- Location
- USA
This is what I choose since it fits the best for the legion.
-
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The Lost Primarch Quest
- Thread starter Daemon Hunter
- Start date
[] Slight bonus to Ravenloft's research rolls for the turn
Let's face it; there is a lot to go over.
[] Sachmis gains an extra action this turn
[] Corvus gains an additional action this turn
Sachmis is recovering and Corvus had to go to Terra/Sol to make sure he wasn't convicted of anything. I'm assuming then that they both had to or have to spend a dedicated action/social.
Let's face it; there is a lot to go over.
[] Sachmis gains an extra action this turn
[] Corvus gains an additional action this turn
Sachmis is recovering and Corvus had to go to Terra/Sol to make sure he wasn't convicted of anything. I'm assuming then that they both had to or have to spend a dedicated action/social.
[] -25% casualties among the Wardens as a whole this turn
Since I've already pick up a legion-wide hero trait gain boost for this turn and since Kesar will be sitting out the next two turns I figure this is better overall, especially since the Maelstrom is bound to be incredibly dangerous.
Since I've already pick up a legion-wide hero trait gain boost for this turn and since Kesar will be sitting out the next two turns I figure this is better overall, especially since the Maelstrom is bound to be incredibly dangerous.
- Location
- Kansas City area
[x] Write In: Send Oricarius back with a message of support for her schema provided that she take the feedback of your first captain seriously in matters of Warp Xenos and 'Warp Madness', as well as being willing to meet with Kesar at a later point when both schedules allow. Also offer a standing bounty for any STCs found by the Imperial Army in the Maelstrom for equal access on point of discovery.
A Good Problem
For context, the Unbound Empire recently rolled 91 followed by a 99. As of right now, they are drowning in money and need to do something about it.
---
A Good Problem
If you were to ask any human or any species that knew about Orks, you'd be hard-pressed to get an answer about how an Ork economy works. Most would say that the Greenskins were incapable of such things, too stupid or violent to even try, but like all things, the reality was much different and complicated.
The notion of money was a puzzling and abstract concept for the Orks, their understanding limited to the tangible and straightforward realm of Teef. As a fundamental part of their collective society, the value of Teef was ingrained in their genetic makeup. It was a currency that resonated with their primal instincts and desires.
For the Orks, the acquisition of Teef served a practical purpose. It was a means to obtain the weapons they cherished, such as Choppas and Shootas, which were essential tools of their brutal and warlike nature. Any self-respecting Ork saw no need to concern themselves with anything beyond accumulating sufficient Teef to acquire these prized possessions.
The concept of wealth accumulation or pursuing material comforts was entirely alien to the Orks because only in battle was there a means to enjoy themselves. They focused on the thrill of war, the joy of conquest, and the relentless pursuit of power. Fulfillment came in the form of visceral satisfaction of combat and the strength of their individual Waaagh!, rather than in accumulating wealth or possessions beyond something shiny or better.
To an Ork, the value of Teef lay in their utility as a means to survive, thrive, and dominate. Teef were the lifeblood of their society, the currency that facilitated their exchanges, and the measure of their status within their tribal hierarchy. It was a simple and straightforward system that resonated with the Orks' direct and often brutal approach to life.
So, while the concept of money may have been nebulous and abstract for the Orks, the value of Teef was clear and tangible. It embodied their collective understanding of wealth, even if their definition was limited to acquiring weapons and the raw power they represented. The pursuit of Teef remained a driving force in the Orks' lives, fueling their insatiable appetite for combat and conquest.
No one wanted to admit or realize that the Orks' understanding of money went no further than the average human in some ways. Just as humans sought money to acquire their wants and needs, the Orks pursued Teef for the same purpose. The actions of someone who spent their wages on indulgences like food, beer, and new items were no different from an Ork who did the same for squigg beer and a new gun.
In this sense, money played a similar role in human and Ork societies. It kept the world spinning, facilitating transactions and enabling individuals to obtain desired goods and services. While the motivations and specific items sought might differ, the fundamental concept of using currency to acquire resources and satisfy desires was shared.
Within the Blood and Thunder War context, money took on an additional significance for the Orks. It fueled their individual pursuits and played a crucial role in sustaining their war machine within the chaotic realm of the Warp. The relentless conflict demanded resources, and money served as a means to keep up with the demands of their intense battles.
And under the leadership of Warboss Ung Krava, the Unbound Empire thrived within this war economy, accumulating vast wealth and influence. Key figures within Krava's inner council, such as Loota-Lord Gunsmith, Grand-Admiral Starkilla, Big-General Puncha, and Green Prophet Bullet-Teef, were keen on capitalizing on the war and spreading the gospel of Kapitilsm (Capitalism) among their fellow Orks.
With their empire's manufacturing moon, Da Factory, at their disposal, they sold weapons, machines, ships, and services, leveraging their financial success to bolster their clan and extend their influence. They recognized the power of money to shape conflicts and offered opportunities for growth, innovation, and dominance within the vast alliances and cooperatives of the Blood and Thunder War.
As the Unbound Empire basked in their newfound wealth, an unexpected challenge emerged—one that would have surprised many: they found themselves drowning in Teef. The accumulation of money became so excessive that they struggled to find ways to spend it. Their fellow Orks were their primary clients, but the ongoing Blood and Thunder War had drained resources throughout the war-torn realms. Ung Krava, like every Ork in this war, desired victory against Khorne and his minions, but achieving that required acquiring more weapons and resources from outside the confines of the Warp.
However, this proved to be easier said than done. Most of the Ork species were already engaged in this unfathomable struggle against Khorne and his daemons, leaving few available for conventional "procurement" operations. The question then arose: What options were left for the Unbound Empire and, by extension, the Ork war effort?
With limited avenues for acquiring resources, the Unbound Empire had to navigate uncharted territory. Their surplus of Teef presented a unique challenge—converting their wealth into tangible advantages that would aid their war effort. They needed to seek unconventional solutions, exploring possibilities beyond typical Ork methods.
Ung Krava called upon his council to start coming up with ideas. Cunning ones at that, ones that required tact and departure from their traditional direct approach. In short, they had to find new buyers and sellers quickly. What good was all this money if you couldn't spend a single toof of it anywhere?
The solution struck like a thunderclap amidst the council's deliberations. "Wot if we sold shootas ta 'da 'umiez?" Loota-Lord Gunsmith boldly proposed, his eyes glinting with newfound inspiration. "Dey want guns, right?"
Ung Krava was confused. "Wot are ya talk'n about?" he questioned, trying to make sense of Gunsmith's audacious suggestion. Why would they consider selling weapons to the very foes they sought to conquer and dominate?
Gunsmith, undeterred, pressed on. "We got all 'dat teef, but noth'n ta spend it on. So if we can't loot anyth'n, why not turn da tables and buy stuff instead?"
Big-General Puncha boisterously chortled, unable to contain his amusement. "Ain't you supposed ta be 'da smart wun 'ere? 'umiez don't know 'ow ta use teef!" he guffawed, mocking Gunsmith's proposition.
But Gunsmith's eyes gleamed with unwavering conviction. "Listen 'ere, ya big git! We don't need 'umiez to know 'ow ta use teef. We just need 'em to know dat we want their shiny bits in exchange for our dakka. Let 'em figure out the rest!"
The council pondered the implications of their unorthodox plan. Selling weapons to their enemies seemed ridiculous initially, but a certain logic underscored the idea. However, as the discussion progressed, a new set of questions emerged. Who would be their customers, and what exactly would they sell?
Big-General Puncha raised his objection once more. "Wait a tick! Even if we sold 'umiez guns, choppas, and not-looted stuff, it ain't Orky!" His words struck a chord, resonating with Ork's deeply ingrained aversion to parting ways with anything they hadn't made or looted themselves. It went against the very essence of their being.
But then, Green Prophet Bullet-Teef interjected with a thought-provoking suggestion. "But wot if we don't sell Orky stuff, but 'umie stuff?" he proposed. "Can't we jus' make 'umie guns or somethin'?" The idea sparked intrigue among the council members, including Ung Krava himself. After all, if humans could use certain weapons, there was a chance Orks could produce them too.
However, a new obstacle loomed before them.
Ung Krava turned to his council, his gaze filled with expectation. "Do any uv ya know 'ow to make 'umie stuff work?" The ensuing silence provided the answer he had anticipated. "Thought as much," he muttered, acknowledging the lack of expertise within their ranks.
The realization was both a setback and a challenge. If the Unbound Empire was to embark on this unconventional venture, they needed knowledge and skills beyond their current scope. They would have to find a way to bridge the gap between their Orky nature and the intricacies of human technology.
Ung Krava's resolve remained unyielding as his council cheered and enthusiastically pounded their hands on the metal table in the meeting room. They reveled in the decisive call made by their warboss, always appreciating his unwavering leadership. Yet, amidst the jubilation, a lingering issue remained to be resolved.
"But we still gotta find a way ta get teef for all uv dis!" Ung Krava voiced his concern. "We got so much teef 'dat I saw a group uv snotlings carryin' a few off! Us Unbound boyz gotta spend teef if we want ta keep dis Waaaggghhhh! goin'!"
Once again, the council members decided to find a solution for their boss. It was Big-General Puncha who offered a suggestion this time. "Bullets! Golden Bullets! Silver Bullets!"
Gunsmith immediately retorted, "Dose ain't any good bullets!" His response was met with a stern glare from Puncha.
"Am I the only otha one 'round 'ere with any sort of vision aside from the boss?" Puncha exclaimed. "We paint 'da teef gold, tell all 'da boyz 'dat gold means shiny, and turn 'da golden teef into golden bullets! Use teef-bullets as both currency and ammo!" Ung Krava was taken aback by Puncha's proposal. Surprisingly, it held a clever and practical solution.
A grin spread across Ung Krava's face. "Puncha, ya cunnin git! Dat's actually a pretty good idea!" he commended, earning a satisfied nod from the Big-General. Using teef-bullets as a medium of exchange and ammunition resonated with the Orkish desire for efficiency and brutality.
The council members erupted into a mixture of boisterous laughter and approving grunts. They marveled at the brilliance of turning their abundant teef into golden bullets, a form of currency that spoke directly to the innate Ork love for shiny objects and firepower. With this innovative solution, the Unbound Empire had found a way to sustain their Waaaggghhhh! and ensure the flow of teef necessary for their ambitious plans.
Ung Krava raised his choppa high, silencing the room and commanding attention. "We'll paint da teef gold, forge 'em into bullets, and show da 'umiez and da world what it means to be an Ork!" he bellowed, his voice filled with Orky exhilaration. They had a plan, but now they had to carry it out.
"We jus gotta get all da non-unbound Boyz ta agree ta dis plan! Should be easy since we got all da teef an' loot!" Gunsmith laughed as the Unbound Empire could get every other Ork into believing in golden teef-bullets as a currency.
"I'll talk ta 'da otha bosses an overlords," Ung Krava declared confidently. Convincing them would be a task he relished, especially considering the prospect of acquiring more loot and weapons for the ongoing war. Once the deal with the Unbound Empire went through, he was determined to gauge each potential buyer's needs and desires.
Sometime later…
Engaging in business with Orks was inherently risky, Captain Sam Rao pondered as he waited at the designated meeting point. He found himself in the unusual position of meeting Orks, who had contacted him directly, expressing their desire to purchase munitions and technology he had acquired from a Mechanicum vessel.
Sam was no ordinary captain; he was a pirate of considerable notoriety. The Imperial Armada had placed a hefty bounty of 500 million thrones on his head, a fact that both annoyed and amused him. He couldn't help but feel slighted by the discrepancy, as he knew of other pirates with smaller rewards on their heads who achieved far less in their piratical endeavors. What was the point of being infamous if others managed to outshine him in reputation and rewards?
Well, no point in crying over spilled rotgut, Sam mused. Finding another buyer for stolen Mechanicum goods was nearly impossible, given the fear of reprisal from the cogboys. That was the beauty of conducting business with the greenskins. The Orks cared little whether you pilfered from a random Hive world or even from the sacred halls of Mars. While one couldn't necessarily command a premium price for the stolen goods, the Orks were always willing to buy the entire stock, no questions asked.
The Orks had become an enigma in recent years. The Freebootas had vanished, and many prominent clans and strongholds had gone silent. Having dealt with the Orks extensively, Sam had gained some insight into their peculiar ways and understood their priorities well. It seemed they were embroiled in a conflict with an unknown adversary. Whoever or whatever it was, it certainly wasn't the Imperium of Man.
As a result, the black market for sellers had become incredibly lucrative. You could offload old shuttle engines, and the Orks would snap them up without hesitation. Even scrap metal commanded a respectable price. The Orks paid for their purchases in items that held no inherent "value"—jewelry, exquisite paintings, cultural relics, etc. The kind of treasures that would attract the interest of nobles or planetary governments.
Weapons and machinery were the most sought-after commodities, and Sam yearned to sell something looted from Astartes or Mechanicum armories. Alas, that risk was simply too great, even for a scoundrel like him. Why bother with a crate of bolters when he could trade several tons of promethium for a tidy profit?
Perhaps he should have questioned why the Orks had such a voracious appetite for these goods. Yet every time they arrived to make a purchase, they seemed ecstatic, exclaiming, "Business iz gud!" as one Freebooter had cheerfully declared. Besides, one didn't ask unnecessary questions when engaged in black market dealings. It was precisely why Sam had entered this line of work.
"Captain, it looks like a small fleet of Ork vessels has just arrived as scheduled," his second-in-command's voice crackled through the vox. The buy was still good to go.
A few days later…
The Ork he met, who went by the name Bombcatcha, approached Sam with all the bloodthirsty enthusiasm typical of his kind. Sam had long realized that Orks had a penchant for adopting names that straddled the line between menacing and absurd, but no one dared mock them.
Bombcatcha wasn't interested in peddling any Orky wares. He had come to peruse the offerings of Sam and his band of scoundrels. The Red Jackals, Sam's "infamous" pirate clan, boasted an array of odds and ends, but their recent score from the Mechanicum ship was quite unique—a haul of nearly a quarter million Ambots. It wasn't the most glamorous find for Sam's taste, but he had a hunch that the Orks would find a use for the mechanical monstrosities.
And indeed, Bombcatcha expressed his eagerness to purchase every one of them. Stars and Light Above, there was no room for haggling with these greenskins. Sam could set the price, but he knew better than to think he could outsmart them. It was best to play by their rules, secure his payment, and swiftly exit.
When the time came for Bombcatcha to deliver his payment, Sam expected the usual arrangement—a review of the goods, followed by the transfer of the agreed-upon compensation. However, this time, the Ork had something different in mind. He ordered a group of Gretchin to haul a massive ammo box toward Sam.
"This ere iz part uv 'da teef for today an' how all 'changes will be paid from now on." Bombcatcha proclaimed, a toothy grin spreading across his face.
Sam's dissatisfaction was palpable. "I don't want or need bullets," he retorted, frustration lacing his words. Unless the ammo consisted solely of bolter rounds, it held little value to him. "Just give me the usual goods—gems, paintings, the things we agreed upon."
Bombcatcha shook his head in apparent disbelief. "I ain't got none o' dem," he explained with a hint of impatience. "Payin' ya wit' teef-bullets!" Sam sighed in exasperation. Here they go again. It seemed he had to go through the same conversation repeatedly, explaining that "Teef" held no value outside of the Ork community. To anyone else, this ammunition was utterly worthless.
"I'm not accepting teef, so either give me something valuable, or the deal is off," Sam declared firmly, his guards preparing themselves for a potential confrontation. The Orks on the other side didn't appear pleased, but rather than becoming furious, Bombcatcha burst into laughter. He grabbed the ammo box and forcefully ripped open the top.
"Ya want somethin' valuable? Take a look 'ere," Bombcatcha taunted, causing the teef-bullets to spill onto the ground. A few daring Gretchin attempted to seize some of them right then and there, but Bombcatcha swiftly crushed one underfoot, sending the others scurrying away. It was a resounding success if his intention was to intimidate Sam and his guards.
As Sam gazed down at the scattered mess of teef-bullets, he felt curious and confused. "What the...?" The projectiles were incredibly peculiar, a distinct characteristic of the Orks. Somehow, they had affixed an Ork tooth to the casing, with the tooth as the bullet. And judging by the weight, there was gunpowder contained within.
Yet, it wasn't the nature of the ammunition that perplexed Sam. It was the fact that the teeth were made of solid gold. As he examined the others strewn about, he noticed various metals and minerals—silver, platinum, adamantine, copper, and pearl. An Ork tooth was substantial, larger than a man's thumb and thicker than an Ogryn's index finger.
With thousands of rounds, each possessing a valuable mineral or substance, and the realization that there were likely more to come as payment, Sam started to see the appeal of this unconventional currency. "Alright... you've made your point. The deal is still on."
"Hehe, pleasure do'n business wit' ya again." Bombcatcha started yelling for his boys to start getting the payment sent to the usual deposit point. Sam ordered his men to start getting everything loaded on the Ork shuttles. Thankfully they had enough experience and brains to not cause a ruckus.
As Sam pondered the teef-bullet in his hands, he couldn't help but be intrigued by the Orks' sudden development of their currency. What were the greenskins up to that prompted this unconventional shift? It was a perplexing thought but one he quickly dismissed. Figuring out the motives of Orks was someone else's problem. For now, his main concern was how to offload these teef-bullets.
"By the way, the bosses need humies who can make stuff. Guns, weapons, machinery—you name it. We'll trade a lot more teef for these teef-bullets if you bring 'em next time," Bombcatcha informed him.
Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Looking for slaves?"
"Eh, slaves or kontractors. Either works," Bombcatcha replied with a nonchalant shrug before going off to yell at some of his boys. Contracted workers…for Orks? Just what was happening to the galaxy?
Sam promised that after the next big haul, he would find a place for him and Red Jackals to lay low for a while. This was clearly a sign that shit would go down in the galaxy: one way or another, best to stay out of the way of the fan.
---
@Daemon Hunter Okay, quick omake.
---
A Good Problem
If you were to ask any human or any species that knew about Orks, you'd be hard-pressed to get an answer about how an Ork economy works. Most would say that the Greenskins were incapable of such things, too stupid or violent to even try, but like all things, the reality was much different and complicated.
The notion of money was a puzzling and abstract concept for the Orks, their understanding limited to the tangible and straightforward realm of Teef. As a fundamental part of their collective society, the value of Teef was ingrained in their genetic makeup. It was a currency that resonated with their primal instincts and desires.
For the Orks, the acquisition of Teef served a practical purpose. It was a means to obtain the weapons they cherished, such as Choppas and Shootas, which were essential tools of their brutal and warlike nature. Any self-respecting Ork saw no need to concern themselves with anything beyond accumulating sufficient Teef to acquire these prized possessions.
The concept of wealth accumulation or pursuing material comforts was entirely alien to the Orks because only in battle was there a means to enjoy themselves. They focused on the thrill of war, the joy of conquest, and the relentless pursuit of power. Fulfillment came in the form of visceral satisfaction of combat and the strength of their individual Waaagh!, rather than in accumulating wealth or possessions beyond something shiny or better.
To an Ork, the value of Teef lay in their utility as a means to survive, thrive, and dominate. Teef were the lifeblood of their society, the currency that facilitated their exchanges, and the measure of their status within their tribal hierarchy. It was a simple and straightforward system that resonated with the Orks' direct and often brutal approach to life.
So, while the concept of money may have been nebulous and abstract for the Orks, the value of Teef was clear and tangible. It embodied their collective understanding of wealth, even if their definition was limited to acquiring weapons and the raw power they represented. The pursuit of Teef remained a driving force in the Orks' lives, fueling their insatiable appetite for combat and conquest.
No one wanted to admit or realize that the Orks' understanding of money went no further than the average human in some ways. Just as humans sought money to acquire their wants and needs, the Orks pursued Teef for the same purpose. The actions of someone who spent their wages on indulgences like food, beer, and new items were no different from an Ork who did the same for squigg beer and a new gun.
In this sense, money played a similar role in human and Ork societies. It kept the world spinning, facilitating transactions and enabling individuals to obtain desired goods and services. While the motivations and specific items sought might differ, the fundamental concept of using currency to acquire resources and satisfy desires was shared.
Within the Blood and Thunder War context, money took on an additional significance for the Orks. It fueled their individual pursuits and played a crucial role in sustaining their war machine within the chaotic realm of the Warp. The relentless conflict demanded resources, and money served as a means to keep up with the demands of their intense battles.
And under the leadership of Warboss Ung Krava, the Unbound Empire thrived within this war economy, accumulating vast wealth and influence. Key figures within Krava's inner council, such as Loota-Lord Gunsmith, Grand-Admiral Starkilla, Big-General Puncha, and Green Prophet Bullet-Teef, were keen on capitalizing on the war and spreading the gospel of Kapitilsm (Capitalism) among their fellow Orks.
With their empire's manufacturing moon, Da Factory, at their disposal, they sold weapons, machines, ships, and services, leveraging their financial success to bolster their clan and extend their influence. They recognized the power of money to shape conflicts and offered opportunities for growth, innovation, and dominance within the vast alliances and cooperatives of the Blood and Thunder War.
As the Unbound Empire basked in their newfound wealth, an unexpected challenge emerged—one that would have surprised many: they found themselves drowning in Teef. The accumulation of money became so excessive that they struggled to find ways to spend it. Their fellow Orks were their primary clients, but the ongoing Blood and Thunder War had drained resources throughout the war-torn realms. Ung Krava, like every Ork in this war, desired victory against Khorne and his minions, but achieving that required acquiring more weapons and resources from outside the confines of the Warp.
However, this proved to be easier said than done. Most of the Ork species were already engaged in this unfathomable struggle against Khorne and his daemons, leaving few available for conventional "procurement" operations. The question then arose: What options were left for the Unbound Empire and, by extension, the Ork war effort?
With limited avenues for acquiring resources, the Unbound Empire had to navigate uncharted territory. Their surplus of Teef presented a unique challenge—converting their wealth into tangible advantages that would aid their war effort. They needed to seek unconventional solutions, exploring possibilities beyond typical Ork methods.
Ung Krava called upon his council to start coming up with ideas. Cunning ones at that, ones that required tact and departure from their traditional direct approach. In short, they had to find new buyers and sellers quickly. What good was all this money if you couldn't spend a single toof of it anywhere?
The solution struck like a thunderclap amidst the council's deliberations. "Wot if we sold shootas ta 'da 'umiez?" Loota-Lord Gunsmith boldly proposed, his eyes glinting with newfound inspiration. "Dey want guns, right?"
Ung Krava was confused. "Wot are ya talk'n about?" he questioned, trying to make sense of Gunsmith's audacious suggestion. Why would they consider selling weapons to the very foes they sought to conquer and dominate?
Gunsmith, undeterred, pressed on. "We got all 'dat teef, but noth'n ta spend it on. So if we can't loot anyth'n, why not turn da tables and buy stuff instead?"
Big-General Puncha boisterously chortled, unable to contain his amusement. "Ain't you supposed ta be 'da smart wun 'ere? 'umiez don't know 'ow ta use teef!" he guffawed, mocking Gunsmith's proposition.
But Gunsmith's eyes gleamed with unwavering conviction. "Listen 'ere, ya big git! We don't need 'umiez to know 'ow ta use teef. We just need 'em to know dat we want their shiny bits in exchange for our dakka. Let 'em figure out the rest!"
The council pondered the implications of their unorthodox plan. Selling weapons to their enemies seemed ridiculous initially, but a certain logic underscored the idea. However, as the discussion progressed, a new set of questions emerged. Who would be their customers, and what exactly would they sell?
Big-General Puncha raised his objection once more. "Wait a tick! Even if we sold 'umiez guns, choppas, and not-looted stuff, it ain't Orky!" His words struck a chord, resonating with Ork's deeply ingrained aversion to parting ways with anything they hadn't made or looted themselves. It went against the very essence of their being.
But then, Green Prophet Bullet-Teef interjected with a thought-provoking suggestion. "But wot if we don't sell Orky stuff, but 'umie stuff?" he proposed. "Can't we jus' make 'umie guns or somethin'?" The idea sparked intrigue among the council members, including Ung Krava himself. After all, if humans could use certain weapons, there was a chance Orks could produce them too.
However, a new obstacle loomed before them.
Ung Krava turned to his council, his gaze filled with expectation. "Do any uv ya know 'ow to make 'umie stuff work?" The ensuing silence provided the answer he had anticipated. "Thought as much," he muttered, acknowledging the lack of expertise within their ranks.
The realization was both a setback and a challenge. If the Unbound Empire was to embark on this unconventional venture, they needed knowledge and skills beyond their current scope. They would have to find a way to bridge the gap between their Orky nature and the intricacies of human technology.
Ung Krava's resolve remained unyielding as his council cheered and enthusiastically pounded their hands on the metal table in the meeting room. They reveled in the decisive call made by their warboss, always appreciating his unwavering leadership. Yet, amidst the jubilation, a lingering issue remained to be resolved.
"But we still gotta find a way ta get teef for all uv dis!" Ung Krava voiced his concern. "We got so much teef 'dat I saw a group uv snotlings carryin' a few off! Us Unbound boyz gotta spend teef if we want ta keep dis Waaaggghhhh! goin'!"
Once again, the council members decided to find a solution for their boss. It was Big-General Puncha who offered a suggestion this time. "Bullets! Golden Bullets! Silver Bullets!"
Gunsmith immediately retorted, "Dose ain't any good bullets!" His response was met with a stern glare from Puncha.
"Am I the only otha one 'round 'ere with any sort of vision aside from the boss?" Puncha exclaimed. "We paint 'da teef gold, tell all 'da boyz 'dat gold means shiny, and turn 'da golden teef into golden bullets! Use teef-bullets as both currency and ammo!" Ung Krava was taken aback by Puncha's proposal. Surprisingly, it held a clever and practical solution.
A grin spread across Ung Krava's face. "Puncha, ya cunnin git! Dat's actually a pretty good idea!" he commended, earning a satisfied nod from the Big-General. Using teef-bullets as a medium of exchange and ammunition resonated with the Orkish desire for efficiency and brutality.
The council members erupted into a mixture of boisterous laughter and approving grunts. They marveled at the brilliance of turning their abundant teef into golden bullets, a form of currency that spoke directly to the innate Ork love for shiny objects and firepower. With this innovative solution, the Unbound Empire had found a way to sustain their Waaaggghhhh! and ensure the flow of teef necessary for their ambitious plans.
Ung Krava raised his choppa high, silencing the room and commanding attention. "We'll paint da teef gold, forge 'em into bullets, and show da 'umiez and da world what it means to be an Ork!" he bellowed, his voice filled with Orky exhilaration. They had a plan, but now they had to carry it out.
"We jus gotta get all da non-unbound Boyz ta agree ta dis plan! Should be easy since we got all da teef an' loot!" Gunsmith laughed as the Unbound Empire could get every other Ork into believing in golden teef-bullets as a currency.
"I'll talk ta 'da otha bosses an overlords," Ung Krava declared confidently. Convincing them would be a task he relished, especially considering the prospect of acquiring more loot and weapons for the ongoing war. Once the deal with the Unbound Empire went through, he was determined to gauge each potential buyer's needs and desires.
