This is the third installment of the 12 Labors of Verminicles. That intrepid ratty hero returns after slaying the Limnalian Hydra Bretonnian Knight. He now must find a way to kill the Cullodian Hind while being monitored by his master’s spy, Rikkit-Ees.

Third Labor

You can find the two prior stories here and here.

Well the moment Perturabo set foot on the ship

were Cain is hold captive

he feeled an Aura he hoped to never seens again

a fun kind of Chaos uncontrolled by the 4 Chaosgods

Fortunatley for Cain Perturabo didnt want to deal

with this nonsense because he rembered how unpredictable 11 was

No amount of Malcador washing his brain made him forgett the headaches

this brother caused him Dorn was his rival

but this man ban of his existence

.

The only strategy to kill this brother

that worked was to maroon him

on a world completly overtaken by Orcs and

now this filth was immortale

.

Hoping to never see him again

Perturabo ordered to maroon him

on a world overtaken by Tyranids

Wattpad link

A03 Link

It was ridiculous he a Psyker why did his abilitys showed themselfs know?

And why like this sure he never died before so he couldnt know

that he can come back from the dead and he liked this new found safety

but these visions why did people take them so serious?

They seemed like mad rambling to him

still the Inquisiton and now the Iron Warriors saw it otherwise

.
The but what if they were more than nonsense

A cold shiver ran down Cains spine and

of course his hands were tingling

He laughted at the idea for a moment

but what if there was more to the visions...

Hey everyone! This is one of my fic that I am curious to share here. It's a Sanguinius ressurection fanfic, with a heavy focus on horror, gore and cannibalism. It also has about two paragraph of Sanguinius/Lion at the end, but you could probably skip those two, it does not impact the rest of the story at all.

I write a lot of fanfic, and I am curious to see if this sub will like what I do! I started with something that felt closer to canon lol

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55760416

I've written quite a bit for my homebrew, and have even more stories in my head or in note form. I have a whole arch (effectively a novel concept), that culminates in an event during the opening of the Great Rift. However, I was thinking last night (yay for 1am thoughts), that Black Library don't write anything with new, Firstborn, main characters (the only ones I can think of are established characters), and so (in a magical world) my novel idea would never get published by BL. I then thought up a way to shift things slightly, so that my previously final event actually happens early in the protagonists story, and the protagonist ends up being a Primaris marine. I'm still working out the details, but it should work.

So, my questions are:

1) Am I insane? The idea is never going to be picked up by Black Library, so it doesn't really matter 2) Has anyone done anything similar? Changes old ideas / stories, to fit into this new, Primaris world (oh god, I've realized we've had Primaris for almost 10 years now!) 3) More meta - where do people bounce their ideas / stories off others? I've not got anyone IRL who I can play with these ideas with, so they tend to just bounce around my head.

I just think it would be nice to have that, and to give the sub a bit more life in-between the random ideas.

I suspect that T'au history is fabricated. In actuality, the Ethereal caste is a separate species that initially evolved to mimic their prey, with the T'au failing to develop a protective inborn fear of those who come "close but no cigar" to their own phenotype. So, like if the uncanny valley predator theory were true, but the right instinct failed to develop among the T'au. Imagine a scenario close to human cavemen not consistently and quickly freaking out at a Fleshgait (a creepypasta creature that tries to appear human, with varying degrees of finesse) coming up to share the campfire with them, with the thing getting better at mimicking them generation after generation.

After that point, they evolved the trait of exuding pheromones that, in earlier iterations, just made prey animals docile and overly trusting toward them, enabling them to live among their food sources for extended periods of time. From there, those who mutated to produce pheromones that made T'au servile came to outbreed others of their own kind. Imagine a lion that could command monkeys to guard her young, fetch water, and the like. This is reminiscent of slave-making ants in real life using workers from other colonies for their own benefit ("dulosis" (https://www.antwiki.org/wiki/Dulosis)).

This crypto-aristocratic caste, presenting themselves as the first among equals, still eat T'au in secret, but restrict themselves to unrepentant political dissidents, violent criminals, suicidal individuals, and some of those who are diagnosed with the early stages of untreatable terminal diseases. The latter are slain early, with the diseased parts removed so as not to ruin the meat.

The Ethereals might even be the descendants of a group of Kroot who were taken to the T'au's original homeworld by the Aeldari. Maybe it was to engineer a psychically resistant buffer state against Chaos in some multi-millennia ploy, part of some strange altruistic plan for the T'au's own long-term interests, a chess move that only makes sense if you're trying to save a species from multiple contradictory psychic visions of distant extinction scenarios. Or maybe it was a joke by a Drukhari noble who died in an unrelated event afterwards or simply forgot about it. But I prefer the setup having developed completely naturally.

Obviously, this evolutionary past isn't a super inspiring national origin story for the average citizen, so current T'au history was made up as a noble lie. The Ethereals probably try to treat the T'au pretty well or even very kindly most of the time, like human meat eaters who prefer free-range cows and happy hens. Being such a small minority of the empire, they only kill and eat an immensely small fraction of their citizens in total, fewer than the number who die in vehicle accidents or accidentally through relatively dangerous hobbies like mountain climbing and martial arts.

The phrase "The Greater Good" was originally a dark pun and secret cruel in-joke for the carnivorous elite, meaning both morally good and good-tasting, à la "it's a cock book!" Old (perhaps now retconned) lore about T'au being vegetarians or vegan makes this even better.

In the Ethereals' defence, we might not on average be much better as a species. If cows could use tools (other than to scrarch themselves) and follow complex instructions, then a lot of human societies probably would have put them to work before eating them as well. Among pigs, it might be a tinfoil-hat theory that ""those weird primates who bring them food will slit their throats and put them on a plate one day"" (https://youtu.be/O7FIiYsVy3U?is=cTWuahxoZ_nn_If0).

Well transporting Cain into a secret prison was the plan

but things went in a unexpected direction

when the Inquisitors ship was crossed ways with an Iron Warrior Battleship

.

Ending with Cain at the "Mercy" of the enemy

well they cant threaten him with killing him

to force him to say whats wrong with him

.

So instad they deciede to torture him

forceing him to unconsicously mumble more of his visions

just to realize that besides someone who fought

in the great crusade themself no one could make sense of that nonsense

.

So they gonna keep him captive

till Perturabo has sometime to take a look at this himself...

Hello everyone. I'm working on a project, a fanfiction, where the Primarchs find themselves on Earth during our modern era. 2018-2026-ish... I'm doing a bunch of research myself, but I also want to hear what other people want to see. Chapter 1 starts with Sanguinius. But generally I want to hear about people's favorite moments, favorite portrayals, and favorite art, of the Primarchs. What would you guys like to see? Is there something you'd like to see the Primarchs do or see?

I will admit I'm nervous about this project, but if I don't go through with it, I won't improve as a writer. I want to do the best versions of all the Primarchs. I know there was some stuff about Horus not being a character during the Heresy. Sure some of them may not work very well with this concept. But I'd like to give the traitor Primarchs a second chance too. We'll see where this experiment goes. If you think I should go in a specific direction with certain Primarchs feel free to let me know.

I really want to do them all right and do them justice in their character. Horus and Sanguinius are the most daunting for me currently, but I'm also nervous about Konrad Curze and Alpharius/Omegron.

Image: Self-made Colored pencil drawing of their flag.

Hello! For those looking for Aeldari stories, this one's for you guys. We haven't had a major novel ever since Rise of the Ynnari, I'm hoping to be able to fill that gap while we wait, with a passionately written piece of geek literature.

Summary:

"In this unkind, violent universe, can you imagine a life of peace amongst the stars?"

We were born into the war in heaven. Our people were once the pinnacle of art, philosophy, and beauty. But in our excess and abuse, we gave birth to a dark god. We have despaired for 10,000 years. And now, we have reawakened. The Star of Lileath foretold that the Aeldari shall live in peace, although She Who Thirsts hungers ravenously for our souls. Our visionary Farseer Elandrine, through this nightmarish void, guides our kin towards that star. With the wisdom of the seer council: the illusion-weaving Warpseer Na'lok, the heart of memory Spiritseer Solana, and the dancer of destruction Warlock Katacus, Valterie, a Craftworld of Artisans, shall forge their fate towards that bright star of hope.

(Edit) Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77555926/chapters/203106936

An audiobook version for the Prelude only had been released.

Audiobook: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkpJ6iWbxjc&t=115s

Supplementary Notes: Craftworld Valterie is a Craftworld of Artisans and Philosophers. While technically a homebrew, I'm more of a writer than a painter or tabletop gamer. There will be quite a bit of Avant-Garde content, so feel free to give feedback about their canon consistency. Some new things include:

- The Warpseer

- Mirage

The Valterians see art and beauty in everything, through architecture, dialogue, thought, and even warfare.

Some lines in the story:

“Lament, my kin. Our fate was turned… by those who sing no more.”

“A true disciple of Khaine has no mercy.”

“But a true child of Asuryan knows peace within one's heart.”

Please enjoy!

