The year is lost to the Immaterium and imperial records do no justice to this tale (though they are no less intriguing) and are broken, seemingly unrelated, fragments of unusual circumstances. Thus follows the near folly of the Gods, the trick of an Ethereal Jester, and the legend of the Blind Maker.
His profile description in imperial records was unremarkable and average. His name is and was James R. Hartwright (our hero) as his father named him. He was in his mid twenties and worked in a Manufactorum at the time of his disappearance. He was an inquisitive and curious boy and, as a man, dull and uninteresting. Dull not in mind, but of personality. The kid was smart, he just didn't talk much. He never had any hobbies. He made very few friends. He had no motivation (though, in his defense, he didn't really have much need of any). The only new things James tried were ways to lose himself in thought. This later manifested in the use of narcotics.
His only observable redeeming qualities were his fondness of systems and rules, his ability to manipulate those systems to an objectively higher level (not that he had much of a chance to practice such skills in his early years), and his ability to adapt his rationalizations to better accomplish the tasks assigned to him. His peers never thought much of him and his superiors never acknowledged his existence. He learned to keep his mouth shut most of the time around his higher ups: his ideas never held personal sway with them and he could care less about chasing their approval. He settled with their indifference just as well.
His mother was not so blessed as to have glimpsed him before her passing on the table that bore him, though she was never much deserving of a blessing to begin with. She was an inheritor of a very small fortune for which she was loathe not to spend how she pleased and only on herself. There wasn't much else kind to be said about her.
Our hero's father, on the other hand, was a lightly decorated man, and a good enough one keep himself preoccupied most of the time. Though thoroughly busy and exhausted for the majority of his time spent in this realm, he did have time to impart upon his son pearls of wisdom from time to time.
They were the old parent tapes: "Stay the path of The Emperor, all others are destruction", and "Keep yourself clean, when you have time", and "When you work, work hard. It'll keep you alive and, one day, you might be recognized", and of course "Shut up, no one wants to hear it".
When James was old enough to appreciate the efforts of his father to keep him alive and educated, the old man died in a slaughter by the hands of particularly uninteresting Ork on a particularly uninteresting wasteland of a planet for no particularly interesting enough reason. James did not need a believable enough explanation to accept his father's death, he never thought twice about the story he had been told about a workplace accident.
Matron, Patron, and introduction out of the way, this story now shifts to a Gornd, Lowly Pawn of Tzeench.
The Great Puppet Master had been plotting an entertaining trial to cast upon our unwitting psyker hero, and had tasked this would-be narcotics dealer to confront James. The Puppeteer had been providing protection to James by masking his presence and preventing him from being torn apart by deamons from the time James was conceived. The plan was rather simple (as unfitting as it was for the tentacle tangle fiend to have things any other way but twisted and convoluted): plant a powerful neurotoxin designed to unlock dormant psychic powers that he'd "acquired" from one of Nurgle's many "garden" worlds into a drug that James had planned on purchasing from the nefarious and shady individual. Gornd's superiors had solid imperial documentation stating that James kept himself clean and that this would be his first attempt a purchase of any sort of illicit substance. After James had consumed the drugs, his dealer would confront him in the guise of his Master, reveal to him that he was a powerful psyker predestined for some grandiose and pretentious purpose, and convince him to join the shiny chess piece collection club. In theory, in his drug induced state, James would be less likely to resist the efforts made against him and would be fairly accepting of the offer laid before him.
He was also to provide James with the paraphernalia to use the substance effectively. It was a two part ensemble: a small ten centimeter long glass trinket with no distinguishable markings and a classic fire starter. This was understandable, as the target needed all the tools required to fulfill his role in his own subversion and eventual damnation.
There was one part of the plan Gornd did not understand and that was not part of the briefing. It was what looked like a tangle of wire and plasteel attached to a solid glass-metal ingot. It was ugly and ancient looking, though intriguing all the same. When he asked what purpose the messy artifact served, he got a shrug and was instructed to present it to the target along with the poison. Evidently, none of his superiors knew the purpose of such ancient technology. This lack of understanding for this odd trinket from his superiors did not exactly give Gornd a sense of confidence but their thorough understanding of all other aspects of the plan did.
The plan was simple because it was remarkably dangerous. Infiltration into a hive city, no matter how lax the security, how sparse the patrol, could still attract unwanted attention. He was a heretic and was not welcome here. Imperial dogs look for reasons to start witch hunts. Gornd sought the golden carrot dangling above him and knew the reward far outweighed the risks. His life over the promise of unlimited knowledge and potential immortality was less a gamble and more a bargain to him.
Thus, he needed to be a good little pawn and play his part. The part was a narcotics dealer waiting for a client and the stage was a grungy and crowded alleyway half past twilight. His client would come. It had been arranged.
