon12431). Founded on Zahr-Tann, this Aspect Shrine is focused on decimating critical targets by using the perfect opportunity. The Craftworld was launched through the Warp into a time-locked area facing a three-way battle between hostile Dark Age of Technology human world and a different hostile force of Men of Iron. After managing to achieve a hard-won victory at great cost, they were launched back into the Warp and faced a significant Tzeentchian incursion while also facing multiple severe temporal distortions across the Craftworld (some places experiencing millennia worth of time, other places mere seconds).
-Slayed to return by Year 72.
Geheynn Mor, Denier of Death. Founder of the Ash Revenants (an aspect Shrine invented by Nicholas Brooks). Representing Khaine's aspect of survival, the Craftworld Ann-Enad suffered a Slaaneshi incursion lead by a powerful Daemon Prince known as Vassani the Cruel that was eventually fought off at great cost. Deep within the Warp, the Phoenix Lord leads the Craftworld through ancient, mystical and mostly forgotten paths laid out by Kurnous that had been twisted by Aeldari Dominion's fall and Slaanesh's birth. Finding and choosing a path of a great forest with a mystical hunter. A hunter that is more than a mere manifestation, and instead a Shard of Khaine empowered by the myth. After a brutal fight and more losses, the test is passed and the journey through the path is complete as the forest fades way.
-Slated to return by Year 85.
To gain an emergency button, you need to do or have something of immense narrative worth and have the power to use it/have it be the type of thing that can be 'used' rather than just something to have.
The Chaos Gods gained their emergency buttons by powerful narrative acts. Such as, say, Tzeentch managing to entrap Aetaos'rau'keres to their service when they were the true god of sorcery, which gave them the button to send Aetaos'rau'keres anywhere they wanted immediately (which was used in the Battle of Three Stars). Khorne winning the Blood and Thunder War would likely grant them a new button too. The Emperor of Mankind also gained such a button when the soul of Scafrir fought his way through the Warp to reach him, and that button is the ability to summon Scafrir again in a battle one time before he fades away.
Also, technically yes. The Four Chaos Gods each used a button together to scatter the Primarchs away from the Emperor, as an example of them collaborating.
There are many Maiden Worlds left, yes. Mostly unpopulated ones, but a few still have Eldar on them.
Aside from Ulthwe, and any Craftworlds still trapped in TLP or in canon or something like that Genestealer one, the ones free in the galaxy should be:
Iybraesil, with Jain Zar.
Zandros, formally with Zanduail of the Slicing Orbs and then stolen by Dark Eldar.
The Craftworld with Karandras.
The Craftworld with Drastanta.