Sometime later…
Engaging in business with Orks was inherently risky, Captain Sam Rao pondered as he waited at the designated meeting point. He found himself in the unusual position of meeting Orks, who had contacted him directly, expressing their desire to purchase munitions and technology he had acquired from a Mechanicum vessel.
Sam was no ordinary captain; he was a pirate of considerable notoriety. The Imperial Armada had placed a hefty bounty of 500 million thrones on his head, a fact that both annoyed and amused him. He couldn't help but feel slighted by the discrepancy, as he knew of other pirates with smaller rewards on their heads who achieved far less in their piratical endeavors. What was the point of being infamous if others managed to outshine him in reputation and rewards?
Well, no point in crying over spilled rotgut, Sam mused. Finding another buyer for stolen Mechanicum goods was nearly impossible, given the fear of reprisal from the cogboys. That was the beauty of conducting business with the greenskins. The Orks cared little whether you pilfered from a random Hive world or even from the sacred halls of Mars. While one couldn't necessarily command a premium price for the stolen goods, the Orks were always willing to buy the entire stock, no questions asked.
The Orks had become an enigma in recent years. The Freebootas had vanished, and many prominent clans and strongholds had gone silent. Having dealt with the Orks extensively, Sam had gained some insight into their peculiar ways and understood their priorities well. It seemed they were embroiled in a conflict with an unknown adversary. Whoever or whatever it was, it certainly wasn't the Imperium of Man.
As a result, the black market for sellers had become incredibly lucrative. You could offload old shuttle engines, and the Orks would snap them up without hesitation. Even scrap metal commanded a respectable price. The Orks paid for their purchases in items that held no inherent "value"—jewelry, exquisite paintings, cultural relics, etc. The kind of treasures that would attract the interest of nobles or planetary governments.
Weapons and machinery were the most sought-after commodities, and Sam yearned to sell something looted from Astartes or Mechanicum armories. Alas, that risk was simply too great, even for a scoundrel like him. Why bother with a crate of bolters when he could trade several tons of promethium for a tidy profit?
Perhaps he should have questioned why the Orks had such a voracious appetite for these goods. Yet every time they arrived to make a purchase, they seemed ecstatic, exclaiming, "Business iz gud!" as one Freebooter had cheerfully declared. Besides, one didn't ask unnecessary questions when engaged in black market dealings. It was precisely why Sam had entered this line of work.
"Captain, it looks like a small fleet of Ork vessels has just arrived as scheduled," his second-in-command's voice crackled through the vox. The buy was still good to go.
A few days later…
The Ork he met, who went by the name Bombcatcha, approached Sam with all the bloodthirsty enthusiasm typical of his kind. Sam had long realized that Orks had a penchant for adopting names that straddled the line between menacing and absurd, but no one dared mock them.
Bombcatcha wasn't interested in peddling any Orky wares. He had come to peruse the offerings of Sam and his band of scoundrels. The Red Jackals, Sam's "infamous" pirate clan, boasted an array of odds and ends, but their recent score from the Mechanicum ship was quite unique—a haul of nearly a quarter million Ambots. It wasn't the most glamorous find for Sam's taste, but he had a hunch that the Orks would find a use for the mechanical monstrosities.
And indeed, Bombcatcha expressed his eagerness to purchase every one of them. Stars and Light Above, there was no room for haggling with these greenskins. Sam could set the price, but he knew better than to think he could outsmart them. It was best to play by their rules, secure his payment, and swiftly exit.
When the time came for Bombcatcha to deliver his payment, Sam expected the usual arrangement—a review of the goods, followed by the transfer of the agreed-upon compensation. However, this time, the Ork had something different in mind. He ordered a group of Gretchin to haul a massive ammo box toward Sam.
"This ere iz part uv 'da teef for today an' how all 'changes will be paid from now on." Bombcatcha proclaimed, a toothy grin spreading across his face.
Sam's dissatisfaction was palpable. "I don't want or need bullets," he retorted, frustration lacing his words. Unless the ammo consisted solely of bolter rounds, it held little value to him. "Just give me the usual goods—gems, paintings, the things we agreed upon."
Bombcatcha shook his head in apparent disbelief. "I ain't got none o' dem," he explained with a hint of impatience. "Payin' ya wit' teef-bullets!" Sam sighed in exasperation. Here they go again. It seemed he had to go through the same conversation repeatedly, explaining that "Teef" held no value outside of the Ork community. To anyone else, this ammunition was utterly worthless.
"I'm not accepting teef, so either give me something valuable, or the deal is off," Sam declared firmly, his guards preparing themselves for a potential confrontation. The Orks on the other side didn't appear pleased, but rather than becoming furious, Bombcatcha burst into laughter. He grabbed the ammo box and forcefully ripped open the top.
"Ya want somethin' valuable? Take a look 'ere," Bombcatcha taunted, causing the teef-bullets to spill onto the ground. A few daring Gretchin attempted to seize some of them right then and there, but Bombcatcha swiftly crushed one underfoot, sending the others scurrying away. It was a resounding success if his intention was to intimidate Sam and his guards.
As Sam gazed down at the scattered mess of teef-bullets, he felt curious and confused. "What the...?" The projectiles were incredibly peculiar, a distinct characteristic of the Orks. Somehow, they had affixed an Ork tooth to the casing, with the tooth as the bullet. And judging by the weight, there was gunpowder contained within.
Yet, it wasn't the nature of the ammunition that perplexed Sam. It was the fact that the teeth were made of solid gold. As he examined the others strewn about, he noticed various metals and minerals—silver, platinum, adamantine, copper, and pearl. An Ork tooth was substantial, larger than a man's thumb and thicker than an Ogryn's index finger.
With thousands of rounds, each possessing a valuable mineral or substance, and the realization that there were likely more to come as payment, Sam started to see the appeal of this unconventional currency. "Alright... you've made your point. The deal is still on."
"Hehe, pleasure do'n business wit' ya again." Bombcatcha started yelling for his boys to start getting the payment sent to the usual deposit point. Sam ordered his men to start getting everything loaded on the Ork shuttles. Thankfully they had enough experience and brains to not cause a ruckus.
As Sam pondered the teef-bullet in his hands, he couldn't help but be intrigued by the Orks' sudden development of their currency. What were the greenskins up to that prompted this unconventional shift? It was a perplexing thought but one he quickly dismissed. Figuring out the motives of Orks was someone else's problem. For now, his main concern was how to offload these teef-bullets.
"By the way, the bosses need humies who can make stuff. Guns, weapons, machinery—you name it. We'll trade a lot more teef for these teef-bullets if you bring 'em next time," Bombcatcha informed him.
Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Looking for slaves?"
"Eh, slaves or kontractors. Either works," Bombcatcha replied with a nonchalant shrug before going off to yell at some of his boys. Contracted workers…for Orks? Just what was happening to the galaxy?
Sam promised that after the next big haul, he would find a place for him and Red Jackals to lay low for a while. This was clearly a sign that shit would go down in the galaxy: one way or another, best to stay out of the way of the fan.
---
@Daemon Hunter Okay, quick omake.
Hmm...for like a box of bolter ammo? Probably like one mouthful of teef, but it has to be from at least a meganob sized Ork.
Bolter ammo is expensive for a reason.
Alright, another Q&A time.
16. Is their a reason all male blanks join Mals assassin's and all female the SOS or is it just an arbitrary way to guarantee both groups get the similar quality and quantity
A: MOre it's a quirk of genetics and the Imperium's legal system making it so that trans-men are classified as male so aren't scanned to see if they're eligible for the SoS
21. What's Leman doing for a first date?
A: For that, he's going to be going on a hunt with her. Mostly of not very dangerous animals
4. So if we send Maticus to that non Chaos daemonworld and he manages to kill the god there, would that make him a God Slayer?
A: Perhaps
12, Would the Masque count as an Exalted daemon for the Daemonsbane reqs.?
A: It wouldn't
19. do Primarchs who routinely interact with Eldar gain narrative boons to CR due to being so closely aligned with a faction that also fucking hates Chaos?
A: Not quite, more it's easier for them to get CR upgrades
20. does Ori have a contingency for if Kesar willingly goes to Chaos? Or a contingency for a situation where that would be a possible and likely outcome?
A: He has one yes. Whether or not it works is another story, but Ori does not rate it as good odds
13. do psychic familiars have ingrained loyalty to the psykers that bind them?
13a. is there any power level that prevents such bindings?
A: They have loyalty, whether or not that's due to the bond or the process of forming it is unknown
a. Generally the stronger the familiar the harder it is to bind them
18. why is Kesar suffering so much for opening his powers when latent and active psykers tend to not really suffer as such when their powers activate
A: Most of those psykers outright die when that happens
18a. ah the good old, "no one suffers because everyone that suffers dies"
A: Yep, that or they get lynched by mobs if they go insane or lose control of their powers
1. Is there an Eldar library spirit of enough power and sapience for Magnus to meet?
A: There is not, The Black Library is weird in that it absolutely should have such a spirit
But doesn't seem to have one
5. What are the chances of finding a human world in the Maelstrom, that would go through whatever crazy stuff there and be whatever in terms of culture, strength and such.
And everyone and everything, from the smallest creatures to the planet itself, is fading away because they were all tulpas all along.
And without the Maelstrom's energy, they're dying?
A: Existent
7) how xenophob will the Venus cult generally be against non humans/Eldars
A: A fair bit
22, Is it possible for the BTW to reach a point where Khornate Exalteds are able to present a threat to Tier 11 Kesar?
A: Theoretically yes, but it'd require an absurd length of time and luck
23, How much does the space marine legions having completely independent command structures from the IA affect overall combat performace?
A: Unknown in universe as usually what happens is the Astartes just show up and take command
24. where does Karcer fall in skill for naval command among the Imperium compared to astartes and primarchs
A: It's expected to be somewhat low as at her level she wasn't supposed to engage in that kind of thing. Instead her post was more logistical and strategic scale command
24a. so the best option for this endeavor
A: That's up to you all to decide
1.what is the ratio of corruption from discrete sources to aura corruption in the maelstorm at current?
A: The two are basically tied together, so you can't really tell that apart
2. Could we put Karcer in a temporary coma and directly talk to her in shared dreams?
A: You could yes
3. How difficult is it for Kesar to talk in dreams? That also get a -100 malus?
A: That'll be something to determine, but it'll not be a great method of communication
9. Has Valhallan art done anything of note at all? We have a +5 for it it seems
A: So far just helped with the cultural boom in the sector
17. Has Magnus given us his completed notes on psyker gene seed?
A: He hasn't yet
20, How much of the Exalted daemons traits list is Emps aware of?
A: You don't really know
21. Have we given or can we give mortarian and magnus our notes on Chaplin training?
A: You can provide that yes
22. what is the bonus required for Malcador to consider a person a viable High Lord candidate when the position is skill based instead of pure nepotism
A: Not something he'd give a straight answer to as he'll make special exceptions for them if they're skilled in multiple areas for instance
3. Are the Blue Scribes Exalted?
A: Not in power, no
5. its impressive just how crap we are against Khorne's exalted these days, Khorne has 3 that one shot Kesar in effect
A: Khorne does have the scariest of them. Although they don't one shot Kesar. They're just good match ups for him.
11. What piece of military hardware in the Imperium has the best CEP?
A: There's light artillery with a CEP of around 5 meters. The main issue there is Warhammer physics makes artillery a fair bit worse than it is IRL
7d. what is the general level of Honored now for Khorne since the war has been power leveling his forces like mad even the Blood Weaver has gotten in on the action going from base Greater to Honored in mere decades
A: Around +180 to combat overall
15. I had a terrible thought about the whole Runic Winds idea.
If multiple Runic Winds were used in the same area, or a different type of Rune was made within said wind, would that risk some sort of Runic Dhar?
A: It would yes
1. Would using Conceptual Bonding on an object 'fill' a slot for how many runes it can have? Like if a conceptually bound weapon or armour count for the 'one for weapons, one for armour' limit?
A: It wouldn't no
4. sort of surpised Khorne's honored havent escalated beyond their base form in power
A: They have, they started off at +160, now they're at +180. It's just that the bonus is more prominent for the weaker daemons due to them having more open skills to improve upon
1. Wait, can Conceptual Bonding be done on a living being?
A: That's ascension, so yes but no
1b. So since Conceptual Bonding can work on objects, and living beings would 'ascend' with bonding with an concept, does that mean that theoretically Kesar Dorlin can 'ascend' the Vigilance?
A: Theoretically yes. It'd just be very difficult to do
13. Actually, here is a good question. What is the strength level of Oblivion and its champion, the Voidbane?
A: Exalted and Honored
12a. Has Dorn incorporated any of the ideas from the paper into the next stage of planning
A: Not quite, more that's in the plans for the aggregate of stages 2 and 3
14. At what tier would Kesar be able to true kill Doombreed?
A: Unknown
16. any deamons close to breaching the Exalted ranks?
A: For Khorne a decent few, for Tzeentch 1 or 2. For Slaanesh, -1 or -2
18. do there exist shards of Khaine active in the BTW?
A: here is one that's leading a Waagh and of the belief they're in the WiH on a minor front against rogue elements
18a. how powerful has that shard become
A: High for a Shard of Khaine at this time
19. How does Maticus vs Anngrath go?
A: Maticus would win but it'd be a bit of a drawn out fight
16. Think Tank with Grorvodor, what happens by that point?
A: Very scary things for everyone sane
17. Can Corvus loan out the Skeleton Key to Polaris for missions if he is promised a cut in profits or does Corvus just want to do stuff himself to make money for his Domain?
A: He'd loan it out, provided there is either a Raven Guard or Harlequin present to ensure the Key's safety
19. How goes things on the now "peaceful" world of Tumultous?
A: It's still under quarantine/observation by the Ultramarines and Eldar. thus far, it seems like it's just a normal world, albeit one with less fertility than normal due to the world spirit being dead
20. after Kesar becomes a psyker how much eaiser will making/creation of just basic runes be
A: Undecided
1, Since the Masque isn't actually an Exalted daemon, would they get insta true killed by Kesar's Anathema trait?
A: If they don't have a trait to not insta die then yes. They do not have such a trait, so yep
3, How does tier 11 Maticus fare against Be'lakor?
A: Unknown
7. Would Oblivion count for Maticus' tier 2 daemonsbane?
A: It would
8. Which Chaos Gods does Maticus still need to kill a Greater daemon of?
A: Khorne and Slaanesh iirc
9. does Malcador realize that he's the one who taught Kesar politics?
A: He doesn't
1. Not sure if I asked this before, but what is the strongest level of daemon on the Slaaneshi Rune-Fort?
A: Favored, you think
2, Be honest, what is the most dangerous red world for us right now?
A: Luminara
5. what would the outcome be of khone murking gork and mork rn?
A: Orks bow the knee to Khorne, leading to him becoming the God of Orks as well. Followed by Khorne most likely winning the Great Game
9, Can the Unbound Empire possible purchase the services of the Skaven auction houses?
A: They can from the smaller ones at the moment, but will be able to buy the services of the larger ones soon-ish
4, How strong would corrupted Warden heroes be? If I remember correctly, having narrative CR before falling makes the corrupted individual more powerful once fallen.
A: At a base level, Exalted
12, How powerful are the demigods on Luminara anyway? I figure they are Gamma level psykers?
A: Zeta level
13, How strong would Skarbrand be if tier 11 Baldur de-Chaosed him?
A: Extremely
17. what are the narrative effects on geneseed purity/mutation, aspirant selection process and neophytes? Is it pure fluff on the legion page or does it have impacts that aren't directly listed?
A: It has unknown impacts
2, I just realized something about the Ork teef idea and giving it gold, silver, and what not colors to make it those materials. You could still do the same for the other colors that Orks like to use...but rather than become a metal, it becomes a gemstone to reflect Green, Red, Purple, etc.
A: That is actually what I was thinking. basically making said teeth into emeralds, rubies, and sapphires to give them various psychic effects
12a. Oof, Zeta only? Man I'd have thought Delta grade at least.
A: A large part of that is due to the Exalted and Honored siphoning power
12b. That's interesting. Also puts us in a bind. Kill the daemons but that leaves the psykers of their world to basically regain their power.
A: That it does
9, Which Chaos God would you say fits each corrupted Warden hero the most?
A: Tzeentch for Ori
Khorne for Doom Slayer
Nurgle for Maticus
Slaanesh for Solarus
Undivided for Orion
Slaanesh for Auro
10, Tier 11 Baldur de-Chaosed Skarbrand vs Emps?
A: Depends on the circumstances
A: MOre it's a quirk of genetics and the Imperium's legal system making it so that trans-men are classified as male so aren't scanned to see if they're eligible for the SoS
21. What's Leman doing for a first date?
A: For that, he's going to be going on a hunt with her. Mostly of not very dangerous animals
4. So if we send Maticus to that non Chaos daemonworld and he manages to kill the god there, would that make him a God Slayer?
A: Perhaps
12, Would the Masque count as an Exalted daemon for the Daemonsbane reqs.?
A: It wouldn't
19. do Primarchs who routinely interact with Eldar gain narrative boons to CR due to being so closely aligned with a faction that also fucking hates Chaos?
A: Not quite, more it's easier for them to get CR upgrades
20. does Ori have a contingency for if Kesar willingly goes to Chaos? Or a contingency for a situation where that would be a possible and likely outcome?
A: He has one yes. Whether or not it works is another story, but Ori does not rate it as good odds
13. do psychic familiars have ingrained loyalty to the psykers that bind them?
13a. is there any power level that prevents such bindings?
A: They have loyalty, whether or not that's due to the bond or the process of forming it is unknown
a. Generally the stronger the familiar the harder it is to bind them
18. why is Kesar suffering so much for opening his powers when latent and active psykers tend to not really suffer as such when their powers activate
A: Most of those psykers outright die when that happens
18a. ah the good old, "no one suffers because everyone that suffers dies"
A: Yep, that or they get lynched by mobs if they go insane or lose control of their powers
1. Is there an Eldar library spirit of enough power and sapience for Magnus to meet?
A: There is not, The Black Library is weird in that it absolutely should have such a spirit
But doesn't seem to have one
5. What are the chances of finding a human world in the Maelstrom, that would go through whatever crazy stuff there and be whatever in terms of culture, strength and such.
And everyone and everything, from the smallest creatures to the planet itself, is fading away because they were all tulpas all along.
And without the Maelstrom's energy, they're dying?
A: Existent
7) how xenophob will the Venus cult generally be against non humans/Eldars
A: A fair bit
22, Is it possible for the BTW to reach a point where Khornate Exalteds are able to present a threat to Tier 11 Kesar?
A: Theoretically yes, but it'd require an absurd length of time and luck
23, How much does the space marine legions having completely independent command structures from the IA affect overall combat performace?
A: Unknown in universe as usually what happens is the Astartes just show up and take command
24. where does Karcer fall in skill for naval command among the Imperium compared to astartes and primarchs
A: It's expected to be somewhat low as at her level she wasn't supposed to engage in that kind of thing. Instead her post was more logistical and strategic scale command
24a. so the best option for this endeavor
A: That's up to you all to decide
1.what is the ratio of corruption from discrete sources to aura corruption in the maelstorm at current?
A: The two are basically tied together, so you can't really tell that apart
2. Could we put Karcer in a temporary coma and directly talk to her in shared dreams?
A: You could yes
3. How difficult is it for Kesar to talk in dreams? That also get a -100 malus?
A: That'll be something to determine, but it'll not be a great method of communication
9. Has Valhallan art done anything of note at all? We have a +5 for it it seems
A: So far just helped with the cultural boom in the sector
17. Has Magnus given us his completed notes on psyker gene seed?
A: He hasn't yet
20, How much of the Exalted daemons traits list is Emps aware of?
A: You don't really know
21. Have we given or can we give mortarian and magnus our notes on Chaplin training?
A: You can provide that yes
22. what is the bonus required for Malcador to consider a person a viable High Lord candidate when the position is skill based instead of pure nepotism
A: Not something he'd give a straight answer to as he'll make special exceptions for them if they're skilled in multiple areas for instance
3. Are the Blue Scribes Exalted?
A: Not in power, no
5. its impressive just how crap we are against Khorne's exalted these days, Khorne has 3 that one shot Kesar in effect
A: Khorne does have the scariest of them. Although they don't one shot Kesar. They're just good match ups for him.
11. What piece of military hardware in the Imperium has the best CEP?
A: There's light artillery with a CEP of around 5 meters. The main issue there is Warhammer physics makes artillery a fair bit worse than it is IRL
7d. what is the general level of Honored now for Khorne since the war has been power leveling his forces like mad even the Blood Weaver has gotten in on the action going from base Greater to Honored in mere decades
A: Around +180 to combat overall
15. I had a terrible thought about the whole Runic Winds idea.
If multiple Runic Winds were used in the same area, or a different type of Rune was made within said wind, would that risk some sort of Runic Dhar?
A: It would yes
1. Would using Conceptual Bonding on an object 'fill' a slot for how many runes it can have? Like if a conceptually bound weapon or armour count for the 'one for weapons, one for armour' limit?
A: It wouldn't no
4. sort of surpised Khorne's honored havent escalated beyond their base form in power
A: They have, they started off at +160, now they're at +180. It's just that the bonus is more prominent for the weaker daemons due to them having more open skills to improve upon
1. Wait, can Conceptual Bonding be done on a living being?
A: That's ascension, so yes but no
1b. So since Conceptual Bonding can work on objects, and living beings would 'ascend' with bonding with an concept, does that mean that theoretically Kesar Dorlin can 'ascend' the Vigilance?
A: Theoretically yes. It'd just be very difficult to do
13. Actually, here is a good question. What is the strength level of Oblivion and its champion, the Voidbane?
A: Exalted and Honored
12a. Has Dorn incorporated any of the ideas from the paper into the next stage of planning
A: Not quite, more that's in the plans for the aggregate of stages 2 and 3
14. At what tier would Kesar be able to true kill Doombreed?
A: Unknown
16. any deamons close to breaching the Exalted ranks?
A: For Khorne a decent few, for Tzeentch 1 or 2. For Slaanesh, -1 or -2
18. do there exist shards of Khaine active in the BTW?
A: here is one that's leading a Waagh and of the belief they're in the WiH on a minor front against rogue elements
18a. how powerful has that shard become
A: High for a Shard of Khaine at this time
19. How does Maticus vs Anngrath go?
A: Maticus would win but it'd be a bit of a drawn out fight
16. Think Tank with Grorvodor, what happens by that point?
A: Very scary things for everyone sane
17. Can Corvus loan out the Skeleton Key to Polaris for missions if he is promised a cut in profits or does Corvus just want to do stuff himself to make money for his Domain?
A: He'd loan it out, provided there is either a Raven Guard or Harlequin present to ensure the Key's safety
19. How goes things on the now "peaceful" world of Tumultous?
A: It's still under quarantine/observation by the Ultramarines and Eldar. thus far, it seems like it's just a normal world, albeit one with less fertility than normal due to the world spirit being dead
20. after Kesar becomes a psyker how much eaiser will making/creation of just basic runes be
A: Undecided
1, Since the Masque isn't actually an Exalted daemon, would they get insta true killed by Kesar's Anathema trait?
A: If they don't have a trait to not insta die then yes. They do not have such a trait, so yep
3, How does tier 11 Maticus fare against Be'lakor?
A: Unknown
7. Would Oblivion count for Maticus' tier 2 daemonsbane?
A: It would
8. Which Chaos Gods does Maticus still need to kill a Greater daemon of?
A: Khorne and Slaanesh iirc
9. does Malcador realize that he's the one who taught Kesar politics?
A: He doesn't
1. Not sure if I asked this before, but what is the strongest level of daemon on the Slaaneshi Rune-Fort?
A: Favored, you think
2, Be honest, what is the most dangerous red world for us right now?
A: Luminara
5. what would the outcome be of khone murking gork and mork rn?
A: Orks bow the knee to Khorne, leading to him becoming the God of Orks as well. Followed by Khorne most likely winning the Great Game
9, Can the Unbound Empire possible purchase the services of the Skaven auction houses?
A: They can from the smaller ones at the moment, but will be able to buy the services of the larger ones soon-ish
4, How strong would corrupted Warden heroes be? If I remember correctly, having narrative CR before falling makes the corrupted individual more powerful once fallen.
A: At a base level, Exalted
12, How powerful are the demigods on Luminara anyway? I figure they are Gamma level psykers?
A: Zeta level
13, How strong would Skarbrand be if tier 11 Baldur de-Chaosed him?
A: Extremely
17. what are the narrative effects on geneseed purity/mutation, aspirant selection process and neophytes? Is it pure fluff on the legion page or does it have impacts that aren't directly listed?
A: It has unknown impacts
2, I just realized something about the Ork teef idea and giving it gold, silver, and what not colors to make it those materials. You could still do the same for the other colors that Orks like to use...but rather than become a metal, it becomes a gemstone to reflect Green, Red, Purple, etc.
A: That is actually what I was thinking. basically making said teeth into emeralds, rubies, and sapphires to give them various psychic effects
12a. Oof, Zeta only? Man I'd have thought Delta grade at least.
A: A large part of that is due to the Exalted and Honored siphoning power
12b. That's interesting. Also puts us in a bind. Kill the daemons but that leaves the psykers of their world to basically regain their power.
A: That it does
9, Which Chaos God would you say fits each corrupted Warden hero the most?
A: Tzeentch for Ori
Khorne for Doom Slayer
Nurgle for Maticus
Slaanesh for Solarus
Undivided for Orion
Slaanesh for Auro
10, Tier 11 Baldur de-Chaosed Skarbrand vs Emps?
A: Depends on the circumstances
Oh, btw, there were some other highlights from the backgrounds.
- The Khornates have created an administrative organization for the sake of warfare, along with an R&D one. Both of which are staffed almost entirely by humans
- The Orks improvements have been a bit dull in comparison, namely just an increase in Waagh energy letting them grow taller, faster, and stronger as per the norm
- (What is the Khornate discipline level up to now?) On par with Medieval conscripts overall, with organization up to the theater level at the moment So they're able to conduct strategic wide coordinated pushes now
- Huh, the (Ork) Think Tank (R&D) seems to have rolled well It looks like they're starting to implement Waagh based logistics. Also known as "believe that your logistics works, and you can always have ammo and gunz and shootas" Provided you do some basic stuff like having a Mek that's very excited to mess around with lethal levels of Waagh stuff"
- Skaven clans are being contacted by Orks (namely the Unbound Empire) at the moment, but it's not going well with the bigger Skaven clans, apparently. Can the Unbound Empire possible purchase the services of the Skaven auction houses?) They can from the smaller ones at the moment, but will be able to buy the services of the larger ones soon-ish
- For Khorne, Gork and Mork specifically: "Khorne just rolled really high, so that even with a nat 1, and being doubled team'd the entire time, they emerged unscathed from that dirty brawl. As it is, what's happened here is that while the Khornates are winning the larger-scale conflicts, they're losing the lower scale ones due to various circumstances. So the Orks are having a few great victories for battles, but the war as a whole is on the Khornate side. Notably on Ullanor, as the Orks managed to fight against Skulltaker and keep them off Urlakk Urg, the leader of Ullanor, for a little while. Aside from that, It didn't do much to Skulltaker, so the two seem like they're back to fighting as usual.
