Date Published: 23/09/2013
Date Re-Edited: 07/12/2016
Warhammer and Mass Effect, are the sole properties of Games Workshop/THQ and Bioware/EA Games respectively. This is a work of Fiction, as well as non-profit, and thereby complies with their 'Term and Conditions' stipulated by the Companies themselves. The only thing I seek to gain with this Literary Work; is to improve my Creative Writing abilities, and if in the process someone were to enjoy what I have written…
So be it.
Writing Styles
"Talking Normally"
Thinking/Projecting Thoughts
=Radio Transmissions/Synthesised Voices=
+=Computer Text/Coding/Written Text=+
Warhammer Date/Time Keeping
+=[Mark: +/- The Time since or before the Mission Started]=+
+=[Seconds:Minutes:Hours]=+
+=[Days (1 to 365):Years(1 to 999):Millennium (M3=2000/M31=30000)]=+
Prologue
+=ImperialPalace=+
+=Himalayas=+
+=222nd Sub-Level=+
+=Imperial Legion Barracks=+
+=[222.071.M31]=+
+=[14.05.05]=+
+=[mark: – 46.54.04]=+
Darkness
Silence
Contemplation
Dull muffled footsteps, hurried… soft… echoed across the dark dim Crypt-like Chamber filled with what – at first glance at least – appeared to be a dozen or more large fallen rough weathered stones. A robed shadow, swaddled in a deep red-cloak... tentatively approached a large lone hunched over figure sitting amongst the silent denizens in the darkness of the Tomb. This... Figure... this Statue, a dark giant… a dark Goliath... one seemingly carved roughly out of a pitch-black granite, covered in an endless series of swirling etchings, arcane symbols, and eldritch runes… each and everyone carved painstakingly right into the stone... carvings accountable each of which seemed to twist and flow down the monoliths form... as if alive... writhing continuously… swirling, shimmering with power, even in the dark. The Horse-Shoe, the Double-Headed Eagle, the Crux-Terminus, Lightning-Bolts, the Double-Ended Spear… all these and more shrouded within endless wreaths of Ivy and the carefully carved Feathered Multi-Winged Eagles. Each and every symbol surmounted – surrounded – enshrouded, by hundreds of Arcane – eldritch – runes, which had seemed to come alive under the dim flickering of a lone candle set on a small wooden table to the right of the giant.
The Monastic shadow – unrelenting in its advance – never ceased its sombre march onwards, towards the Ancient hunched before its own solitary Slab of Stone. Two small infinitesimal pin-pricks of light all but sparkled from within the deep cowl of our intrepid hero, glimmering like a pair of silver denarii upon the eyes of those awaiting the Boatman upon the shores of the Styx. His foot-steps… muffled, his progress silent... inexorable, a sombre procession of One. Our Hero – our intrepid adventurer in red – stopped for but a moment to cast his head from side to side as if … weary, to wake the other Giants that lay slumbering within this dark Crypt. Clasped to his breast protectively – almost Lovingly – wrapped in a soft sheep's wool cloth lay a small Electrum Chest (smaller than the palm of a baby's fist).
Eleven steps in he stopped, at the foot of the dark granite gray tomb lying behind the silent stone grey-Guardian, carefully... slowly... he turns to the Granite Watcher and uttered but a single word… a word that would one day change the Fates of not one, but Two Galaxies.
"Sigmund," hissed the Shadow, this single word… this single name… seemed to breathe life into the carved Stone Guardian. The Chiselled (but youthful) features of the Ancient Guardian, turned toward the sound – and with a grin that only can be described as wolfish – he inquired, "Have you brought the device, Quartermaster?"
Above that feral grin, above that wolfish smile, where a sharp pair of bevelled orbs... stunning in that they seemed to glow with a burning light, an inner – almost cerulean – Flame... and then the candle flickered and it was gone... his burning eyes flickered back to a no less stunning lavender hue. Surprisingly they also seemed to sparkle with a hint mischief, and an inexplicable burning... a deep inner desire... a deep almost forbidden craving… for Knowledge.
Sigmund's burning… fierce… gaze seemed to dim the meagre light from the lonesome candle, which sat atop a small rough wooden stool at the giants leather clad feet. Such a simple thing – that rough stool, that small candle – its meagre light thrown hopelessly across the giants terrible… savage visage. But even in terror, there is beauty… and Sigmund was a vision of such an ideal… the hard sharp lines of his face, were made that much more striking by a series of the seven Aquamarine Spirals... each one an unending Celtic Knot, spiralling… swirling into the next. This laborious artwork decorated the right-hand side of his face, it was very much like the warriors Moa-Ri Tribes of the Southern Arctic Wastes, the likes of which many had only seen in Picts.
The never-ending ultramarine blue braid, twisted and swirled from Sigmund's greying hairline, across the side of his chiselled nose, to the very tip of his square jawed chin. And all of those delicate… intricate Tattoos... those swirling shapes... those abstract patterns... seemingly sprung forth from the corner of his right-eye... spiralling outwards and ever onwards, and each a mystic swirl… the culmination of innumerable number of carefully placed eldritch Runes, of Fenrisian Origin... or so our Hero – our Quarter master – had been led to believe.
Sigmund was a talker… a splendid conversationalist… he knew just what to say and when to say it… people gravitated towards him like moths to a flame. Each and everyone hanging onto his words, his ideals, his thoughts… dancing… swirling around him like the Runes on his face. Each one of which had been laboriously carved right onto his face, much like those decorating the leather of his under-suit, and seemed to writhe under the gaze of the casual eye of any observer, much like the eyes of our intrepid adventurer.
"Yes, Sergeant," declared our Hero snidely, quite easily making the rank sound like an insult… or a slap in the face.
"How it came to be there, in a small out of the way Supply Room... intended for the storage of discarded gardening implements and menial servitors, is anyone's guess. Emperor knows...who... decided that it would be safe in the Right-hand of a small rose-quartz Cherub," replied our Hero, sarcasm dripping from his every word... obviously he found such a coincidence laughable.
The Mountain before our Hero began to rumble, to shift, and a chuckle (much like a landslide) followed shortly thereafter. Lazily the Mountain Who Laughs extended a massive leather clad shovel of a hand towards the sarcastic Explorer of Gardening Implements Long Forgotten, and the Quartermaster placed said small Treasure – which he had spent the better half of an evening searching for – within Sigmund's over-sized palm, his own hand seemingly dwarfed by the sheer size and bulk of the large shovel-like hand attached to the end of the leather bound tree-trunk Sergeant Sigmund called an arm.