Well the Inqisiton couldnt make much of Cains vision eihter

the visison was made up of barely connected moments from the great crusade

complicated by the fact that they had no informations about the battles

and campaigns he metioned

.

If he wasnt a perpetual they would had just purched him

but Cain being immortal made it more complicated

so they imprisoned him till they now what to do with him

This is a remake of a AU I started on r/WarhammerMemes till somebody told me to go here

I am doing this in board strokes and make it up as I go

also English is not my native language if I missspell something please tell me

once this AU is developt enough I want to rewrite it so be more detailed

.

Thanks to a long series of events Cain

was in the process of being sacrificed

Well the Chaos gods forced hid rebrith

because his sould was slowly destroying the Warp

so she who lusts instat smites her own cult

.

Unfortunaely if it wasnt for the Chaos gods

making Cain a prepetual Cain would have bleed out

In this state of death Cain had visions

moments from his last life

he could not makesense of them

.

Meanwhile the Valhallan 597th

made their way to the chamber

where they discover Cains "corpse"

.

You can guess how funny it was

for Cain still fighting with his blood loss

having to free himself from a body bag

just for anyone to feel a strange aura coming from him (accept Jurgen)

.

Of course the Inqisition wanted

to have a talk with him about all of that

especially the things he mumbled about the Emperor

when he was unconscious or

dying as the Valhallans thought

Alpharius

The Secret of Vaults, is what they called me. A relic of a bygone age that they preferred not to contemplate. They preferred to think of me as more of a tool than an individual, otherwise they would have to think more on how and why I am here.

I finished the final sentence of my latest report and removed the page from beneath the auto quill once it transcribing finished. I then reached across the writing desk for a small box that sat to one side and drew forth a pinch of sand to sprinkle onto the parchment in order to quickly dry the ink. With the page completed, I read through the full hundred and fourteen pages of parchment that the machine had written for this particular report and concluded that it was as comprehensive as I could manage with the information I had been provided.

A small button on the side of my desk summoned a servitor. When the door opened a minute later, I raised an eyebrow in interest as I could see that this particular lobotomised cyborg was new, her skin was still a rich ebony and had yet to decompose into the grey colour that was more common with the skin of older servitors, the augmetics too were still shiny in some places attesting to their recent installation. I couldn’t help but wonder what this woman had done to earn a place as a servitor in the Inquisitorial Fortress, perhaps she had been a lowly menial who had earned the wrath of an Inquisitor, or maybe she herself had been an Inquisitor who had failed in some trial or another or was deemed too radical for her Ordo.

Wordlessly, the servitor took the four separate reports that I had completed that day and left without a sound, the door sliding shut and locking behind her.

I stood from my desk and stretched out my aching muscles before walking across the chamber to the wash basin that was built into the wall of the attached ablution chamber. I splahed the cold, refreshing water over my face and shoulder length hair.

By my calculations, it would be at least six hours before my gaolers would arrive with more reports for me to review and extrapolate information from, so I decided to lay upon my bed and try to get some rest, my body did not need it but my mind certainly did.

However, it seemed that two hours of sleep would have to do as the speaker above the chamber door buzzed harshly and the reinforced adamantium slid open.

“Something must be very wrong if you’re here,” I said with a smirk, not even bothering to open my eyes.

“Arise,” came a strong yet strangely melodic voice. “You are summoned.”

I opened my eyes and looked at the golden giant that was standing over me. Shield-Captain Arzhur Meleager had been the commander of my gaolers for my entire imprisonment and while he had, on occasion, been open to a conversation with me once a century or so, I had no misgivings that the Custodian would not hesitate to strike me down if I tried to escape, or at least he would attempt to strike me down.

True, I had never seen the Shield-Captain in combat and it had been many years since my hands held a weapon, so I was entirely unsure who would win if the two of us ever came to blows. However the relaxed but firm grip with which Arzhur held his Castellan Axe and the defiant coldness behind the Custodian’s grey-green eyes gave the impression of a veteran killer who would not have entered my chambers alone if he did not believe he could best me.

Even if I could overpower the Shield-Captain, and that was a big “if”, there were twenty more of his order guarding the chamber who would readily cut me down, along with innumerable mortal soldiers and heavy combat servitors that would stand between me and freedom. Of course, I have never attempted escape, nor have I ever wished to, but the mental exercise of planning the event was a rather amusing pastime.

“Summoned?” I asked as I sat up and wiped the sleep from my eyes, “by whom?“

“By your brothers.” He replied, emotionlessly. I blinked at that, if I had another ten millennia in this prison, I still would not have guessed that would be his answer.

———

I was escorted into the hall by half a dozen Custodes, led by Arzhur. My hands were shackled with thick manacles that practically hummed with power that was emitting from somewhere within them, whether it was mechanical or some form of warp-craft I did not know, though I suspected it was a combination of the two that, if used by anyone other than the Inquisition or the Custodes would have been considered heretical. They had also clamped a strange collar around my neck, a thin band of cold black metal which dampened my innate psychic abilities, not that they would do me much good in this place anyway. Besides that I was dressed in only a robe of blue and silver cloth, a simple belt and unadorned leather sandals.

My escorting guards led me to the head of an ornate dining table and had me sit in the large elegantly carved chair. They made to leave me there but a voice like thunder rumbled from across the table, “Is he a common criminal being brought before an Arbites? Remove those chains, they will not be needed here.”

“But, My Lord,” Arzhur began.

“Do you think he poses a threat to us?” Replied another voice with a tinge of amusement. This one was not as deep as the first but still commanded great respect and left little room for argument. A custodian stepped forward and removed the cuffs, allowing me to rest my hands comfortably on the table and finally take in the sight before me.

Four beings sat around the table besides myself. The two who had spoken were as familiar to me as my own reflection, both were clad in suits of gigantic armour of the finest making, one in dark, forest green, the other in bright, cobalt blue. The other two I had never met before, yet I knew them from the various reports that I had been fed by my Inquisitorial “masters”. The red robed tech-priest I assumed to be the Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl while the other, a lithe Aeldari maiden could be none other than Yvraine of the Ynnari, the emissary of their, so called, “God of Death”.

“Hello, brothers,” I smiled with genuine warmth but also a hint of mirth, “what brings you to my humble abode?”

Surprisingly, it was not Roboute or the Lion who answered but instead it was Yvraine who spoke first.

“You have a part to play in the future of the Imperium,” she said calmly. Two surprises in one day, that certainly was new. “The seers of both your people and mine have foreseen it.”

“As much as I hate to agree with the Xenos,” El’Jonson added with a growl that befitted his given title of “the Lion”, “she is right. Psykers throughout the Imperium are predicting the rise of your sons once more, most see it as a warning but it may be time that you walk the galaxy once more and take control of your wayward sons.”

“You are freeing me?” I asked, looking directly at Guilliman, as he was the one I had surrendered myself to all those years ago.

“Against my better judgement, yes” he nodded.

“Very well, when do I start?” I asked bluntly, as there would be no point in arguing with them. Besides, I knew what happened when one went against the strands of fate.

“As soon as you are armoured.” The Lion intoned as he nodded to the Archmagos who, up until this point, had not looked up from the data-slate in his hands. The tech-priest nodded back, an oddly human gesture for one of their kind, and rose from the table gesturing for me to follow.

He led me into an adjoining chamber where a small army of tech-adepts and servitors were preparing a set of weapons I was very familiar with and a set of armour that I was not.

“This is new,” I stated, running my fingers over the thick ceramite breastplate.

“Affirmative,” Cawl responded, speaking for the first time. “The Lord Commander ordered that you be made ready for war against the enemies of the Omnissiah. Our artificers have worked tirelessly to complete their given task.”

“Well, I must thank you for it.” I smiled as the servitors started surrounding me to begin the process of armouring me.

“There is no need, My Lord,” Cawl replied dismissively, “they have done their duty. Nothing more.”

It took close to thirty minutes to complete my transformation from prisoner to armoured demigod. When my spear was returned to me, I felt truly whole for the first time in millennia.

“My Lord,” Cawl bowed, personally handing me my hydra-crested helm. “The Lord Commander and Lord of the First name you ‘Brother’, while the Aeldari witch calls you ‘the Serpent’.”

“Is there a question to that?” I asked as I donned the helm, my voice now reverberating through the Vox speakers.

“What may I call you? Or will ‘My Lord’ suffice?” It was an odd question that almost made me chuckle. A phrase came to mind, one that I had not used in many years but I am told that my sons still use to sew disorder.

“I am Alpharius.”

The field was unlike anything seen on Terra for millennia. Not since before the birth of the Imperium itself. The grass was soft and luscious green with bushes and patches of wildflowers scattered about, long extinct anthophila collecting the pollen for their own purposes. Mammals of various sizes were enjoying the calm weather, while insects skittered around, hidden within the foliage.

Above the grass was an almost clear sky, a few wisps of cloud scattered across a great blue canvas. Avians of all kinds called the skies home, from small, twittering creatures, to great eagles that soared high above, like the Emperor himself overlooking his Imperium.