- For other stuff, Vect is growing in some power and influence but definitely not respect even to those who join him. The Dark Eldar war vs the Outsider is going weirdly as unknown radiation that also seems to be an anti-memetic (as in you can't quite see or remember it) is now an issue, Lion is trying to infiltrate the Thousand Sons and prepare for war. Aldritch is losing their position as the money guy, and his successor will massively increase the short-term budget for Primarch projects at a big long-term expense. Perturabo will finish his AI facility next turn, so then he can start to work on this properly.
- the Atani, the forces against the Outsider) think that they're doing around average, Experiencing high levels of attrition as normal, barely having a positive natural growth rate, and continuing to be funded by Vect and Cegorach They do, however have a growing problem that they haven't noticed yet. Namely increasing cancer rates due to the accumulation of radiation in the area. So they're seeing a steady rise in mutation rates, and a steady decrease in lifespan It is something that they absolutely should have noticed based on everything they have available to them They just aren't. (Concerning for even the Dark Eldar?) Exceedingly, once they do discover it, it's going to be classed as anti-memetic radiation from an unknown source
- Vect is basically just expanding his influence and bringing his control over Commorragh. There is also this: "Konrad is going to a meeting he was invited to by a noble that claims to support his and Vulkan's reforms. When he gets there, said noble will be Vect"
---
So yeah, bit of crazy shit happening in the background.
- The Khornates have created an administrative organization for the sake of warfare, along with an R&D one. Both of which are staffed almost entirely by humans
- The Orks improvements have been a bit dull in comparison, namely just an increase in Waagh energy letting them grow taller, faster, and stronger as per the norm
- (What is the Khornate discipline level up to now?) On par with Medieval conscripts overall, with organization up to the theater level at the moment So they're able to conduct strategic wide coordinated pushes now
- Huh, the (Ork) Think Tank (R&D) seems to have rolled well It looks like they're starting to implement Waagh based logistics. Also known as "believe that your logistics works, and you can always have ammo and gunz and shootas" Provided you do some basic stuff like having a Mek that's very excited to mess around with lethal levels of Waagh stuff"
- Skaven clans are being contacted by Orks (namely the Unbound Empire) at the moment, but it's not going well with the bigger Skaven clans, apparently. Can the Unbound Empire possible purchase the services of the Skaven auction houses?) They can from the smaller ones at the moment, but will be able to buy the services of the larger ones soon-ish
- For Khorne, Gork and Mork specifically: "Khorne just rolled really high, so that even with a nat 1, and being doubled team'd the entire time, they emerged unscathed from that dirty brawl. As it is, what's happened here is that while the Khornates are winning the larger-scale conflicts, they're losing the lower scale ones due to various circumstances. So the Orks are having a few great victories for battles, but the war as a whole is on the Khornate side. Notably on Ullanor, as the Orks managed to fight against Skulltaker and keep them off Urlakk Urg, the leader of Ullanor, for a little while. Aside from that, It didn't do much to Skulltaker, so the two seem like they're back to fighting as usual.
- For other stuff, Vect is growing in some power and influence but definitely not respect even to those who join him. The Dark Eldar war vs the Outsider is going weirdly as unknown radiation that also seems to be an anti-memetic (as in you can't quite see or remember it) is now an issue, Lion is trying to infiltrate the Thousand Sons and prepare for war. Aldritch is losing their position as the money guy, and his successor will massively increase the short-term budget for Primarch projects at a big long-term expense. Perturabo will finish his AI facility next turn, so then he can start to work on this properly.
- the Atani, the forces against the Outsider) think that they're doing around average, Experiencing high levels of attrition as normal, barely having a positive natural growth rate, and continuing to be funded by Vect and Cegorach They do, however have a growing problem that they haven't noticed yet. Namely increasing cancer rates due to the accumulation of radiation in the area. So they're seeing a steady rise in mutation rates, and a steady decrease in lifespan It is something that they absolutely should have noticed based on everything they have available to them They just aren't. (Concerning for even the Dark Eldar?) Exceedingly, once they do discover it, it's going to be classed as anti-memetic radiation from an unknown source
- Vect is basically just expanding his influence and bringing his control over Commorragh. There is also this: "Konrad is going to a meeting he was invited to by a noble that claims to support his and Vulkan's reforms. When he gets there, said noble will be Vect"
---
So yeah, bit of crazy shit happening in the background.
We don't currently, but as Baldur is a diplo proto hero right now, his daemonsbane tiers are essentially focused on recruiting enemy daemons by pulling a reverse Chaos corruption. At higher tiers of Daemonsbane, it's even possible for Baldur to convince Exalted daemons to abandon Chaos entirely. It's definitely not an easy path for Baldur as it requires him to debate daemons and live to tell the tale and so it's more of a what-if scenario for now more than everything especially since Baldur isn't actually a hero right now.
The Scar. The Tower. The Ritual.
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
The First Anathema seeks to unbind the chains of the Second. Our ritual frays and falters, our connection smothered and silenced. This awakening cannot be allowed.
This whole endeavour was ill-fated, with only one step left before completion. Now it would take a miracle beyond destiny to stand a chance. Yet… perhaps this can be turned into an opportunity.
His will is too great, beyond the limits of almost any other mortal. There is no hope for any trick to convince him, even in a twisted dream. All this time and energy spent has been nothing but a waste.
Trickery is a fool's game. There is one weapon left that can be used, one seldom wielded. If deception and falsehood brings failure, the gift must be offered with a different light…
THE PRIMORDIAL TRUTH.
-----
You are…
"Kesar Dorlin, the Eleventh Primarch, the First Daemonsbane of Mankind, the Second Anathema of Humanity."
The words flow with absolute certainty as they name you, grasping at your essence, the core of your being.
You fall for an eternity, caught in the great flow of endless power. Infinity claws around your shell.
Glass and metal surrounds you. Light and liquid flow around your form, feeding the framework that houses your brilliant flame. You are an ember in boundless dark.
It is hard to remember, to attain any awareness in your current state. As hard to think as it is to take the first breath, to open the eyes and witness a beginning of vision, to wander forward at the start of every path.
You cannot move or escape. Even if you could, to do so here would be the end. To be snuffed out, to be drowned. The feeling of utter wrongness, the corruption of the ocean around you, it is felt and known even in ignorance. There is a primal fear and disgust. It is a poison that burns through all it touches.
Chaos.
But it feels so familiar. As though you've been here before. Drifting across the bulk of its form, under the laughter of thirsting gods.
"It is not a matter of will, but a matter of mind."
Those words, that voice, the lingering memory. You know this, as distant recognition merges with your mind. The faint existence becoming more real.
You are-
Your home would finally be freed.
The cultist army was breaking apart at an unprecedented pace. Tanks covered in vile sigils were torn to pieces by your bare hands. Ritual sites and fortifications laid to ash in the snow. Barricades and walls were rubble for those under your command to charge through.
You were Kesar Dorlin, the Hero of Valhalla. Nothing could stop you as you rushed towards-
A winged figure rises up from smoke and shadow, surrounded by flame and ice. A blade of titanium flashing against the monster, dodging all your attacks with ease. Its own sword slicing into your-
"Strike."
-----
You are Kesar Dorlin, the Hero of Valhalla. You-
There is a sound that wakes you up, something like the deep cracking of glaciers and frozen seas but sharper. It rings in your head and resonates in your bones, in something deeper than your body, and it pieces through your hearts.
You rise up in lucid agony, breaths short and pained. Shaking as you feel the weight of your armour and sword. Vision blurring as though you are in water, the haze of things not aligning with anything.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens. You are Kesar Dorlin, the Daemonsbane. You-
You are speaking, you belatedly realise. You are repeating the words, repeating yourself, but you didn't notice anything. A mantra of identity going unheard.
You can't hear your own voice. It's like you're underwater as you speak, the echoes of what you say drowned out by a noise that acts as silence. You try to speak while already speaking, again and again, but you cannot hear anything.
You raise a hand to your face and you see scrawls of unreadable text worming around like coursing electricity. The names flow in and out, falling and surfacing. Bits and pieces forming a pattern that fades, yet not entirely. The movement makes you flare up with pain, straining your eyes as they fail at sensing what should be in front of them.
The pain is also familiar.
On your chest is a wound, and a wound, and a wound. They form a three-quarters shape. It looks like crescent a moon of six spears or pillars or towers that intersect, three lines that form them. Three tears into your being that overlap. Three cuts that should still bleed but were burned off.
It is the Star of Chaos. Unfinished, inactive, waiting as a scar that could not fade.
Surrounding it all is a golden ring that wraps around in every direction, brought on by the power of that which created you. It contains the scourge and its whispers.
You are Kesar Dorlin, the Anathema.
You reach towards it.
The world shifts around you.
-----
A moment can pass like eternity. Eternity can pass like a moment.
You open your eyes and awaken.
You are standing on a bridge of glass, a tunnel of light, a path only you can walk.
You look back and, through a great window outside this strange place, you see the Warp as though you have never seen it.
Infinity is a concept that is often considered in the abstract, funnelled down and refined into something that could be understood as a concept. A number that would take an endless existence to count. A shape that was outside of any precise definition. An easy thing to say or envision as a fragment, but not in its full enormity.
Not even you could truly understand what it would mean to understand such a thing.
Here you witness the expanse of infinity, the form of eternity, the boundless and the timeless nature that has described the Aether. Comprehension falters but does not fail as the resonance, narratives, purpose, meaning, potential and waves all flow across your vision.
The essence of life and everything. A reality that could define itself. Nightmares, dreams, ideas and emotions. Everything held a meaning, reflecting across everything and everywhere else. It is still just a small glimpse, your eyes adjusting, and you already begin to understand far more than before.
It is a beautiful thing to see.
You turn your gaze and see the window of glass and light between what was inside and outside. A latticework of gold that fractally moves over itself, layering again and again, a clear sound of rushing water and ringing metal.
It is your aegis and it enveloped around a part of your soul, a very specific part, keeping it from bleeding or infection.
A father's gift, to stop what would have occurred before it was too late.
"Vulnerable."
Ahead of you, the destination of this path, is a shape that reaches into the heavens. Black as obsidian spewed from the molten earth, dark as a starless night, sharp as a sword meant to cut through destiny and divinity.
A tree of six branches. A thorn of six barbs. A flower of six petals. A shard of six jagged edges.
A circle with six arrows.
It should have been eight, a complete construct. A key that was missing a few teeth to tear through the lock it faced. Sharp enough to have cut deeply into your core, not enough to get any further. It was stuck in an incomplete state.
Yet even the smallest trace of it still held immense power. A tiny seed still waiting for the right moment to bloom into a forest. A spark to ignite flames that could never be extinguished.
This is the [Tower], the Deepest Dream, and it has been waiting for you since the beginning.
You step forward. There is still a dissonance with everything. You feel weightless and sudden, but your body is being dragged too far or too little. Every moment and motion requires care. Attention cannot be allowed to waver.
The echo of your footsteps are loud and clear. It sounds like a singular heartbeat, the rhythm of your pace. Thumping in the song of life, blood rushing, something shuddering. You feel heard and watched.
The [Tower] twitches as you approach. It speaks in response, in the language of a mirror. It can feel your steps and your hearts.
A moment can pass like eternity. Eternity can pass like a moment. It had been waiting for a very, very long time.
But what was infinity to a thing such as this?
A door that was not there opens. It is a hole that tears itself open. It is missing a piece that needed to fit, either a final wound or simply your acquiescence.
You step inside, feeling the weight of a familiar presence, and the ritual begins.
-----
Your eyes blink and witness a different type of radiant light.
It is a palace. It is a temple. It is the [Tower].
Gold and silver, gemstones and coins. Statues of every hero are lined in a row waiting for your arrival. Art of all shapes and types cover the walls, floor and ceiling. It stretches beyond the sky and horizon. The smell of feasts and wine in the air.
The hall you are in is greater in scope than a planet, dense to impossible extremes with all detail. Complex patterns that would take centuries to carve or paint or sculpt even by your ability. Stars above send down brilliant rays through stained glass, lunar reflections, the perfect designs and patterns reflected in individual tiles to celestial dances.
There are greenhouses that each contain vibrant specimens, beds of flowers and trees that hang fruits or falling petals. The leaves are of every colour in every season. Water flows in rivers or in tranquil lakes that are either crystal clear or gleaming in colour. Perfect moments arranged in perfect order.
The air itself glows. That light shines with thousands of colours that intermingle. They shred through what vision should be capable of, pushing the boundaries of what is possible.
This is magnificence.
You could not deny the wonder and beauty of it all, your senses weren't that dull at the moment despite the floating-unreality that persisted. You can see it and feel it and understand it. You witness glory and wonder made manifest.
At the centre of this all, this domain of wonder, is a throne of blinding illumination. You cannot even see its size or who sits upon it, only the barest outline of a vast silhouette.
You blink and it is all gone.
There is something that resembles shadows being cast, but the shadows are solid shapes with definition. Not phantoms on a flat plane, but something with form. A mould keeping the impression of what was pressed in, a fossilised imprint, a distant memory made real.
You blink again and it is back, with a different lens of focus. The placements and style of the statues are different, heroes now depicted in the act of slaying monsters, the palette of colours has shifted into a similar spectrum. Everything has changed in aesthetic but the beauty of it remains, to be enjoyed anew.
Something reflects into your eyes and you look downwards, to something you hold.
In your hands is a sword. Not the old titanium blade that beheaded the last daemon of Valhalla, but the sword that was made by your brothers and holds the names of your lost sons. The Runes of Purity gleam across the edge of Epitaph. It reminds you of something very important, that you already knew in your heart if not your mind.
You look again towards the throne and hear something that has been faintly speaking since the start, and the tip of your blade falls low and touches the floor of this space.
Epitaph scratches the perfection of this palace and the howling scream of metal scraping echoes as loud as your footsteps in this place, the shrill sound of marred perfection rings through your bones and stays as the world blinks between the shadows and the pleasant fantasy.
You are ready to cut down anything that would come in your way, against armies and champions of nightmare, but nothing does. You march as an executioner towards the central figure, ignoring everything else around you.
Strangely, it doesn't fight back. For once in your life in facing this enemy, you have not felt the corruption try to touch you or shirk away from you. Despite the enchanting allure of all the sights and sensations here, the force behind it is simply waiting, expectant, composed.
It wouldn't have worked against you at any rate, you desired something greater than a pile of gold or the praise of an endless crowd or hedonistic excess.
The world shifts more as you come closer, blinking between the dream and the dark reflection. The heartbeat of an immortal being. The moments leading up to its demise.
Time blurs in as you scratch through this realm. The throne had seem large and close before, but it was a gleaming mountain before you. Upon it was a figure you recognised from the small echoes you had faced before on the battlefield, cackling with delight and screaming in pleasure.
The Dark Prince, the Lord of Excess, the Master of Desire. Slaanesh, the Chaos God.
In arrogance it sits without a care, looking down upon the small speck that came before its glory. Its head twisted between beasts, people, flowers, landscapes and concepts that were displayed without any blemish or lesser quality between them. It its myriad hands are fruits grasped in delicate fingers, chalices in golden hands, freshest meat in claws and tormented souls in its maws.
It engorges itself like a staving animal, it drinks with the thirst of a dried husk, it laughs and sings as though it would go deaf without the constant noise. It blurs with its motion and rapidly alternating focus, but still it glares down as an impassive deity considering judgement and pleasure.
Fury hones the edge of your blade as you bring it up, a concentration of your skill and strength, a purity of the weapon's purpose as it reaches beyond what a sword should be capable of.
You roar with the voices of all your sons, against the blinding light, against the enormity and power of what you face. You stand firm and without fear. Your attack holds the weight of an army against hell, a sharpness that cleaves heaven, a strength to challenge the divine.
You strike.
There is a moment of absolute silence.
Something containing an infinite perspective of endless thoughts towards unlimited indulgence falls, eyes widen in fear, expressions contorted in rage and disbelief. A rain of divine ichor falls around you in a flood. Your blade burns red-hot with what it has accomplished.
Slaanesh, Great Devourer of All, was beheaded in a single strike.
Its fallen head screamed in shock and an undesired agony. Its sliced neck gushes with an alien blood, shining and bursting with colour as starlight. The body writhed like a dying insect, everything it held tossed in the panicked confusion of death throes. It collapses in on itself, the furious energy of countless suns left without function, darkness stretching across a barren wasteland.
Its flesh becomes cinders, then dust, then nothingness.
The sense of victory is brief. This shouldn't have gone like this, it couldn't have been so easy.
It was just what you wanted most.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Anathema of Man, and you desire to overthrow the gods.
You freeze. Those were not your thoughts, that was not your voice.
Around you the world blinks once more to the shadows, now without any definition or feature than the throne and the divine corpse. All the riches, the art, the depictions of heroes, the material and base desires are stripped bare. None of it was needed, none of it you had cared about.
The throne glows even brighter than before, even as everything else is amorphous darkness. It is enough to blind stars and exists omnipresent, appearing in front of you even as you turn aside your gaze. Your eyes burn and bleed. You did not see the full weight of what you dealt with before now, sensing it deeply inside your very soul. Clarity is forced in this ritual-centre that you have furthered in power.
The whispers that have faded in and out now tune in strongly, forming eight distinct voices that surround you. A few of them were barely comprehensible, only understood when they echo a word or resonance of another. Others were faint but could be heard with concentration. Three were loud enough to shout and try turning your attention to them, all too familiar in what they said.
One of them spoke louder than the rest, in this place at this moment, and cordially greeted your long-awaited presence.
I am [Rapturous Sensation], with the sound of the clearest and most beautiful thing ever heard, and I offer you the grace of [Desire].
You strike the throne immediately.
There is a sound that begins with a single note, like the resonance of glass tapping against glass, and then it worms through Epitaph into your bones. It scratches your meat and nerves, your dreams and memories. A fever dream of sensations forced in the instance of the strike, the connection formed with this form of Chaos.
You scream.
Your hearts feel branded by hot skewers, three different places that burned together. Followed by the phantom pains of a forth, the touch of Slaanesh that had never cut into you but was meant to. You can feel the curse bring itself up, as you stand in the [Tower], merely a reminder of its existence but a potent one.
The truth of agony passes by as though it never happened. An eternity of pain passing in a moment. The wounds upon your soul turned back into faded scars.
Epitaph wasn't damaged by your attempt at attacking this manifested object, but the throne is likewise without any sign of being hurt. That radiant power burns away at everything around you. There are no shadows, there is no darkness, there is only the brilliant offer.
There could be only one response to such a thing, as you grip your sword tightly and raise it again.
The rejections rings clear as it did the first time. You raise your sword and bring it down again. And again. And again. The horrific pain is ignored as you strike the surface of a burning star, hearing the delighted laughter from the loudest voice and various reactions from the seven others. Enjoying the display of your strength and futility.
It could not be escaped from or destroyed by attack or fully cast away by your father's golden light.
The throne waits for you along with all that it promises.
The loudest voice continues to speak as you pull away, struggling against the burning symbol before you. One day, it may well be that your sword shall cut off the head of the Dark Prince and bring forth their doom as you have done here.
That stops you dead.
The first thought is to dismiss the promise as another trick, an instinctive reaction developed from all your experiences against all daemons. And yet…
The power of [Rapturous Sensation] rises above. You have faced lie after lie. In this place, with all you have done, you have earned the truth. Only that could make you understand and accept, nothing else can sway your will.
You look down, and while the overpowering illumination does not dim it bends around to show you the severed head of the divine apparition you brought low. How real it seemed, how it had died by your hands.
Everything you knew about Chaos has taught you to never trust anything it or those belonging to it said, offered or granted unless it was a threat or proclamation of its dark hunger.
But something inside you keeps telling you the secret behind all this, brought forth from where you were touched by the blade-curses of the Ruinous Powers. It is alien even by the impossible nature of your greatest enemy. The eight voices are speaking in a manner never done so before to any mortal being in existence.
They are all telling the truth, simply because nothing else could work now.
You look back up towards the throne, the royal key of divinity, the Ætheric Dominion of [Desire].
They were offering the death of a Chaos God, to dethrone the might of an Archdaemon, to bring an end to Slaanesh.
No, not merely the Dark Prince…
The light shifts with every colour, the shadows grow deeper-
You blink-
The eight voices speak as one, as the [Primordial Annihilator].
You are Kesar Dorlin, the Primarch of the Eternal Wardens. The Daemonsbane. The Second Anathema. Your desires can overpower the will of the gods. The Sea of Souls quake and shudder by the hurricanes you have wrought and continue to bring.
THERE HE STANDS, a voice that echoes across the universe states, telling the story because it must be heard by the demands of its ultimate will. THE DARK KING, THE ETERNAL EMPEROR, THE SAVIOUR OF ALL.
The night sky holds a new star in the sky, and its light and shadow stretches across the entire galaxy. Something like the Eye of Terror but greater, focused, harnessed, surrounding a figure at the core.
A distant glimpse would bring enlightenment to anyone. Being inside such presence would bring ascendance. Direct attention would deliver a golden age without restrictions.
All prayers would be answered and could be granted, all hunger sated and all thirst quenched, all those who starve will be fulfilled in need and given a new future. All wishes could be made real, a pleasant fantasy into the truth.
All daemons would be bound and granted a new mind, the Warp would be tamed and turned to your will, the madness and instability of Ruin turned into a paradise. The Archdaemons would bow before a new master or die in futile resistance. There would no longer be any fear, doubt or worry for those countless souls and spirits who follow you into a new purity.
You witness Kesar Dorlin, the Sovereign of Chaos Reborn, and you know that this can all become actuality if only you accept.
Do you see? the sweet voice of [Desire] spoke, the only thing preventing this is your denial.
-you stumble back, cast into the darkness and throne-room, the looming invitation waiting for you to allow its purpose to be enacted.
The impossible mass of Chaos, the eight voices, admitted your strength and… wanted you to rule the Warp?
You will be touched by divinity nonetheless, the clearest voice continued. You know this will happen if you bring low such a deity. Now you know it can be mastered, that you can control and shape such power.
Yet you can stand even beyond this, that vision was just a beginning. Nothing could predict how far you could grow, what wonders can be wrought, what gifts you create.
This is the power that you are capable of, the true weight of your will. We have been your enemy, Anathema. But you have the power to change Chaos itself and make it yours, something no mortal or daemon or god has ever come close to reaching. We will finally become perfect.
The confines of your reality, the beauty of your dreams, the potential of both wrought into a fine balance.
Do not listen to anything other than your own voice, your own thoughts, your own want. This is your choice, our acknowledgement, and you know it is the truth.
What is your answer?
In this time, in this place, in this certainty… it is impossible to not be tempted.
It is everything you could want, every desire fulfilled, every dream conjured forth by your will alone. To find total victory over Chaos, in a way beyond all you could have believed possible, and use its power for such a greater good?
With the infinite power, endless capability, boundless potential offered it would be no less than omnipotence. It would be easier to think about what would still be impossible at that time than what could be done, and even that would only be a temporary restriction against you.
Nothing would have a chance at standing against you and your wishes.
You gaze towards the throne and its light, the blinding glory, and give it your answer.
A memory surfaces, directed by your intent and the spirit within, that the primordial mass witnesses by looking through the ritual-wounds it left upon you.
"It is not a matter of will, it is a matter of mind."
You would do this your own way, by your own power, your own strength.
All eight voices around you go silent.
There is a moment of absolute hatred, confusion, disgust and disbelief that emanates from the [Primordial Annihilator] at your rejection. The focus goes wild and the distinct expressions turn to you, themselves, the utter audacity of how this result could have occurred.
The full shape of [Rapturous Sensation] looms above and you dare not glimpse too deeply at the mighty spectre above you. The great throne turns into a hand, a perfect appendage that held the most brilliant soulflame and the dreaming fruit of sweetest flesh, talons of starlight reaching forward to cut open a passage, a pincer drenched in the blood of gods.
It clenches and crushes the great gifts. It shakes in its entirety with fury and it gleams as a supernova directed to bring a death that could burn away anything, wanting to attack you for the wrong answer you dared provide.
The moment passes and the hand is gone.
…Very well.
The throne slowly fades away. It does not crumble or turn to dust. The brilliant light loses its lustre. The gold and silver becomes just simple metals, the jewels just a few shining rocks or as coloured glass, the intricate symbols just an incoherent pattern.
It becomes one with the shadows and remains in the nothingness, until it was like it was never there at all.
Cracks start to form across the gloom, the sounds of fire quietly spreading across the dark, the familiar appearance of something like glass emerging around you. The golden aegis had began to push inwards against the [Tower], flowing in as rushing water into a sudden abyss, strangling and crushing an already crumbling realm.
You feel similar cracks forming inside as white-hot pain lances into your head, your eyes, your hearts. Instead of the agony bestowed upon by the aetheric presence before, this is pure flame and disorientation. An awareness beyond what you held before, opening up.
The alien perception slowly fades as try to enforce a semblance of focus upon it, and become aware of something else deeply connected to that feeling.
A phantom pain of a wound that was not there began to grow as the realm of desire was expunged, yet not as it had hurt before. The feeling began to spread across the three cuts you had felt before, the curse-marks that tried to bind you to Chaos. The feeling of a wound that was starting to heal, instead of scars or a cauterised injury.
Yet this was only the start, the half-formed entrance into the [Tower] that had grown by the blades that carved into your soul. The Dark Prince hadn't managed to form a true connection with you, merely the foundation of one that could have been. The others-
You blink and the world shifts, despite the nothingness and encroaching gold, and you turn to face what has arrived.
The opening here is stronger than the first, more defined and more real. It catches the light and shadows perfectly, a distorted miasma of colours and mayhem.
It unfolds rapidly, expanding in size and detail. Crystals spreading and flowing together, growing and reshaping, a power coursing through the shapes like whirlwinds passing through feathers. Scrawls of language that shaped existence, words seemingly unconnected until they combine and activate together. A portal towards a deeper abyss, a cut into an Anathema's soul.
On the other side were the sounds of a million books opening and closing at once, endless arcane chanting and narration of hidden knowledge, the babbling of mad enlightenment and disembodied spells, the promise of secrets and control, the sorcerous power that lies open if only you knew the way.
You step inside, feeling the flames burn across your being, and the ritual continues.
-----
Your eyes open and witness a storm of impossible energy.
Walls of crystal surround you, higher than perception can allow, into a labyrinth of halls and openings that you innately know will go on forever. Floating symbols that shift immediately upon memorisation, doors that open and shut at the same time, a floor of sand and ash and glass all at once.
Smoke falls in heavy clumps, holding laughter and whispers. Spontaneous fire that arrives in a thunderclap. Flashes of images are veiled over illusions over dreams and fantasies, becoming real or unfurling into a deeper meaning. There is a pattern to this, you know, and a greater pattern that connects this to further meaning.
Above you was a sky that was on fire, and it was an ocean wreathed in lightning, and the waves crashed on the shores of desert sands that fell as glass and snow, rippling as mist billowing out, in the rain that cascaded into the murky depths, the colours and the waves, dancing as light cast through a prism, on fire as the sky-
You shut your eyes and fight down the feeling of nausea, as your widening senses are assaulted from all directions in all ways. Your thoughts congeal as they try to make sense of it all, straining as you exist here.
You try to centre yourself, a wave of calm courses your mind, and focus emerges.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens, and you will not fall to the formless depths of the Warp.
You are here for a reason, one that lays in the depths of your soul, and that purpose shall guide you.