"Why Thank You, my Good Man," purred the mountain known as Sigmund, "I hope this doesn't sound rude of me, my good friend, but I suggest you leave ... quickly."
Bellow the dark red Hood, a single well manicured eyebrow rapidly approached a hairline unseen, his face thus enshrouded, he spoke with a voice Drenched and quite frankly Dripping with Sarcasm, "may I ask why, my Lord?"
"I am about to wake my Brothers. Loudly," the Sergeant responded, his tone of voice emotionless.
"I still don't-," began the Quartermaster.
"Did you notice any caffeine on the far counter, when you entered the room, my most sarcastic friend?" Sigmund interrupted with feigned casualness.
"Er-…Noooo."
"Then … what do you think would happen, when sixteen decaffeinated giants... Wake, to discover – much like you – that their one and only Vice is, oh-so… conspicuous in its absence? Said Giants, with the ability to tear Ogryns limb from limb?"
"What about you then?" the small man queried sarcastically, "why wait, what's to stop you putting me in harm's way?"
"I had to wait for you to bring me the Firing-pin for my Bolter, first," the Sergeant replied sombrely, "I am no fool, my Good Man. I'll only risk the decaffeinated undead, once I – myself – am appropriately armed."
A little chuckle escaped the diminutive hooded figure, "Ahhh... the Burdens of Leadership is both heavy and dangerous."
The Quartermaster turned to leave, calling over his shoulder once he was nearly out of earshot, "better you than me."
The Sergeant (smiling gruffly) turned back to his own well appointed grey slab, which under the light of a single candle, turned out to be a rough recycled synth-wool blanket stretched tightly over a thin – and quite Spartan – mattress. The bed had been made, the corners tucked in with military precision, and upon that grey single bunk sat the miscellaneous components of a thoroughly dismantled weapon, its proportions were…enormous, but when it sat in the hands of the man kneeling before that mattress, it was…
Perfection
By some quirk of unknown design – by some unknown form... some unknown equation of Euclidian Geometry – the heavily modified, Phobos Pattern Bolter, before him was not just some tool, not merely an extension of the man, of his arm. No...It truly was a part of Him. He had waited a long time for that final... purposefully misplaced firing-pin… but now with that final penultimate piece, that most vital of components was in his grasp... at last his Bolter... it would be whole, he would be whole.
With a handful of short delicate touches that belay his size... Sigmund pried open the delicate electrum box and removed the new tungsten-adamantium alloy firing-pin, with an air of grace and dexterity that seemed almost impossible for a man his stature. Pinched between a large thumb and leather wrapped fore-finger, he lined the small sharp piece up and slid it home into the Receiver-Block.
Sigmund chuckled, nay rumbled... as he remembered the look of sheer irritation on the face of the over-worked Quartermaster, when he had asked the poor man to walk – exactly – two hundred and twenty-two paces, east from the entrance of the dormitory and then... to enter the second door on his right.
Ye shall find what I seek... in the hands of the Littlest Rosy-Cheeked Angel.
All this to project an Aura of Mystery, he pondered morosely, sarcasm but a distant thought in his mind, Ahh... it was so-much easier before the Trial of Magnus the Red… before burden that was the Edict of Nikea.
Before the dissolution of the Libraries, before he had sworn to never use his powers again, he could have simply wiggled his fingers and the citizenry would have been in awe of him. Now… well it required a bit more work… a bit more skill. A bit of clever paperwork, and some – accidental – misplacement of a small – and very shiny – box. That would turn up in a Mysterious long since forgotten Location, deep within the bowels of the largest Imperial Archology on Terra… a location which he had to spent a whole afternoon pacing to find in the first place... it did sound a lot less mysterious when he thought it out loud.
Now all he would need is a small note, to a Key member of the Administratum (key as in, "the biggest Gossip"), and his Aura of Mystery would be maintained.
Me thinks it may have fallen a bit flat, Sigmund pondered sadly, perhaps (in hind sight) if I had chosen a statue that hadn't been using its' other hand to pick its' nose – perhaps then my Aura of Mystery would been more... Mysterious-y.
The purpose of it all, well… Sigmund wasn't exactly certain, just that it was of critical importance. Probably.
Now... He would not admit that it was because he was just so mind numbingly bored, no he would never admit to that.
He would most definitely never admit that it had been at least something to do… since they had been confined to this dreary barracks.
He certainly would never admit that spending the last three... long... never-ending weeks in this... dull grey dormitory... was in any way... boring.
He would also never admit that having nothing to do for those three... long... weeks, but the unending maintenance of his Wargear... was anything but... boring.
He would never admit that the proceeding Six Months he had spent stranded onboard the Strike Cruiser "Ultramars' Fury" (which had spent those Six Months not in Combat, but collecting a series of loose elements of the XIII)... was mind numbingly... boring.
Noooo… He would never admit that, but that didn't make it any less true.
But not Today.
No today something was going to happen, something only the Astartes of the Thirteenth could be trusted with. Something that had diverted more than full Ten Line-Companies of the Emperors Finest from their most critical rendezvous with the rest of the Thirteenth, and the Seventeenth, in Orbit above Calth. That something was a Mission... a Mission that had come straight from the mouth of the Sigilate himself. Something so important, that they had diverted an entire Fleet for a handful of Marines, and that there was the Problem.
Even for an Ultramarine, Sigmund's obsession with Collecting and Processing Information would - at its best - be described as... 'Eccentric.'
He had agreed to join the Chapter Librarium, instead of being sent to the Mechanicus, for the simple reason that he would have gotten more Knowledge from one than the other (and the fact that he could read other people's minds may have been a minor contributing factor too… now that he thought about it). Even compared to the average Space Marine he was unnaturally active. He was always actively preparing, always actively training and always actively hunting down the enemy. He had prepared more Theoreticals and Practicals than anyone else within the XIII, with the probable exception of Guilliman himself.
Without information, he couldn't properly prepare and there were only so-many times you could dismantle and polish your Bolter before you started losing the fiddly bits (like the Trigger or say... a shiny little Firing-pin). Perhaps that was another reason why he wasn't sent to the Tech Priests. After the third 'whoops so that's were that went' they would have sent him back to his Chapter (probably in small neatly labelled individually packaged boxes).