The sky was drearily depressing and heavily overcast. The lighting fixtures were pale-yellow, sub-optimal, and non-conducive to a positive and mentally healthy atmosphere. The stench of ash and stale water bespoke of a road too often traversed but less than never appreciated. This was the sort of thing that bothered Gornd. Corpse lovers were stupid sheep-rabbits: obedient to a fault and thoughtful only to where others have gone before them. They'd gladly follow each other down a path to their own meaningless and tired end because it's sanctioned by their peers. They'd go to old places down these half-filth half-broken roads. They fill every space with themselves because they are afraid of the unknown. The unknown is not them and is unwelcome. The unknown is alien and scary. Gods forbid these ignorant sheep-rabbits think for themselves.
Gornd spat in the alleyway, a vain gesture that would go forever unnoticed save unto us. It was dark now. It was also nearly 21:28, the time that James had arranged for them to meet. They had arranged this meeting through a series of notes left in other prearranged and consistently changing areas. The first of these read simply the substance at cost and the location of the place to leave a reply. It wasn't cheap, but it wasn't that expensive either. The reply location was a block and a half away from the first between the panels of a faulty street lamp. Gornd had to present a realistic set of expectations if he wanted to hook a catch. Much to his surprise, and much to his disappointment, the note leaving process was quick, efficient, and devoid of any sense of curiosity. The entire process was resolved in less than forty-eight standard hours with minimal questions. He concluded that this probably wasn't the first time James had purchased narcotics. How he wished he could have been his first. Alas, it was done and so James was doomed.
Traffic was still heavy and getting heavier the longer he stood there. The Manufactorums must have been releasing their slaves for the night. It was if on cue that James appeared out of the dense crowd, a look of recognition on his weary features, the first of which he noticed was his angular and cat like jaw. His eyes were sharp and cold, yet sunken and soft. The way he walked spoke of an easy going confidence he was not accustomed to seeing outside of the Imperium. This, along with the look of knowing, was another surprise to Gornd. They had never been introduced, and he was far more there than many of the psykers he had met previous... and by far easier on the eyes.
He did not like that he was known to this man, though he knew quite a bit about James from his task briefing. He thought momentarily of responding to this potential danger, and released such notions almost as quickly. The guy was supposedly an aloof psyker, and not a weak one. Gornd did not think he was likely to know himself so well, however, and probably thought it was just intuition and experience that allowed James to identify him as his seller. It unnerved Gornd nonetheless.
The unwitting psyker stood relaxed at arms distance from Gornd and fixed his attention on the passerby's.
James spoke "Nice weather."
Gornd replied with a formal grunt and there was a moments silence between them. Then, without warning, there was more silence. James absentmindedly scratched the bridge of his nose. Gornd adjusted the trench coat on his shoulders in an attempt to make the silence more comfortable. He was just waiting for the phrase. After that, the plan can really kick off.
"Never seems weird to you, huh?" James said
Gornd was not one for idle chat, for which he mistook his question. "The fucking weather, man?", Gond sneered, "No." Gornd was not quite familiar with the weather of this planet, so he really wasn't one to judge and he knew it. He needed to act to the part of a local with an illegal side hustle.
James half shrugged and replied with a noncommittal "Meh.", followed with their agreed upon exchange phrase. "Red Major, five large". The exchange phrase was symbolic to nothing and meant nothing to anyone who would have heard it except to James and to Gornd.
Gornd reached into his trench coat and pulled out the package containing the poison, the paraphernalia, the tangled mess of the relic-vox, and glass-metal brick attached to it.
James responded in kind with about three weeks worth of pay for the materials without so much as a moment of hesitation and in a smooth and practiced fashion to boot.
Gornd really hoped these were the good drugs: if this guy was a real junkie, they would need to be if he hoped to woo James over with a religious experience. He might have been numb to it otherwise.
"See you next time then." James half smiled, eyes alight with an ambiguous anticipation.
Gornd half shook his head in response. If this guy assumed this would turn out to be a long term connection, he couldn't have been more mistaken. Soon, they would both be in a place Gornd called home, or considered familiar enough to be home. No more alleyways. No more notes. No more handsome half smiles. James was in for a career change.
"Yeah, whatever man." Gornd mumbled through a semi-scowl and turned his head away from him as if to regain some small loss of composure. He couldn't shake the feeling that this exchange was wrong somehow and that he was unprepared for it.
James uttered a soft-spoken "Thanks", nearly disappeared into the now thinning crowd, and strode out of the alley.
The semi-young heretic knew he had to give the target close to a twenty minute head start: enough time to get home and comfortable enough to inhale the vaporous poison. After that, it would be door kicking time. Donning a mask of his Lord and a short recital of an ancient cant would take care of the illusory visage and transport home. Shortly thereafter, James would be chained and there would be an invocation: a deal of souls.
Gornd reached into his trench coat once more and pulled out a cheap industrial grade cigarette and put it up to his lips. He had no way of lighting it. He certainly didn't smoke, (he never had time enough to develop the habit) but he still had a part to play. Actors need to play their part.
He didn't like the exchange. It was wrong somehow. It was like James had rehearsed for this. He seemed all too comfortable, all too familiar, all too… there. There were no mistakes about the exchange, everything was too perfect. The more he thought about it, the antsier it made him.