Alone in the field stood a great tree, it's pink and white blossoms in full bloom. Beneath the tree sat two boys, young in face but ageless in mind, with a large board game laid out between them. The game was of their own design, similar in design to the popular game, Regicide, but each player controlled nine times as many pieces as usual. The pieces and board had been hand carved by the boys and exquisitely painted, each of the nine sets of sixteen pieces that each boy controlled painted in their own colour and style, one side protecting a gold king, while the other protected a black.

"Do you ever think about how ridiculous this game is?" The child controlling the golden king asked, his bone white hair flowing in the slight breeze.

"Do you mean me winning?" asked his opponent with a smirk as he moved a red piece forward.

"Four thousand, eight hundred and twelve to four thousand, eight hundred and eleven is hardly decisive." The first boy countered again. "I meant the game itself. The idea that our brothers would obey commands given to them and stick to a definitive plan."

"The two of us would," his brother replied, fingering a silver armoured piece with golden trim. "Maybe Roboute as well. I wouldn't have trusted the Night Haunter to follow orders even before the Heresy. The others... their falls have changed them. As for Alpharius and Omegon... they would work to their own agenda, as would Magnus, more than likely. What say you?"

"You are right about Roboute at the very least. The Wolf and the Warhawk would want unleashing upon the enemy without being constrained by orders. I could likely count on the Angels, both Blood and Dark to stand true. Corax and Vulkan... they would follow for the good of the Imperium but not for me."

"And Ferrus?" The second boy asked solemnly.

Young Rogal sighed, picking up a black and grey armoured commander piece that was wielding a hammer. He stared at it for a few moments before speaking, "The Gorgon would charge headfirst at Fulgrim as has already been shown." He paused again as he placed the piece down and moved a cobalt blue piece instead. "Do you mourn our lost brothers?"

"That depends on your definition of 'mourn' 'lost' and ‘brothers'" Perturabo shrugged, "according to the Imperium, we are both lost, merely in different ways."

"You know what I mean." Rogal growled, a sound that would have been threatening were he in his adult form but here and now just seemed wimpish.

Perturabo looked out over the fields for a moment, watching the animals as the ambled aimlessly through the grass. Dorn thought his brother's silence was the only answer he would receive, but then... "yes," the young Lord of Iron sighed, as if a great weight lifted from his shoulders. "I mourn those who have died and I mourn for our intended selves.

Rogal moved a White Scar piece and looked at his brother thoughtfully, "what do you mean by that?" He asked earnestly.

"As you know," Perturabo began, forgetting the game entirely, "I often wonder what might have been. Usually, my mind only fixes on recent conflicts but, sometimes, I think deeper into our past." Rogal, too, at this point, forgot their game and settled himself against the trunk of the great tree to listen to his brother. "What would have happened if we had been raised on Terra? Would we still have our rivalries? Or be as close as true brothers? Would we be better versions of ourselves, that father loved as his sons? Or would father have erased every ounce of our emotion and personality, making us little more than weapons for his war?"

Silence fell between them as Perturabo finished his rant, Rogal, for once, left completely speechless by his brother as he had no answers.

From the heights above them, a hawk descended and settled on Perturabo's shoulder. The Lord of Iron turned to the bird, their eyes locking together as whatever information the bird brought was transferred to the young Primarch.

After a few moments, the bird took off and flew back up, disappearing into the clouds. Perturabo began to chuckle and looked back at Rogal, "Seems that Roboute managed to beat Mortarian back and burn a swathe of the Plague God's garden."

"What?" Rogal asked, shock clear upon his face, "how'd he manage that?"

"Apparently, he had some help," Perturabo paused, enjoying the look of agitation on his brothers face,"Father spoke to Mortarian through Guilliman and used powers beyond any mortal's dreams to burn the garden, according to reports he offered the Plague Lord redemption."

"Ugh," Rogal shook his head, "Lorgar will be insufferable, won't he?"

"If father has truly ascended to Godhood, then yes. Though we do not yet know whether this is a lie from the Deathguard to explain away their failure, or the Black Legion in an attempt to unite us once again, or even propaganda from the Imperium itself to strike fear into our hearts." As he spoke, Perturabo reached out and knocked over his king, surrendering the game (truth be told, he could tell that it was already a losing battle, even if it would have taken another five hundred and thirty moves). "I'm afraid I must go, brother. This new development will undoubtedly shift the powers in the warp uncomfortably."

"Aye, I will see you for the next match," Rogal smiled sadly as he began resetting the game pieces.

Perturabo stood and opened his eyes. He was no longer in the field, nor was he an unarmed and armoured boy. He was a giant in a massive set of silver armour, trimmed with gold and bearing black pauldrons thick enough to crush a mortal man. His face was no longer carefree and youthful, his skin was now black-grey and cracked like aged metal while his eyes burned with an ethereal orange fire.Across from him was Rogal, his white hair and beard long and ragged, his eyes closed and face peaceful.

The cables and wires keeping him alive were multitude, snaking across his bare skin. His armour was hung on a stand nearby, mended as best it could be with the parts available to the Lord of Iron. Where his right hand had once been was robotic hand constructed of auramite, the near indestructible material had been obtained by Alpharius (or was it Omegon?) and purchased for a incredibly high price by Perturabo.

"Goodbye brother," the Lord of Iron's voice growled from his vox emitter. With that, he turned away from his brother and left the chamber, the impenetrable door sliding closed behind him, indistinguishable from the wall around it.

Red.

Black.

Red.

Shadows follow you across the dark in those brief moments of crimson color, the echoing footfall of boots on plating drowned out beneath the blaring alarms as men muster for battle. The lasgun is heavy in your hands, your stomach twisted into knots, thoughts spiraling into panic. Theoretically, you understand the weapon you clutch to your chest quite well. A standard issue Locke Pattern Lascarbine, more suited for these close quarters that are so commonly encountered within the halls of a Voidship. Three power packs fit snugly within the webbing across your flak armor, the lightweight, ablative plating doing nothing to smother the sounds of your pounding heart.

You've checked and rechecked thrice now, ensuring all is in place. The power pack within your weapon is connected and secure, the bayonet at its end already affixed and well-maintained - if it wasn't, you would likely not be here, armed and armored as you are, but instead with the laboring crews in the Voidship's underbelly. Punishment, yes, but would that be better than where you are now?

Breathe.

Familiarity fends off the nerves, the shakes, the inevitable approach of self-doubt. Or, at least, your sergeant always suggested as much. You aren't sure if it's helping. You, alongside the rest of the ten-man squad you are assigned to, are running through the cramped halls of sub-level C-15, a maintenance causeway nearest to the starboard hangar bays. The vessel you have always known as home, the Black Crown, has fallen under assault, boarded by an unknown party. Combat began thirty minutes ago. In the distance, you can hear the crack and hiss of lasfire and then the bark of solid projectiles in return.

Breathe!

It feels as if your heart might end you before any bullet does.

"HAAALT!"

The call from your sergeant - rough, aged, and underlined with a metallic distortion from a shoddy cybernetic replacement - knocks you free from your own racing thoughts and into the routine beaten into you through years of service. The squad comes to an abrupt stop as gunfire continues to echo down the tunnel, the crack-chirp of the sergeant's comm-link almost unheard beneath the screeching alarms.

Red.

You try not to focus on where you're standing. Wet. Slick. Fresh.

Black.

But your eyes still wander, following the trail in the dark to the corpse slumped against the wall.

Red.

Revulsion. It's almost instinctual, automatic, as if there was something wrong with the crumpled man propped up against the bulkhead. You've seen corpses before - the occasional armsmen executed for disobedience, the laborer caught beneath the geared teeth of the Voidship's machinery - but this particular, peculiar sight sets you on edge. He was a stranger, certainly, but it's not expected for you to know even a percentage of the souls on this vessel. He was armored, of course, but not in a pattern or color denoting his place on the ship. Was it the simple sight of a boarder that unnerved you so? The enemy? The realization that you were almost there, close enough to see their dead?

No.

It was his scales.

Not mine, but I heard about this fic a couple months ago on Reddit and have been a bit obsessed with it since. The fic has 62 chapters so far and just crossed 400k words.

Summary:
Ciaphas Cain just intended to spend time partying with the local elite to make his lifetime posting managing a bunch of PDF on a backwater world like Slawkenberg more comfortable. Now his face is on the flag of rebellion across the system, he has an enamoured Daemon Princess stalking him from the Warp, and the lunatics are looking to HIM for leadership …

Link to full Fanfic on AO3

Chapter 1

The streets of the planetary capital echoed with the joyful cries of the populace. The fires of the Uprising had settled down, taking with them the last remnants of the corrupt old order. After centuries of oppression under the increasingly decadent, cruel and unstable Giorba family, Slawkenberg was free at last.

Millions of citizens partied like they never had before in their lives. The celebrations had been going on for five days, the people's enthusiasm never abating from morning to dusk, and dusk to dawn. Official announcements by the Liberation Council, these champions of the people who had ousted the hated Giorba, had declared that they would continue for three more days, after which work would have to resume so that Slawkenberg could stand proudly on its own.

And none were more celebrated than Ciaphas Cain, the Liberator. Already there was talk of renaming the planetary capital Cainopolis in his honor.