Speaking of which… he slid the Receiver-Block into the gilded Housing of his modified Phobos Pattern Bolter. A rather ingenious design of his own devising that – to all but the most learned of observers – appeared no different from the Legion's Standard Pattern. A Clever Baffle design on the Receiver (made the Bolter far quieter), a revolutionary Bayonet-Screw configuration within the Housing (allowed the User – ie. Sigmund – to rapidly change the Barrel), and Two separate Hand-Crafted Barrels (a short standard Barrel and a Modified Suppressed "Stalker Bolter" Barrel) allowed for Greater Range and Versatility. Once all the weapons intricate pieces were in place he racked the Bolt, and reverently set down the empty weapon on his cot.
Now came the moment he had been dreading all night.
"Alright you ugly Bastards, up an' at 'em. The enemy ain't gonna kill 'emselves."
+=SSV Normandy=+
+=Transit to Chiron Relay=+
+=Crew Deck=+
+=Sleeping Pods=+
+=[42.183.M03]=+
+=[32.38.08 S.B.T.]=+
+=[mark: - 28.12.01]=+
Panic
Fear
Twilight
Darkness. Closeness. Can't Breath. Can't Hear. Can't see.
What is that deafening Boom. So Alone.
Let me out.
Let me out.
LET ME OUT!
A lone pod cracked open, and a trembling small shape fell out.
Its breathing was ragged, its shoulders shaking violently.
It's most Haggard face, rocking from side to side.
In the Dim light, the figure stumbles upright.
The Face is bleak, haunted and drawn.
But the Eyes, the Eyes are different…
Those Eyes…
They Burn…
They Consume…
An Emerald Flame, a Heart-Shaped Face, wreathed in a terrible crimson Halo of Blood.
But… ones gaze is always, always drawn back into those terrible burning Eyes.
On anyone else, those eyes would've foreshadowed a terrible Madness.
On anyone else, that Haunted gaze would prophesied Oblivion.
On anyone else, those eyes could only Foretell Death.
On Her…
Those Eyes…
Were Predatory…
Like a Drawn Bow, with fire hardened… lean sharp lines, her eyes bore their own Predatory Grace.
Those Eyes burnt, with a fierce determination – fiery and critical – always searching for weakness.
By the time one looks away from those Eyes, the Creature that crawled out of that Coffin is Gone.
The Being… no. The Woman… no. The Commander… Yes.
She who would Command.
She who would Lead.
She whom legions would Follow.
Head up…
Eyes Forward…
Shoulders Back...
Movement precise, not even a single ounce of wasted energy, the absolute epitome of Military Precision.
And so ready to strike, Commander Jane Shepard marches into the Mess Hall to greet the Day.
God Damn Akuse, Shepard thought tiredly, once again wondering wearily if she'd ever get even a moment's peace from the memory of that God-Forsaken planet.
But despite her mental weariness from yet another troubled night, Jane Shepard marched into the empty galley area to grab a Cup of Coffee, with all the confidence of purpose that had been hammered into her over the years by numerous drill sergeants, Commanders and a certain English Captain.
So-far, so-good, the eternal optimist within her thought with a laugh as she spied an empty room ahead of her, no annoying Turians, no wise-ass Pilots, and maybe – just maybe – I might escape the clutches of 'the Doctor from the Id.'
So thinking herself lucky, Shepard snuck forward... round the table bolted into the floor, toward the stairs leading up to the CIC, thinking that maybe, just maybe, today she would-
"Commander Shepard," the herald of her Doom call out politely… that the 'Good Doctor' insisted upon politely announcing her presence from the shadows of the galley only heightened the Commanders dread, "I hope you had a pleasant evening?"
And so it begins, Shepard thought forlornly, taking once last look into her morning cup of not-quite-coffee before turning to face the Ships Chief Medical Officer.
"Good Morning Doctor," the groggy Alliance Marine began with fake cheerfulness, preparing the usual platitudes… the same ones she had given a thousand times before, "I had a nice and peaceful nap, a nice long night filled with deep restful sleep."
There… maybe if I say it enough times out-loud I'll actually start to believe it myself–
"No Dreams?" queried the Doctor insistently.
No sound…
Dim yellow fog…
Hard Ground beneath her Feet…
A Shriek…
Another one dies…
They were running…
The Ridge is so far away…
Another Shriek, another Death…
Again and again, screams, over and over…
Thoughts, creeping, like Ice…
An Eternity between each Step…
An Age between each fevered Breath…
We're so Close…
Almost... there…
Just a bit Longer…
Safe. We're Safe, we're Alive.
She turns to face her squad, and…
There's no-on there. She. Is. Alone.
All alone... so very alone...
No. no. nonononono. Nooooo!
They can't be. They can't be–
Shepard snaps out of her waking Dreams, looking the Doctor in the Eye.
"No," she stated emotionless... mechanically, "No Dreams."
Doctor Chakwas looked quite sceptical at such a proclamation, but as a Medical Officer, she hadn't survived this long in the service without knowing when it was better to engage, and when it was better to withdraw.
"Okay, Commander. I'm here if you need me," Doctor Chakwas politely acknowledged, deciding that discretion was certainly the better part of Valour.
The Doctor returned to her own office, leaving the Commander to her internal... but above all... personal reflection. Every night she saw their faces, every God-Damn night she saw the Faces of every single God-Damn soldier under her Command... every single one them that had been on that God-Damned Doomed Patrol.
Every night for the last week...
It had been six months, six... long... peaceful blessed months without a single Flash-Back, and two months since she stopped twitching at the mere mention of that God-Forsaken Planet and those Hell spawned Creatures.
She had only on question then. And she had only one question now.
Why?
Why me?
Why am I alive?
Why did I survive?
Why not those in Cover?
Why not any of the Others?
The Answer... the answer that she had been given... time and time again, over and over, by an endless litany of faceless experts…by the Brass... by the Quacks that had signed off on every single one of her Evals... by every Doctor she'd ever seen since… that place…
Each and every one of them had been spewing the Company Lie… so god-damn much that even they probably believed the Bullshit they were peddling. They obviously believed that if they said the liesoften enough, if they repeated them over and over, that she would eventually believe the lies too. That simply wasn't the case.
You want to know why?
Biotics
Bullshit.
Pure Grade-A Bullshit. There were... there are Adepts far stronger than her, Sentinels far smarter than her… and they died just like everybody else, and they expected her to believe that she survived solely because of her little... weak... Vanguard Barrier.