On a whim, he decided to take some time to familiarize himself with this alien world's weather patterns. The formerly overcast sky had cleared and the night sky was visible. The sight was one to remember.
It was 21:46 and the curfew was nearing. The alley was nearly vacant and almost silent save for the sparse echoes of hurried footsteps. The street lamps were dimming and the view of other worlds was clear. The stars were visible and served as colorful accents to the three moons reigning dominant in the night sky. Moments like these are what he lived for and made his hair stand on end.
He had to move now, lingering any longer would not be good for his health. Curfew was nearly here. Patrols would double soon.
Gornd tossed the unused cigarette into the street like the trash that it was. He had a bad feeling about this. His heart pounded, his hands shook, and his breathe labored. It was exhilarating. His pace was quick and his strides were long. He wound through the laberynthian alleyways. These roads may have been tired and overused, but to Gornd they were new and unexplored and full of potential danger around every turn.
As he progressed towards his victim's abode, the night sky became slowly and progressively brighter to him and the air became stiller and colder. It lit his way forward and he couldn't shake the feeling that he strode through an ethereal haze. The grimy walls of these old concrete buildings blossomed with colors they were not meant to have. The broken cobblestones along his path bloomed with a silently ominous radiance that beckoned him ever forward. Something was going to happen; this world shouldn't have been so vivid and full of color. He needed to hurry.
And so he did. He kept to his path and fought the urge to shudder at every new sight of tired old things lit by night and given new meanings: meanings that seemed to be meant only for him.
He stole himself into the sanctuary of a shady alcove. There was a five man patrol along his route, a slow moving semi-ignorant obstacle. They were an unwelcome interruption to this magical atmosphere, but added to the tension that had been building within this heretic. Remaining quiet and motionless was difficult for him. It was as if the passage of time had become increasingly slower to him. He saw more and knew had become somewhat impatient. He felt that he would not reach his destination before curfew, and the one patrol he encountered would multiply itself to the point where all roads would become impassable.
He waited for them to pass. He needed no further delays and he was nearly bursting with the need to reach his prize. He pressed onward. The night reverted to its unnatural appearance once more. Gornd's ears throbbed with what he thought was his own pulse, though he was suspicious that the pulse belonged more to the night itself. He felt watched. He felt he was being guided. He felt as if the world around him held its own twisted form of semi-sentience and that it had its own plans for him. If he had lost the will to execute the mission, then the supernatural… something of this night that guided him would carry him through these roads like a misbehaving child being escorted home.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour of traversal, he reached his destination. The apartment super-complex was tall, rundown, and lined with winding staircases, but the patrols would be absent here. Also absent here, were the magic lights of the night sky. Somehow, it was colder in the building than it was outside and the air tasted oppressively heavy. The tenement was normally a straightforward complex of alpha-numeric organization that suffered from centuries of neglect. Tonight, it was a dungeon of twisted hallways that led to the borderlands of the uncanny. It was the end of the line for all of reason.
Up he went. To the thirteenth floor in the southern wing, to M1507 Gornd did climb. Exhausted and enthralled with anticipation, he glanced around for potential witnesses. He saw only his breath in the dimly lit and silent hallways. A second glance around him revealed a neglected and barely functional clock. He was shocked to find that only nine minutes had passed since his encounter with James. The time was 21:55.
Gornd wiped the cold sweat from his brow and took a minute to gain control his breathing. Composure somewhat restored, he reached into his trench coat one final time and retrieved the mask and the unholy litany. He raised his foot and let loose a mighty kick to the flimsy door. It gave with less than no resistance and half swung half recoiled open with a sad stuttering creak.
He quickly stepped inside, donned the mask, and began reciting the forbidden scripture. Then he stopped. James had awaited him. The apartment was chilling, smoky (or was that his own breathe?), and blindingly brilliant.
James stood eyes half lidded and filled with a saddened kindness. He was a beautiful and radiant sight and the only recognizable object in the entry room. The floor, the walls, and the decorations that adorned them were frosted over and little more than obscure, vaguely coherent shapes. The furniture, the light fixtures, and all else behind him were simply not visible. The ancient vox mechanism straddled his head and covered his ears; his movements were unnaturally fluid. He stepped forward with an awkward grace and spoke the last words Gornd would ever hear in this world.
"Are you ready this time?" he mumbled, though his voice reverberated clearly and audibly through the room, the drug-dullness doing nothing to hinder his attractively confident half smile.
Gornd let the mask slip from his grasp and drop to the floor.
Before Gornd could formulate and verbally convey the flurry of incomprehension that filled his mind, the super-complex and its neighboring structures were consumed in a vortex of semi-corporeal waves of all-color flames. The terrible event killed thousands; many more simply went missing, and more so went mad and could not be considered reliable witnesses. Among the bodies never recovered from the wreckage and ruins, were those of James R. Hartwright and the heretic Gornd.