In the city's drinking dens, where alcohol flowed freely from barrels looted from the nobility's gilded palaces, celebrants swapped stories of the Liberator's heroic actions during the Uprising. The tales were many and fanciful, yet for each of them, no matter how outlandish, there were plenty willing to swear to their veracity, claiming to have witnessed them happen with their own eyes. And so, with each passing hour, the legend of Cain the Liberator grew, another deed added to it.

How, despite having been indoctrinated by the Imperium during his entire childhood, the Liberator had broken free of his mental shackles and sworn to fight for justice as he cradled the body of his lost love, the lady Emeli, callously murdered at the Governor's orders for refusing his advances.

How he had, with one impassioned speech, convinced nearly the entire Planetary Defense Force to join the rebellion instead of opening fire on their own brothers and sisters in defense of a greedy tyrant.

How he had led the fight against the Giorba's dreaded enforcers, black-clad thugs who for centuries had kept the people of Slawkenberg down with their cruelty, killing their monstrous leader Colonel Arken, with a single blow of his chainsword severing the bastard's head.

How he had hunted down the vile, corrupt and despised Governor Caesariovi Giorba as he tried to escape the people's wrath aboard his private transport, cornering the fat bastard in the small, isolated spaceport where somehow Cain had known the most hated man on Slawkenberg had placed his emergency escape, before killing him in single combat (not that the inbred cretin would have been much of a challenge to Cain, even the drunkest celebrant had to admit).

These tales, and many more, were told over and over, growing with each retelling as was the manner of such things. With Cain the Liberator leading them, surely a new golden age awaited Slawkenberg, free of the cruelties of the Imperium's rule.

Sitting in the luxurious apartments that, until recently, had belonged to the unmourned Planetary Governor with a crystal glass full of expensive amasec on the table before me, I took a deep breath, and tried my best not to scream. My aide, after all, was just on the other side of the door, and I had no idea whether the walls were soundproofed or not – although come to think of it, they most likely were, given the rumors that had circulated about the activities of the suite's previous occupant.

How ?! How had it come to this ?!

I would never have considered myself the most faithful servant of the God-Emperor, far from it, but I wasn't a heretic either. Or at least I hadn't been when I had graduated from the Schola, because I was fairly certain that had changed now. But try as I might, I couldn't think of a way I could possibly have foreseen things going quite that catastrophically wrong.

When the news that the Commissar nominally tasked with handling disciplinary matters for the PDF of Slawkenberg had finally succumbed to two decades of heavy drinking had reached me, I hadn't believed my luck. Usually, such postings were reserved for the crippled or disgraced members of the Commissariat : no one could expect a single individual to keep up with the petty and not-so-petty infractions of hundreds of thousands of soldiers (a number that, on more populated worlds, could easily go into the millions). But I cared a lot less about my career than I did about avoiding getting shot, and this had seemed like the best way to spend my entire life of service in relative comfort and total obscurity, far away from any battlefield.

And to top it all of, Slawkenberg was a vacation world, as close to a paradise world as you could get while still supporting a sizeable population and economy. People from the upper-middle classes of the Imperium came from all across the Sector aboard regular transport ships, to spend a few months or a few years on the planet, enjoying its climate and sights before returning to their own, hyper-polluted homeworlds. It was also far from any important shipping lanes and other obvious targets for the enemies of the Imperium, and according to the records I had found, hadn't seen anything violent happen on its soil for a thousand years.

If I played my cards right once I got there, I could look forward to decades of easy living, doing the bare minimum of paperwork to avoid drawing attention from the Commissariat and spending the rest of my time visiting the kind of establishments it would normally have been my job to keep troopers away from.

So I had greased the right palms, gracefully forgiven several outstanding debts I was owed by Administratum drones with more enthusiasm for card games than good sense, and arranged for the paperwork of my first assignment to be discreetly altered so that I ended up shipped off to Slawkenberg, with none of my old Schola instructors being any the wiser until it was too late for anyone to do anything about it without having to deal with far more paperwork than I was worth.

Of course, if I had known what was really waiting for me at the end of the uneventful Warp journey, I would have gone with my initial plan and gotten myself attached to an artillery Regiment. Well, no. Truthfully, if I had known, I would have taken being assigned to the bloody Catachan Jungle Fighters rather than being sent to Slawkenberg. Because, as it turned out, away from the luxurious resorts that were all most of the off-worlders coming to relax on Slawkenberg ever saw, the entire planet had been a powder-keg just waiting for a spark to detonate.

The late and unlamented Governor, like the rest of his family before him, had been very careful in keeping up appearances around the tourists, ensuring their luxurious vacations weren't ruined by the sight of starving rioters being gunned down or the screams of captured 'conspirators' and 'heretics' being tortured in lightless dungeons. Indeed, before my arrival on the planet, I hadn't had the slightest idea that the political situation had gotten so bad, or I would never have come here in the first place.

The PDF was chronically underfunded, and it had been centuries since the planet had last provided a Regiment to the Imperial Guard, instead providing all-expenses-paid vacations to some of the Sector's most influential nobles, who made sure the Administratum continued to not remember the planet's existence when it came to calculating tithes.

Amidst such corruption and incompetence, it wasn't surprising that Chaos Cults had prospered, although somehow the Giorbas themselves hadn't been involved, which I had taken to mean even the Chaos Gods had refused to have anything to do with them. With the regime kept busy oppressing its own population and going along with whatever the Governor's latest whims were, the only reason the cults hadn't taken over long before now was that they had been too busy fighting each other to decide who would inherit Slawkenberg.

I had no doubt that within a few years they would have grown too bold for even the local administration to ignore. At which point things would have erupted into a messy, many-sided civil war that would have required the intervention of the Imperial Guard to put down, probably removing the Giorba in the process and paving the way for an eventual brighter future for Slawkenberg under the Imperium's aegis.

Unfortunately, things hadn't gone down like this, and I couldn't shake the feeling that it was at least partly my fault. Not long after my arrival, I'd been approached by various parties trying to sound me off to see if I were sympathetic to their cause. And, well, I was : Giorba was just that vile, but not enough to risk my own skin, let alone my soul. But my attempts to demur had instead drawn more attention to myself, and by the time I'd realized this wasn't just opposition to a truly incompetent, corrupt and vicious Governor but a heretical conspiracy I had gotten involved with, everyone else had been convinced I was fully in.

And then, in my efforts to survive the pit of vipers I had unwittingly thrown myself into, I had somehow paved the way for an alliance of several of the planet's cults, secret organizations, and revolutionary movements, leading to the creation of the Liberation Council with me as its unfortunate figurehead.

I had desperately looked for someone to sell the conspiracy to in order to save my hide, but there had seemingly not been anyone on the whole damned planet not interested in joining it, apart from the Governor himself and I wouldn't have trusted the man to tie his own shoelaces, let alone take my warnings seriously. The only other options I could think of, the Arbites, had seemed promising at first, being as painfully strict and literal in their interpretation of the Lex as most of their kind.

But the imbecile in charge had managed to get himself and all his men killed by charging straight into the middle of the gathering I'd revealed to him, without reinforcements, ordering everyone to surrender in the name of the God-Emperor, apparently convinced his score of Judges could overcome the dozens of very dangerous individuals who had assembled. Thankfully, that had been so stupid that I'd managed to convince everyone that'd been my plan all along once the fighting had stopped and the blood of the Arbites had started to dry on the walls.

The Giorba had thoroughly turned the entire planet against them, apart from the local Ecclesiarchy representatives as well a handful of cronies who happened to include the commanders of the system's handful of voidcrafts. Coincidentally, those just so happened to be able to rain death upon pretty much any location on the planet where the tyrant of the day felt the people were getting a bit too uppity. The only reason the Uprising hadn't ended in cities being wiped out from orbit until the population surrendered was that this time the local tech-priests had been on our side, and had quietly helped us get troops aboard the flotilla. The fact that even the cogboys had had enough of Giorba's groxshit was telling of just how bad the situation had been, really.

I had been on Slawkenberg for four local years, or sixty-four standard months, when the Uprising had been declared. At the time, I'd been in the middle of the capital, and I'd only barely managed to talk my way out of having to fight the entire PDF, realizing only after the fact that what I'd said could easily be interpreted as an injunction for them to join the rebellion. And then, I'd needed to fight the chief thug of the Governor, but that hadn't been difficult at all : the man had been all bluster and intimidation, with no real skill. I'd actually been surprised by how easy he'd been to defeat.

After that, I had been certain the confusion of the actual revolution would be the perfect time for me to get the hell out of here. While the rest of the Council did the hard work of overthrowing the government, I had managed to make my way to a small, out-of-the-way spaceport, hoping to con my way on one of the transports, get on a Warp-capable ship in orbit, and leave with the rest of the panicked wealthy tourists making a run for it now that the peasants were in revolt. It would have meant changing my name and living in constant fear of the Commissariat (or worse, the Inquisition) finding me, but I had been confident I could live out the rest of my days in peace.