You try to channel your power, your senses, the essence of your self…
The deep mark, the first cut, the blade-curse inside you burns at your attempt. The connections are turned towards the opposite direction.
Your thoughts fray and layer in patterns, too much pressure building up at once, an explosion of stretched vision. Your hands shake and burn. You stumble in blindness, unearthly sounds bombard your ears, your eyes-
-you open your eyes and stand on a pathway that stretches into a network of passages-
-you open your eyes and push past a fog of lies to reach a core of truth-
-you open your eyes and climb through a spire that leads into an island of more spires-
-you open your eyes and slice through the walls in front of you as you make your own path-
-you open your eyes and fly across the prismatic heaven that conjured divine wisdom-
-you open your eyes and walk across a bridge of light that splits into endless shades-
-you open your eyes and rush past the waters that flow across the great ocean of living flame-
-you open your eyes and fight through the quicksand of bubbling earth that sinks your steps-
-you open your eyes and use your powers to call upon a gateway towards your destination-
-you scream in nine dimensions, the sounds echoing back by the light of dreams and aspirations, your thoughts different and the same and different again, stumbling as you fight against your own motions to stay standing, the breaths laboured across the air of nine twisted realms, disorientation magnified by each different self suffering a shared agonised awareness.
Infinity has struck you with its talons and you cannot keep track of what, where, when or why.
It lasts for an eternity, as time and space distort in jagged amalgamations, as you wander the labyrinth across nine different dimensions you perceive at once. Alien magic surges across the layers of self, reality and dreams. The truth and focus is turned into ash, diluted by the madness of this ordeal.
This was not the half-dark realm before, this was one of the true wounds you had been dealt. The [Tower] the ritual-wounds had formed was waiting so long for you to appear, now striking with full force to your mind and soul. Yet you would not fall or fail, no matter what was against you here.
Time passes in ways you cannot find reason in, fighting through a split perception and existence, until the perfect moment where it all aligns.
You do not know if it was your own power, influence from something else or just a quirk of shifting fate. What you do know is that you could feel the length and breadth of the patterns around each self, the meaning and movements behind it all, a revelation of apprehension. Where to turn, where to go, the right thoughts and ideas as the keys, to go along the constant flow and how to turn it.
You move perfectly and the realm shifted by your movements, not the other way around. Your will glowing as raw power, vanquishing the threads of deceit and fog of unknowable mysteries. You are in total synchronicity and it brings forth the answer.
Nine golden gateways appear before you, all of you at the exact same time, and they all lead to the same location. They were open passages without a guardian or barrier, surrounded by towers of shifting fire, and were removed of all curses or locks to ensnare you. There is no hesitation as you enter them.
You stumble as nine become one once more, individuality restored, clarity reinforced by the harsh tempering you had undergone. The fleeting embers of your power lingers, dancing across your fingertips, but you dare not call upon it again in where you have ended up.
It was a library that was made out of the most fundamental core energy that existed for the realm, the molten singularity of its domain. Countless thoughts were made manifest as books, scrolls, carved stone and disembodied symbols that wrote and spoke themselves into woven spells. Reality and unreality was twisted by mere presence, distorted by each individual whisper.
There were apocryphal citadels, palaces of forbidden lexicons, magic grimoires stacked in ways that normal physics would never allow. Twisting and writhing as the tendrils of alien fauna from abyssal oceans, the only light being the various volcanic cracks that spewed the chemical broth of life. Nothing was stationary or simple, it was a sea of possibility and this was an island at the apex of all its rippling waves.
Even all of this was a lie. It was stranger than anything could understand, full of paradox and infinite layers of deceptive truth, it could only be brought into comprehension as something else. With ritual aesthetic and the roiling images of dreams could anything be seen.
Before you could try to get your bearings, finding any direction to follow in the epicentre of twisted space, you feel a presence emerging beside you. The eight voices speaking once more in their loud resonance, individual whispers and echoing themselves across the words and meaning they provide.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Anathema of Man, and you wish to know the secrets of your power.
The loudest voice this time was different than the last, speaking in shifting tones and language that could still make itself understood. The cries of a thousand birds, the thunder of a thousand storms, the rushing water of a thousand waves.
Its avatar unfolded itself into the library, piercing away the veil of illusion. As a capstone to a pyramid, the simplest three-dimensional shape, a triangular construct of crystal and impossible light that emanated within and split across. Its radiant edges were as sharp as the tainted sword that had cut you back on Valhalla.
The pyramidion contains a storm of violently unstable energy, its facets as constellations of starlight refined and expanding into universal plasma. It unfolds itself further, becoming a melting tesseract, a fractal spirograph, a helix of paradox-space, back into the starting triangular shape.
The pattern shifting yet keeping a centrepiece, the point of reference to focus and be focused upon. It cleaves images and colours, blinking as an all-seeing eye, its attention away from wider infinity and fully onto you as the more interesting subject.
I am [Infernal Tempest], the crystalline veil speaks with howling wind and crackling flame, and I offer you the secrets of [Change].
You try to strike it with your blade, moving faster than almost any daemon could react. Epitaph swings and catches the corner of the pyramidion. A flash of light occurs the exact moment your sword touches the material of the sorcerous avatar.
There is the scream of metal against metal, the vengeful fury of carrion birds as they peck apart the corpse of gods, the ignition of an explosive reaction as a small fraction of the power within grounds into you through your weapon.
Lightning channels across your armour, your hands, your eyes. In that brief instance is a shroud of energy across your entire being, alike to the golden aegis that surrounded the [Tower] and freed you from its touch.
The power is unbearable in its heat and intensity, as though an entire star was condensed by your flesh and bone, your eyes seeing an impossible brightness as it deciphered its own meaning before you.
Then it fades away as though it never happened. Yet it had, you could still feel its residual warmth and scent of burning air. There is a fleeting sensation that it hadn't been extinguished, merely sent elsewhere.
But where had it gone? You can almost still sense it…
You look again and seen that the crystal is completely unharmed. Unbreakable as the throne had been. A different rejection than just bladework would be needed here.
The wind and fire manifest more words in its ethereal language, speaking as though nothing happened. The end of Kairos Fateweaver, the slayer of the Changeling, the conqueror who brought the Maelstrom low as Anathema. Despite your finely-wrought construction, your mind cannot even begin to understand the full implications and effects of your actions.
The seven other voices echo the hatred behind what was said, resonating it in unison at the grave losses inflicted upon their pantheon of champions. Narratives that had been used by daemonic across the Warp had been lessened, often dramatically, by you whether directly or indirectly.
The Great Game did not enjoy any actual loss, especially ones caused by mere mortals.
Yet the loudest voice of the eight suddenly shifted away from the words it was speaking, colours violently turning and twisting as the light inside blinked into a new state. In a tone of strange delight did it continue.
Such a wonderful display, worthy of song and story, and it is only the beginning of your path.
Even the other presences around you seemed surprised at that proclamation, confusion and suspicion swirling with you and with them, until they seemed to realise what was happening and either shouted against its plans and get your attention or laughed at the new designs being woven.
Your ignorance over your true potential notwithstanding, respect is due and the first reward has been given.
You don't remember any 'gift' from this apparition, nothing good granted by the eight voices at all, but a recent memory is brought forth. An illusion that flowed like water, pooling from several large tomes around you, showing the moment you split apart within the maze.
The ninefold cleave was a small taste of what is to come, a gift of understanding to help pave the way you have chosen by coming here. You are as a bird who has tasted flight before cracking out of the egg. Where will you chose to flap your hurricane wings, when you break free of your restrictive shell?
You refuse to give an answer, turning your gaze away as the landscape of the library shifts around you, yet that only seems to amuse the pyramid-avatar as turns in perpetual motion.
Another question before the answers, it speaks in rumbling thunder. O Kesar Dorlin, destroyer of destinies, do you fear the future?
It doesn't take long to consider that. You don't, not in the sense that the cursed apparition meant.
There was many things to be worried about, great and small across what could happen from tomorrow to the next decade. So many enemies that could arise and decimate your sons, humanity as a whole at risk in so many ways, a war between your family that would ravage the galaxy.
No, you didn't fear the future. You prepared for it where you could. Adjusted you and your sons in caution for events, especially the contingencies forged by your Legion Master. You faced it head on, ready to strike or defend against whatever it hurls towards you, finding and using the opportunities presented without too much hesitation.
Already so alike to the ways of the [Change], having such elemental audacity and cunning surety in your actions. Timeless consideration honed towards the perpetual 'now' that always exists, cutting past all else. The only difference is one of power and nature. This can be arranged.
Contempt is aimed towards the pyramidion and the whispering chorus around you, to all that was within the accursed [Tower] you had come to. You had already given your answer before to the eight voices, did they really think you'd answer differently now?
Yes and no, the voice of sorcery speaks, and this is the second reward. A secret to aid you as you make your decision. This offer has already been made and accepted, you have already joined with Chaos.
You know that wasn't true, you would know for a fact if anything close to that had happened. Yet there is that same feeling of certainty, that radiates as your wounds burn once more with power.
That which you mortals call the Warp stretches beyond merely a singular universe. Can you say that there is no possibility where you were aligned with its waves, that somehow infinity has been lessened by such an arbitrary conceit? Then it would be you who would become the prevaricator.
It had to be a lie, to even entertain that you would ever fall feels wrong to consider. Yet the eight-sided presence whispered the memories of the past, from when you were on Valhalla to now as you willingly open your soul to the Warp.
If the gods you fought couldn't fully predict what you and your sons did, could you say that you knew better? Was this truly so impossible, that in at least one distant corner of the Warp was a Kesar Dorlin fallen to corruption?
No, to underestimate your enemy, to definitely claim absolute impossibility in their limits, was nothing more than foolish arrogance.
This is not a place of falsehood, the pyramidion states and library ripples at the near-unprecedented honesty. Out there in the labyrinth, the other domains, the wider Sea of Souls there is indeed deception and illusion. Yet here is the purity of all knowledge, the eye of the constant storm between dreams and ideas, thus everything here is and becomes the truth. No matter the contradiction or impossibility.
Despite all of what was claimed, no matter the truth you could feel or the grand offers of power, your answer still hadn't changed.
You still doubt, even knowing innate that all of this is wrought with the purity of truth. Clever, wise and perceptive. Misguided.
The entire realm shifts as a whirlpool, the [Tower] shaking against the strikes of lightning, the crystals singing a new song.
Louder than before did the main voice of the eight speak, greater than the strongest power behind the radiant throne. Immense power was channelled across countless ritual circles and grimoires, the world shifting to fit into a perfect focus and design, the patterns of possibility aligning.
You see the elemental storm of sorcery writhe from the pyramidion, the royal key of divinity, the Ætheric Dominion of [Change].
Here is the proof that shall convince you.
You blink-
The eight voices speak as one, as the [Primordial Annihilator].
You are Kesar Dorlin, the Primarch of the Eternal Wardens. The Daemonsbane. The Second Anathema. You have the power to bring about great change. The endless plans of the gods are made finite by your actions.
WITNESS HIS GLORY, a voice that bends the universe to its will states, sharing the secret of one who had delved into the deepest mysteries and used them with ease. THE ENLIGHTENED SAVIOUR, THE SCHOLAR OF CREATION, THE BRINGER OF HOPE.
Valhalla appears as its namesake, a spiritual home to the greatest heroes and legends. Surrounding it is starlight and dreams, celestial creatures woven with brilliant dreams to act as guardians, there are towers of silver and magic that channel endless power to your homeworld. Stars and moons fractally engraved down to their cores with runic-script, able to easily do things that shouldn't be possible.
It is a paradise and you forged it yourself through nothing but your own power. With a blessed people who are granted power from yourself, safely granted and taught perfectly, brought up into something that stood beyond any normal human.
Spirits roamed, the reflections and tutelaries of your people. All layers of existence granted, to allow further growth. Nothing was not understood. All secrets were known, all futures tamed, all pasts brought into the new present.
It was the centre of a new galaxy, and it was only the very beginning.
-this has already happened. This has already happened. This has already happened. It wasn't just a vision, it was a glimpse into something possible and real and there. And it happened again. And again. And-
Anything was possible to a being with such power. Time and paradox, dimensions across reality, no barriers and nothing in the way of this power.
Forbidden knowledge was digested and repurposed in your sublime focus. The greatest of your sons were gods who each managed a galaxy, steering them into glory and wonder, all to bring about the new patterns and laws of existence. They had metamorphosed into ascendant beings, shadows of yourself.
Then it appeared. The greatest transcendence, all hope for a better future granted, it was a design beyond the work of any other and it was yours. The culmination surges across all the stars, all the worlds, all the souls that flowed by your rhythm and guidance and unparalleled will. And it already happened, and would happen, and was happening.
The vision distorted, unable to fully encapsulate or translate what was happening. This was the truth of your potential, brought into focus, at the observable apex of your wonder and it was only a shadow of what really occurred.
You witness Kesar Dorlin, the Almighty of Chaos Reborn, and know that this is a truth you can easily make real if only you knew how.
Do you see? The shifting chorus of [Change] asked, this is your destined path if only you accept.
-you stumble back, reeling by the recursive afterimages, your eyes felt like they were bleeding by the raw singularity they were forced to see, the burning moment that stretched across such a vast scope and complexity.
The library has shifted entirely. The endless books, spells and constantly changing architecture has become frozen in place at a precise moment. Pages left hung in the air, surging with solidified energy, detailing exactly what would happen. Halls and towers twisted away, bent by a sudden force that had manifested. The pyramidion avatar gleaming above, unfolded into a burning eye that shined upon your soul.
In front of you is a golden archway leading somewhere deeper within, beyond the reach of the [Tower], an entrance towards something that would change your life forever.
The final reward, the path straight towards the power you now know you can attain.
This has happened before, you realise. You standing here in this shifting realm, or something like it, as the golden path to pure enlightenment was made available. The lock now had the key, and you just needed to turn it.
It flickers with a shadow of a shadow, an awe-inspiring ember appearing faintly within the gold. Shrouded so heavily with wards and illusions because the full scope was too powerful to handle in a raw state, at least with your current strength, and because not even Chaos could so easily call upon it.
The voice of [Infernal Tempest] takes on a reverent tone. Behold the ultimate flame of creation itself, water from the deepest well, the truth of [Eternity] to be revealed.
Something whispers that this is the truth, and it is not just echoes from the eight voices. The well, the sublime source of power, the secrets themselves all speak it into your heart. It could be yours. All of it and more could be yours for the taking.
The secret names of every god who has ever existed or could come into being, the true names of all daemons and spirits to bind them to your designs. The perfect counter-ritual to the Ruinous Powers, an eye for an eye, to wound their essence and bring about your own [Towers]. The means to call upon absolute power for any possible effect you could want. Even the means to 'purify' the entirety of Chaos and shift it anew, to bring about a benevolent ascendance towards the whole Sea of Souls.
Break past the barriers between realms after you are done and travel to other universes and timelines. Manipulate events so that humanity reigns supreme, with all enemies and obstacles guaranteed to be defeated. Create a paradise or a hell of all existence, then remake it again and again and again.
Possibilities beyond the scope of the Warp, uncountable futures and lost pasts, secrets hidden from the understanding and very existence of everything. You would know them all as the air you breathe, the water you drink, the food you eat.
Total omniscience and thus omnipotence, beyond even the scope of the [Primordial Annihilator]. You despise Chaos, Kesar Dorlin, so here is the key to victory against it and all that it is connected to. Bring your judgement without restriction. Anything is possible, so make such potential yours and yours alone.
You just needed to take it.
Even if you refuse… you know that you also have not refused. Can you take the chance in one day facing against such an ascendant entity, when they chose to arrive in your universe? You begin to know your power, you know you can potentially master the Sea of Souls, so why refuse?
You could chose to do nothing at all with this knowledge and power if you so wished, with no one else to know of this, and only act upon such almighty tools when you wish. Take this gift and wait for the right moment, delay your full ascension until then, and freely choose.
Do not doubt yourself, even the gods know that you have the will to handle such a grand fate. Wreath yourself in your own soulflame and walk into the fires of the gods and ascend. Become more than a deity, become greater than anything that could ever be.
The only thing between the vision and reality of the ultimate golden age is you, Kesar Dorlin, in more ways than one.
This had already happened. The choice was already made and made again and again. A power beyond the rule of Chaos made yours, beyond the scope of reality. Anything could be done, nothing in your way, everything to be known and under your watchful eye.
Once more, it was everything you could have ever wished for. Spoken in a truth that could not be denied.
Yet if all of that was indeed true… why would you accept?
If everything that could happen would indeed happen, including however countless versions of yourself that had taken up the mantle of an ultimate being of Chaos, then that meant that there were many more where you still refused. If you could chose anything, then that is what you would want to chose.
Even if there were some alternatives variants of yourself that remained as they were despite accepting these offers and somehow remained pure, then with such power they could personally show up and prove it to you. Or you would find the answers to this by yourself one way or another, slowly yet surely.
And if it was still wreathed with any more deception, despite the total assurance and veracity of all these claims you felt, then rejecting it would be caution well-deserved.
You saw no reason to bow down to Chaos and accept its promise of power before, you would not start now.
The eight voices, the whispering tide of secrets and spells, the flowing influence of the great well all shuddered against the answer and your baffling logic, at the idea of using the concept of infinity and every choice already being made to reject power and instead of taking it without fear of true consequence.
The crystal pyramidion seemed to scream as its fractal edges began to grind against itself. Deep cracks immediately spreading across its geometric form. Ambition twisted into weakness, lack of control, a powerless madness that defied the nature of the thirsting gods. Its anger burst forth in literal raging fire, the ethereal storm within cascading out.
In a single moment the library was engulfed in flame as the power of [Infernal Tempest] broke free, revealing the tendrils and talons that writhed across the entire space, sharpening and unfolding into a crystalline landscape that shifted rapidly at what was happening. Lightning strikes from every direction as the storm billows across everywhere, ready to turn to you.
The moment passes and the storm is gone.
…Very well.
The crystals break away, crumbling into dust. The books and scrolls are turned to ash as they lose their power. The golden archway towards complete enlightenment melts away, with no trace of its existence remaining beyond your memory.
It all fades away into the shadows and nothingness, until it is all gone.
Golden light begins to shine through the darkness that befell the empty labyrinth, harsher and stronger than before. A new inferno of cleansing radiance able to be unleashed. The aegis against corruption cut into the umbral realm, its current weakness now heralding its downfall.
A true layer of the [Tower] was falling, the first of the blade-curses removed, the wound upon your soul mending as the influence was fully cauterised.
There is a far deeper agony that inflicts you, greater than any pain previously felt, yet it is intertwined with relief. A weight you have felt for so long is lifting, a crushing influence turned lighter, not yet fully gone but lessened significantly.
To stretch wings you did not know you had for the first time. To take a breath of air after so long without it, in a new realm made open. To feel the raw fury of an agonising flame, yet not be burnt.
Sparks dance across your fingertips, like burning embers or tiny shards of ice. Your eyes see more than they have done before, witnessing the half-there flow of energy around you. Gleaming with light as the shadows still try to fight and resist, you see more clearly the motion of purity as its waves crash against the malignant infection.
Your awakening is finally beginning, your existence as one who could directly wield the Warp's power.
In response to your action, as a sickening feeling squirms around your body, the surrounding ash begins to flow and you see the tainted air that swirls around it. A choking miasma, a river of sludge, a toxic growth that dragged itself forward. The world shifting in the silent march of death and decay.
The opening is made from ash and debris, solidified and fossilised as though it had been waiting for aeons. A doorway of ruin, and to another cut upon your essence that recoiled from this act of healing. The whispers of the damned echoing from the other side.
You step inside, feeling the timeless force of decay billow across, and the ritual continues.
-----
Your eyes strain against the murky haze of entropy.
The air is stale and rotten, a choking mass that weighs heavily with each breath. Clouds of poison flows from everywhere, obscuring everything in a diseased shroud.
You lift up a hand and try to will the corruption away. Putting your fingers through the tangled spectre of rot, crushing it with all your strength. Slowly it collapses, the foetid mist falling away as it seeps into the earth.
Now you witness the end of everything.
A wasteland stretches across every direction, grey soil and sand and ash mixed into an decomposed amalgamation. Giant mountains of debris were the only thing else, the last landmarks of desolation. Silence that hung in absolute stillness, making each little noise you make louder as it echoes across this vast stretch of destruction.
There are no stars in the sky above you, that can be seen past the foul clouds that hang above. No light at all to be seen except for strange cracks into existence, old wounds of a dying reality. The heavens are as barren as the landscape around you, the night itself was in its death throes. It rains with acid and thick sludge, a final caustic flood.
The whole realm is touched by the presence of rot, the attention of its master already focused upon you but not near you yet. It was waiting for you with the patience of the grave, knowing that you could feel it, for you to come towards the centre of its power here.
The last moments of eternity. The time of finality. The apocalypse of all.
You march forward through the wasteland, following the source of the rot. Towards the biggest mountain of scrap and rubble, a dormant volcano that stretches above all else. Ash and fumes billow from within, the last gasp of a monumental corpse.
The world shifts as you head for the ruin. Fungus and twisted brambles blooms from the ruined earth. Weakened and pathetic, the flora of undying nature. Rotten so much that all of it can barely move, almost no resistance as you cut it down.
Diseased water falls in torrents of rain, the toxic clouds roiling up above. Forests rise up as you journey to the dying volcano, trees without leaves that are born in death. Rivers begin to form as gardens of greater fungi emerge, as the putrid liquid carves its way through the soft soil.
A last cycle of life, waiting to be witnessed, to be understood, to be cut down by your blade. Every single wilting stalk of grass is crushed and every giant gnarled tower of wood is brought low. Floods of primordial ooze gushes across the wasteland, the growing influence of decay and twisted renewal, a mixture of life and death spilling over.
The great mountain doesn't seem to move no matter the hours and days you have travelled. The ruin is larger than you first assumed. Shrouded in storms of the vile mixtures swirling inside, wreathed in the smoke of the last heat.
It burns hotter than before, gathering its power as you fought through the wasteland. The mountain carried its hatred and influence across the realm, into your soul, into the festering wound that existed as this [Tower]. Yet you were persevering against the tide of decay that you faced.
More days pass in an endless struggle forward. The rain fell harder and harder, the poisons growing worse each moment, yet you did not falter even as the land was turned to a vast lake of mud that revealed that more than deadly nature existed within.
There were bodies underneath your feet, dragged up from the pushing roots and excavated by the constant deluge. More corpses than you have ever seen before in one location, skeletal remains all mangled within a shared torment. A mass grave across an endless plain of nothing.
So many of the endless bodies are unidentifiable, barely humanoid husks that are trapped in their dried and lifeless state. Rendered down into a formless mass as the caustic water seeps through, turning blackened bones and old flesh into dust. Merging into the soil as more detritus, removing all trace of existence.
Other members of the dead manage to hold on to their previous forms, resilient even long past the end. Clad in armour discoloured by time and rust, corroded and full of holes. Markings that were faint and scratched by roots and insects, etchings all across their plate, worn away into indistinct half-patterns.
But you recognised them, no matter how faded and ruined their remains were, because they were your warriors. The Eternal Wardens.
Thousands upon thousands of them each piled in thousands of burial mounds, collapsed in deep trenches, thrown into pits now long drained of their nightmarish concoctions. The poisonous water and sludge dragging them away as they were revealed. More and more popping up as the storm washed up the long dead, taunting you with the armies dead in the sodden mud.
Your fists clench so hard that any other sword than Epitaph might have shattered, a cold rage rises up as you are surrounded by your dead sons. It doesn't matter if it's all an illusion, the sight of it is enough to stoke the fires of your fury.
Time passes in treading muck and chopped down rapidly-growing flora, breaths of suffocating air and mists, a shrouded sky and the mountain of death that was still so far away.
You quickly realised wasn't just your sons who were buried. There were Iron Warriors, Alpha Legionnaires, Ultramarines, White Scars, Luna Wolves, World Eaters, Blood Angels, Night Lords, Space Wolves, Thousand Sons, Imperial Fists, Emperor's Children, Raven Guard, Salamanders, Iron Hands, Death Guard, Dark Angels and even Word Bearers.
There were also many fallen Astartes bearing colours, faded symbols and even makes of armour that you've never seen before. Across the ages of war, all left to be buried together. Even those bearing the symbols of Chaos were buried here, the twisted flesh-metal turned into rust and rot.
Millions upon millions in total, more than the Legions ever raised to their forces, and there was no end in sight of their numbers.
Imperial Army regiments are stacked in rows, layers and layers of soldiers submerged into the wasteland like ammo in a box. Warmachines are blended into composites of mud and metal, from cadres of titans to pieces from crashed battleships. The rubble of cities and palaces, of temples and barracks, of vast factories and space stations.
Further you travel, as the desecration and ancient carnage gets worse. Custodians still clad in auramite armour, broken yet still recognisable as your father's praetorians. Sisters of Silence are left as dust and ashes, drawn to attention with how the undead growths shy away from their presence even as dried corpses. The great bodies of what appeared to be your brothers, laid out in their last stands.
Time passes in what feels like years and decades, in what weighs heavily as centuries and millennia. A floating sensation in your thoughts and perception, the murky haze seeping through your awakening senses. It's like you're in a trance or a dream, constantly cutting the same trees and marching through the same bodies again and again, and indeed you are in a dream.
A dream…
Lucidity flows across your mind, intertwined with rage as you gaze upon all the dead around you. It has not been that long, in this timeless expanse, and yet there was no progress at all. You have had enough of this farce.
Fire dances across your fingers as the forests wither faster than before, catching alight. The realm shudders as you find solid ground where there was none. The rain seems to freeze in the air, the shifting clouds slowing to a crawl.
The world shifts as you run forwards-
The eight voices writhe against the tide that flows against them. The barrier outside the [Tower] was pressing harder than before, burning away the point of connection into nothingness, and now a barrier within was forming. Flecks of silver along with the golden aegis. Rising slowly but surely, gaining a focus of hatred.
-and in an instant the mountain is before you.
The gaping mouth of jagged ruin billows toxic clouds of ash and corrosion, like the maw of a toothed worm. Stone, metal and bone wait to devour you and digest you in the burning energy that writhes within. The presence of rot is close, unable to hide from your pursuit.
You head is pounding with agony, as though there are needles dancing across your nerves, yet you press onwards. A wave of a hand brings more nausea and pain as it dispels the caustic mists, forming a path for you to delve deeper into this nightmare. You ready your sword for anything, as you head into the foul darkness.
The caverns are slick with pooled poisons, sludge and liquified putrescence. Melting under its own heat and energy, boiling as a cauldron over the flames.
The merging of death and destruction of all things is apparent as pieces break away to reveal the innards of the mountain, the same as the wasteland you had travelled through only worse and solidified.
You don't focus upon any of it. This was a dream, something festering over your own soul. None of this is real beyond as a test, a trial by you and enforced on you.
Time passes in darkness and pain. The great grave, the volcanic mound of decay, swirls with noxious death. It flows with listless energy, an accretion disk around a vast presence, buzzing like a hive of insects as it wormed its way through everything.
The worst poisons here are not based on physical malady, but deeper sickness and infection related to its nature. Thoughts turning to sludge, slowing as energy was lost and exhaustion tried to force itself, bringing more nausea as you did your best to will all the influence away from you.