Bull…Shit.
She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, just like everyone else.
She had the same basic shitty Equipment, just like everyone else.
So why wasn't she dead… just like everyone else.
'Survivors Guilt'…they said.
She needed therapy they said.
It was all in her head they said.
Ha.
PTSD Bullshit…she had determined.
She needed Answers…she had determined.
There was something very wrong with that mission she had determined.
They threatened to Drum her out of the Alliance.
They told her to stick to the official line.
They ordered her to go see their therapists.
She went to their therapy. It cost them three therapists.
Three therapists who were unable to confirm the official diagnosis given by the Brass.
Three therapist who couldn't believe the official line themselves, after she was done with them.
She had stood on the edge... upon the very precipice of change, they were about to cast her out of the only life she had ever known… the only life she had ever wanted to live. She was poised to Leap off that ledge... down into the dark unknown Abyss, when he... had pulled her away from the brink. The only Officer to believe in her, in his eyes she saw that he carried the same inner pain within him, a pain she saw in her own eyes every time she looked in a god-damn Mirror. He stood up for her, he got her into the N7 Program, he built her back up from the pieces left behind on Akuze… he built her up from scratch... he had taken the time to fix her... again and again.
Together they did good. Together they started to help people. Together they hunted down some Bad-Guys. Together they investigated Akuze. Together they tried to get the Brass to see the Truth – and when that failed – Together they went to Parliament.
In the end, all they did was erect a Memorial. It was a small victory... but a Victory none the less.
I guess that was to be expected, Shepard reflected sadly, all we had was the Signal from a Missing Distress Beacon and a whole lot of unknown. Well at least Captain Anderson helped me find a small sliver of closure... or at least as close as I'll ever come to it.
Shepard panned her gaze across the Galley Table, "well, since I'm here already, may as well catch a small bite to eat, bef–"
Commander to the Bridge. Commander to the Bridge
"Grrr-… On my way Joker," she groaned exasperatedly.
Just following your Orders, Commander Joker reported sardonically and I quote, 'make sure I am there, when you need to do something important,' end quote. And since I have nothing better to do than being your over-worked under-paid PA, well…=
"Noted Joker," stated the Commander sarcastically, "just remember I would kick your ass, if it didn't mean so much paperwork after the assault."
=Then I'll spend the rest of my life living in fear of the Brass eliminating the need for Paperwork... Commander=
Shepard just shook her head, most of the time Joker was a Sarcastic Ass, and occasionally he cheered her up. And Hey, she loved watching him being a Sarcastic Ass at others, for all of the seventy-two hours she had known him.
She turned and marched toward the CIC, the last thing going through her mind at the Time was, at least that ass Nihlus hasn't found me yet.
+=ImperialPalace=+
+=Himalayas=+
+=1stArchology=+
+=Personal Chambers of Malcador the Sigillite=+
+=[222.071.M31]=+
+=[53.56.08]=+
+=[mark: – 07.04.01]=+
Beauty.
Frustration.
Solitude.
An Enigmatic Smile.
She's Happy.
She's Sad.
She's Melancholic.
So many views, so many differing opinions, so many theories for a Smile that is almost… but not quite there.
Ah... but then again He had always subscribed to the Theory that she had a little… Secret.
One that was hers and hers Alone.
One that she wasn't about to share with anyone.
One… Terrible little Secret, behind that small Cheshire Cat Grin.
Just who was she?
Was she a young Noble?
Some wealthy Merchants Mistress?
He had heard many – oh… so many – theories on who she was, but only one man had ever given him something even close to a satisfactory answer. A man – who he had once met only briefly, but knew by reputation – a man once known as Kasper Hawser. Poor Kasper had once spoken to him about the painting, at great length, during some boring Charity Dinner that had been held by the Unification Council, one of many... a time that now felt so very long ago, but couldn't have been more than a handful of decades past. Poor Kasper, he never knew exactly to whom he had spoken, and then... quite suddenly... he decided to disappear into the Tundra. He had heard rumours of the strange Conservator joining the Sons of Russ on Fenris, as a Skajld (a "Story Teller", of all things).
His eyes returned to the Portrait. According to Kasper he and a few other Conservators had uncovered some ancient data stacks from the Catacombs of Neo Paris, with speculation (funnily enough, from a group of "Notable Historians of the Day") that the women in the portrait was actually a composite. She was the ideal of pure beauty, for the Artist anyway... an Artist whose name had lived on through the Millennia. He chuckled at that thought; her hair (while exquisitely curled) was mostly a dull plain brown, her dress was almost colourless and unflattering, and finally her face was almost so shapeless as to be described as completely androgynous. The only entrancing thing about her was that smile, oh… and her fringe was a bit wispy. Kasper had an answer for that too, it was incomplete. It was recovered from the side of the Artists' Deathbed by his Apprentice. He had spent decades on his masterpiece, never letting it go, never satisfied, always improving upon it... just a little bit at a time. A never-ending Work-in-Progress... that small little bit of his life's work that was undeniably his. Ah… he could understand the appeal, always creating something beautiful... something exquisite for the pleasure of others and never having anything to truly call your own.
There's an important moral in there somewhere, he reflected soberly.
And then there was the restoration. The original frame had been damaged... almost beyond all hopes of recovery, blackened and burnt along the roughened edges. The sides of the Canvas, the very edges of the frame had retained a light brown tint. The new frame surmounted the burnt edges of the old, with a far darker Mahogany-Substitute grown on a world a million... million... light-years away. In the end it made the Portrait look that much… brighter.
The damage was perhaps prophesied by the painting itself, most people never saw beyond the subject, but the background could best be described as Cataclysmic. Rivers changing course, the ground splitting open and the sharp unforgiving mountains being cast down into the flooded Valleys far below. Poor Leonardo, he was… a complex man, and probably a very misunderstood one too.
Malcador turned away from the 'Mona Lisa', his eyes passing across the other treasures he kept in his personal chambers. From the almost pristine 'Sunflowers' by Vincent Van Gogh, to his newly (relatively) acquired - and slightly worn - copy of "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare" – sitting safely in its thick glass case – circa Late Second Millennium sourced by his staff from the roving Techno-Tribes of Sycorax. His thoughts turned back; to another misunderstood man he once met.
Poor Kasper, the Sigillite thought sadly, common wisdom – at the time you left – was that Shakespeare had only written three plays.
