Warhammer and Justice League crossover where the Emperor and Perpetual Oll Persson are sent to Themyscira. Perpetual Oll Persson is from Horus Heresy books "Know No Fear" and "Mark of Calth". Horus Heresy books "Know No Fear" and "Mark of Calth". I am using the shaman background for the Emperor. The shaman background is from the lore of 1st Edition Rogue Trader in 'Realm of Chaos: The Lost and The Damned'. Rick Priestley mostly wrote the shaman background in 'Realm of Chaos: The Lost and The Damned' back in 1st Edition Rogue Trader. He is the Stan Lee of Warhammer.
Should read Horus Heresy books "Know No Fear" and "Mark of Calth". Horus Heresy books "Know No Fear" and "Mark of Calth". Below is a quote from Angel Exterminatus about Perpetual Oll Persson fighting a German soldier named Karl at Verdun eating corpses.
No longer was he fighting soulless machines, but men clad in rough furs with heavy brows and matted hair woven with bone fetishes. They swung crude, flint-bladed axes, and Kroeger laughed as he gutted them one after the other. Dozens, then scores came at him, then hundreds more, each screaming guttural barks of some proto-language that meant nothing to him. He slew without thought, knowing there could never be enough to satisfy his need to kill. He felt as though he had been fighting for hours, but his sword arm was still fresh, his body filled with reserves of power he knew would sustain him for an eternity of slaughter among the stars.
Without noticing it, Kroeger realised he was no longer killing fur-clad savages, but men clad in uniforms, puffed silk and iron breastplates. They wore cockaded helms and fought with long spears and wooden-handled firearms. Nor was he clad in burnished warplate of iron, gold and jet; but in animal skins, feathers and warpaint. The ashen plain was replaced by a lush jungle of tall trees and rich vegetation, though many of the trees around him had been felled by men with long-handled axes and logging saws.
Epunamun – for as well as his IV Legion attire, he had shed his name – swung his macuahuitl at a conquistador raising a long wooden musket to his shoulder. The shark teeth embedded along the length of Epunamun's hungry wood struck the man just beneath the steel of his helm and tore through the meat and bone of his neck. The man's head parted company from his shoulders and the spraying blood bathed Epunamun with hot wetness.
He blinked away the sticky blood and was not surprised to find himself somewhere else, this time in a mud-filled trench. Splintered duckboards lined the width of the trench and sheets of corrugated metal shored up its sides. Smoke and screams filled the air, and Karl blinked away spatters of mud from his eyes as he heard the approaching roar of voices from somewhere beyond the lip of the trench. He didn't understand them and felt a growing hunger as he looked left and right at the men emerging from concrete bunkers worked into the trench walls. These were his countrymen, but he felt nothing for them but a vague contempt.
Men were scrambling onto the raised firing step, lifting heavy machine guns into position or working the bolts of their rifles. A man ran towards Karl, dressed in the mud-covered uniform of an Oberst and a ridiculous helmet topped with a bent metal spike.
'Move! The enemy are here!' shouted the Oberst, but before he could say any more, the blast of a grenade detonation spun him high into the air, leaving most of his legs behind. More blood sprayed Karl and he fell to his knees as the sound of gunfire exploded from the lip of the trench. He ran towards the screaming Oberst, who lay against the muddy wall, his body a mass of gouged shrapnel wounds and burned meat.
The smell was intoxicating, just like the meat he had cut from the curious gypsy he'd enticed back to his house at the edge of the village all those years ago. The man had fought, of course, but that had only given the flesh an astringent flavour that made the sense of power he'd felt at every white-meat mouthful grow stronger.
'Karl,' gasped the Oberst. 'Oh God, it hurts… Please God, help me.'
Karl just looked at him, making no move.
The life went out of his eyes, and Karl lifted a handful of scorched flesh from the Oberst's mutilated legs to his mouth. He bit down, letting the warm blood and fatty meat slide down his throat. He closed his eyes, savouring the forbidden flavours as the sounds of battle raged around him. Men were driven back from the lip of the trench by the charge of the enemy, but the screams of the dying meant nothing to him.
Verdun was lost, but Karl knew it was irrelevant who won or lost.
That all blood – his or his enemies' – was welcome.
He ate more of the dead Oberst, feeling the strength of the dead man's flesh fill him.
The screaming around him grew in volume and he heard a cry of revulsion behind him. He spun around, reaching for his rifle, ready to kill anyone who learned of his secret hunger – he had done it before, and would likely do it again before long. Too late, he saw the enemy infantryman thrusting with his bayonet, and Karl's belly exploded with pain as the blade thrust home in his vitals. The soldier kicked him from the blade and raised it to strike again. Karl saw the man limned in the light of fires and explosions. His face was so very, very old and his eyes had seen more bloodshed than any other man on this planet.
The man's dog tags swung out from beneath his torn shirt, and Karl saw a name etched into the pressed steel. At least he would die knowing his killer.
Pearsonne, Olivier.
But before the soldier could deliver the deathblow, a wave of grey-uniformed soldiers crashed into the fighting from the reserve trenches and drove him away in a storm of gunfire.
Once again the trench was theirs, and Karl let out a shuddering breath as a soldier with a badge of the medical services pinned to his lapel approached him.
He knew this man. He was from the same town as Karl.
'Don't worry,' said Florian, ripping open a field dressing and applying it to the wound in his gut. 'You'll live.'
Karl nodded as blood from a cut he couldn't remember suffering ran down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked it away and–
Kroeger opened his eyes, the full weight of a million lives of bloodshed filling him like a vessel he hadn't known was empty. His body was alive with power, his every vein surging with energy and every nerve alive with the prospect of harvesting the skulls of the fallen.
[…]
This was death, but Kroeger welcomed the chance to die in battle. A fragment of the last life he remembered returned to him, words said in a million different tongues throughout the ages of the world, but unchanged in meaning since the first rock split the skull of the first innocent.
'I care not from whence the blood flows,' roared Kroeger as he charged the ghost warriors with his sword raised high. 'Only that it flows!'