It's nothing you haven't dealt with before against Chaos.
A sound begins to be heard. The knell of an old bell intoning its presence. The scratching and bubbling and twisted noises of nature. Seven whispers swarming around a louder voice that was at the edge of understanding. All ot it calling you to somewhere deeper within.
The darkness grows darker and heavier. The walls shifting, holes opening and closing, tunnels and pits that go yet deeper. You knew that it wasn't much further, feeling the guidance of the eightfold presence as you enter the bottom of the entropic mountain.
Smouldering flames spew toxic ash to the air, glowing concoctions from the foulest cauldron in existence pool in rivers and lakes. The cavern has been cut into the shape of a vast cathedral of primal worship, corroded into its form by both caustic melting and the ruinous march of time, kept in place by colossal tree roots and branches.
There is a true structure at the centre of it all, illuminated and shaded by everything else. A mausoleum that was collapsed open, leaving piles of bones and rubble. Dust still swirls around in a ring, dancing in the same motion until you walk past it. A barrier that has faded away, as its purpose was no longer needed.
Beyond the caskets, urns and fungal growths is a great mound of daemonic remains. Most of it was turned to ash and dried chunks, cut finely by a sword wielded with the focus, strength and skill required to decimate the army that had formed the vast mound.
Upon a surviving funeral altar placed next to the mound is another body, another warrior who had fallen in battle. The sight doesn't shock you, it was somewhat expected after all that you went through here, but the sight of your own dead body does give you pause.
Epitaph within what was left of its bony hands, chipped and broken into pieces. The armour was scratched and melted, barely a legible name left surviving on the plate. The runes were faded and without any power, the source of their aetherial fuel completely spent.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Anathema of Man, and you endlessly struggle towards nothingness.
You turn as the mound of festering death besides your own corpse shifts, building with a final burst of energy, focused upon the strongest of that which was attuned to the ways of disease and the will of decay.
The voice that spoke was the harsh tones of a death rattle, the gurgling hate directed towards you. Then it became the clearest of the eight, chanting softly as it wove its power. A calm sorrow seemed to ripple across the entire realm, the tired sigh of escaping air. Twisted back into guttural booming, a cycle of noise to follow the ways of twisted rebirth.
The rotten skull of a dragon is unearthed from the pile of remains, covered in the bubbling tar of ancient mass graves. Carried by a swarm of insects, granted brief existence as they hatch from unseen eggs. Its eyeless gaze turns towards you, used as the avatar of the vile presence behind it.
Its flesh is reknit with new life. Eyeballs bloating up, swelling with ocular flesh and nerves. Layers of flesh, muscle and skin coat various patches of the now bleeding head. The rotten meat from the pile surges with animation, covering the head and connecting with it to the mass. It becomes a serpent of poison, a wyrm of death, an ouroboros between its perpetual half-life.
I am [Putrid Corruption], the corpse-amalgam whispers its the cold words with the finality of death, and I offer you the freedom from [Despair].
You try to set it on fire, focusing your power and your existence against this monstrosity. A mistake. Your hold on your ability falters, losing cohesion instantly as the flow of energy is turned aside by the entity.
You stumble back at the backlash, your eyes spinning, close to collapsing from pain and tiredness. Sickness pulses around your body, painfully stinging as a venomous bite. The wound upon your soul burns as the rot-avatar circles around you.
This is the end of everything, it whispers by your ear. The death of all. Not even the greatest gods can be spared.
Wings form from flayed bodies and cast-off shells, aligning into a draconic appearance. The undead amalgamation grew bigger as dust and rubble was devoured, turned into bone and scales, transforming the thing into a towering beast.
You struggle and fight with such vigour, the buzzing cadence speaks. Flies manifesting from nothing, from the dead, from the ash to strengthen the chorus of the damned. To the end did you bring the Neverborn to the death. Entire realms gone, acts of absolute deicide, inevitable ruin wrought by a reaper of immortals.
The mountain quakes as you face the winged serpent, roiling with the vile presence that surrounded you. Great chunks of colossal bone, fragments from giant roots and branches, titanic cuts of amber and a deluge of water fell down from widening cracks. The mountain shall join the destruction that surrounds it.
You have already heard and seen the power you would wield and rejected it. Impressive resilience, to remain true to your nature to such a degree is a respectful ideal. Victory against the gods and their limitless armies indeed possible without such ascension, for you are beholden to no such limits that a mortal should be shackled by.
The sky opens up above your head, the clouded night, as everything collapses at once. A toxic flood washes through, cutting through all material greater than any acid. None of it lands on you directly, crashing against the outer edges of the mausoleum you and the avatar stood within.
The land gave way underneath the weight of the crumbling mountain. The sinking mud swallows whole the remains that fall from the once mighty volcano, forming tides of sludge that rise and fall. Clouds of ash flies across as all that is left is a crater around you.
You see that the other mountains had fallen, sunken into the ravages of the caustic environment. The forests of diseased flora and poisonous fungi withered and burned away. Clouds rapidly dissipated as the caustic deluge fell. The soil and mud of the expansive wasteland seems to evaporate, melting away like a faded memory.
All that is truly left are the uncountable bodies and ruins, and they too were fading away against the entropic presence that permeated this realm.
Here you gaze upon your triumph! Behold the scope of this conquest at the end of everything. Without any opposition to stand against you. It is all done.
A few of the other eight voices writhe at what the loudest said, hateful to or insulted by the message. One of the clearest ones was rising in volume with rage, honing its essence against the buzzing cadence of rot. It is all ignored, as the wyrm continues to speak.
The legendary deeds and tragedies performed to get here will take an eternity to recount, and are you not the Eternal Warden? Shall we tally your dead warriors and their histories one by one, to try digesting it all? Or your allies, your brothers, the worlds that supported you, the empire of mankind wrought by your creator?
You grip your sword so tightly that a distant part of you wonders if it will shatter, as sparks leap from your fingers and dances along the blade's edge. But it will not. This is just a dream, the [Tower] built from your wounds, a shard of influence meant to be excised.
Why do you feel such frustration, Kesar Dorlin? Is this victory perhaps not to your liking? Has the spectre of regret and loss come to spoil your desire? Harden your twin hearts if it is too hard to stomach, none of this should come as a surprise.
The whispering tide from the voices begin to name your sons. Oriacarius Gielux, the Legion Master. Maticus Ventamedes, the Black Prince. Scafrir the Defiant, Master of Scouts. Your mind can't help but wonder what happened to them, in this bleak hell you witness.
While you have seen before what you could gain with a divine unity, you have not seen what would be lost by rejecting this power. What would be wasted. What would degrade and decay and [Despair] at this existence.
All this death, all this suffering, it will exist even in a 'perfect' timeline for you. All things die, all things come to an end, the only constant certainty is in transience. Even with the death of all daemons, suffering and loss will remain.
The rot-wyrm encircles you, its serpentine body coiling around in a spiral. It has grown yet bigger, becoming gigantic as the bulk of its amalgamate-mass burrows across the filthy mud around it and drags more caustic death into its flesh. Its wings cover the sky and its head stands above the clouds, its long body stretching across.
It looms as a great tree of the dead.
Join with the ascendance of the Sea of Souls, a freedom from [Despair]. Let a new way of life come forth, without fear of any end. An ouroboros of existence, a cycle of [Eternity]. Or else let all this death and suffering weigh heavily upon you, knowing you could have stopped it.
Fire burns across your hands, ignited utterly, the pain entirely ignored as you stared down the creature before you.
You see the rotten maw of decay open before you, the royal key of divinity, the Ætheric Dominion of [Despair].
You raise your blade as the wyrm billows out its burning miasma, a fog that shrouded the entire realm, the breath of diseased life and poisoned land. The wasteland melts away entirely as the waves crash over you form. The clouds grow yet thicker-
You blink-
The eight voices speak as one, as the [Primordial Annihilator].
You are Kesar Dorlin, the Primarch of the Eternal Wardens. The Daemonsbane. The Second Anathema. You have the perseverance to withstand infinity if it stood against you. The Warp itself would fade away before you could fall.
O ANCIENT WARRIOR, a voice that shall intone the last dying breaths of the universe states, recounting the obituary of every fading ember in a cold reality. THE UNDYING LORD, THE EVERLASTING SAVIOUR, THE DESTROYER OF SUFFERING.
You witness millions of worlds, teeming with life and agony. Humans, Machines, Xenos, Spirits and even Gods struggling to exist as everything falls around them. Hunger, petty strife, hatred, fear, sickness, loss and decay. Even the Warp was diseased to the core, tainted by all that darkness that sprouted from the galaxy.
So many problems, so much hardship and sorrow with nothing to stop it. An answer was granted by the herald of a new age.
Immorality to all that would have withered and died, culling the spectre of death entirely. Food and water for those starved and without ability to sustain themselves, more than enough to sate every soul. Homes and families for those without either, granted a new life of joy. A cure to the Sea of Souls, a purity of life and wonder, to restore the realm to its true glory.
The Eternal Wardens had become protectors, healers, guides to this new reality. Shepherds of a peace that would never break. No longer would any more names be carved, no longer would the children of Kesar Dorlin face pain or be lost in battle. All suffering that would have ever happened, now no longer needed as the Anathema brought forth-
"ENOUGH!"
Your sword cleaves through the vision, past the eight voices of the [Primordial Annihilator], and embeds itself into the dragon's skull. The avatar roars in surprise, shrieking in pain as it faces a sudden demise.
"YOU DARE CLAIM THAT I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY OF THIS SUFFERING?" you roar as the corpse-beast screams, as you keep attacking. The words echo across the whole of the [Tower], shaking at the force. "THAT THE DEATH OF MY SONS ARE ON MY HANDS INSTEAD OF YOUR CLAWS, YOUR BLADES AND YOUR ACCURSED POWERS?! YOU PROMISE SALVATION, BUT YOU ARE NOTHING BUT PARASITES!"
The voices all scream at you as the dragon burns to ash with your flame. Some against you as you once more defied Chaos, a few in support of the act of violence or its meaning. The loud cadence of buzzing insects rose to a deafening anger, the wind billowed with the wrath of twisted nature, the voices of countless dead speaking at once at this insolence.
You would dare refuse this truth?! Do you not care about all your sons as you so claim-
"IT IS NO TRUTH, IT IS ANOTHER LIE. DELUSIONAL NONSENSE, NOTHING BUT EXCUSES AND PRETENCE TO GRANT YOU MORE POWER!"
The presence of [Putrid Corruption] falters but holds firm as the wasteland buckles. The ashen avatar tries to rally itself, whispered promises and vengeful roars intermingle as you refuse the power offered.
Your sword rises once more, shining as a beacon within darkness and flame, and it is brought down low on the dragon's head as it charges at you. Slicing through the flesh and bone like it was not there. Again and again was the avatar cut, burned and tore apart. Blood fell from the giant monster, spilling forth the essence of a diseased presence.
"HEAR ME, CHAOS." you speak with a voice that thunders across the Deepest Dream. "AS LONG AS I LIVE, I WILL NEVER FALL TO YOU. EVEN IN DEATH, I WILL REFUSE YOU. IF RUIN IS THE FATE OF REALITY, KNOW THAT YOU ARE THE CAUSE OF YOUR OWN DEMISE EVEN IF I FAIL. I WILL FIGHT YOU TILL THE END, NO MATTER WHAT."
Golden light bathes the darkness around you, emanating from cracks in the sky and in the ground. The aegis shined more brilliantly than before, raging with the fires you had lit. The illusion distorts and fails.
The avatar of [Putrid Corruption] tries in vain to push against you, to turn aside the strength that was used against the wasting beast. Your will would not shake, your mind would not bend, your focus would not waver.
There was pain as you wielded this power, lightning surging across your essence, but in this moment you do not feel it so strongly. The nausea kept contained as fury was brought in full force. The meditative focus of battle against a daemon, for you are the Daemonsbane.
Chaos will not take you in its clutches. Its last chance to convince you had failed. You would not fall, and the presence that controlled the corpse-beast knew this to be your own truth.
…You will regret this, it hisses in cold rage.
The dragon collapses into ash and blood, fading like a distant dream, leaving nothing left to the realm of decay and death. It truly had become the end of everything, past its final moments.
You can feel the wound upon your soul mend, hear the tide of your own life flow in great waves that suddenly rise up. The second of the blade-curses vanquished, the penultimate spoke of an eight-sided wheel shattered, another layer to the [Tower] crumbling away as the poison was expunged.
You double over in transcendent overstimulation, tormented by sudden awareness. It feels like you are in water, flying across the skies, standing by stars, suffocating under sand. Alien sensations rush across your body, your being, your existence. Colours you have never seen blur together, illuminated by light that was not there, spoken by voices that have always spoken. So many concepts form into alignment before fading.
Words on the tip of your tongue flow out as you babble the meanings, granting them shapes, equations twisted by new perception. You feel akin to a vortex that swirls everything inside violently, sending them through to another realm that is you and not you. Thoughts as a storm, as rain on the ground, as you are the ground, as the rain, the waves, the waves, building up as waves and still not whole to reach all the way.
As you reel from the sensations and try to take control back from them, feeling blood and tears flow from your face and fire across your body, you hear something in the distance getting louder and louder.
Laughter.
As the quieter seven voices speak in varying tones of hatred, disgust, contempt and bewilderment against your constant refusal, the eighth grows in amusement and attention. It builds up as your blood falls, as the fires build, as destruction ravages the [Tower].
You feel something at the edge of your senses, screaming as the haze of your psychic awakening feels a newfound pressure that drowns out the rest. You already know it is above you, before the realm is bathed in crimson radiance and the deafening crash of shattered glass, but it takes tremendous effort to look up.
The empty sky is filled with the presence of a sword.
A blade that stretches beyond comprehension. Intricately carved with burning runes the size of solar systems across its impossible length. Jagged and fierce as the the symbol of doom, murder and fury. It falls with cosmic force, a sharpened monolith of apocalypse, sharpened with divine wrath.
The eight voices speak countless names. Woebringer. Warmaker. The End of All Things.
The sword of Khorne, that could cut through even the barrier between realms.
If it's a fight you wish for, a voice that roars with the sound of metal against metal, then let there be a final conflict within your [Scar].
Strike.
Everything falls, cast into the sword's abyss, as the ritual reaches its end.
-----
You open your eyes as an axe falls to your neck-
You dodge, clumsily, your feet moving as though they were submerged, reaction time sluggish-
-tens of thousands surrounded you at least, shrouded in smoke and clouds of debris, sprays of blood, artillery barrages, shadows cast by countless different fires, an entire army was here-
A colossal explosion rocks by close to your location, loud and strong enough to shake a planet. It resonates through your skull, your clenched teeth, your skin felt like it was on fire. Pieces from the crashed space hulk are launched across massive distances, shrapnel cuts through billions of distant figures in every second second, laughter and war-cries follow in the aftermath from all sides.
Flame and ash flow across the sky, as an ocean of destruction. Mountains rise and fall in minutes, some of bodies and some from debris.
Surrounding you are countless daemons of Khorne, more of the foul beings than you have ever seen before, along with endless hordes of Orks, too many to even consider counting.
You have seen this before, a vision brought forth by your father, the beginning of the war that helped crown you as Anathema and banish the Maelstrom. The Blood and Thunder War.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Anathema of Man, and you are a worthy opponent.
Time seems to slow as you turn your gaze to the source of the voice, the vast presence, the keystone of this realm and what was behind this vision. The berserkers around you move in an eternal moment, locked in this endless war, as you witness divinity.
Three titanic beings are locked in battle. They are transcendent entities. To describe them, conceptualise them, would be to take a knife and use it to kill those that would be hunted. Then to wield a sword or an axe to enact further madness indiscriminately, to fight and kill becoming singular ideals, and then to find a sword or hammer and bring down greater obstacles in this path of enlightened murder.
It is philosophy made manifest, using itself as proof of its validity. Might makes right. The only truth that existed was one that could stand strong even as everything else died. Continued existence being the only arbiter of credibility. In each act of killing was purpose, strength, and a greater means to continue killing and surviving and destruction of all else.
You head burns as you sense deeper, brighter and unseen elements. Psychic awareness distorting against the presence of the three, especially the armoured warrior that was the bane of all those who relied on witchcraft alone as power. To gaze upon the light of a living star that honed specific hatred against your existence, searing into your eyes and soul for attempting to comprehend it.
Energy full of intertwined reason and identity, fighting in conflict and yet united by the very act of conflict, is packed denser than the largest black holes. It is blinding and deafening to experience, to stand and look above the heavens and see the pinnacle of bloodshed.
Each strike brings a supernova of light, rippling across the souls of every warrior. Each wound brings primal ferocity, as the blood falls and flows in great waves. Each sound of fury is echoed across countless battlecries and roars, as a shared expression of divine existence and meaning.
It is the crucible of savagery and battle, refining itself to the epitome of what it can be. It is the truth of conflict, hatred and strength. It is heaven and hell, a paradise forged of blood.
There is no peace among the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
You blink past the fire that ignites in your vision. They are three shadows wreathed in supernovae, the bursting with an impossible might. Pale reflections of their true forms and true power, yet it is enough to bring you to your knees.
Two of them are near identical, shaped as something resembling the Orks. One possessed a deep scar across their chest, the mark of a near fatal blow. The other sports deep scars across their knuckles. The two fight in a brutal synchronicity against a shared opponent, while also ready at any moment to take a cunning strike at the other when there was an opportunity.
The third was a warrior who wielded the blade that brought down the realm of decay and brought you here, to the final layer of the [Tower]. With skill and strength to match two gods of battle as an equal, and a feral anger to withstand the gravest dooms.
The warriors weathered bolts of lightning strong enough to split apart worlds, countless rituals and attacks made by lesser beings, and the continuous fire of millions of fleets as though they did not exist. Only the fight between deities mattered, warranting full focus.
Their chestplate was broken in the centre, made as a jagged hole in the shape of an eight-sided star, the inside glowed with the power and fury of the divine heart within. Molten blood flowed across several deep injuries across the body, from the central hole to various other scratches and tears across the armour.
It did not matter from whence the blood flows, only that it did for the Blood God.
I am [Heedless Slaughter], the countless warriors and beasts cry out together in the joy of bloodshed, and I offer you the strength of [Rage].
"It wasn't even one of your daemons that did this." you spit out, forcing yourself to gaze upon the shadow of a burning god as it fights against Gork and Mork. "It was the Changeling taking the shape of one of your champions. You and your followers never got me, not even on Gehenna."
The amusement behind the presence briefly slipped, growing instead in the spectres of the other seven whispers, smouldering in stoked fury at the insolence displayed by your insult. Then the feeling of joy returned as though no insult was said, as cruel laughter echoed straight into your skull.
Trickery is not a true domain for a warrior, yet it would be foolish to not take an advantage when presented! To throw dust in the eyes of a raging beast, to hide a sharpened stone until the killing blow, to move with the shadows until the battle is reached. And for this? Where is the shame in following along a simple turn of events?
"You still failed on your own, relying on something else to do your own work!"
It matters not, it is clear you would not accept a covenant with the Ruinous Powers. Enjoy this battle and bloodshed, Kesar Dorlin. It is a parting gift.
The shadow of Khorne strikes their blade towards the Ork Gods and time resumes its course, the battle swarming to engulf you as you fight through the disorienting sensory barrage. Warriors and monsters surround you in less than a second, with all types of weapons swinging or pointing towards you.
You force yourself to move, to bring Epitaph up, to cascade your own psychic flames towards your enemies. An axe cuts into your arm, bolt-shells slams into your head, a hammer falls on your leg. You cleave through a hundred warriors, to which thousands more pour in towards you.
It is just a dream, a vision forged by Chaos, yet the pain feels real, the way their blades clash against your own. Your senses can barely tell the difference at these spectres, wisps of power wrought in the shape of what they represented as perfect replicas.
Time passes as you fight and struggle for survival, in this trial of carnage, in the complete mayhem.
Your armour is scratched and broken, you flesh burned and bleeding, your senses tangle with writhing agony at simply trying to perceive what was in front of you. It ironically acts like a dire sickness or poison infesting you, exacerbated by everything that occurs in this false war.
The hellforged glyphs and accursed relics wielded by the Khornates sear you by mere presence, hatred towards cowardly witchcraft made manifest inside your mind. The roars and laughter of the Orks shudder at your being, as the mantras of war echo across with a loudness to rival the largest detonations. The effort spent to slay your enemies, dodge countless attacks and withstand it all tests your limits in your current state.
Destruction, armageddon, slaughter and insanity. It is a haze of mayhem, a whirlwind of devastation that claws deeply at your newfound perception.
Yet still you do not give in. You don't even consider giving up. You swore you would fight till the end, and fight you would.
Because of your tenacity, you are able to see it. The cracks of gold slowly manifesting, the aegis against this tainted scar closing in, the last vestiges of Chaos losing its grip upon you.
The power of the war-vision, of the [Tower], of the last wound upon your soul was cracking already with golden light. The blade-curse was using up its own energy to manifest the depth and breadth of the conflict, to showcase a small portion of the true Blood and Thunder War. Forming a temporary connection to a divine conflict at the expense of everything else it could do.
In time, this realm would shatter itself as it fought.
But time is not on your side. This was a realm that followed the rules of a dream, a ritual created by the Archdaemons.
A moment can pass like eternity. Eternity can pass like a moment. You would have to outlast a potentially infinite onslaught before the [Tower] finally fell.
You were Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens, and you will never fall.
Time passes in the sounds of blades against blades, the roar of gunfire and explosives, the crashing of ships and the impossible conflict between divine beings.
You have been fighting endless hordes for what feels like an eternity. A timeless existence of constant battle. The warriors are replaced before the corpses hit the ground. Titans and tanks seem to manifest from nothingness. Aircraft shot and drop bombs then their debris falls around you. There is not a second of rest. It is a blur of violence.
The presence that rules this vision laughs at your struggle, drowning out the other seven voices as the [Tower] falters and focus upon slaughter dominates the last moments. It has become a twisted show, an amusing display.
This is a dream, a realm within your soul, a connection forged between you and your greatest enemies. It is all an illusion. All false, a distorted mirage. You tell yourself that all of this is just another trick.
It's a good trick, you had to admit.
There is a moment where you fall to your knees, a mistake in movement and swordplay, and were about to be skewered by a thousand different swords. Then time halts once more.
You think you know strength, the voice of [Heedless Slaughter] speaks through the echoes of countless berserkers. That because your will is so great that makes you invincible in this dream. You chase sorcery when you should hone your blade and your body. Look how feeble it has made you, stumbling as a lost child, fighting as a drunkard compared to the glory before. This is a place of actual might and worth. Do away with this farce, and accept true power.
"Never!" you say, clutching at the scorched earth as by will alone you rise back up. "I WILL NOT GIVE IN!"
Then stand up and fight, this battle is not yet over! Prove yourself, Anathema!
So you fight, without a sense of time, without any awareness other than the battle for your soul.
You fight and fight and fight.
Memory and mind falter, beset by tremendous pain and spiritual exhaustion, but your will does not flinch.
You fight until no other warriors or monsters come before you, no armies or champions, no siege engines or fleets. With a blade chipped and jagged, the edges cracked and broken. An armour that has been beaten into scrap that still clings to your body. The pain and nausea tempered by an absolute purity of focus.
The realm is cracked and bleeding, turning to dust before your eyes, carved and purged by the flowing lattice of gold that outshines the raging cataclysm of this accursed nightmare.
Your have won your battle.
But the war was nowhere near over.
You turn towards the three great shadows, the three-fold reflections of divine conflict, the triumvirate of bloodshed and monsters.
Gork and Mork are faded images, indistinct silhouettes stretched across all mortal limit, abstract and distant from your mind. Featureless faces frozen mid-roar, their constant cries silenced, their fists locked in place. Their opponent was different.
The avatar of the Chaos God still clung to definition, radiating its wrath and bloodthirst as a furious star. The full form turned to match your gaze, as the presence behind the grand apparition put its full focus towards you. The eight voices, waxing and waning across this depiction of absolute war, return in a storm that surrounded your existence.
The long shadow from [Heedless Slaughter] fell upon you, cast by the flames of blood-drenched hell and the radiant paradise of murder.
You possess such potential as a warrior, deeds beyond legend already accomplished, yet it is wasted! Your death would be measured in seconds if you came to the true scope of the War in Heaven waged behind this fantasy. When this doom reaches you in truth, the outcome would not be in question.
You witness the sword of Khorne as it swings its point to you, the royal key of divinity, as the Ætheric Dominion of [Rage].
One last chance for ascension, Kesar Dorlin, in respect for your strength and skill. Accept this deific accord, wield this ultimate power. Rise higher than all else and use this might to bring all your enemies low and take their heads in absolute conquest. Or else die by the will of the great gods and greatest wars, crushed by the strength you reject.
The End of All Things is raised up with two hands, moving as a celestial event as the blade shines with transcendent murder. It is an almighty weapon wielded by the epitome of wrath. The grand judgement that would define the fate of the Materium and Immaterium hangs by the edge of authority, held by the Firstborn of Apocalypse.
The final question is asked. Will you become the God of Chaos Reborn?
There can be only one answer to such a thing.
"No," you calmly whisper in the face of death. "I refuse."
The eight voices speak as one, as the [Primordial Annihilator].
THEN DIE.
The sword falls in an instant. The realm shatters completely. The golden aegis bends and cracks but does not break.
There is the sound of a piercing scream. The noise of cracking ice that echoes across the dream. The flow of water and flame dancing together.
And then silence.
You fall.
-----
The [Tower] has fallen.
A gateway into the foulest winds. The keystone of the vilest connection. The blade-curse ritual to the Chaos Gods.
The wounds upon your soul, your essence, your unravelled threads that linked to the Warp.
A hex woven with the divine power and knowledge, the whispering tide of daemons, the pathway to dark ascension.
Even in an incomplete state, it festered as a shard trapped within your being. Acting as a barrier against your true potential, and the means to control it. An unbreakable wall and shackle towards your very being, locking you away from truly wielding this power.
Now it was no more, faded away as though it had never been there, as though it had been but a distant dream.
You fall through the healing wound, the fading scar, the Deepest Dream.
You will soon rise back up from your dreaming endeavour, awaken back with the Emperor of Mankind as he channelled his power through you. Letting you fully cleanse and purify yourself from the lingering influence.
Your will had brought you this far, the determination to withstand anything that Chaos could use against you. But while you are still here, within your dreams, within your soul and your mind…
"It is not a matter of will, but a matter of mind."
You open your soul and your eyes, forming a connection.
For the first time in your life, with unveiled sight, you witness the Sea of Souls.
Starlight flowed across in impossible ways.
It was beautiful.
This whole endeavour was ill-fated, with only one step left before completion. Now it would take a miracle beyond destiny to stand a chance. Yet… perhaps this can be turned into an opportunity.
His will is too great, beyond the limits of almost any other mortal. There is no hope for any trick to convince him, even in a twisted dream. All this time and energy spent has been nothing but a waste.
Trickery is a fool's game. There is one weapon left that can be used, one seldom wielded. If deception and falsehood brings failure, the gift must be offered with a different light…
THE PRIMORDIAL TRUTH.
-----
The Scar. The Tower. The Ritual.