He chuckled slightly; we didn't even have any of his Sonnets back then.
His routine morning contemplation done for the day, the First Lord of Terra turned back to his desk. With its almost-but-not-quite Mahogany Substitute and the beautifully crafted scaled green leather top. You couldn't see the desk top at the moment, under the mountains of neatly organised spires of paper. The desk itself was a gift from the enigmatic Vulkan, right down to its pristine cured-hand-tooled salamander leather. The paper, well… that was a 'gift' from everybody else.
Lying here and there he had numerous Orders for: Construction, Maintenance, Resupply, Recruitment, Reformation... Dissolution... Absolution. You name it, at one point, he had ordered it.
And in return (as if by some bizarre form etiquette) he got even more paperwork.
Requests for: Confirmation, Clarification, Explanation, Extrapolation and more gods-be-damned Information.
The Imperial Truth may have made Atheism the Law of the Cosmos, but when a man whacks his thumb with a hammer… he does not blaspheme using the Laws of Physics.
But that was neither here nor there, everyone of these very politely worded 'requests' held the express intent of either stalling for time or trying to get him to change his mind. As if by some bizarre logic, the more 'polite' the letters they sent, the more likely he was to change his position. The three parchment towers on the north-west quadrant of his desk – comprised entirely of rejection and reconfirmation letters – contradicting this strange belief quite significantly.
However it was to one of the smallest of wood-pulp towers that his eyes were drawn, for unlike the others it only consisted of about twenty pages, each one filled with neatly written hand-made notes. However... even a single one of these pages was more valuable than all the other pages on that desk... probably worth more than the Desk they rested upon, a desk gifted to him by a Primarch no less.
Those handful of pages were probably more important than any other single piece of paper in the entire Imperial Administratum. The small blank folder, sat like a tiny outpost – in a small paper-lined valley – between two large mountain ranges of preserved wood-pulp-analogue... that lone folder was absolutely vital. And for that reason, and that reason alone, he reached for the small - suspiciously unadorned - folder first, trying to do his best not to dislodge either of the two vast continents of paper on either side of it.
He opened the folder, and began to read, an act seemingly so simple and yet… completely unnecessary. In fact he didn't really need to read the documents held within that plain vanilla folder any-more, after so many weeks - so many months - the Sigillite had by now memorised nearly every word, every fact... every figure. The simple act of him holding these pages... elevated the information contained within beyond the realm of simple data, to the mythical plateau held only by the most dire of a state-secrets.
It would amaze the casual reader to discover that one of the greatest secrets within the Imperium was… just a short List... an inventory really. A list of ships, a list of supplies, a list of personnel, and a list of materials intended for colonisation of several small star-systems. And embossed on the Cover-sheet were four simple enigmatic words:
The Children of Moses
The only physical record of said project in the entire Administratum... the only record of the project in the entire Galaxy. And what a record it was. The number of ships alone was staggering, even to a man like Malcador who had seen entire Legions go to war. Nearly a dozen Mars-Pattern Battle Cruisers, four truly leviathan Mechanicum vessels, three Legion Strike Cruisers and a recently launched Battle Barge. Two of the largest being; the (Mars-Pattern Battle Barge) "Requiem Meae Hostem" – which was currently on its maiden voyage – and the "Requiro Scientia" – a truly Ancient Ironclad Battleship that had been modified to house a small shipyard... and those were just to name a few, with more than fifty other non-combat vessels; mass conveyors, mass transports and even a shiny new mobile foundry added into the mix.
The list was probably best defined by the sheer amount of manpower alone involved in this endeavour. Twenty-five Solar-Auxilia Divisions, in addition to Five full Solar-Auxilia Armoured-Divisions, an entire Skitarii Legion of the Legio Cybernetica, more than two dozen Magos from nearly every enclave within the Mechanicum, nearly two million civilians and – amazingly – Ten full Line-Companies – nearly ten thousand of the super human giants – of the Thirteenth Legion with enough Legion Armour and Artillery to level an entire system a hundred times over.
And yet strangely no-one – not even Rogal Dorn himself – noticed their presence in orbit and by some exceedingly clever management, by the Sigillite himself no less, no-one ever would. The entire Expeditionary Fleet was spread across three separate zones within the Segmentum Solar, each several light-minutes apart. The Mechanicum Vessels and few Mass conveyors where holding in Orbit around Mars. The combined Naval and Civilian Fleets were held in Orbit above the Europa (Supra-Orbital) Plate above Terra. And the XIII Legion Vessels would rendezvous with their new Battle Barge above Luna, within... the Sigillite was actually tempted to check his time piece to be sure... but it was unnecessary, he had less than an hour. And in the end all of this activity – all this subterfuge – was lost within the massive shoal of Ships circling the cradle of Man... the birth-place of Humanity.
That sobering fact alone brought the Sigillite back to the matter at hand, or more precisely, in his hand. For what seemed the thousandth time, he examined the small unassuming trinket, which appeared (for all intents and purposes to the casual observer) to be a rather large ugly – and absolutely archaic looking – pocket-watch.
The circular face-plate of the medieval monstrosity had been intricately engraved – by hand – with the kind Imperial iconography that he had become blind to over the years, with three inset crown-like buttons along the rim of the device at the '12', '1' and '2' O'clock positions. As Malcador continued to examine the device, he flicked open the intricate face plate to reveal a deep swirling pool of cerulean energy that appeared through a portal comprised of five overlapping titanium – adamantium composite rings. Revealing that this device was in fact some sort of eldritch Warp-Tech.
In fact Malcador could feel the very energy which it trapped, battering away (quite viciously, almost with a life of its own) trying – desperately – to reach its most erstwhile of jailers.
His inspection – or introspection as it were – complete, the Sigillite returned to his chair and sat back down behind his desk, all the while contemplating the... purpose of the device in his hands. Its function; was to act like a depth-charge within the insane shifting oceans of the Warp. The Emperor imparted to his most trusted advisor but a portion, the merest glimpses of a vision he had divined, of one of an endless number of the... possible Futures to the First Lord of Terra.
The device would either stabilise the Warp, further securing the man-made sections of the Webway, or it would be the Catalyst of a Storm within the tumultuous Empyrean, that would last for Generations. And at the very centre... at the very eye of that Storm… lay Terra itself.