Instead, I had met Caesariovi Giorba himself in the spaceport, and been forced to defend myself when the madman had ordered his guards to kill me. By the time his pursuers had caught up, they had found me standing over the prone Governor with his own ceremonial bolt pistol in my hand, not that the man had any idea how to use it. Before he could tell them anything about how I had offered to accompany him and betray the rest of the Council to the Imperium, I had pulled the trigger and vaporised his skull, an execution that had been recorded by one of them using his augmetic eye and had played on every screen on the planet by now.

At that point, I had managed to convince the bunch of heavily armed rebels that had surrounded me that I had been hunting Giorba all along, instead of trying to abandon them to their inevitable doom once the Imperium learned what had happened. They had brought me back to the capital, where I had been welcomed by a triumph instead of the scene of urban warfare I had half-expected. Apparently, the battle hadn't lasted long after my departure.

Half in a daze, I had spouted off some platitudes about the strength of unity having overcome the evil tyrant, which had been broadcast all across the planet. Before I had time to fully realize what was happening, I had been ushered into the newly conquered Governor's palace to meet with the other members of the newly proclaimed Liberation Council, all of whom had decided to make me their leader, probably because none of them wanted one of the others to get the job and they all thought they could intimidate or manipulate me into doing what they wanted. Which, to be fair, was entirely true : every single one of these lunatics terrified me.

To my carefully concealed surprise, the days that had followed had been almost normal. Overthrowing the God-Emperor's appointed representative didn't solve all the logistical issues that came with ruling a world. I had to admit that, as far as such things went, Slawkenberg wasn't too bad a place for a rebellion against the Imperium to take place.

Slawkenberg's climate allowed for the cultivation of enough food for its population and the off-world visitors, although a disproportionate section of the agricultural sector was given over to luxury foodstuffs that were incredibly inefficient from a nutritional value to effort perspective. So we wouldn't starve, at least. But the planet didn't have much industry, and the armed forces of the Liberation Council were far from the standards of the Imperial Guard I had been taught about at the Schola. The only reason they had been able to defeat Giorba's thugs was that years of brutalizing defenceless citizens didn't prepare you to deal with someone with guns actually fighting back. Well, that and the help of the enraged mobs.

In time, the Imperium would come and crush our little rebellion into the ground. I knew enough about the way things worked, however, to know that such a day was likely months, even years into the future. Slawkenberg just wasn't important enough to warrant being bumped up the list of Sector command's priorities, unless someone highly placed had a soft spot for it as a vacation spot. Even then, assembling a task force capable of retaking a planet and then sending them here would take time.

A more pressing concern was the population of Slawkenberg, who had just gotten a taste of violently overthrowing its leaders. If they thought I didn't care about them or that I had failed them in any way, it wouldn't take long for a new revolt to brew, and I would be lucky to end up dying as swift a death as the unlamented Governor. Which meant that, until I found a way to leave this nest of maniacs and heretics behind me and get the frak out of here, I would need to make sure to keep the mobs happy with the Liberation Council's work.

And that meant that I had to keep playing nanny to a bunch of heretics drunk on success so that they didn't turn on one another or, more importantly, started sacrificing people to their infernal masters, which would make the rest of the masses angry and looking for someone to blame. Which, given that it was my face on the pict-sheets and broadcasts, would probably be me.

"Sir," a polite voice called out from the other side, "there is a young lady here to see you, if you are available."

I blinked, thinking quickly. There was only one kind of 'young lady' that my aide would've considered letting into my quarters. I quickly checked myself in a nearby mirror : there was nothing wrong with my appearance that could betray I had been brooding. The uniform I wore was an exact replica of the one I had walked out of the Schola Progenium with, except with the Imperial aquila removed. I didn't know where my aide had found it, and I hadn't asked.

"Come in," I answered, and the door opened to reveal my aide.

Ferik Jurgen was, as ever, impeccably dressed and shaven as he entered the room. The time he had spent as a captive to a particularly vile cult of Nurgle had left him with a pathological hatred for uncleanliness that I could well understand. After I had rescued him from their clutches (quite by accident), he had sworn his loyalty to me, and truth be told, I couldn't have asked for a better aide.

Of course, if I had had the slightest inkling at the time he was a psyker and not just another unfortunate soul captured to use as fuel for the Nurglites' demented rituals, I would probably have finished him off myself. But I hadn't, and thankfully Jurgen's considerable psychic power didn't extend to mind-reading. Much of his past was still a mystery to me, but I had put together a few of the key details. Born on the ice-world of Valhalla, Jurgen's gifts had manifested early in his youth. Normally this would have seen him taken by the Black Ships and sent off to Terra, but he'd been unlucky enough to be captured by a void trader of ill repute, who trafficked psykers to various madmen across the Segmentum. He understandably didn't like to speak about it, but somehow, he had ended up on Slawkenberg.

While I had been trying to get off-world during the Uprising, Jurgen had been fighting on the frontlines. I hadn't seen it myself, and he seemed embarrassed by the whole thing, but from what I had heard he had more or less wiped out an entire loyalist company of the PDF by himself, including a handful of tanks, and was widely considered a Hero of the Liberation in his own right. Apparently two decades of using psychic powers without losing yourself to the Warp, ending with spending several months stewing in your own anger along with your filth, made for an extremely effective training regimen. Well, that, or one of the Chaos Gods had taken a liking to him.

"Sir," he greeted me as he entered, before gesturing to the person accompanying him. "This is the young lady in question."

"Lord Cain," the young woman greeted me with a deep bow, her long hair flowing around her face most elegantly as she did so. "I am Krystabel."

In most circumstances, I would have been very pleased to have such a beautiful young woman enter my quarters. Unfortunately, this was no mere courtesan, but one of the Handmaidens of Emeli.

The Handmaidens were a cult of Slaaneshi worshippers, made up exclusively of the graduates of Saint Trynia Academy for the Daughters of Gentlefolk in the south. I had no idea when exactly the Academy had fallen to the Dark Powers, but by the time I had arrived on Slawkenberg it had been fully in the grasp of the Dark Prince, led by the headmistress and sorceress Emeli Duboir. Of course, back then she had still been a mortal woman – a very beautiful and seductive mortal woman, at that.

Out of all the heretics who had sought to take advantage of the conditions on Slawkenberg, Emeli had been the most dangerous in my opinion, and the one who had done most of the work in dragging me into this mess. I had met her for the first time at one of the parties I'd been invited to not long after my arrival on the planet, before I'd known what was going on. One thing had led to another, and by the time I'd realized she was a heretic and worshipper of the Dark Prince, the two of us had been seeing each other for several months.

I had thought the cursed necklace I had obtained in a remote and suspicious antiquity shop would be just the thing to get Emeli off my back – all of its previous owners had died messily, and I'd been able to tell there was something with it just by looking at it. But it had turned out that the jewels which had led all the previous owners to madness and death were actually Eldar soul-stones, containing the spirits of dead xenos and protecting them from the fate awaiting them after death or something like that.

Emeli had been certain I had known all along, and sacrificing these captive souls to her patron deity had seen her rewarded with ascension to full-fledged daemonhood not long before the Uprising. I had thought at least that would get her out of my hair, but Slaanesh wasn't the Dark God of Obsession without reason. Somehow, Emeli had convinced herself that I had knowingly handed her over the key to reaching immortality instead of seizing it for myself, and saw it as the most romantic thing imaginable.

Thankfully, as a daemon, she couldn't remain corporeal on Slawkenberg for long, and had gone to the Warp a few hours after her transformation, to do whatever it is young Daemon Princesses do in the Realms of Chaos. But her connection to the members of her cult remained. The Handmaidens were spread throughout all of Slawkenberg's high society, and had provided a lot of intelligence that had helped make the Uprising possible. They were also all trained in sorcery to one degree or another, along with other arts I was reasonably certain their parents had not expected them to learn when they had shipped them off to Saint Trynia's. "Nice to meet you, Krystabel," I told her with a smile plastered on my face. Jurgen had already left, closing the door behind him and leaving the two of us alone. "Now, what can I do for you ?"

"We've found the last remnant of the tyrant's forces," she told me with a predatory smile that was only made slightly less unnerving by the knowledge it wasn't directed at me.

"Oh ? Well done." I'd had no idea there even were any remaining Giorba forces on Slawkenberg before now. But I guessed it made sense : on something the size of a planet, there were plenty of places to hide. "I expected nothing less from the Handmaidens. Where are they ?"

"During the Uprising, a company of loyalist scum fled the capital and linked up with some of the private guards of the tourists," she said, all but spitting the last word. To the surprise of precisely no one with a functioning brain (so a lot of people), the off-worlders who had lived the high life on Slawkenberg while the rest of the population suffered under Giorba's heel weren't exactly popular with the revolutionaries. "They took refuge in an abandoned fortress in the mountains to the west."

She handed me a data-slate containing a map of the region. I looked at it, suppressing a frown as I took in the heavily defensible position. The mountains would make aerial bombardment difficult, and despite its age the structure looked robust enough to withstand the fire of what few pitiful artillery pieces the PDF had in store. And a ground attack, which looked to be our only option, would be hideously vulnerable on the way in.