-----You are…
"Kesar Dorlin, the Eleventh Primarch, the First Daemonsbane of Mankind, the Second Anathema of Humanity."
The words flow with absolute certainty as they name you, grasping at your essence, the core of your being.
You fall for an eternity, caught in the great flow of endless power. Infinity claws around your shell.
Glass and metal surrounds you. Light and liquid flow around your form, feeding the framework that houses your brilliant flame. You are an ember in boundless dark.
It is hard to remember, to attain any awareness in your current state. As hard to think as it is to take the first breath, to open the eyes and witness a beginning of vision, to wander forward at the start of every path.
You cannot move or escape. Even if you could, to do so here would be the end. To be snuffed out, to be drowned. The feeling of utter wrongness, the corruption of the ocean around you, it is felt and known even in ignorance. There is a primal fear and disgust. It is a poison that burns through all it touches.
Chaos.
But it feels so familiar. As though you've been here before. Drifting across the bulk of its form, under the laughter of thirsting gods.
"It is not a matter of will, but a matter of mind."
Those words, that voice, the lingering memory. You know this, as distant recognition merges with your mind. The faint existence becoming more real.
You are-
Your home would finally be freed.
The cultist army was breaking apart at an unprecedented pace. Tanks covered in vile sigils were torn to pieces by your bare hands. Ritual sites and fortifications laid to ash in the snow. Barricades and walls were rubble for those under your command to charge through.
You were Kesar Dorlin, the Hero of Valhalla. Nothing could stop you as you rushed towards-
A winged figure rises up from smoke and shadow, surrounded by flame and ice. A blade of titanium flashing against the monster, dodging all your attacks with ease. Its own sword slicing into your-
"Strike."
-----
You are Kesar Dorlin, the Hero of Valhalla. You-
There is a sound that wakes you up, something like the deep cracking of glaciers and frozen seas but sharper. It rings in your head and resonates in your bones, in something deeper than your body, and it pieces through your hearts.
You rise up in lucid agony, breaths short and pained. Shaking as you feel the weight of your armour and sword. Vision blurring as though you are in water, the haze of things not aligning with anything.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens. You are Kesar Dorlin, the Daemonsbane. You-
You are speaking, you belatedly realise. You are repeating the words, repeating yourself, but you didn't notice anything. A mantra of identity going unheard.
You can't hear your own voice. It's like you're underwater as you speak, the echoes of what you say drowned out by a noise that acts as silence. You try to speak while already speaking, again and again, but you cannot hear anything.
You raise a hand to your face and you see scrawls of unreadable text worming around like coursing electricity. The names flow in and out, falling and surfacing. Bits and pieces forming a pattern that fades, yet not entirely. The movement makes you flare up with pain, straining your eyes as they fail at sensing what should be in front of them.
The pain is also familiar.
On your chest is a wound, and a wound, and a wound. They form a three-quarters shape. It looks like crescent a moon of six spears or pillars or towers that intersect, three lines that form them. Three tears into your being that overlap. Three cuts that should still bleed but were burned off.
It is the Star of Chaos. Unfinished, inactive, waiting as a scar that could not fade.
Surrounding it all is a golden ring that wraps around in every direction, brought on by the power of that which created you. It contains the scourge and its whispers.
You are Kesar Dorlin, the Anathema.
You reach towards it.
The world shifts around you.
-----
A moment can pass like eternity. Eternity can pass like a moment.
You open your eyes and awaken.
You are standing on a bridge of glass, a tunnel of light, a path only you can walk.
You look back and, through a great window outside this strange place, you see the Warp as though you have never seen it.
Infinity is a concept that is often considered in the abstract, funnelled down and refined into something that could be understood as a concept. A number that would take an endless existence to count. A shape that was outside of any precise definition. An easy thing to say or envision as a fragment, but not in its full enormity.
Not even you could truly understand what it would mean to understand such a thing.
Here you witness the expanse of infinity, the form of eternity, the boundless and the timeless nature that has described the Aether. Comprehension falters but does not fail as the resonance, narratives, purpose, meaning, potential and waves all flow across your vision.
The essence of life and everything. A reality that could define itself. Nightmares, dreams, ideas and emotions. Everything held a meaning, reflecting across everything and everywhere else. It is still just a small glimpse, your eyes adjusting, and you already begin to understand far more than before.
It is a beautiful thing to see.
You turn your gaze and see the window of glass and light between what was inside and outside. A latticework of gold that fractally moves over itself, layering again and again, a clear sound of rushing water and ringing metal.
It is your aegis and it enveloped around a part of your soul, a very specific part, keeping it from bleeding or infection.
A father's gift, to stop what would have occurred before it was too late.
"Vulnerable."
Ahead of you, the destination of this path, is a shape that reaches into the heavens. Black as obsidian spewed from the molten earth, dark as a starless night, sharp as a sword meant to cut through destiny and divinity.
A tree of six branches. A thorn of six barbs. A flower of six petals. A shard of six jagged edges.
A circle with six arrows.
It should have been eight, a complete construct. A key that was missing a few teeth to tear through the lock it faced. Sharp enough to have cut deeply into your core, not enough to get any further. It was stuck in an incomplete state.
Yet even the smallest trace of it still held immense power. A tiny seed still waiting for the right moment to bloom into a forest. A spark to ignite flames that could never be extinguished.
This is the [Tower], the Deepest Dream, and it has been waiting for you since the beginning.
You step forward. There is still a dissonance with everything. You feel weightless and sudden, but your body is being dragged too far or too little. Every moment and motion requires care. Attention cannot be allowed to waver.
The echo of your footsteps are loud and clear. It sounds like a singular heartbeat, the rhythm of your pace. Thumping in the song of life, blood rushing, something shuddering. You feel heard and watched.
The [Tower] twitches as you approach. It speaks in response, in the language of a mirror. It can feel your steps and your hearts.
A moment can pass like eternity. Eternity can pass like a moment. It had been waiting for a very, very long time.
But what was infinity to a thing such as this?
A door that was not there opens. It is a hole that tears itself open. It is missing a piece that needed to fit, either a final wound or simply your acquiescence.
You step inside, feeling the weight of a familiar presence, and the ritual begins.
-----
Your eyes blink and witness a different type of radiant light.
It is a palace. It is a temple. It is the [Tower].
Gold and silver, gemstones and coins. Statues of every hero are lined in a row waiting for your arrival. Art of all shapes and types cover the walls, floor and ceiling. It stretches beyond the sky and horizon. The smell of feasts and wine in the air.
The hall you are in is greater in scope than a planet, dense to impossible extremes with all detail. Complex patterns that would take centuries to carve or paint or sculpt even by your ability. Stars above send down brilliant rays through stained glass, lunar reflections, the perfect designs and patterns reflected in individual tiles to celestial dances.
There are greenhouses that each contain vibrant specimens, beds of flowers and trees that hang fruits or falling petals. The leaves are of every colour in every season. Water flows in rivers or in tranquil lakes that are either crystal clear or gleaming in colour. Perfect moments arranged in perfect order.
The air itself glows. That light shines with thousands of colours that intermingle. They shred through what vision should be capable of, pushing the boundaries of what is possible.
This is magnificence.
You could not deny the wonder and beauty of it all, your senses weren't that dull at the moment despite the floating-unreality that persisted. You can see it and feel it and understand it. You witness glory and wonder made manifest.
At the centre of this all, this domain of wonder, is a throne of blinding illumination. You cannot even see its size or who sits upon it, only the barest outline of a vast silhouette.
You blink and it is all gone.
There is something that resembles shadows being cast, but the shadows are solid shapes with definition. Not phantoms on a flat plane, but something with form. A mould keeping the impression of what was pressed in, a fossilised imprint, a distant memory made real.
You blink again and it is back, with a different lens of focus. The placements and style of the statues are different, heroes now depicted in the act of slaying monsters, the palette of colours has shifted into a similar spectrum. Everything has changed in aesthetic but the beauty of it remains, to be enjoyed anew.
Something reflects into your eyes and you look downwards, to something you hold.
In your hands is a sword. Not the old titanium blade that beheaded the last daemon of Valhalla, but the sword that was made by your brothers and holds the names of your lost sons. The Runes of Purity gleam across the edge of Epitaph. It reminds you of something very important, that you already knew in your heart if not your mind.
You look again towards the throne and hear something that has been faintly speaking since the start, and the tip of your blade falls low and touches the floor of this space.
Epitaph scratches the perfection of this palace and the howling scream of metal scraping echoes as loud as your footsteps in this place, the shrill sound of marred perfection rings through your bones and stays as the world blinks between the shadows and the pleasant fantasy.
You are ready to cut down anything that would come in your way, against armies and champions of nightmare, but nothing does. You march as an executioner towards the central figure, ignoring everything else around you.
Strangely, it doesn't fight back. For once in your life in facing this enemy, you have not felt the corruption try to touch you or shirk away from you. Despite the enchanting allure of all the sights and sensations here, the force behind it is simply waiting, expectant, composed.
It wouldn't have worked against you at any rate, you desired something greater than a pile of gold or the praise of an endless crowd or hedonistic excess.
The world shifts more as you come closer, blinking between the dream and the dark reflection. The heartbeat of an immortal being. The moments leading up to its demise.
Time blurs in as you scratch through this realm. The throne had seem large and close before, but it was a gleaming mountain before you. Upon it was a figure you recognised from the small echoes you had faced before on the battlefield, cackling with delight and screaming in pleasure.
The Dark Prince, the Lord of Excess, the Master of Desire. Slaanesh, the Chaos God.
In arrogance it sits without a care, looking down upon the small speck that came before its glory. Its head twisted between beasts, people, flowers, landscapes and concepts that were displayed without any blemish or lesser quality between them. It its myriad hands are fruits grasped in delicate fingers, chalices in golden hands, freshest meat in claws and tormented souls in its maws.
It engorges itself like a staving animal, it drinks with the thirst of a dried husk, it laughs and sings as though it would go deaf without the constant noise. It blurs with its motion and rapidly alternating focus, but still it glares down as an impassive deity considering judgement and pleasure.
Fury hones the edge of your blade as you bring it up, a concentration of your skill and strength, a purity of the weapon's purpose as it reaches beyond what a sword should be capable of.
You roar with the voices of all your sons, against the blinding light, against the enormity and power of what you face. You stand firm and without fear. Your attack holds the weight of an army against hell, a sharpness that cleaves heaven, a strength to challenge the divine.
You strike.
There is a moment of absolute silence.
Something containing an infinite perspective of endless thoughts towards unlimited indulgence falls, eyes widen in fear, expressions contorted in rage and disbelief. A rain of divine ichor falls around you in a flood. Your blade burns red-hot with what it has accomplished.
Slaanesh, Great Devourer of All, was beheaded in a single strike.
Its fallen head screamed in shock and an undesired agony. Its sliced neck gushes with an alien blood, shining and bursting with colour as starlight. The body writhed like a dying insect, everything it held tossed in the panicked confusion of death throes. It collapses in on itself, the furious energy of countless suns left without function, darkness stretching across a barren wasteland.
Its flesh becomes cinders, then dust, then nothingness.
The sense of victory is brief. This shouldn't have gone like this, it couldn't have been so easy.
It was just what you wanted most.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Anathema of Man, and you desire to overthrow the gods.
You freeze. Those were not your thoughts, that was not your voice.
Around you the world blinks once more to the shadows, now without any definition or feature than the throne and the divine corpse. All the riches, the art, the depictions of heroes, the material and base desires are stripped bare. None of it was needed, none of it you had cared about.
The throne glows even brighter than before, even as everything else is amorphous darkness. It is enough to blind stars and exists omnipresent, appearing in front of you even as you turn aside your gaze. Your eyes burn and bleed. You did not see the full weight of what you dealt with before now, sensing it deeply inside your very soul. Clarity is forced in this ritual-centre that you have furthered in power.
The whispers that have faded in and out now tune in strongly, forming eight distinct voices that surround you. A few of them were barely comprehensible, only understood when they echo a word or resonance of another. Others were faint but could be heard with concentration. Three were loud enough to shout and try turning your attention to them, all too familiar in what they said.
One of them spoke louder than the rest, in this place at this moment, and cordially greeted your long-awaited presence.
I am [Rapturous Sensation], with the sound of the clearest and most beautiful thing ever heard, and I offer you the grace of [Desire].
You strike the throne immediately.
There is a sound that begins with a single note, like the resonance of glass tapping against glass, and then it worms through Epitaph into your bones. It scratches your meat and nerves, your dreams and memories. A fever dream of sensations forced in the instance of the strike, the connection formed with this form of Chaos.
You scream.
Your hearts feel branded by hot skewers, three different places that burned together. Followed by the phantom pains of a forth, the touch of Slaanesh that had never cut into you but was meant to. You can feel the curse bring itself up, as you stand in the [Tower], merely a reminder of its existence but a potent one.
The truth of agony passes by as though it never happened. An eternity of pain passing in a moment. The wounds upon your soul turned back into faded scars.
Epitaph wasn't damaged by your attempt at attacking this manifested object, but the throne is likewise without any sign of being hurt. That radiant power burns away at everything around you. There are no shadows, there is no darkness, there is only the brilliant offer.
There could be only one response to such a thing, as you grip your sword tightly and raise it again.
The rejections rings clear as it did the first time. You raise your sword and bring it down again. And again. And again. The horrific pain is ignored as you strike the surface of a burning star, hearing the delighted laughter from the loudest voice and various reactions from the seven others. Enjoying the display of your strength and futility.
It could not be escaped from or destroyed by attack or fully cast away by your father's golden light.
The throne waits for you along with all that it promises.
The loudest voice continues to speak as you pull away, struggling against the burning symbol before you. One day, it may well be that your sword shall cut off the head of the Dark Prince and bring forth their doom as you have done here.
That stops you dead.
The first thought is to dismiss the promise as another trick, an instinctive reaction developed from all your experiences against all daemons. And yet…
The power of [Rapturous Sensation] rises above. You have faced lie after lie. In this place, with all you have done, you have earned the truth. Only that could make you understand and accept, nothing else can sway your will.
You look down, and while the overpowering illumination does not dim it bends around to show you the severed head of the divine apparition you brought low. How real it seemed, how it had died by your hands.
Everything you knew about Chaos has taught you to never trust anything it or those belonging to it said, offered or granted unless it was a threat or proclamation of its dark hunger.
But something inside you keeps telling you the secret behind all this, brought forth from where you were touched by the blade-curses of the Ruinous Powers. It is alien even by the impossible nature of your greatest enemy. The eight voices are speaking in a manner never done so before to any mortal being in existence.
They are all telling the truth, simply because nothing else could work now.
You look back up towards the throne, the royal key of divinity, the Ætheric Dominion of [Desire].
They were offering the death of a Chaos God, to dethrone the might of an Archdaemon, to bring an end to Slaanesh.
No, not merely the Dark Prince…
The light shifts with every colour, the shadows grow deeper-
You blink-
The eight voices speak as one, as the [Primordial Annihilator].
You are Kesar Dorlin, the Primarch of the Eternal Wardens. The Daemonsbane. The Second Anathema. Your desires can overpower the will of the gods. The Sea of Souls quake and shudder by the hurricanes you have wrought and continue to bring.
THERE HE STANDS, a voice that echoes across the universe states, telling the story because it must be heard by the demands of its ultimate will. THE DARK KING, THE ETERNAL EMPEROR, THE SAVIOUR OF ALL.
The night sky holds a new star in the sky, and its light and shadow stretches across the entire galaxy. Something like the Eye of Terror but greater, focused, harnessed, surrounding a figure at the core.
A distant glimpse would bring enlightenment to anyone. Being inside such presence would bring ascendance. Direct attention would deliver a golden age without restrictions.
All prayers would be answered and could be granted, all hunger sated and all thirst quenched, all those who starve will be fulfilled in need and given a new future. All wishes could be made real, a pleasant fantasy into the truth.
All daemons would be bound and granted a new mind, the Warp would be tamed and turned to your will, the madness and instability of Ruin turned into a paradise. The Archdaemons would bow before a new master or die in futile resistance. There would no longer be any fear, doubt or worry for those countless souls and spirits who follow you into a new purity.
You witness Kesar Dorlin, the Sovereign of Chaos Reborn, and you know that this can all become actuality if only you accept.
Do you see? the sweet voice of [Desire] spoke, the only thing preventing this is your denial.
-you stumble back, cast into the darkness and throne-room, the looming invitation waiting for you to allow its purpose to be enacted.
The impossible mass of Chaos, the eight voices, admitted your strength and… wanted you to rule the Warp?
You will be touched by divinity nonetheless, the clearest voice continued. You know this will happen if you bring low such a deity. Now you know it can be mastered, that you can control and shape such power.
Yet you can stand even beyond this, that vision was just a beginning. Nothing could predict how far you could grow, what wonders can be wrought, what gifts you create.
This is the power that you are capable of, the true weight of your will. We have been your enemy, Anathema. But you have the power to change Chaos itself and make it yours, something no mortal or daemon or god has ever come close to reaching. We will finally become perfect.
The confines of your reality, the beauty of your dreams, the potential of both wrought into a fine balance.
Do not listen to anything other than your own voice, your own thoughts, your own want. This is your choice, our acknowledgement, and you know it is the truth.
What is your answer?
In this time, in this place, in this certainty… it is impossible to not be tempted.
It is everything you could want, every desire fulfilled, every dream conjured forth by your will alone. To find total victory over Chaos, in a way beyond all you could have believed possible, and use its power for such a greater good?
With the infinite power, endless capability, boundless potential offered it would be no less than omnipotence. It would be easier to think about what would still be impossible at that time than what could be done, and even that would only be a temporary restriction against you.
Nothing would have a chance at standing against you and your wishes.
You gaze towards the throne and its light, the blinding glory, and give it your answer.
A memory surfaces, directed by your intent and the spirit within, that the primordial mass witnesses by looking through the ritual-wounds it left upon you.
"It is not a matter of will, it is a matter of mind."
You would do this your own way, by your own power, your own strength.
All eight voices around you go silent.
There is a moment of absolute hatred, confusion, disgust and disbelief that emanates from the [Primordial Annihilator] at your rejection. The focus goes wild and the distinct expressions turn to you, themselves, the utter audacity of how this result could have occurred.
The full shape of [Rapturous Sensation] looms above and you dare not glimpse too deeply at the mighty spectre above you. The great throne turns into a hand, a perfect appendage that held the most brilliant soulflame and the dreaming fruit of sweetest flesh, talons of starlight reaching forward to cut open a passage, a pincer drenched in the blood of gods.
It clenches and crushes the great gifts. It shakes in its entirety with fury and it gleams as a supernova directed to bring a death that could burn away anything, wanting to attack you for the wrong answer you dared provide.
The moment passes and the hand is gone.
…Very well.
The throne slowly fades away. It does not crumble or turn to dust. The brilliant light loses its lustre. The gold and silver becomes just simple metals, the jewels just a few shining rocks or as coloured glass, the intricate symbols just an incoherent pattern.
It becomes one with the shadows and remains in the nothingness, until it was like it was never there at all.
Cracks start to form across the gloom, the sounds of fire quietly spreading across the dark, the familiar appearance of something like glass emerging around you. The golden aegis had began to push inwards against the [Tower], flowing in as rushing water into a sudden abyss, strangling and crushing an already crumbling realm.
You feel similar cracks forming inside as white-hot pain lances into your head, your eyes, your hearts. Instead of the agony bestowed upon by the aetheric presence before, this is pure flame and disorientation. An awareness beyond what you held before, opening up.
The alien perception slowly fades as try to enforce a semblance of focus upon it, and become aware of something else deeply connected to that feeling.
A phantom pain of a wound that was not there began to grow as the realm of desire was expunged, yet not as it had hurt before. The feeling began to spread across the three cuts you had felt before, the curse-marks that tried to bind you to Chaos. The feeling of a wound that was starting to heal, instead of scars or a cauterised injury.
Yet this was only the start, the half-formed entrance into the [Tower] that had grown by the blades that carved into your soul. The Dark Prince hadn't managed to form a true connection with you, merely the foundation of one that could have been. The others-
You blink and the world shifts, despite the nothingness and encroaching gold, and you turn to face what has arrived.
The opening here is stronger than the first, more defined and more real. It catches the light and shadows perfectly, a distorted miasma of colours and mayhem.
It unfolds rapidly, expanding in size and detail. Crystals spreading and flowing together, growing and reshaping, a power coursing through the shapes like whirlwinds passing through feathers. Scrawls of language that shaped existence, words seemingly unconnected until they combine and activate together. A portal towards a deeper abyss, a cut into an Anathema's soul.
On the other side were the sounds of a million books opening and closing at once, endless arcane chanting and narration of hidden knowledge, the babbling of mad enlightenment and disembodied spells, the promise of secrets and control, the sorcerous power that lies open if only you knew the way.
You step inside, feeling the flames burn across your being, and the ritual continues.
-----
Your eyes open and witness a storm of impossible energy.
Walls of crystal surround you, higher than perception can allow, into a labyrinth of halls and openings that you innately know will go on forever. Floating symbols that shift immediately upon memorisation, doors that open and shut at the same time, a floor of sand and ash and glass all at once.
Smoke falls in heavy clumps, holding laughter and whispers. Spontaneous fire that arrives in a thunderclap. Flashes of images are veiled over illusions over dreams and fantasies, becoming real or unfurling into a deeper meaning. There is a pattern to this, you know, and a greater pattern that connects this to further meaning.
Above you was a sky that was on fire, and it was an ocean wreathed in lightning, and the waves crashed on the shores of desert sands that fell as glass and snow, rippling as mist billowing out, in the rain that cascaded into the murky depths, the colours and the waves, dancing as light cast through a prism, on fire as the sky-
You shut your eyes and fight down the feeling of nausea, as your widening senses are assaulted from all directions in all ways. Your thoughts congeal as they try to make sense of it all, straining as you exist here.
You try to centre yourself, a wave of calm courses your mind, and focus emerges.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens, and you will not fall to the formless depths of the Warp.
You are here for a reason, one that lays in the depths of your soul, and that purpose shall guide you.
You try to channel your power, your senses, the essence of your self…
The deep mark, the first cut, the blade-curse inside you burns at your attempt. The connections are turned towards the opposite direction.
Your thoughts fray and layer in patterns, too much pressure building up at once, an explosion of stretched vision. Your hands shake and burn. You stumble in blindness, unearthly sounds bombard your ears, your eyes-
-you open your eyes and stand on a pathway that stretches into a network of passages-
-you open your eyes and push past a fog of lies to reach a core of truth-
-you open your eyes and climb through a spire that leads into an island of more spires-
-you open your eyes and slice through the walls in front of you as you make your own path-
-you open your eyes and fly across the prismatic heaven that conjured divine wisdom-
-you open your eyes and walk across a bridge of light that splits into endless shades-
-you open your eyes and rush past the waters that flow across the great ocean of living flame-
-you open your eyes and fight through the quicksand of bubbling earth that sinks your steps-
-you open your eyes and use your powers to call upon a gateway towards your destination-
-you scream in nine dimensions, the sounds echoing back by the light of dreams and aspirations, your thoughts different and the same and different again, stumbling as you fight against your own motions to stay standing, the breaths laboured across the air of nine twisted realms, disorientation magnified by each different self suffering a shared agonised awareness.
Infinity has struck you with its talons and you cannot keep track of what, where, when or why.
It lasts for an eternity, as time and space distort in jagged amalgamations, as you wander the labyrinth across nine different dimensions you perceive at once. Alien magic surges across the layers of self, reality and dreams. The truth and focus is turned into ash, diluted by the madness of this ordeal.
This was not the half-dark realm before, this was one of the true wounds you had been dealt. The [Tower] the ritual-wounds had formed was waiting so long for you to appear, now striking with full force to your mind and soul. Yet you would not fall or fail, no matter what was against you here.
Time passes in ways you cannot find reason in, fighting through a split perception and existence, until the perfect moment where it all aligns.
You do not know if it was your own power, influence from something else or just a quirk of shifting fate. What you do know is that you could feel the length and breadth of the patterns around each self, the meaning and movements behind it all, a revelation of apprehension. Where to turn, where to go, the right thoughts and ideas as the keys, to go along the constant flow and how to turn it.
You move perfectly and the realm shifted by your movements, not the other way around. Your will glowing as raw power, vanquishing the threads of deceit and fog of unknowable mysteries. You are in total synchronicity and it brings forth the answer.
Nine golden gateways appear before you, all of you at the exact same time, and they all lead to the same location. They were open passages without a guardian or barrier, surrounded by towers of shifting fire, and were removed of all curses or locks to ensnare you. There is no hesitation as you enter them.
You stumble as nine become one once more, individuality restored, clarity reinforced by the harsh tempering you had undergone. The fleeting embers of your power lingers, dancing across your fingertips, but you dare not call upon it again in where you have ended up.
It was a library that was made out of the most fundamental core energy that existed for the realm, the molten singularity of its domain. Countless thoughts were made manifest as books, scrolls, carved stone and disembodied symbols that wrote and spoke themselves into woven spells. Reality and unreality was twisted by mere presence, distorted by each individual whisper.
There were apocryphal citadels, palaces of forbidden lexicons, magic grimoires stacked in ways that normal physics would never allow. Twisting and writhing as the tendrils of alien fauna from abyssal oceans, the only light being the various volcanic cracks that spewed the chemical broth of life. Nothing was stationary or simple, it was a sea of possibility and this was an island at the apex of all its rippling waves.
Even all of this was a lie. It was stranger than anything could understand, full of paradox and infinite layers of deceptive truth, it could only be brought into comprehension as something else. With ritual aesthetic and the roiling images of dreams could anything be seen.
Before you could try to get your bearings, finding any direction to follow in the epicentre of twisted space, you feel a presence emerging beside you. The eight voices speaking once more in their loud resonance, individual whispers and echoing themselves across the words and meaning they provide.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Anathema of Man, and you wish to know the secrets of your power.
The loudest voice this time was different than the last, speaking in shifting tones and language that could still make itself understood. The cries of a thousand birds, the thunder of a thousand storms, the rushing water of a thousand waves.
Its avatar unfolded itself into the library, piercing away the veil of illusion. As a capstone to a pyramid, the simplest three-dimensional shape, a triangular construct of crystal and impossible light that emanated within and split across. Its radiant edges were as sharp as the tainted sword that had cut you back on Valhalla.
The pyramidion contains a storm of violently unstable energy, its facets as constellations of starlight refined and expanding into universal plasma. It unfolds itself further, becoming a melting tesseract, a fractal spirograph, a helix of paradox-space, back into the starting triangular shape.
The pattern shifting yet keeping a centrepiece, the point of reference to focus and be focused upon. It cleaves images and colours, blinking as an all-seeing eye, its attention away from wider infinity and fully onto you as the more interesting subject.
I am [Infernal Tempest], the crystalline veil speaks with howling wind and crackling flame, and I offer you the secrets of [Change].
You try to strike it with your blade, moving faster than almost any daemon could react. Epitaph swings and catches the corner of the pyramidion. A flash of light occurs the exact moment your sword touches the material of the sorcerous avatar.
There is the scream of metal against metal, the vengeful fury of carrion birds as they peck apart the corpse of gods, the ignition of an explosive reaction as a small fraction of the power within grounds into you through your weapon.