Haunted by the mere glimpses of Armageddon he had witnessed, Malcador returned his gaze to his desk, his eyes passing – with meticulous measured precision – over six titanium-plated scroll-like shapes that lay thereupon. Each scroll bore a unique stylised Symbol; the initial four were similar as they bore a series of Roman numerals, the final two carried more... 'unique' sigils.
The second to last scroll; was intricately embossed with a Stylised Lighting Bolt (ϟ) like symbol, and the final scroll was defined by a large Capital 'T' bisected by two thin diagonal lines(₮).The List and these six Scrolls were two of the most critical elements within their contingency plan.
Each scroll contained a delicate, but flexible crystalline wafer, which (under the right conditions) conducted and stored a significant amount of Psykic Energy. Stored within each of the Scrolls, was a unique – personalised – Message that would be passed directly into the mind of the Recipient – and they alone – upon contact with their scroll. The intent was that these scrolls would then be carried by a Dormant Psyker... a Psyker that would be in command of one of the two Legion Breacher Squads Malcador had summoned specifically for this Task.
A vital Task the Emperor had commanded him to see to... personally.
Their Task... to pass through the more recent – and man-made – sections of the Webway and on into the far more…ancient – and alien – segments of the Warp Gate Network.
That led Malcador's well ordered mind to the heavy... and possibly deadly...Tasks that lay ahead. The Emperor had given him only the most critical portions of his Visions well over a year ago, and while Malcador had not been privy to the Vision in its entirety... he had no idea... no conceivable idea at all, as to the consequences of his actions.
It terrifying him… but all he could do was trust his old friend... a man whose name had already been long forgotten... even by those closest to him.
The Emperor – his old friend – had foreseen all this... and had fashioned the Scrolls himself, entrusting them to the Sigilate for safe keeping...several months ago, long before he had even entrusted the Sigillite – his closest confidant – with the exact nature of his vision.
In the end: the Emperor would prepare the Stage, it was Malcadors part to assemble the Players.
Today was the day that he would bring them all together; the assembled Army, the Fleet and the Messenger.
It was during his musing of this fact that the doors at the entrance to his Chambers began to rumble, three heavy impacts reverberated through the vaulted room, one after the other. And a loud booming voice, from the other side of the large ornate blast-door to his Office, announced, "Fabius Durio of the Adaptus Custodies seeks an audience with the Sigillite."
Ah, and so it begins, thought Malcador wearily, as he prepared himself for what is to come.
"He may enter," declared Malcador solemnly, completing the ritual.
Ponderously... slowly... the doors swung open to reveal three massive figures in armour of burnished gold, each baring a helm capped by a tall plume of blood red horse hair. However it was to the centre-most figure – the tallest... the most ornate – that the Sigillites tired old eyes were drawn. The gilded giant carried his tall helm in the crook of his left-arm, leaving his head bare, and much like the other Custodians – both to his left and right – he carried a nine-foot long force halberd.
But that was not his only weapon... on an intricately carved belt, fastened around his waist, was a beautifully master-crafted rapier and upon his left vambrace a gilded Storm Bolter had been fastened.
"My Lord, Captain Tobias Braxton has assembled his Squads as you requested... my team is prepared to escort you to the Armoury for the Briefing," informed Durio the Head of his personal security detail.
Malcador inclined his head toward Durio in agreement; as he reached for a small satchel with a long strap sitting next to his desk. It was the work of but a moment to place the Warp Device and Scrolls within its dark leather confines. With a weary sigh, he stood up from his padded arm-chair and walked around his desk, overflowing with needless paperwork... after a moments contemplation, he extended his right-hand. The air in the Chamber began to crackle as a charged atmosphere filled the space, as energy arched around his weathered hand… and earthed itself within his gnarled fingers. Suddenly… without warning a Loud Sharp Crack followed by the smell of Ozone… a long Eagle Topped Staff appeared mere inches, from his hand. And as if by magic, as the Staff came into contact with his outstretched palm, a cloud of billowing Amber Flames erupted along the Wings of the Double-Headed Imperial Eagle. Casting a strange eldritch glow about the red robed figure of the Sigillite, and strangely dimming the rest of the chamber. Casting shadows where none were before...
"Let us Begin," commanded the Sigillite with surety and finality, as the First Lord of Terra marched past the Custodians that stood at the Threshold of his Chambers, and onward into History.
+=Arach-Qin Craftworld=+
Location Unknown
+=Dome of the Crystal Seers=+
+=A rather comfy Tree-Stump=+
+=[221.071.M31]=+
+=[12.51.23]=+
+=[mark: – 48.08.10]=+
Transcendence.
Reflection.
Introspection.
Thought and Energy…
Ethereal and Fleeting…
Yet… Tangible and Structured…
Outwards and Onwards…
Reaching and Touching…
Always… Feeling and Experiencing…
And… Return.
Back… Return.
Toward… Return.
Her… Return.
Body…Return.
Descending from the ecstatic heights of her Vision Quest deep within the long twisting memories of the Infinity Circuit, the Seer – whom sat quiet comfortably on her own little Wraith-Bone Stump it the crystalline garden – once again opened her physical eyes to the world around her. But even once her mind returned to its painfully small physical shell, she still held onto the new minds that touched the weathered Wraith-Bone of her Craftworlds Infinity Circuit.
Though to be honest, touching their minds with hers still felt... different.
Their thoughts were something new and exotic... it all felt so... indulgent... overwhelming... from the stoic and structured minds of the Warlocks and Black Guardians of Ulthwe, to the strange yet esoteric thoughts of the Spirit-Seers of Lugganath (and the ever Youthful high-spirits of their Harlequin allies), to the always sorrowful thoughts of the Howling Banshees of Iybraesil and their ever present Farseer Guides, to the more subtle and intricate thoughts of the talented Bone-Singers of the Il-Kaithe... they were always the most gentle of minds.
New thoughts, new memories, and above all new perspectives, but sadly… they were always so...Sombre, even compared to the dark and morbid humour of the Denizens of her own Craftworld.
But now was not the time for such thoughts, so the Seer allowed her Witch-Sight to recede back into the confines of her own mind, and let the ethereal beauty of the Crystal Garden to fill her vision in its entirety.