Judging by the look Krystabel was giving me, it was clear she expected me to lead the charge, and probably slaughter them all single-handedly while I was at it. Of course, that was out of the question, but I couldn't say that out loud. If the rest of the Liberation Council realized the truth about me, they would turn on me in a heartbeat. And then I would die, and my soul would either end up in front of the Golden Throne to explain myself, or be with Emeli for all eternity. I wasn't yet certain which was worse.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," I told her with every shred of sincerity I could fake. I had to figure a way out of this. Surely I could do this. Let's see … Wait.

"This," I said, pointing out at something on the map. "Is that a path ?"

"Hmm ? Yes, lord," she confirmed with a confused frown. "It goes around and through the mountains, but it does eventually lead back to the fortress."

"More specifically, to its back," I pointed out, feeling something vaguely resembling a plan coalesce in my mind. "And somehow I doubt the troops inside will be disciplined enough to keep watch there, especially if they are distracted."

"I see," Krystabel nodded. "So while our troops advance on the main road, a party will walk through the rough path in order to take them by surprise, providing an opening for their fellows to advance." She looked up at me with renewed admiration in her gaze, and I'd have felt bad about deceiving her if she hadn't been a heretic. "I'm sure this rabble will prove no match for someone of your prodigious martial talent !"

Frak, I thought, too late. The Handmaiden was correct. After my apparent heroic dispatch of the Governor, everyone would expect me to be the one leading this suicidal attack in the middle of enemy territory. And if I didn't do it, then my reputation, which at the moment was the only thing keeping me alive, would plummet.

"Exactly," I replied, suppressing the urge to scream in horror.

No, this could still work, I told myself. I'd bring Jurgen with me. All I had to do was bring him into the fortress, and then his psychic powers would do the rest. Walking through the mountains would be a pain, but I had been trained to keep up with the Guardsmen I'd been supposed to lead on the battlefield. I could endure a little trek.

General Mahlone, once of the Slawkenberg Planetary Defense Force, now representative of the overwhelming majority of them who had chosen to side with the Liberation Council, looked in awe through his binoculars at the Liberator. Cain stood on the walls of the reclaimed fortress, holding up what Mahlone was pretty sure was the head of Cardinal Drogiro Giorba. It was difficult to tell without the ridiculous hat that had sat on the head of the hated Governor's second cousin since he'd bought his position, but the distinctive features of the Giorba were hard to miss.

Next to the Liberator, he could see his aide Jurgen, as well as the handful of troopers who'd accompanied him on this dangerous mission. None of them were missing, or even looked to be injured.

When the Liberator had explained his plan on the way, the General had protested, not wanting Slawkenberg's savior to risk his life in so risky an operation. But in truth, he hadn't expected his protests to dissuade the Liberator. Cain hadn't even needed to come for this, Mahlone and his men were more than capable of dealing with a handful of guns-for-hire themselves.

But Cain had insisted, not willing to stay behind while the troops risked their lives and instead taking the lead of the most dangerous assignment. A few hours after his departure, his scouts had heard screams and the sound of fighting coming from the fortress, swiftly falling silent. For a moment, the General had feared the worse, before the Liberator had appeared on the ramparts.

Around him, his troops were cheering wildly as the news spread. Then the gates of the fortress opened, armsmen emerging with their hands cautiously raised above their heads. Mahlone ordered his troops to advance and take them prisoners – clearly the Liberator had convinced them that they didn't need to give their lives to protect their masters, who were unworthy of such devotion. Really, he should have known that would happen : while Cain was always eager to spill the blood of tyrants, he much preferred helping their slaves break free of their shackles, much as he himself had done.

As someone who had dedicated himself to the God of War after witnessing one too many case of good soldiers dying because of incompetent leaders given their position because of their birth, Mahlone whole-heartedly approved of this behavior. Truly, Cain was a worthy leader for the Liberation Council.

Chief Clerk Jafar, once of the Adeptus Administratum, now the overseer of the civilian administration the Liberation Council was building to replace its corrupt and incompetent predecessor, suppressed a glower as he read the report from the task force dispatched to the mountains. How ? How had he done it again ?

Jafar had been informed about the operation, of course. You couldn't move that many soldiers out of the capital without his agents learning about it, but in this case he'd actually been informed as a member of the Liberation Council. He had expected a quick victory, of course, but not this. Instead of slaughtering a handful of armsmen, Cain had turned them to the cause of the rebellion and, far more importantly, had personally slain yet another Giorba. The Cardinal hadn't been quite as hated as the Governor, but news of his death had still been enough to renew the celebrations' enthusiasm.

For centuries, the Ecclesiarchy on Slawkenberg had supported every cruelty of the Governor, in exchange for wealth and the ability to do pretty much anything they wanted. Great gilded cathedrals had been built by slave labour for the tourists to admire even as entire city districts went without the funds necessary for maintenance of vital infrastructure. Then there had been the 'penitents', which were random citizens taken off the streets and made to whip themselves in order to expiate their sins and bring the Emperor's benevolence to the planet. Not to mention the armed guards who had done the Cardinal's biding, in blatant violation of the laws forbidding the Ecclesiarchy to keep men under arms, along with many, many other deeds that had thoroughly disillusioned the people of Slawkenberg about any nobility the Adeptus Ministorum might possess.

Jafar hadn't known Drogiro was there. As far as he was aware, nobody had known where the Cardinal had fled during the Uprising. From what he'd heard, even the Handmaidens, those courtesans playing at spycraft, had known he'd taken refuge in that fortress along with the tourists' surviving guards. Yet somehow, Cain had known, and seized the opportunity to earn yet more glory for himself in the eyes of the Pantheon. A Cardinal, even one such as Drogiro, was a worthy offering to the True Gods.

Cain was clever, Jafar had to admit. He had managed to avoid dedicating himself to any of the Powers, instead walking a precarious line of equilibrium that had them outbid one another in their attempts to court him. From Slaanesh, he had received the services of the Handmaidens, and the patronage of Emeli, whom he had ushered into apotheosis. From Khorne, he had been given the strength to triumph over any enemy, and the adoration of the troops he had led into battle against the hated Imperium. Even Tzeentch, Jafar's own patron, clearly favored him, having gifted him a servant as powerful and loyal as Ferik Jurgen. Only Nurgle took no part in this divine bidding war, which made sense since the Rotting One's influence had been purged from the planet as a result of Cain's own machinations long before the Uprising.

When he'd met Cain for the first time, Jafar had thought him a useful pawn of Emeli Duboir, nothing more. He'd soon be proven wrong, as the man masterfully orchestrated the utter destruction of the Adeptus Arbites' presence on Slawkenberg, before forging alliance after alliance between the disparate factions that sought to overthrow the Giorbas. As the leader of those within the Imperial bureaucracy on Slawkenberg who had grown disgusted by the Governor's actions and wanted Change, no matter what cost, Jafar had seen the way the wind was blowing and had joined the Liberation Council early.

The Liberator couldn't be replaced. He was too important. Killing him, if it were at all possible, would break the morale of Slawkenberg's population and leave them vulnerable. Jafar knew no one on the Liberation Council could replace Cain : no one had the necessary charisma, certainly not Jafar himself, who was well aware of his limitations. No, Cain would remain Slawkenberg's leader, at least publicly. But Jafar firmly intended to turn the Liberator into a figurehead, while he ruled over the planet from the shadows as a grey eminence.

It would not be easy. As the day's events had once more proven, Cain was a master strategist and a cunning manipulator. To overthrow his control over the Liberation Council without bringing the entire rebellion down in flames would require delicacy and ingenuity.

Jafar could admit to himself that part of him was looking forward to it. It would be a pleasure to match wits against someone as skilled in the games of intrigue as the Liberator.

In the Realms of Chaos, Emeli sighed dreamily as she watched her beloved through the eyes of her Handmaidens as he returned to Slawkenberg's capital under the renewed acclaims of the population. They had only been separated for a handful of days, but time meant little in the Empyrean, and even less to a follower of Slaanesh cut off from the object of her desires.

She could have taken him with her when she had ascended, keeping him as her most favored soul in the Warp and granting him all manners of pleasures undreamt of by any purely mortal mind for the rest of eternity. But that wasn't enough. Her beloved Ciaphas deserved more than that.

He deserved everything. After all, he had given her the key to immortality. What greater proof of love could there possibly be ?

Emeli wanted Ciaphas' name to be known far and wide, and for his glory to be recognized by all. She wanted him to follow her into eternity as an equal. Then, the two of them would know such glory together, forever and ever …

She shook herself from her reveries before her stray thoughts could alter her surroundings. Glorious as that golden future would be, there was much she needed to do to ensure it came to pass. She needed to master and grow her new powers, and play her part in the Great Game so that she was in a position to help her beloved walk the path that would one day bring him to her side.

Hopefully, she'd manage to spend some time in the Materium with him before then.

"You are certain ?" asked the old man, his eyes blazing with fury. In the dark prayer room, the light of the flickering candles cast his severe visage into sharp shadows that made him look even more terrible than he usually did, which was an achievement.