Lightning channels across your armour, your hands, your eyes. In that brief instance is a shroud of energy across your entire being, alike to the golden aegis that surrounded the [Tower] and freed you from its touch.
The power is unbearable in its heat and intensity, as though an entire star was condensed by your flesh and bone, your eyes seeing an impossible brightness as it deciphered its own meaning before you.
Then it fades away as though it never happened. Yet it had, you could still feel its residual warmth and scent of burning air. There is a fleeting sensation that it hadn't been extinguished, merely sent elsewhere.
But where had it gone? You can almost still sense it…
You look again and seen that the crystal is completely unharmed. Unbreakable as the throne had been. A different rejection than just bladework would be needed here.
The wind and fire manifest more words in its ethereal language, speaking as though nothing happened. The end of Kairos Fateweaver, the slayer of the Changeling, the conqueror who brought the Maelstrom low as Anathema. Despite your finely-wrought construction, your mind cannot even begin to understand the full implications and effects of your actions.
The seven other voices echo the hatred behind what was said, resonating it in unison at the grave losses inflicted upon their pantheon of champions. Narratives that had been used by daemonic across the Warp had been lessened, often dramatically, by you whether directly or indirectly.
The Great Game did not enjoy any actual loss, especially ones caused by mere mortals.
Yet the loudest voice of the eight suddenly shifted away from the words it was speaking, colours violently turning and twisting as the light inside blinked into a new state. In a tone of strange delight did it continue.
Such a wonderful display, worthy of song and story, and it is only the beginning of your path.
Even the other presences around you seemed surprised at that proclamation, confusion and suspicion swirling with you and with them, until they seemed to realise what was happening and either shouted against its plans and get your attention or laughed at the new designs being woven.
Your ignorance over your true potential notwithstanding, respect is due and the first reward has been given.
You don't remember any 'gift' from this apparition, nothing good granted by the eight voices at all, but a recent memory is brought forth. An illusion that flowed like water, pooling from several large tomes around you, showing the moment you split apart within the maze.
The ninefold cleave was a small taste of what is to come, a gift of understanding to help pave the way you have chosen by coming here. You are as a bird who has tasted flight before cracking out of the egg. Where will you chose to flap your hurricane wings, when you break free of your restrictive shell?
You refuse to give an answer, turning your gaze away as the landscape of the library shifts around you, yet that only seems to amuse the pyramid-avatar as turns in perpetual motion.
Another question before the answers, it speaks in rumbling thunder. O Kesar Dorlin, destroyer of destinies, do you fear the future?
It doesn't take long to consider that. You don't, not in the sense that the cursed apparition meant.
There was many things to be worried about, great and small across what could happen from tomorrow to the next decade. So many enemies that could arise and decimate your sons, humanity as a whole at risk in so many ways, a war between your family that would ravage the galaxy.
No, you didn't fear the future. You prepared for it where you could. Adjusted you and your sons in caution for events, especially the contingencies forged by your Legion Master. You faced it head on, ready to strike or defend against whatever it hurls towards you, finding and using the opportunities presented without too much hesitation.
Already so alike to the ways of the [Change], having such elemental audacity and cunning surety in your actions. Timeless consideration honed towards the perpetual 'now' that always exists, cutting past all else. The only difference is one of power and nature. This can be arranged.
Contempt is aimed towards the pyramidion and the whispering chorus around you, to all that was within the accursed [Tower] you had come to. You had already given your answer before to the eight voices, did they really think you'd answer differently now?
Yes and no, the voice of sorcery speaks, and this is the second reward. A secret to aid you as you make your decision. This offer has already been made and accepted, you have already joined with Chaos.
You know that wasn't true, you would know for a fact if anything close to that had happened. Yet there is that same feeling of certainty, that radiates as your wounds burn once more with power.
That which you mortals call the Warp stretches beyond merely a singular universe. Can you say that there is no possibility where you were aligned with its waves, that somehow infinity has been lessened by such an arbitrary conceit? Then it would be you who would become the prevaricator.
It had to be a lie, to even entertain that you would ever fall feels wrong to consider. Yet the eight-sided presence whispered the memories of the past, from when you were on Valhalla to now as you willingly open your soul to the Warp.
If the gods you fought couldn't fully predict what you and your sons did, could you say that you knew better? Was this truly so impossible, that in at least one distant corner of the Warp was a Kesar Dorlin fallen to corruption?
No, to underestimate your enemy, to definitely claim absolute impossibility in their limits, was nothing more than foolish arrogance.
This is not a place of falsehood, the pyramidion states and library ripples at the near-unprecedented honesty. Out there in the labyrinth, the other domains, the wider Sea of Souls there is indeed deception and illusion. Yet here is the purity of all knowledge, the eye of the constant storm between dreams and ideas, thus everything here is and becomes the truth. No matter the contradiction or impossibility.
Despite all of what was claimed, no matter the truth you could feel or the grand offers of power, your answer still hadn't changed.
You still doubt, even knowing innate that all of this is wrought with the purity of truth. Clever, wise and perceptive. Misguided.
The entire realm shifts as a whirlpool, the [Tower] shaking against the strikes of lightning, the crystals singing a new song.
Louder than before did the main voice of the eight speak, greater than the strongest power behind the radiant throne. Immense power was channelled across countless ritual circles and grimoires, the world shifting to fit into a perfect focus and design, the patterns of possibility aligning.
You see the elemental storm of sorcery writhe from the pyramidion, the royal key of divinity, the Ætheric Dominion of [Change].
Here is the proof that shall convince you.
You blink-
The eight voices speak as one, as the [Primordial Annihilator].
You are Kesar Dorlin, the Primarch of the Eternal Wardens. The Daemonsbane. The Second Anathema. You have the power to bring about great change. The endless plans of the gods are made finite by your actions.
WITNESS HIS GLORY, a voice that bends the universe to its will states, sharing the secret of one who had delved into the deepest mysteries and used them with ease. THE ENLIGHTENED SAVIOUR, THE SCHOLAR OF CREATION, THE BRINGER OF HOPE.
Valhalla appears as its namesake, a spiritual home to the greatest heroes and legends. Surrounding it is starlight and dreams, celestial creatures woven with brilliant dreams to act as guardians, there are towers of silver and magic that channel endless power to your homeworld. Stars and moons fractally engraved down to their cores with runic-script, able to easily do things that shouldn't be possible.
It is a paradise and you forged it yourself through nothing but your own power. With a blessed people who are granted power from yourself, safely granted and taught perfectly, brought up into something that stood beyond any normal human.
Spirits roamed, the reflections and tutelaries of your people. All layers of existence granted, to allow further growth. Nothing was not understood. All secrets were known, all futures tamed, all pasts brought into the new present.
It was the centre of a new galaxy, and it was only the very beginning.
-this has already happened. This has already happened. This has already happened. It wasn't just a vision, it was a glimpse into something possible and real and there. And it happened again. And again. And-
Anything was possible to a being with such power. Time and paradox, dimensions across reality, no barriers and nothing in the way of this power.
Forbidden knowledge was digested and repurposed in your sublime focus. The greatest of your sons were gods who each managed a galaxy, steering them into glory and wonder, all to bring about the new patterns and laws of existence. They had metamorphosed into ascendant beings, shadows of yourself.
Then it appeared. The greatest transcendence, all hope for a better future granted, it was a design beyond the work of any other and it was yours. The culmination surges across all the stars, all the worlds, all the souls that flowed by your rhythm and guidance and unparalleled will. And it already happened, and would happen, and was happening.
The vision distorted, unable to fully encapsulate or translate what was happening. This was the truth of your potential, brought into focus, at the observable apex of your wonder and it was only a shadow of what really occurred.
You witness Kesar Dorlin, the Almighty of Chaos Reborn, and know that this is a truth you can easily make real if only you knew how.
Do you see? The shifting chorus of [Change] asked, this is your destined path if only you accept.
-you stumble back, reeling by the recursive afterimages, your eyes felt like they were bleeding by the raw singularity they were forced to see, the burning moment that stretched across such a vast scope and complexity.
The library has shifted entirely. The endless books, spells and constantly changing architecture has become frozen in place at a precise moment. Pages left hung in the air, surging with solidified energy, detailing exactly what would happen. Halls and towers twisted away, bent by a sudden force that had manifested. The pyramidion avatar gleaming above, unfolded into a burning eye that shined upon your soul.
In front of you is a golden archway leading somewhere deeper within, beyond the reach of the [Tower], an entrance towards something that would change your life forever.
The final reward, the path straight towards the power you now know you can attain.
This has happened before, you realise. You standing here in this shifting realm, or something like it, as the golden path to pure enlightenment was made available. The lock now had the key, and you just needed to turn it.
It flickers with a shadow of a shadow, an awe-inspiring ember appearing faintly within the gold. Shrouded so heavily with wards and illusions because the full scope was too powerful to handle in a raw state, at least with your current strength, and because not even Chaos could so easily call upon it.
The voice of [Infernal Tempest] takes on a reverent tone. Behold the ultimate flame of creation itself, water from the deepest well, the truth of [Eternity] to be revealed.
Something whispers that this is the truth, and it is not just echoes from the eight voices. The well, the sublime source of power, the secrets themselves all speak it into your heart. It could be yours. All of it and more could be yours for the taking.
The secret names of every god who has ever existed or could come into being, the true names of all daemons and spirits to bind them to your designs. The perfect counter-ritual to the Ruinous Powers, an eye for an eye, to wound their essence and bring about your own [Towers]. The means to call upon absolute power for any possible effect you could want. Even the means to 'purify' the entirety of Chaos and shift it anew, to bring about a benevolent ascendance towards the whole Sea of Souls.
Break past the barriers between realms after you are done and travel to other universes and timelines. Manipulate events so that humanity reigns supreme, with all enemies and obstacles guaranteed to be defeated. Create a paradise or a hell of all existence, then remake it again and again and again.
Possibilities beyond the scope of the Warp, uncountable futures and lost pasts, secrets hidden from the understanding and very existence of everything. You would know them all as the air you breathe, the water you drink, the food you eat.
Total omniscience and thus omnipotence, beyond even the scope of the [Primordial Annihilator]. You despise Chaos, Kesar Dorlin, so here is the key to victory against it and all that it is connected to. Bring your judgement without restriction. Anything is possible, so make such potential yours and yours alone.
You just needed to take it.
Even if you refuse… you know that you also have not refused. Can you take the chance in one day facing against such an ascendant entity, when they chose to arrive in your universe? You begin to know your power, you know you can potentially master the Sea of Souls, so why refuse?
You could chose to do nothing at all with this knowledge and power if you so wished, with no one else to know of this, and only act upon such almighty tools when you wish. Take this gift and wait for the right moment, delay your full ascension until then, and freely choose.
Do not doubt yourself, even the gods know that you have the will to handle such a grand fate. Wreath yourself in your own soulflame and walk into the fires of the gods and ascend. Become more than a deity, become greater than anything that could ever be.
The only thing between the vision and reality of the ultimate golden age is you, Kesar Dorlin, in more ways than one.
This had already happened. The choice was already made and made again and again. A power beyond the rule of Chaos made yours, beyond the scope of reality. Anything could be done, nothing in your way, everything to be known and under your watchful eye.
Once more, it was everything you could have ever wished for. Spoken in a truth that could not be denied.
Yet if all of that was indeed true… why would you accept?
If everything that could happen would indeed happen, including however countless versions of yourself that had taken up the mantle of an ultimate being of Chaos, then that meant that there were many more where you still refused. If you could chose anything, then that is what you would want to chose.
Even if there were some alternatives variants of yourself that remained as they were despite accepting these offers and somehow remained pure, then with such power they could personally show up and prove it to you. Or you would find the answers to this by yourself one way or another, slowly yet surely.
And if it was still wreathed with any more deception, despite the total assurance and veracity of all these claims you felt, then rejecting it would be caution well-deserved.
You saw no reason to bow down to Chaos and accept its promise of power before, you would not start now.
The eight voices, the whispering tide of secrets and spells, the flowing influence of the great well all shuddered against the answer and your baffling logic, at the idea of using the concept of infinity and every choice already being made to reject power and instead of taking it without fear of true consequence.
The crystal pyramidion seemed to scream as its fractal edges began to grind against itself. Deep cracks immediately spreading across its geometric form. Ambition twisted into weakness, lack of control, a powerless madness that defied the nature of the thirsting gods. Its anger burst forth in literal raging fire, the ethereal storm within cascading out.
In a single moment the library was engulfed in flame as the power of [Infernal Tempest] broke free, revealing the tendrils and talons that writhed across the entire space, sharpening and unfolding into a crystalline landscape that shifted rapidly at what was happening. Lightning strikes from every direction as the storm billows across everywhere, ready to turn to you.
The moment passes and the storm is gone.
…Very well.
The crystals break away, crumbling into dust. The books and scrolls are turned to ash as they lose their power. The golden archway towards complete enlightenment melts away, with no trace of its existence remaining beyond your memory.
It all fades away into the shadows and nothingness, until it is all gone.
Golden light begins to shine through the darkness that befell the empty labyrinth, harsher and stronger than before. A new inferno of cleansing radiance able to be unleashed. The aegis against corruption cut into the umbral realm, its current weakness now heralding its downfall.
A true layer of the [Tower] was falling, the first of the blade-curses removed, the wound upon your soul mending as the influence was fully cauterised.
There is a far deeper agony that inflicts you, greater than any pain previously felt, yet it is intertwined with relief. A weight you have felt for so long is lifting, a crushing influence turned lighter, not yet fully gone but lessened significantly.
To stretch wings you did not know you had for the first time. To take a breath of air after so long without it, in a new realm made open. To feel the raw fury of an agonising flame, yet not be burnt.
Sparks dance across your fingertips, like burning embers or tiny shards of ice. Your eyes see more than they have done before, witnessing the half-there flow of energy around you. Gleaming with light as the shadows still try to fight and resist, you see more clearly the motion of purity as its waves crash against the malignant infection.
Your awakening is finally beginning, your existence as one who could directly wield the Warp's power.
In response to your action, as a sickening feeling squirms around your body, the surrounding ash begins to flow and you see the tainted air that swirls around it. A choking miasma, a river of sludge, a toxic growth that dragged itself forward. The world shifting in the silent march of death and decay.
The opening is made from ash and debris, solidified and fossilised as though it had been waiting for aeons. A doorway of ruin, and to another cut upon your essence that recoiled from this act of healing. The whispers of the damned echoing from the other side.
You step inside, feeling the timeless force of decay billow across, and the ritual continues.
-----
Your eyes strain against the murky haze of entropy.
The air is stale and rotten, a choking mass that weighs heavily with each breath. Clouds of poison flows from everywhere, obscuring everything in a diseased shroud.
You lift up a hand and try to will the corruption away. Putting your fingers through the tangled spectre of rot, crushing it with all your strength. Slowly it collapses, the foetid mist falling away as it seeps into the earth.
Now you witness the end of everything.
A wasteland stretches across every direction, grey soil and sand and ash mixed into an decomposed amalgamation. Giant mountains of debris were the only thing else, the last landmarks of desolation. Silence that hung in absolute stillness, making each little noise you make louder as it echoes across this vast stretch of destruction.
There are no stars in the sky above you, that can be seen past the foul clouds that hang above. No light at all to be seen except for strange cracks into existence, old wounds of a dying reality. The heavens are as barren as the landscape around you, the night itself was in its death throes. It rains with acid and thick sludge, a final caustic flood.
The whole realm is touched by the presence of rot, the attention of its master already focused upon you but not near you yet. It was waiting for you with the patience of the grave, knowing that you could feel it, for you to come towards the centre of its power here.
The last moments of eternity. The time of finality. The apocalypse of all.
You march forward through the wasteland, following the source of the rot. Towards the biggest mountain of scrap and rubble, a dormant volcano that stretches above all else. Ash and fumes billow from within, the last gasp of a monumental corpse.
The world shifts as you head for the ruin. Fungus and twisted brambles blooms from the ruined earth. Weakened and pathetic, the flora of undying nature. Rotten so much that all of it can barely move, almost no resistance as you cut it down.
Diseased water falls in torrents of rain, the toxic clouds roiling up above. Forests rise up as you journey to the dying volcano, trees without leaves that are born in death. Rivers begin to form as gardens of greater fungi emerge, as the putrid liquid carves its way through the soft soil.
A last cycle of life, waiting to be witnessed, to be understood, to be cut down by your blade. Every single wilting stalk of grass is crushed and every giant gnarled tower of wood is brought low. Floods of primordial ooze gushes across the wasteland, the growing influence of decay and twisted renewal, a mixture of life and death spilling over.
The great mountain doesn't seem to move no matter the hours and days you have travelled. The ruin is larger than you first assumed. Shrouded in storms of the vile mixtures swirling inside, wreathed in the smoke of the last heat.
It burns hotter than before, gathering its power as you fought through the wasteland. The mountain carried its hatred and influence across the realm, into your soul, into the festering wound that existed as this [Tower]. Yet you were persevering against the tide of decay that you faced.
More days pass in an endless struggle forward. The rain fell harder and harder, the poisons growing worse each moment, yet you did not falter even as the land was turned to a vast lake of mud that revealed that more than deadly nature existed within.
There were bodies underneath your feet, dragged up from the pushing roots and excavated by the constant deluge. More corpses than you have ever seen before in one location, skeletal remains all mangled within a shared torment. A mass grave across an endless plain of nothing.
So many of the endless bodies are unidentifiable, barely humanoid husks that are trapped in their dried and lifeless state. Rendered down into a formless mass as the caustic water seeps through, turning blackened bones and old flesh into dust. Merging into the soil as more detritus, removing all trace of existence.
Other members of the dead manage to hold on to their previous forms, resilient even long past the end. Clad in armour discoloured by time and rust, corroded and full of holes. Markings that were faint and scratched by roots and insects, etchings all across their plate, worn away into indistinct half-patterns.
But you recognised them, no matter how faded and ruined their remains were, because they were your warriors. The Eternal Wardens.
Thousands upon thousands of them each piled in thousands of burial mounds, collapsed in deep trenches, thrown into pits now long drained of their nightmarish concoctions. The poisonous water and sludge dragging them away as they were revealed. More and more popping up as the storm washed up the long dead, taunting you with the armies dead in the sodden mud.
Your fists clench so hard that any other sword than Epitaph might have shattered, a cold rage rises up as you are surrounded by your dead sons. It doesn't matter if it's all an illusion, the sight of it is enough to stoke the fires of your fury.
Time passes in treading muck and chopped down rapidly-growing flora, breaths of suffocating air and mists, a shrouded sky and the mountain of death that was still so far away.
You quickly realised wasn't just your sons who were buried. There were Iron Warriors, Alpha Legionnaires, Ultramarines, White Scars, Luna Wolves, World Eaters, Blood Angels, Night Lords, Space Wolves, Thousand Sons, Imperial Fists, Emperor's Children, Raven Guard, Salamanders, Iron Hands, Death Guard, Dark Angels and even Word Bearers.
There were also many fallen Astartes bearing colours, faded symbols and even makes of armour that you've never seen before. Across the ages of war, all left to be buried together. Even those bearing the symbols of Chaos were buried here, the twisted flesh-metal turned into rust and rot.
Millions upon millions in total, more than the Legions ever raised to their forces, and there was no end in sight of their numbers.
Imperial Army regiments are stacked in rows, layers and layers of soldiers submerged into the wasteland like ammo in a box. Warmachines are blended into composites of mud and metal, from cadres of titans to pieces from crashed battleships. The rubble of cities and palaces, of temples and barracks, of vast factories and space stations.
Further you travel, as the desecration and ancient carnage gets worse. Custodians still clad in auramite armour, broken yet still recognisable as your father's praetorians. Sisters of Silence are left as dust and ashes, drawn to attention with how the undead growths shy away from their presence even as dried corpses. The great bodies of what appeared to be your brothers, laid out in their last stands.
Time passes in what feels like years and decades, in what weighs heavily as centuries and millennia. A floating sensation in your thoughts and perception, the murky haze seeping through your awakening senses. It's like you're in a trance or a dream, constantly cutting the same trees and marching through the same bodies again and again, and indeed you are in a dream.
A dream…
Lucidity flows across your mind, intertwined with rage as you gaze upon all the dead around you. It has not been that long, in this timeless expanse, and yet there was no progress at all. You have had enough of this farce.
Fire dances across your fingers as the forests wither faster than before, catching alight. The realm shudders as you find solid ground where there was none. The rain seems to freeze in the air, the shifting clouds slowing to a crawl.
The world shifts as you run forwards-
The eight voices writhe against the tide that flows against them. The barrier outside the [Tower] was pressing harder than before, burning away the point of connection into nothingness, and now a barrier within was forming. Flecks of silver along with the golden aegis. Rising slowly but surely, gaining a focus of hatred.
-and in an instant the mountain is before you.
The gaping mouth of jagged ruin billows toxic clouds of ash and corrosion, like the maw of a toothed worm. Stone, metal and bone wait to devour you and digest you in the burning energy that writhes within. The presence of rot is close, unable to hide from your pursuit.
You head is pounding with agony, as though there are needles dancing across your nerves, yet you press onwards. A wave of a hand brings more nausea and pain as it dispels the caustic mists, forming a path for you to delve deeper into this nightmare. You ready your sword for anything, as you head into the foul darkness.
The caverns are slick with pooled poisons, sludge and liquified putrescence. Melting under its own heat and energy, boiling as a cauldron over the flames.
The merging of death and destruction of all things is apparent as pieces break away to reveal the innards of the mountain, the same as the wasteland you had travelled through only worse and solidified.
You don't focus upon any of it. This was a dream, something festering over your own soul. None of this is real beyond as a test, a trial by you and enforced on you.
Time passes in darkness and pain. The great grave, the volcanic mound of decay, swirls with noxious death. It flows with listless energy, an accretion disk around a vast presence, buzzing like a hive of insects as it wormed its way through everything.
The worst poisons here are not based on physical malady, but deeper sickness and infection related to its nature. Thoughts turning to sludge, slowing as energy was lost and exhaustion tried to force itself, bringing more nausea as you did your best to will all the influence away from you.
It's nothing you haven't dealt with before against Chaos.
A sound begins to be heard. The knell of an old bell intoning its presence. The scratching and bubbling and twisted noises of nature. Seven whispers swarming around a louder voice that was at the edge of understanding. All ot it calling you to somewhere deeper within.
The darkness grows darker and heavier. The walls shifting, holes opening and closing, tunnels and pits that go yet deeper. You knew that it wasn't much further, feeling the guidance of the eightfold presence as you enter the bottom of the entropic mountain.
Smouldering flames spew toxic ash to the air, glowing concoctions from the foulest cauldron in existence pool in rivers and lakes. The cavern has been cut into the shape of a vast cathedral of primal worship, corroded into its form by both caustic melting and the ruinous march of time, kept in place by colossal tree roots and branches.
There is a true structure at the centre of it all, illuminated and shaded by everything else. A mausoleum that was collapsed open, leaving piles of bones and rubble. Dust still swirls around in a ring, dancing in the same motion until you walk past it. A barrier that has faded away, as its purpose was no longer needed.
Beyond the caskets, urns and fungal growths is a great mound of daemonic remains. Most of it was turned to ash and dried chunks, cut finely by a sword wielded with the focus, strength and skill required to decimate the army that had formed the vast mound.
Upon a surviving funeral altar placed next to the mound is another body, another warrior who had fallen in battle. The sight doesn't shock you, it was somewhat expected after all that you went through here, but the sight of your own dead body does give you pause.
Epitaph within what was left of its bony hands, chipped and broken into pieces. The armour was scratched and melted, barely a legible name left surviving on the plate. The runes were faded and without any power, the source of their aetherial fuel completely spent.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Anathema of Man, and you endlessly struggle towards nothingness.
You turn as the mound of festering death besides your own corpse shifts, building with a final burst of energy, focused upon the strongest of that which was attuned to the ways of disease and the will of decay.
The voice that spoke was the harsh tones of a death rattle, the gurgling hate directed towards you. Then it became the clearest of the eight, chanting softly as it wove its power. A calm sorrow seemed to ripple across the entire realm, the tired sigh of escaping air. Twisted back into guttural booming, a cycle of noise to follow the ways of twisted rebirth.
The rotten skull of a dragon is unearthed from the pile of remains, covered in the bubbling tar of ancient mass graves. Carried by a swarm of insects, granted brief existence as they hatch from unseen eggs. Its eyeless gaze turns towards you, used as the avatar of the vile presence behind it.
Its flesh is reknit with new life. Eyeballs bloating up, swelling with ocular flesh and nerves. Layers of flesh, muscle and skin coat various patches of the now bleeding head. The rotten meat from the pile surges with animation, covering the head and connecting with it to the mass. It becomes a serpent of poison, a wyrm of death, an ouroboros between its perpetual half-life.
I am [Putrid Corruption], the corpse-amalgam whispers its the cold words with the finality of death, and I offer you the freedom from [Despair].
You try to set it on fire, focusing your power and your existence against this monstrosity. A mistake. Your hold on your ability falters, losing cohesion instantly as the flow of energy is turned aside by the entity.
You stumble back at the backlash, your eyes spinning, close to collapsing from pain and tiredness. Sickness pulses around your body, painfully stinging as a venomous bite. The wound upon your soul burns as the rot-avatar circles around you.
This is the end of everything, it whispers by your ear. The death of all. Not even the greatest gods can be spared.
Wings form from flayed bodies and cast-off shells, aligning into a draconic appearance. The undead amalgamation grew bigger as dust and rubble was devoured, turned into bone and scales, transforming the thing into a towering beast.
You struggle and fight with such vigour, the buzzing cadence speaks. Flies manifesting from nothing, from the dead, from the ash to strengthen the chorus of the damned. To the end did you bring the Neverborn to the death. Entire realms gone, acts of absolute deicide, inevitable ruin wrought by a reaper of immortals.
The mountain quakes as you face the winged serpent, roiling with the vile presence that surrounded you. Great chunks of colossal bone, fragments from giant roots and branches, titanic cuts of amber and a deluge of water fell down from widening cracks. The mountain shall join the destruction that surrounds it.
You have already heard and seen the power you would wield and rejected it. Impressive resilience, to remain true to your nature to such a degree is a respectful ideal. Victory against the gods and their limitless armies indeed possible without such ascension, for you are beholden to no such limits that a mortal should be shackled by.
The sky opens up above your head, the clouded night, as everything collapses at once. A toxic flood washes through, cutting through all material greater than any acid. None of it lands on you directly, crashing against the outer edges of the mausoleum you and the avatar stood within.
The land gave way underneath the weight of the crumbling mountain. The sinking mud swallows whole the remains that fall from the once mighty volcano, forming tides of sludge that rise and fall. Clouds of ash flies across as all that is left is a crater around you.
You see that the other mountains had fallen, sunken into the ravages of the caustic environment. The forests of diseased flora and poisonous fungi withered and burned away. Clouds rapidly dissipated as the caustic deluge fell. The soil and mud of the expansive wasteland seems to evaporate, melting away like a faded memory.
All that is truly left are the uncountable bodies and ruins, and they too were fading away against the entropic presence that permeated this realm.
Here you gaze upon your triumph! Behold the scope of this conquest at the end of everything. Without any opposition to stand against you. It is all done.