As always upon her return to the mortal-plain, the Seer paused to take in the beauty of her surroundings; she sat upon a small white desiccated stump of a once mighty crystal-tree, still garbed in a dark skin-tight under-suit, and resting upon her shoulders was a white sleeveless tunic – reminiscent of a neo-Classical Japanese-style-Haori – embroidered with thin silvery – seemingly alive – eldritch runes. Her appearance in the seemingly indeterminate – yet almost perpetual – twilight that permeated the ancient Garden. A twilight that seemed to permeate most – if not all – of the Dark Craftworld.
Her people had an affinity for darkness, and unlike the rest of her wayward kin spread across the Cosmos, her people didn't fear it. Their enemies on the other hand… well the Denizens of the Arach-Qin Craftworld... they weren't just another terror that lurked in the Darkness.
They were the laughing terror...
They were of the Twilight...
They were the Children...
Of History...
And as the Seer sat upon her Stump... a strange-silvery white thing which sat in the middle of a smooth strangely flat disc of silver, right in the very heart of a clearing deep within the Dome of Crystal Seers, she began to contemplate the beautiful – snow white of the Wraith-Bone Trees, which were nestled among a multitude of transparent psycho-reactive Crystals – these strange plants were all that remained of the native flora of the long lost Eldar Home-Worlds... the doomed Crone-Worlds.
Thus inclined, the Seer turned her thoughts back – and inwards – to the very Wraith-Bone Stump upon which she sat, contemplating its own Dark and Bloody history. She delved deeper, and further, into the Memory given to her by the most ancient souls within the Infinity Circuit, than she dared to before... seeking to understand... to remember…
Before this very stump, at the very Sunset of the Eldar... during the Fall so very long ago, a monumental duel was fought by two Titanic Psykers... a duel to decide the Fate of the entire Craftworld. The Captain and his Officers – who had long since Fallen to the vile corruption of Chaos – wanted to turn Corsair and pillage 'n plunder across the pristine Maiden-Worlds that sat upon the very edge of the Galaxy. Appalled and horrified by cruel and twisted plans of the Corrupted Command Crew, the Leader of the Warrior Guardians – those charged with defending the Craftworld from all that would harm it – choose to betray his twisted 'superiors'. In secret he gathered his most Loyal Lieutenants, though out-numbered and out-matched, they began a Shadow-Campaign against the twisted Eldar Cultists.
They Murdered the mutated Bridge-Crew in their sleep…
They Slaughtered the twisted Chaos-Sorcerers as they meditated…
They Hunted down Bone-Singers repairing their deliberate acts of Sabotage…
Unseen…
Unheard…
Unknown…
They 'Guarded' their dark masters – faithfully – during the day…
And they slipped a blade between their ribs, at night while they slept…
After months of planning…
After years of skulduggery…
After nearly a decade of woe…
Finally… their prey was weakened…
Their fell numbers were culled back…
And finally the time had come… to Strike…
And in a move that would become synonymous with their Craftworld, the Hunters of the Arach-Qin began to lay the Final Snare for their Cultist Prey…
It began with a small uprising in the lower levels… a few missing cultist Bone-Singers here and there… a loss of communication between the head and the rest of the Snake…
And they played right into their hands, ordering their 'Loyal' Bodyguards to barricade themselves into the Command Spire.
Fear and Panic… Perfect.
The Farseer chuckled at the sense of Satisfaction the Souls within the Infinity Circuit imbued this very moment... the moment of their greatest triumph... for the Souls within the Craftworld, this was the greatest of their collective memories. This very moment was of immense importance... it would shape the Culture of their Craftworld for millennia to come. It was one of the First Memories they were shown as Children, and it was often one of the Last Memories they would Dream of… as their Souls were drawn into the Wraith-Bone of the Infinity Circuit.
Thus imbued... her mind returned back to the Memory of the First Hunters, and the epic vision of the First Great Hunt. Stranded in the dark with their apparently 'Loyal' Guards... deep within the Spire above the Dome of the Crystal-Seers, they were alone... trapped and fearful… Easy Prey. The Cultists demanded that their guards do something…
Protect them…
Defend them…
Save them…
So they lead their 'Charges' toward 'Safety' through the 'Secure' Wraith-Bone Gardens around the base of the Command Spire… and right into a very well-prepared ambush, at the time they outnumbered the Cultists nearly Fifty-to-one. And then the trap snapped closed. Before they could react. Half of the Cultists had been cut-down… By their own Guards…The rest… fell within moments.
In an act of frightened desperation the mutated Captain tried to flee.
Back toward the centre of the Dome.
He tried to grasp what little control he still had…
He tried to summon his 'faithful' warriors...
And when that failed he began a Ritual to Summon forth…
Something Dark...
No-one would ever know what he wish to bring forth... within moments...
The Twisted…
Broken...
Sickening Energies… swept forth.
The once-noble Eldar Captain at the very centre of this Maelstrom of Corruption... of Darkness.
His form… twisted… broken…by the Energies raging beyond his control…
Into this swirl of twisting warp energies…
Ran the Leader of the Hunters…
Chasing after his prey…
Seeing what remained of Corrupted Captain…
Within the Chaos that he had Wrought…
Realising what he'd tried to do…
In his desperation, he tried…
Seeing his followers…
Falling… Dying…
He Struck…
Summoning his pure Will, filling his weapon with Intent…
He drew back his Wraith-Bone Halberd, summoning…
And cast it through the remains of the once-eldar…
The Halberd passed through, striking the Tree…
The energy, disrupted, arched into the Tree…
The intent of the ritual… gone, destroyed…
The energy turned on those around it…
Arching, between, along, though…
Touching, grasping, tearing…
Burning, Breaking…
Destroying…
The resulting destruction viciously obliterated everything within twenty feet of the tree. The destruction left nothing behind... not even the faintest of presences – of their passing – within the Warp… a perfect Circle… a dead-zone... a Null-zone…
No Life… No Energy… Nothing…
Of the Captain and the Guardian… nothing remained… and for those cultists whose souls were drawn into the Infinity Circuit…
Retribution was swift and Terrible... for those Dark Creatures within the Hallow Halls of their ancestors.
Their Dark and Corrupted Souls were torn apart by the Pure Souls within the Craftworld.
As that final terrible moment played out... the Seer trembled, and struggled not to break-down as she lived through those Memories. She took comfort in the knowledge that their deaths had served a higher purpose, that their most ultimate of sacrifices had freed the Craftworld of the corrupting influence of Chaos. Even the Stump had it uses… allowing for even the weakest of Seers to gaze – without any interference – deep into the very Fabric of the Universe. It sat removed from the Light, the Darkness… and everything in-between… an island of emptiness... deep within a Chaotic sea of emotion.