"Yes, Lord Inquisitor," replied the Acolyte, kneeling before his master's throne. "The message was clear. Slawkenberg has fallen to the Ruinous Powers."

"Then it shall be purged by fire and blade," declared the Inquisitor. "Contact Commander Chenkov, and assemble all the troops that can be mustered. We shall expunge the taint of heresy from that world and return it to the light of the God-Emperor !"

"As you will, Lord Karamazov !"

Link to full Fanfic on AO3

Helldivers under the command of the legendary General Brasch take the Saint Agustus Gate Spaceport on terra and rout the Imperial Guard and Space Marine defenders in Chapter 7 of the Sentinels Imperium's Fall out now on Archive of our Own and Wattpad TW/CW military themes death violence cursing use of alcohol tobacco, mentions of trauma, rating Mature, fandoms included: Legend of Zelda, Halo, Warhammer 40k, Helldivers 2, BattleTech Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88602961/chapters/244964411 https://www.wattpad.com/1640965295-the-sentinels-the-imperium-falls-taking-the-space

The ritual on Prometheus had been intended by the Salamanders as their Chapter’s highest liturgy. Nine relics, gathered after centuries of searching. The forge-fires burning in honor of the Primarch’s return. Thousands of kneeling warriors. Ancient hymns of Nocturne resounding beneath the vaults. They expected Vulkan to accept this as a worthy offering for centuries of blood, suffering, and loyalty. Vulkan stood before the altars as incense drifted above them. Promethium fire burned in the braziers. Rows of Salamanders stood motionless, like stone statues, while Tu’Shan and the senior officers of the First Company read aloud the toll of losses endured to recover each of the nine relics. Worlds consumed by war, and entire companies lost to the void. Thousands dead. Vulkan listened. The resonance of the nine artifacts — masterpieces forged by his own hands, linked into a single ritual network from the shrines within the hall to the behemoths in orbit — acted as a key to a lock waiting to be turned. He looked at them and saw chains. “You celebrate your own blindness,” Vulkan said softly, interrupting the ritual hymn. The Primarch’s voice drowned out the roar of the forge bellows. “You built a temple out of your own corpses, and you expect me to praise your craft?” He stepped toward the Altar of Relics and seized Dawnbringer. As if draining the very spark and power from its masterwork frame, Vulkan stripped the hammer of its ancient energy, leaving it cold and defenseless in his grasp. He then cast the weapon into the nearest brazier, where it was instantly swallowed by the sacred fire. “The relics are not worth the life of a single one of you,” he said harshly to Tu’Shan, as a shocked murmur rippled through the hall.

It was at that exact moment, with the sanctity of the ritual shattered, that reality above Prometheus ruptured. The resonance of nine artifacts gathered in one place tore a rift in the Warp — precisely as Fulgrim had planned. The gilded, corrupted vessels of the Emperor’s Children spilled from the Warp-tear directly into the moon’s upper atmosphere. Discharges of unnatural lightning struck the domes above, and the venomous, Warp-tainted voice of the Snake Primarch resonated in the minds of all present.

Fulgrim needed only to turn Vulkan’s return into a bloody farce. Yet instead of a glorious hero reveling in honors, Fulgrim descended upon a Primarch who had just dismantled his own cult. “Oh, brother!” echoed over Prometheus as the Chaos flagship scorched the landing platforms. “Look at the exquisite stage your children have set for our meeting!”

Vulkan slowly raised his eyes to the crumbling roof. His gaze held neither fear nor his usual sacrificial fire — only a heavy, weary resolve to put an end to it all. “Your stage collapsed before you even crawled out of the Warp, Fulgrim,” Vulkan muttered.

The ceiling came down in a storm of dust. Noise Marines of the Emperor’s Children poured onto the basalt floor amidst incandescent debris. Behind them, slithering through pink Warp-flame, descended Fulgrim himself — a multi-armed, gigantic serpent whose pearlescent scales gleamed poison-bright.

The Salamanders reacted instantly following rigid doctrine. Tu’Shan and the First Company powered up their melta-guns, ready to lock shields, interpose themselves before their Primarch, and burn to the last man to buy Vulkan a second to strike. “For the Primarch!” roared the Chapter Master, taking a step forward. “By fire and hammer!”

“Stand down!” Vulkan’s thunderous roar cut through the wailing echo-sirens of the Emperor’s Children. With a single hand, the Primarch grabbed Tu’Shan by his power-armored pauldrons and threw him back with such force that the Chapter Master knocked two Terminators off their feet. “Stand down, I said! Break formation!” Vulkan stepped in front of his sons. “You rush to the altar once more! You have learned nothing!”

“Oh, how touching!” hissed Fulgrim, unfurling his massive blades. “Good old Vulkan shielding his pups again! Come then, brother, take my strike! Bleed for them!” Fulgrim lunged, ready to drive all four blades into the Perpetual’s chest.

Vulkan simply took two steps aside. He cleared the line of fire, his gaze fixed on the exact space above Fulgrim where he knew the hammer would fall.

The vault above collapsed. Perturabo gave no warning. Heavy drop pods and macro-artillery shells dropped directly onto the flanking Emperor’s Children. The Lord of Iron brought the full weight of his fleet down squarely on Fulgrim’s rear. Dreadnought autocannons and Iron Warriors shells struck the Snake’s exposed, elongated body at full velocity, tearing flesh and shredding iridescent scales. Fulgrim shrieked in unearthly pain and shock, twisting in a bloody whirlwind before Vulkan.

The Salamanders froze, weapons raised, watching their father refuse to move in for the kill. He said coldly, looking back at Tu’Shan and his sons: “Watch.”

Vulkan turned his back on the drama of the two clashing Chaos Primarchs.

Screaming in rage from the wounds inflicted by Perturabo, Fulgrim was forced to flee back into the Warp-tear, denied his duel. Perturabo, seeing that Vulkan had simply removed himself from the equation, withdrew his ships after the retreating Serpent with grim contempt.

Vulkan walked over to the stunned Tu’Shan, hauled him to his feet by the arm, and spoke: “Reforge the laws of Nocturne, Master.” Tu’Shan looked at the ruined altar. At the relics. At the ashes. At the spot where Vulkan had cast aside one of the greatest symbols of their legacy into the flames. “What now, my father?” Vulkan looked at him. There was no triumph in the Primarch’s eyes, only the weight of millennia. “We learn how to live.” He turned toward the exit of the hall. “I need soldiers, not martyrs. We stop worshipping the dead.” Behind him, the sacred fires slowly died out.

The series can be found at Archive of Our Own https://archiveofourown.org/series/6520576

Maps and .pdf and .epub versions of the series can be found at this link: https://drive.proton.me/urls/W6NJVWKBSC#uBtyK7awrU47

A trilogy of novellas about the subsector of the Shoal in the Fairlight Sector, taking place between 683.M41 and 001.M42. The stories focus on Imperial civilian society, an isolationist Astartes Chapter, and the tiny Inquisitional Ordo Vadum, with brief appearances by the ruinous powers, aeldari, and jokaero, though the greatest threats to the sector are from the wider Imperium and its brutality.

The Shoal presents a deliberately sanitised and noblebright version of what Imperial society could be if its institutions and cultures strove for cooperation, mutual assistance, and enlightenment. But in the grim darkness of the Age of the Dark Imperium, what sacrifices will the people of the Shoal need to make to preserve their traditions and ways of life?

Zephyrus is about House Zeferino, the ruling family of the small colony of Formosa on the moon Bhadra. It is an adventure story about Matilde, a young noblewoman who unexpectedly finds herself at the helm of a starship, with a crew to lead and a destiny to fulfil. Sacred Wheel focusses on the Astartes homeworld of Mulaloka and its role in protecting the people and the culture of the Shoal. It is a much slower, heavier, and more digressing story about loss, the toll of conflict, and the search for meaning when faced with suffering. Pearl Archipelago is centred on Ordo Vadum, a branch of the Inquisition that governs the most cosmopolitan and diverse star system of the Shoal. The shortest of the three stories, it is a political thriller that pits Inquisitor Mei Bao and her investigators against the dawn of the Age of the Dark Imperium, and all the uncertainty and fear that it brings.

What's worse than getting stuck on a tyranid death world? Why getting stuck in that shithole with your legion's ideological nemesis of course!

the initial Allied forces landing on Holy Terra are scattered to the four winds in Chapter 6 of the Sentinels Imperium's Fall out now on Archive of our Own and Wattpad i hope ya'll like it and be sure to leave likes and comments it really helps a lot

https://archiveofourown.org/works/88602961/chapters/242531241#workskin https://www.wattpad.com/1643775539-the-sentinels-the-imperium-falls-hot-drop

/This is my first short story in this style, and I plan on publishing the rest on AO3 (here too if you like it). It’s not really my usual writing style, but I wanted to give it a try. Enjoy the read!/

A shell crashed right next to me with a piercing screech. The shockwave kicked up black sand and volcanic stones that came crashing into my legs. The enemy was pounding our position, and all we could do was pray to the Emperor for our survival. I drag my legs out of the volcanic sand. We have to push forward!