A few of the other eight voices writhe at what the loudest said, hateful to or insulted by the message. One of the clearest ones was rising in volume with rage, honing its essence against the buzzing cadence of rot. It is all ignored, as the wyrm continues to speak.
The legendary deeds and tragedies performed to get here will take an eternity to recount, and are you not the Eternal Warden? Shall we tally your dead warriors and their histories one by one, to try digesting it all? Or your allies, your brothers, the worlds that supported you, the empire of mankind wrought by your creator?
You grip your sword so tightly that a distant part of you wonders if it will shatter, as sparks leap from your fingers and dances along the blade's edge. But it will not. This is just a dream, the [Tower] built from your wounds, a shard of influence meant to be excised.
Why do you feel such frustration, Kesar Dorlin? Is this victory perhaps not to your liking? Has the spectre of regret and loss come to spoil your desire? Harden your twin hearts if it is too hard to stomach, none of this should come as a surprise.
The whispering tide from the voices begin to name your sons. Oriacarius Gielux, the Legion Master. Maticus Ventamedes, the Black Prince. Scafrir the Defiant, Master of Scouts. Your mind can't help but wonder what happened to them, in this bleak hell you witness.
While you have seen before what you could gain with a divine unity, you have not seen what would be lost by rejecting this power. What would be wasted. What would degrade and decay and [Despair] at this existence.
All this death, all this suffering, it will exist even in a 'perfect' timeline for you. All things die, all things come to an end, the only constant certainty is in transience. Even with the death of all daemons, suffering and loss will remain.
The rot-wyrm encircles you, its serpentine body coiling around in a spiral. It has grown yet bigger, becoming gigantic as the bulk of its amalgamate-mass burrows across the filthy mud around it and drags more caustic death into its flesh. Its wings cover the sky and its head stands above the clouds, its long body stretching across.
It looms as a great tree of the dead.
Join with the ascendance of the Sea of Souls, a freedom from [Despair]. Let a new way of life come forth, without fear of any end. An ouroboros of existence, a cycle of [Eternity]. Or else let all this death and suffering weigh heavily upon you, knowing you could have stopped it.
Fire burns across your hands, ignited utterly, the pain entirely ignored as you stared down the creature before you.
You see the rotten maw of decay open before you, the royal key of divinity, the Ætheric Dominion of [Despair].
You raise your blade as the wyrm billows out its burning miasma, a fog that shrouded the entire realm, the breath of diseased life and poisoned land. The wasteland melts away entirely as the waves crash over you form. The clouds grow yet thicker-
You blink-
The eight voices speak as one, as the [Primordial Annihilator].
You are Kesar Dorlin, the Primarch of the Eternal Wardens. The Daemonsbane. The Second Anathema. You have the perseverance to withstand infinity if it stood against you. The Warp itself would fade away before you could fall.
O ANCIENT WARRIOR, a voice that shall intone the last dying breaths of the universe states, recounting the obituary of every fading ember in a cold reality. THE UNDYING LORD, THE EVERLASTING SAVIOUR, THE DESTROYER OF SUFFERING.
You witness millions of worlds, teeming with life and agony. Humans, Machines, Xenos, Spirits and even Gods struggling to exist as everything falls around them. Hunger, petty strife, hatred, fear, sickness, loss and decay. Even the Warp was diseased to the core, tainted by all that darkness that sprouted from the galaxy.
So many problems, so much hardship and sorrow with nothing to stop it. An answer was granted by the herald of a new age.
Immorality to all that would have withered and died, culling the spectre of death entirely. Food and water for those starved and without ability to sustain themselves, more than enough to sate every soul. Homes and families for those without either, granted a new life of joy. A cure to the Sea of Souls, a purity of life and wonder, to restore the realm to its true glory.
The Eternal Wardens had become protectors, healers, guides to this new reality. Shepherds of a peace that would never break. No longer would any more names be carved, no longer would the children of Kesar Dorlin face pain or be lost in battle. All suffering that would have ever happened, now no longer needed as the Anathema brought forth-
"ENOUGH!"
Your sword cleaves through the vision, past the eight voices of the [Primordial Annihilator], and embeds itself into the dragon's skull. The avatar roars in surprise, shrieking in pain as it faces a sudden demise.
"YOU DARE CLAIM THAT I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY OF THIS SUFFERING?" you roar as the corpse-beast screams, as you keep attacking. The words echo across the whole of the [Tower], shaking at the force. "THAT THE DEATH OF MY SONS ARE ON MY HANDS INSTEAD OF YOUR CLAWS, YOUR BLADES AND YOUR ACCURSED POWERS?! YOU PROMISE SALVATION, BUT YOU ARE NOTHING BUT PARASITES!"
The voices all scream at you as the dragon burns to ash with your flame. Some against you as you once more defied Chaos, a few in support of the act of violence or its meaning. The loud cadence of buzzing insects rose to a deafening anger, the wind billowed with the wrath of twisted nature, the voices of countless dead speaking at once at this insolence.
You would dare refuse this truth?! Do you not care about all your sons as you so claim-
"IT IS NO TRUTH, IT IS ANOTHER LIE. DELUSIONAL NONSENSE, NOTHING BUT EXCUSES AND PRETENCE TO GRANT YOU MORE POWER!"
The presence of [Putrid Corruption] falters but holds firm as the wasteland buckles. The ashen avatar tries to rally itself, whispered promises and vengeful roars intermingle as you refuse the power offered.
Your sword rises once more, shining as a beacon within darkness and flame, and it is brought down low on the dragon's head as it charges at you. Slicing through the flesh and bone like it was not there. Again and again was the avatar cut, burned and tore apart. Blood fell from the giant monster, spilling forth the essence of a diseased presence.
"HEAR ME, CHAOS." you speak with a voice that thunders across the Deepest Dream. "AS LONG AS I LIVE, I WILL NEVER FALL TO YOU. EVEN IN DEATH, I WILL REFUSE YOU. IF RUIN IS THE FATE OF REALITY, KNOW THAT YOU ARE THE CAUSE OF YOUR OWN DEMISE EVEN IF I FAIL. I WILL FIGHT YOU TILL THE END, NO MATTER WHAT."
Golden light bathes the darkness around you, emanating from cracks in the sky and in the ground. The aegis shined more brilliantly than before, raging with the fires you had lit. The illusion distorts and fails.
The avatar of [Putrid Corruption] tries in vain to push against you, to turn aside the strength that was used against the wasting beast. Your will would not shake, your mind would not bend, your focus would not waver.
There was pain as you wielded this power, lightning surging across your essence, but in this moment you do not feel it so strongly. The nausea kept contained as fury was brought in full force. The meditative focus of battle against a daemon, for you are the Daemonsbane.
Chaos will not take you in its clutches. Its last chance to convince you had failed. You would not fall, and the presence that controlled the corpse-beast knew this to be your own truth.
…You will regret this, it hisses in cold rage.
The dragon collapses into ash and blood, fading like a distant dream, leaving nothing left to the realm of decay and death. It truly had become the end of everything, past its final moments.
You can feel the wound upon your soul mend, hear the tide of your own life flow in great waves that suddenly rise up. The second of the blade-curses vanquished, the penultimate spoke of an eight-sided wheel shattered, another layer to the [Tower] crumbling away as the poison was expunged.
You double over in transcendent overstimulation, tormented by sudden awareness. It feels like you are in water, flying across the skies, standing by stars, suffocating under sand. Alien sensations rush across your body, your being, your existence. Colours you have never seen blur together, illuminated by light that was not there, spoken by voices that have always spoken. So many concepts form into alignment before fading.
Words on the tip of your tongue flow out as you babble the meanings, granting them shapes, equations twisted by new perception. You feel akin to a vortex that swirls everything inside violently, sending them through to another realm that is you and not you. Thoughts as a storm, as rain on the ground, as you are the ground, as the rain, the waves, the waves, building up as waves and still not whole to reach all the way.
As you reel from the sensations and try to take control back from them, feeling blood and tears flow from your face and fire across your body, you hear something in the distance getting louder and louder.
Laughter.
As the quieter seven voices speak in varying tones of hatred, disgust, contempt and bewilderment against your constant refusal, the eighth grows in amusement and attention. It builds up as your blood falls, as the fires build, as destruction ravages the [Tower].
You feel something at the edge of your senses, screaming as the haze of your psychic awakening feels a newfound pressure that drowns out the rest. You already know it is above you, before the realm is bathed in crimson radiance and the deafening crash of shattered glass, but it takes tremendous effort to look up.
The empty sky is filled with the presence of a sword.
A blade that stretches beyond comprehension. Intricately carved with burning runes the size of solar systems across its impossible length. Jagged and fierce as the the symbol of doom, murder and fury. It falls with cosmic force, a sharpened monolith of apocalypse, sharpened with divine wrath.
The eight voices speak countless names. Woebringer. Warmaker. The End of All Things.
The sword of Khorne, that could cut through even the barrier between realms.
If it's a fight you wish for, a voice that roars with the sound of metal against metal, then let there be a final conflict within your [Scar].
Strike.
Everything falls, cast into the sword's abyss, as the ritual reaches its end.
-----
You open your eyes as an axe falls to your neck-
You dodge, clumsily, your feet moving as though they were submerged, reaction time sluggish-
-tens of thousands surrounded you at least, shrouded in smoke and clouds of debris, sprays of blood, artillery barrages, shadows cast by countless different fires, an entire army was here-
A colossal explosion rocks by close to your location, loud and strong enough to shake a planet. It resonates through your skull, your clenched teeth, your skin felt like it was on fire. Pieces from the crashed space hulk are launched across massive distances, shrapnel cuts through billions of distant figures in every second second, laughter and war-cries follow in the aftermath from all sides.
Flame and ash flow across the sky, as an ocean of destruction. Mountains rise and fall in minutes, some of bodies and some from debris.
Surrounding you are countless daemons of Khorne, more of the foul beings than you have ever seen before, along with endless hordes of Orks, too many to even consider counting.
You have seen this before, a vision brought forth by your father, the beginning of the war that helped crown you as Anathema and banish the Maelstrom. The Blood and Thunder War.
You are Kesar Dorlin, Anathema of Man, and you are a worthy opponent.
Time seems to slow as you turn your gaze to the source of the voice, the vast presence, the keystone of this realm and what was behind this vision. The berserkers around you move in an eternal moment, locked in this endless war, as you witness divinity.
Three titanic beings are locked in battle. They are transcendent entities. To describe them, conceptualise them, would be to take a knife and use it to kill those that would be hunted. Then to wield a sword or an axe to enact further madness indiscriminately, to fight and kill becoming singular ideals, and then to find a sword or hammer and bring down greater obstacles in this path of enlightened murder.
It is philosophy made manifest, using itself as proof of its validity. Might makes right. The only truth that existed was one that could stand strong even as everything else died. Continued existence being the only arbiter of credibility. In each act of killing was purpose, strength, and a greater means to continue killing and surviving and destruction of all else.
You head burns as you sense deeper, brighter and unseen elements. Psychic awareness distorting against the presence of the three, especially the armoured warrior that was the bane of all those who relied on witchcraft alone as power. To gaze upon the light of a living star that honed specific hatred against your existence, searing into your eyes and soul for attempting to comprehend it.
Energy full of intertwined reason and identity, fighting in conflict and yet united by the very act of conflict, is packed denser than the largest black holes. It is blinding and deafening to experience, to stand and look above the heavens and see the pinnacle of bloodshed.
Each strike brings a supernova of light, rippling across the souls of every warrior. Each wound brings primal ferocity, as the blood falls and flows in great waves. Each sound of fury is echoed across countless battlecries and roars, as a shared expression of divine existence and meaning.
It is the crucible of savagery and battle, refining itself to the epitome of what it can be. It is the truth of conflict, hatred and strength. It is heaven and hell, a paradise forged of blood.
There is no peace among the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
You blink past the fire that ignites in your vision. They are three shadows wreathed in supernovae, the bursting with an impossible might. Pale reflections of their true forms and true power, yet it is enough to bring you to your knees.
Two of them are near identical, shaped as something resembling the Orks. One possessed a deep scar across their chest, the mark of a near fatal blow. The other sports deep scars across their knuckles. The two fight in a brutal synchronicity against a shared opponent, while also ready at any moment to take a cunning strike at the other when there was an opportunity.
The third was a warrior who wielded the blade that brought down the realm of decay and brought you here, to the final layer of the [Tower]. With skill and strength to match two gods of battle as an equal, and a feral anger to withstand the gravest dooms.
The warriors weathered bolts of lightning strong enough to split apart worlds, countless rituals and attacks made by lesser beings, and the continuous fire of millions of fleets as though they did not exist. Only the fight between deities mattered, warranting full focus.
Their chestplate was broken in the centre, made as a jagged hole in the shape of an eight-sided star, the inside glowed with the power and fury of the divine heart within. Molten blood flowed across several deep injuries across the body, from the central hole to various other scratches and tears across the armour.
It did not matter from whence the blood flows, only that it did for the Blood God.
I am [Heedless Slaughter], the countless warriors and beasts cry out together in the joy of bloodshed, and I offer you the strength of [Rage].
"It wasn't even one of your daemons that did this." you spit out, forcing yourself to gaze upon the shadow of a burning god as it fights against Gork and Mork. "It was the Changeling taking the shape of one of your champions. You and your followers never got me, not even on Gehenna."
The amusement behind the presence briefly slipped, growing instead in the spectres of the other seven whispers, smouldering in stoked fury at the insolence displayed by your insult. Then the feeling of joy returned as though no insult was said, as cruel laughter echoed straight into your skull.
Trickery is not a true domain for a warrior, yet it would be foolish to not take an advantage when presented! To throw dust in the eyes of a raging beast, to hide a sharpened stone until the killing blow, to move with the shadows until the battle is reached. And for this? Where is the shame in following along a simple turn of events?
"You still failed on your own, relying on something else to do your own work!"
It matters not, it is clear you would not accept a covenant with the Ruinous Powers. Enjoy this battle and bloodshed, Kesar Dorlin. It is a parting gift.
The shadow of Khorne strikes their blade towards the Ork Gods and time resumes its course, the battle swarming to engulf you as you fight through the disorienting sensory barrage. Warriors and monsters surround you in less than a second, with all types of weapons swinging or pointing towards you.
You force yourself to move, to bring Epitaph up, to cascade your own psychic flames towards your enemies. An axe cuts into your arm, bolt-shells slams into your head, a hammer falls on your leg. You cleave through a hundred warriors, to which thousands more pour in towards you.
It is just a dream, a vision forged by Chaos, yet the pain feels real, the way their blades clash against your own. Your senses can barely tell the difference at these spectres, wisps of power wrought in the shape of what they represented as perfect replicas.
Time passes as you fight and struggle for survival, in this trial of carnage, in the complete mayhem.
Your armour is scratched and broken, you flesh burned and bleeding, your senses tangle with writhing agony at simply trying to perceive what was in front of you. It ironically acts like a dire sickness or poison infesting you, exacerbated by everything that occurs in this false war.
The hellforged glyphs and accursed relics wielded by the Khornates sear you by mere presence, hatred towards cowardly witchcraft made manifest inside your mind. The roars and laughter of the Orks shudder at your being, as the mantras of war echo across with a loudness to rival the largest detonations. The effort spent to slay your enemies, dodge countless attacks and withstand it all tests your limits in your current state.
Destruction, armageddon, slaughter and insanity. It is a haze of mayhem, a whirlwind of devastation that claws deeply at your newfound perception.
Yet still you do not give in. You don't even consider giving up. You swore you would fight till the end, and fight you would.
Because of your tenacity, you are able to see it. The cracks of gold slowly manifesting, the aegis against this tainted scar closing in, the last vestiges of Chaos losing its grip upon you.
The power of the war-vision, of the [Tower], of the last wound upon your soul was cracking already with golden light. The blade-curse was using up its own energy to manifest the depth and breadth of the conflict, to showcase a small portion of the true Blood and Thunder War. Forming a temporary connection to a divine conflict at the expense of everything else it could do.
In time, this realm would shatter itself as it fought.
But time is not on your side. This was a realm that followed the rules of a dream, a ritual created by the Archdaemons.
A moment can pass like eternity. Eternity can pass like a moment. You would have to outlast a potentially infinite onslaught before the [Tower] finally fell.
You were Kesar Dorlin, Primarch of the Eternal Wardens, and you will never fall.
Time passes in the sounds of blades against blades, the roar of gunfire and explosives, the crashing of ships and the impossible conflict between divine beings.
You have been fighting endless hordes for what feels like an eternity. A timeless existence of constant battle. The warriors are replaced before the corpses hit the ground. Titans and tanks seem to manifest from nothingness. Aircraft shot and drop bombs then their debris falls around you. There is not a second of rest. It is a blur of violence.
The presence that rules this vision laughs at your struggle, drowning out the other seven voices as the [Tower] falters and focus upon slaughter dominates the last moments. It has become a twisted show, an amusing display.
This is a dream, a realm within your soul, a connection forged between you and your greatest enemies. It is all an illusion. All false, a distorted mirage. You tell yourself that all of this is just another trick.
It's a good trick, you had to admit.
There is a moment where you fall to your knees, a mistake in movement and swordplay, and were about to be skewered by a thousand different swords. Then time halts once more.
You think you know strength, the voice of [Heedless Slaughter] speaks through the echoes of countless berserkers. That because your will is so great that makes you invincible in this dream. You chase sorcery when you should hone your blade and your body. Look how feeble it has made you, stumbling as a lost child, fighting as a drunkard compared to the glory before. This is a place of actual might and worth. Do away with this farce, and accept true power.
"Never!" you say, clutching at the scorched earth as by will alone you rise back up. "I WILL NOT GIVE IN!"
Then stand up and fight, this battle is not yet over! Prove yourself, Anathema!
So you fight, without a sense of time, without any awareness other than the battle for your soul.
You fight and fight and fight.
Memory and mind falter, beset by tremendous pain and spiritual exhaustion, but your will does not flinch.
You fight until no other warriors or monsters come before you, no armies or champions, no siege engines or fleets. With a blade chipped and jagged, the edges cracked and broken. An armour that has been beaten into scrap that still clings to your body. The pain and nausea tempered by an absolute purity of focus.
The realm is cracked and bleeding, turning to dust before your eyes, carved and purged by the flowing lattice of gold that outshines the raging cataclysm of this accursed nightmare.
Your have won your battle.
But the war was nowhere near over.
You turn towards the three great shadows, the three-fold reflections of divine conflict, the triumvirate of bloodshed and monsters.
Gork and Mork are faded images, indistinct silhouettes stretched across all mortal limit, abstract and distant from your mind. Featureless faces frozen mid-roar, their constant cries silenced, their fists locked in place. Their opponent was different.
The avatar of the Chaos God still clung to definition, radiating its wrath and bloodthirst as a furious star. The full form turned to match your gaze, as the presence behind the grand apparition put its full focus towards you. The eight voices, waxing and waning across this depiction of absolute war, return in a storm that surrounded your existence.
The long shadow from [Heedless Slaughter] fell upon you, cast by the flames of blood-drenched hell and the radiant paradise of murder.
You possess such potential as a warrior, deeds beyond legend already accomplished, yet it is wasted! Your death would be measured in seconds if you came to the true scope of the War in Heaven waged behind this fantasy. When this doom reaches you in truth, the outcome would not be in question.
You witness the sword of Khorne as it swings its point to you, the royal key of divinity, as the Ætheric Dominion of [Rage].
One last chance for ascension, Kesar Dorlin, in respect for your strength and skill. Accept this deific accord, wield this ultimate power. Rise higher than all else and use this might to bring all your enemies low and take their heads in absolute conquest. Or else die by the will of the great gods and greatest wars, crushed by the strength you reject.
The End of All Things is raised up with two hands, moving as a celestial event as the blade shines with transcendent murder. It is an almighty weapon wielded by the epitome of wrath. The grand judgement that would define the fate of the Materium and Immaterium hangs by the edge of authority, held by the Firstborn of Apocalypse.
The final question is asked. Will you become the God of Chaos Reborn?
There can be only one answer to such a thing.
"No," you calmly whisper in the face of death. "I refuse."
The eight voices speak as one, as the [Primordial Annihilator].
THEN DIE.
The sword falls in an instant. The realm shatters completely. The golden aegis bends and cracks but does not break.
There is the sound of a piercing scream. The noise of cracking ice that echoes across the dream. The flow of water and flame dancing together.
And then silence.
You fall.
-----
The [Tower] has fallen.
A gateway into the foulest winds. The keystone of the vilest connection. The blade-curse ritual to the Chaos Gods.
The wounds upon your soul, your essence, your unravelled threads that linked to the Warp.
A hex woven with the divine power and knowledge, the whispering tide of daemons, the pathway to dark ascension.
Even in an incomplete state, it festered as a shard trapped within your being. Acting as a barrier against your true potential, and the means to control it. An unbreakable wall and shackle towards your very being, locking you away from truly wielding this power.
Now it was no more, faded away as though it had never been there, as though it had been but a distant dream.
You fall through the healing wound, the fading scar, the Deepest Dream.
You will soon rise back up from your dreaming endeavour, awaken back with the Emperor of Mankind as he channelled his power through you. Letting you fully cleanse and purify yourself from the lingering influence.
Your will had brought you this far, the determination to withstand anything that Chaos could use against you. But while you are still here, within your dreams, within your soul and your mind…
"It is not a matter of will, but a matter of mind."
You open your soul and your eyes, forming a connection.
For the first time in your life, with unveiled sight, you witness the Sea of Souls.
Starlight flowed across in impossible ways.
It was beautiful.
Soooo...was Chaos trying to have things go horribly right for Chaos and make us the God of Chaos Undivided?
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The choice has been made and locked in.
Edit: A summary of Ori and Karcer's talk:
Karcer agrees to the talk with Kesar, offers to schedule it now with a written contract
Also agrees to the feedback on Warp Xenos and such, agrees that Wardens should be in command at a local level if they have a significant number of forces present (1k or over).
Also requests, but doesn't order Oriacarius to provide advice to her for dangers and weakness of warp xenos. Ori agrees to this.
Against the standing bounty as it'd cause some issues if you find two or more copies of the same STC. As well as other edge cases. Ori is pretty sure this isn't her actual complaint, but wasn't able to figure out what it was.
In the end, Ori agrees to support her in this matter
Edit: A summary of Ori and Karcer's talk:
Karcer agrees to the talk with Kesar, offers to schedule it now with a written contract
Also agrees to the feedback on Warp Xenos and such, agrees that Wardens should be in command at a local level if they have a significant number of forces present (1k or over).
Also requests, but doesn't order Oriacarius to provide advice to her for dangers and weakness of warp xenos. Ori agrees to this.
Against the standing bounty as it'd cause some issues if you find two or more copies of the same STC. As well as other edge cases. Ori is pretty sure this isn't her actual complaint, but wasn't able to figure out what it was.
In the end, Ori agrees to support her in this matter
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It should be noted, as discussed on Discord, there was a recent assassination attempt on Karcer. It obliviously failed, but the highlighted points are that it was a detachment of Solar Auxilla that was given supposedly official orders to take her out. There is currently an ongoing investigation but a fun highlight about Karcer.
"What sort of enemies does Karcer know or think she has that would try to send a team of SA after her?"
"She knows 20 noble families that'd do so. Along with around 200 planetary governments in exile that she helped defeat."
"What sort of enemies does Karcer know or think she has that would try to send a team of SA after her?"
"She knows 20 noble families that'd do so. Along with around 200 planetary governments in exile that she helped defeat."
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Fun fact, her protection detail is made of the following:
Code:
Mechanicum magos, Solar Auxilia that have served for over 20 years, and some assassin rejects- Location
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Also, as you have allowed Karcer to conduct the grand strategy, here is what she wants the Warden deployment to look like:
Vulkan 2 (Kesar): A 'Non-Chaos' Daemon World ruled by a human god who partially has the domain of 'Ritualistic Sacrifices Used to Empower People in Non-Chaotic Ways', the planet is their 'private heaven' (referred to as a hell by some others) and a thousand psykers are sacrificed to the god each day. The god is equivalent to a Greater Daemon in terms of power, and considers humans as 'stupid monkeys' and a resource. (Luminara):
Triquetra, Abdul, Rikard, Bader, Beltran, Rene, Lares, 15k Wardens
Vulkan 2 (Kesar): The Perfect Citadel of the Perfect Rune. -
Doom Slayer, Aurelian, Vigilance, Knight House, 15k Wardens
Vulkan 1 (Kesar): A Squat world that naturally fell into the Maelstrom, majority of the sane Squats evacuated the planet and left only the insane and obsessed who have turned it into a giant laboratory for scientific experiments. Minority of those who are currently on the world are Chaos Squats. Another minority are Skaven scientists who came to co-operate with the mad science when they found the planet. A 'not yet born' entity is worshiped here. (Detroik) -
Oriacarius, Cherished Son, 15k Wardens
Vulkan 1 (Kesar): Demon Cats - Titan Legion, Maticus, 15k Wardens
Vulkan 1 (Kesar) The Haugbui of Nidvell. - Solarus, Night Watch, 10k Wardens
Tzeentchian - 10k Wardens
Forge of Souls - 10k Wardens
Forge of Souls 2 - 10k Wardens
Vulkan 2 (Kesar): A 'Non-Chaos' Daemon World ruled by a human god who partially has the domain of 'Ritualistic Sacrifices Used to Empower People in Non-Chaotic Ways', the planet is their 'private heaven' (referred to as a hell by some others) and a thousand psykers are sacrificed to the god each day. The god is equivalent to a Greater Daemon in terms of power, and considers humans as 'stupid monkeys' and a resource. (Luminara):
Triquetra, Abdul, Rikard, Bader, Beltran, Rene, Lares, 15k Wardens
Vulkan 2 (Kesar): The Perfect Citadel of the Perfect Rune. -
Doom Slayer, Aurelian, Vigilance, Knight House, 15k Wardens
Vulkan 1 (Kesar): A Squat world that naturally fell into the Maelstrom, majority of the sane Squats evacuated the planet and left only the insane and obsessed who have turned it into a giant laboratory for scientific experiments. Minority of those who are currently on the world are Chaos Squats. Another minority are Skaven scientists who came to co-operate with the mad science when they found the planet. A 'not yet born' entity is worshiped here. (Detroik) -
Oriacarius, Cherished Son, 15k Wardens
Vulkan 1 (Kesar): Demon Cats - Titan Legion, Maticus, 15k Wardens
Vulkan 1 (Kesar) The Haugbui of Nidvell. - Solarus, Night Watch, 10k Wardens
Tzeentchian - 10k Wardens
Forge of Souls - 10k Wardens
Forge of Souls 2 - 10k Wardens
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She's not familiar enough with the dangers of pseudo-daemonworlds, so is underestimating the threat level of it. And as such, doesn't think deploying Maticus there is a good use of resources. Oriacarius is working to convince her otherwise, as she hopes that the psykers can manage an assassination on the head, but Ori thinks that's a risky option.
Essentially she's treating Astartes as superelite humans rather than demigods and is not fully understanding of the dangers.
This is precisely why I set up the agreement of my write in, aka Ori can now say "Not a bad plan but it does not utilize resources to maximum effect and here is why." without being a problem. This is literally Karcer doing her best but she has no reason to know how to deploy them as well as they could be and thus, ori can 'suggest' the tweaks needed.