But even as she sat upon the Stump... at the centre of the Void… no Eldar could have hoped to escape the Chaos that had followed. For what followed was nought but Darkness… Chaotic and Bleak… for the Denizens within the Craftworld of the Arach-Qin.
For they were Lost in Deep Space…
Unable to repair their Engines…
Or navigate the Webway…
So they turned Inward…
By the time they were found, by a pair lone Rangers (of the Craftworld Ulthwe strangely enough)…more than a Century had passed… within the darkness... they had Lost so~o much.
What the Rangers brought them… was Purpose.
What the Rangers brought them… was a Future.
What the Rangers brought them… was the Ai'elethra.
The Eldar Path…
It was from these Rangers… from these Outcasts… that the very Soul of the Craftworld was reborn anew… and it was from these Outcasts that their new path was found.
Drawn out of the Collective memories of her people…
Drawn back to body, and into the Material Plain…
She began to draw a finger, along her Shoulder…
Along the Guard, and over the Eye of Isha…
Across the Broken Sword of Khaine…
And finally taking her time to draw…
A finger around the Lone Rune…
The Rune of Cegorath…
The Laughing God…
The Eye Surmounted the Sword…
And the Laughing Rune sat…
Etched onto the Blade…
All these Symbols stark white, against a black background.
And invisible… hidden within that Darkness…
Unseen… to all but those whom knew…
Engraved… faintly, within the Dark…
Was the Rune of the Outcast…
The Memories behind that Rune, brought an almost imperceptible smile to her Sculpted Lips. Within her own mind, the Seer laughed, joyous and full… at the Memories given to her by the Souls within the Wraith-Bone. She remembered with joy... with laughter... as she was taken back… far back… back to the Arrival of the Phoenix Lords. They brought their Teachings and their Shrines, and they spoke – oh-so…pompously – of the various grand paths they had discovered. They spoke of the new ways of the reborn Eldar. And the people had laughed… she smiled at the Memory, a fond memory that had Angered the 'Oh-so' mighty Phoenix Lords.
In the face of their Anger, not a single one of her people had bent… not a solitary sole had broken under their Fury. They didn't flinch… they didn't falter, they stood their ground and stared down, the 'Oh-so' mighty Lords of rebirth and renewal. And for a time it seemed they would come to blows... until... from within the crowds of Outcasts strode a small Child. She strode boldly toward those Mighty Beings, clad in their imposing Wraith-Bone armours .And She spoke unto them, in that honest way that only children can... with tone of childish arrogance that easily pierced through the Veils Power…
"If your Shrines give us Strength… We will Praise You… And if they don't…"
She Smile up at them, confusing them so.
"We will laugh… and our laughter will haunt you… until the Stars grow old… and Die…"
And so the Aspect Shrines were founded within their Twilight Craftworld. And the fortunes of the Shrines – over time – rose and fell… upon the mercurial – almost whimsical – moods of the denizens of the Arach-Qin. The largest of these Shrines, had long since become known as the Trinity, they were; the Strike Scorpions, the Shadow Spectres, and the Dire Avengers. And from each of these far Greater Aspect Shrines… a Lesser…far more specialised Shrine would arise. From within the Aspect Shrine of the Striking Scorpions, many female warriors would move onto the Aspect of the Howling Banshee, and a few warriors from within the Shadow Warriors Aspect would transition almost seamlessly into the Aspect of the Dark Reaper. Only the Shrine of the Dire Avengers Aspect stood alone, for none knew where their Lesser-Aspect the Warp Spiders had hidden their Shadowy Shrine. It was said that deep within their Shrine, in a place known only to a select few... hidden… deep within the Wraithbone... slept the long Lost and almost Forgotten Phoenix Lord of their Aspect. The Guardians of the Wraith-Bone, had always been purposefully mysterious, and –
An intrusion… an unfamiliar presence… within the Crystalline Gardens.
Farseer Idranel… withdrew from her Vision Quest.
Shielding her mind with well practiced ease.
Preparing her defences, against…
The mental probing of…
A dangerous –
Illic, she groused mentally, has he nothing better to do than hound me and waste what little time we still have...
Her memories turned back to the series of events that lead to the arrival of the – rather annoying and – outspoken Warlock from Ulthwe, and the other refugees. She thought back, into her own memories, to the events that led her people and a few desperate others…
Into a headlong flight… into a brave New Galaxy…
Codex Entry: The Shepard
… As time would pass, and as I realised what I was becoming, I began to reflect upon my place in the Universe. Not who I was, not where I began, nor even what I had done. But how I had touched the lives of those around me. Paraphrasing the well worn phrase of a well-known Asari mystic, "every idea must touch another to live, every emotion must be shared with another to grow."
It is not arrogant to say that I was crucial to events of things to come. It would be arrogant to say that I did it alone. I may have been the one to interface with the Prothean Beacon… But without my Squad... I wouldn't have gotten to the Beacon at all.
(An extract from "The Man I Once Knew," by LiaraT'Soni. Biographer for Commander Jane Shepard (Spectre Ret.))
This Rewrite has been a LONG time coming.
Various things have led me to this point. Personal. Professional. External forces. Internal Debates.
Suffice to say, it's been awhile. Many things have delayed this rewrite, from a file full of plot bunnies, to at least another half a dozen half written, half thought out, half baked stories half of which I have written but not typed up as of yet.
Another factor has been the ever changing universe of Warhammer 40K. From the latest strategy games (like Gothic Armada), to the first person shooters (Warhammer Space Marine for one), to the latest Horus Heresy Rule Books (this has been the most influential).
You will see over the next few Chapters a change in the story dynamic, for example: Sigmunds Bolter, the Phobos Pattern was the standard issue for the Ultramarines Legion at the time of the Horus Heresy (there were also a few Tigris Patterns, and even an Umbra here and there), as far as I can tell the Godwin Pattern is a later development (possibly related to the Blood Angels Baal Pattern).
My writing has also improved since my first foray, and I hope that is reflected by this work. As part of that I will be uploading the rewrite under the same name, and I will be leaving the old version up as well (a little comparison to what it was to what it has become).
To all those who have Followed me I thank you.
To all those who have Reviewed (Good & Bad) I'm sorry. I haven't read your reviews.
To all those who are reading this for the first time, the journey has just begun.