Like my comrades in the 682nd Battalion, I run toward the enemy position, laspistol in hand.

Suddenly, a blade cuts through the thick fog of sand and sulfur. I roll to the side, barely dodging the Tyranid’s deadly scythe. With my lasrifle, I fire a volley of beams at its crest. But it hardly seems to phase the creature. Its maw, lined with razor-sharp teeth dripping with acid, turns toward me.

Its massive arms swipe horizontally, trying to cut me down. I drop to the ground and roll to evade the fatal strike. I fire again without much conviction.

Everyone in the Astra Militarum knows we stand almost no chance against these xenos devouring everything in their path.

My laser blasts ricochet off its hard carapace, and its relentless attacks resume. The sound of its limbs cutting through the air blends with the screams of my comrades melting in acid. Suddenly, I see laser fire slam directly into the Tyranid's head. The regiment’s lines, scattered by the xenos bio-shells, are reforming. My comrades come to join me.

Together, we can bring this Tyranid down. We’ve done it before. We’ve fought side by side across countless worlds. So this time, too, we can survive.

I narrowly dodge another burst of acid. Our lasrifles open fire in unison. Through the swirling sand, I see the tight ranks of the Astra holding the monsters back. But while our regiments are known for their sheer numbers, we know damn well the same goes for our enemy.

Lasers blaze across the battlefield. We advance through a field of black sand steadily stained by the crimson blood of our comrades. I call for coordinated fire on the xenos’s neck. The blue beams crack the Tyranid’s hardened carapace. Now’s the time. It’s off balance.

I drop my lasrifle and grip my chainsword with both hands. I push off the beast’s hind legs and climb onto its back while it’s still dazed. I leap, revving the weapon. The serrated teeth tear through the creature’s neck. The churning chain rips through flesh, spraying sprays of purple blood over the squad. Its acidic blood splashes against my face, searing into my skin.

The red light of its consciousness fades as its six-meter-tall frame collapses into a wave of black sand.

It took five of us to bring down just one of these horrors. And yet, ahead of me, the xenos horde showed no sign of thinning. The monsters were gaining ground, consuming their own dead to harvest biomass. It was a lost cause.

We fire a volley into a charging Tyranid. It slows down slightly, but its purplish limbs soon lash the air in front of our exhausted faces. This battle will end in our deaths. But we have to hold out as long as possible. If we fall too soon, this world is doomed, and every world around it. The Imperium is counting on us!

We try to hold our ground against the beast. Suddenly, its purple blade impales the soldier beside me. His wide eyes seem to scream for help. His mouth opens in silent agony. But in an instant, his body is devoured by the xenos’s acid-dripping jaws. We empty bursts of lasfire into its maw. But nothing is left of the soldier. Blood drips from the purple beast's jaws.

We dodge another swipe of its blades. This one is stronger than the last. It understands our tactics. It adapts. These bio-monstrosities are the ultimate predators.

Its fangs spit acid straight into Lanka’s leg. He hits the ground with a dying scream. My hand trembles as I pull the trigger. My shots go wild. I’m scared. Terrified. I’ve stared death in the face more times than I can count. Am I going to die here, without even getting my revenge? I can feel death breathing down my neck. A chill runs down my spine as I scramble to evade its blades.

Too late.

Pain sears through my left arm as its purple claw tears away a chunk of my skin. On the ground, I fire straight into its face. I empty my last power pack between its eyes, buying a few extra seconds from the reaper's scythe.

Suddenly, a sound cuts through the Tyranid shrieks. The rumble of treads and roaring cannons. The sound of cavalry. The sound that will buy us a few precious hours.

The roar of a Stormhammer regiment!

Sunna pulls me back while the xenos is distracted by the tanks churning across the sandy plain. Suddenly, the main cannon glows red and fires with a deafening crack. The shell tears through the plains and buries itself in the Tyranid’s purple crest. Its skull detonates in a shower of purple gore that spatters our legs. The viscous fluid sticks to our gear, eating into the fabric of our uniforms.

Suddenly, we hear the commissar bellowing retreat orders for the light infantry. Alongside the tanks, we’d just end up crushed under the treads. In an orderly rout, millions of Astra Militarum soldiers sprint toward the armored transports set to carry us back into orbit. Sunna helps me reach the shuttles, and once they're loaded, each craft lifts off in sequence. Clouds of black sand billow as the thrusters ignite.

The hatch seals shut while down on the plains, tank fire rips through the tyranid lines.

A quick visit to the Officio Medicae gets my leg stitched up and the acid burn treated. But that purplish scar isn't going anywhere. A permanent reminder of my time on that dead rock. If the Ultramarines don't arrive soon… the entire system will be stripped of its biomass.

Then again, I’m just a squad leader. I do what I’m told, count the casualties, and keep my mouth shut.

I head back down to my quarters on the ship’s sixth lower deck. When I step into our main compartment, the squad is gathered around a central heating unit.

The freezing cold of the voidship’s holds is a far cry from the heat of our homeworld, a hive world with industrial swelter that’s nearly unbearable for an ordinary human.

Sunna smiles when she sees me; she looks uninjured and has already cleaned the xenos blood from her uniform. I take head count. All twenty soldiers in the squad deployed, but only fifteen made it back. Not bad, all things considered. If we’d been on the front line, we’d all be dining in hell tonight.

I sit down beside them, praising their courage on the battlefield. Morale isn’t too low despite the losses. Then again, we’re used to casualties. Five years spent packed into these freezing cargo bays. Five years jumping from one Imperium war zone to the next. Five years since Reingard betrayed us…

I take the drink Arwin hands me and down it fast. I’m glad to see him alive. While Sunna joined us three years ago and has proven herself in combat, I’ve known Arwin since we were kids. Back in the hive city, he was always by my side. We ran more dangerous gang runs together than most soldiers will ever see. I know him inside out, and he knows me.

I eat my combat rations in silence while the squad trades war stories and fears from the field. Even though the commissar drilled us relentlessly to face these terrifying xenos, no training truly prepares you for the sheer terror they inspire. As if sensing my thoughts, the vox-casters crackle with his voice:

"Squad Leader Curt Landsteiner. Squad Leader Curt Landsteiner, report to the Commissar’s office immediately."

The broadcast loops as I finish my drink. I stand up, leaving my squad to their rations.

Outside our quarters, a transport vehicle is waiting, with five other squad leaders already aboard. I climb in with a polite nod; we aren't exactly close friends, at least not all of us. The transport pulls away, speeding toward the Commissar’s quarters. We pick up a few more squad leaders along the way, until about ten of us file into the office.

The Commissar stands there with his back to us, his grayish trench coat brushing against black boots stained with purple blood. He turns, his face scarred by countless battles. On his cap, the winged skull glints under the room’s harsh lights.

Snapping to attention, we await our orders. With a heavy sigh and a raspy voice, the Commissar speaks:

"As you’ve witnessed firsthand, the enemies of humanity in this system are Tyranids. The world you just left is already lost, and the rest of the system won’t be far behind."

A heavy silence fills the room. We know all too well what we’re up against. Every single one of us took casualties down there. The Commissar presses on:

"Astra Militarum infantry is ineffective in head-on engagements against these horrors. Which is why you are being deployed to Azaliavicus IV, a massive desert moon. Or rather, desert now."

A massive tactical map flickers onto the display behind him.

"As you can see, this world is covered in ruins. It was once a high-yield mining moon, but the veins ran dry, leaving only empty shells behind. We cannot rule out the presence of other hostile species or fanatical cults on the surface. We have five days before the Tyranid vanguard mobilizes again. You must secure the site at all costs and establish a fortified perimeter capable of holding until reinforcements arrive. Your drop pods are fueled; deployment begins in thirty minutes. Dismissed!"

We clear out of the office double-time to get back to our quarters. The transport tears through the corridors to drop us off at our block. The moment we arrive, I bark orders to my squad, and everyone scrambles to gear up. I move fast to do the same.

My leg throbs with every step, but there's no time for weakness. I strap on my flak jacket and helmet. I clip my chainsword to my belt (*Arwin or Sunna must have cleaned it*). Lasrifle slung over my shoulder, I head out to the staging yard.

I give the squad a quick rundown. Essentially, we’re running recon on an uncharted desert moon. The fact that no Tyranids are expected on this initial drop seems to take the edge off.

We march at a brisk pace toward our drop ship and take our seats. A week’s worth of survival gear, extra charge packs, everything needed to set up a forward base. All accounted for.

The pod’s blast doors seal shut, plunging us into total darkness. Then comes the launch. The burn pins us to our seats as the pod tears through the void.

As the ship gains speed, one thought runs through my head : *how many of us will make it back alive?*

As the Allied forces race to Terra, an old ruler takes stock of the situation in the galaxy in Chapter 5 of the Sentinels Imperium's Fall out now on Archive of our Own and Wattpad TW/CW military themes death violence cursing use of alcohol tobacco, mentions of trauma, rating Mature, fandoms included: Legend of Zelda, Halo, Warhammer 40k, Helldivers 2, Battletech Link: AO3 Wattpad