The introductory parts of the March Revolution, which will obviously spiral out of control in the days to come. Not much to say here, except that when the story is told from a first person or from a tone as though a person is telling the story, the narrator is General Aleksei Novikov, the leader of the Magnite Regiments, who have been crusading for a decade, and return home to find their home in a depression. As all high ranking military officers in this planet, he has a duel purpose as a government consultant.
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Right then the world came to its end. The earth was scoured and blackened, the sky alight in a deep angry red. This was the last storm the world would see for a many hundred years, and one that would alter history. It had leveled all the cities and towns, grading down the land in its entirety.
Except of course, the last city, the capitol. Before the clouds came, He had claimed it as his domain, toppling the already weakened government, a diseased socialism, a stagnant thing, rife with rebellion. It had been easy work for Him. He had only needed the push along the way.
He loved that city while it lasted. The old cathedrals mixed with the new age granite towers, deep and dark alleyways contrasting starkly with the bright and hopeful courtyards. It was a sign of that society's forward motion. It was pathetic.
And around it was the Pit.
The city itself stretched for hundreds of miles, but despite that, the Pit circled it in what He knew was a perfect loop. It had opened for Him, because He saw it as a rightful thing to be done. He wouldn't have this ending be anything less than total and all-encompassing.
The Pit itself was far beyond being passed over, and only an insane mind would dare brave its depths. It reached further down than the world could physically sustain, pulling beyond physical law, into an unending supply line for Him and His forces.
Men once rebels against the dying government, once servants of their great Arch-Heretic, had pledged their selves to him in the end. They knew ultimately they were damning themselves, but the Arch-Heretic had sullied their interpretations of the events. He had that affect on people.
What they saw as a glorious revolution was really the rape of their civilization. He hadn't made it easy on them. What remained of them walked the city en masse, mindless carnal spirits trapped in warped bodies. They were like pledges to the Dark Powers that were behind all this, this last act in a long ballad. Wicked things were they, charging through the streets, maiming and killing, taking part in an orgy of destruction. His Blood Letters.
He stood then at a threshold between worlds, atop the tallest tower of the city. Above him, the sky was alight in that furious red, the clouds swirling into one massed storm cell. The atmosphere was ripping itself from the world. And below, the horizon was blackened, the world leveled to his gaze, his domain laid out before him. His citadels streets ran red with the blood of innocents, and the loyalist militia. It was alive with screaming and shouting and gunfire and war. He knew no one would survive this, but also He knew this was the most alive the world had ever been.
It was Chaos, the one true, adamant force in the universe. And it was His, and He was its.
It was His day of glory, His day of ascendancy.
His name was Deimos before. At that point though, He was no longer that. It was the day that our Deimos, hero of the people, became Prince Hael' Gor' Eath,' and saw to it that none would be left unknowing of him.
It was the day our story really began.
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For a long time people considered it an act of treason. No, it would be fair to say it stands as the most treasonous move in the history of our system. The usurpation of the planetary government, a bloody rebellion sponsored by the church itself.
Truth is, in the beginning it was a matter of righteousness. It was for the good of the people, that's why I was involved, that's why it escalated to something so…
I'm sorry; I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me begin at the start, or rather, at the end…
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When Warmaster Lazarus came back to Magna IV, his home world, he was a hero. It was the biggest celebration anyone could remember, a parade for miles down the city main street, the world's whole regiment marching proud and victorious. The brave men, the willing protectors of civilized society, armoured company at their side, welcomed back with a roar of acceptance and gratitude that lasted day and night for a full week.
The legendary gods of war, the mighty titan legion Legio Formidio, marched behind them, omnipotent and watchful. They stood as guard to the Warmaster, standing atop his moving fortress, adorned with the regalia of all his victories. He was a proud, young man, so far crippled beyond repair through his battles.
So they brought him home, to rule his people as a just, loved man, a servant to his people and his God. It was a day long remembered.
But years passed, and his mind flowed away from him. That was fine; he had loyal men to run his world under him. Not wise men though, and in time the world fell from its wonderful golden years, and joined its ruler in the darkness.
They felt every pain of poverty as proud cathedrals blackened and rusted, long standing statues blurred under acid-rain. A great world was dying a slow painful death, and there was no one to blame. All that was left of the great then Governor Lazarus was a proud memory, a loved man. The populous reeled in uselessness, unable to act, unable to bring back life to their unmoving society, their government sickened and apathetic.
But these people had faith in something, that they did, they were good Imperials, they loved and trusted their Emperor, praise His name, with all their hearts. And they trusted his cult.
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The priest examined himself in his personal quarters, making sure his entire holy getup was in place. He'd adapted it over time, doing away with all the silliness of it he could. He dreaded all the superfluous embellishments of his culture; it was unnecessary. And in times such as these? There was no room for it.
He sighed deeply, eyes closed. He felt no anxiousness; he'd preached many, many times for his clergy, his flock. It was all for the good of their spirits and the word of his beloved God-Emperor. They needed him in hard times.
And that, just that, was exactly what troubled him. Things had been going downhill for years, and by the time of his induction to the Cult Imperialis, his planet had fallen into a deep, long depression. He watched, not feeling sorrow for his people. He was furious.
So he had a hard decision before him.
"Father? Are you ready?" came a gentle voice. He put a lazy smile on, letting the fire drain out of him. He could hold it for a while.
"Yes, yes, I'll be about in a minute." He said, calmer than usual. He was known for his passionate sermons, but today he had to conserve his word, his mind needed to be ready. He still had a very, very substantial affair ahead of him.
Regaining his composure, he strode out to his own theater, into the massive cathedral, a testimony to faith and moral. There would be no performance today, though, not till much later.
"Peace be with you," he called out, striding confidently to stage center. His voice was strong; it had to be for everyone to hear. And everyone was present, he didn't have to check. No one in the city dared shy away from their faith; they all knew it was a responsibility of a citizen of the Imperium. His was the only church in the city. No longer did he see the faces in the crowd; it was one being, one direct cause, like any good congregation was.
"And also with you," they responded in kind.
"Let us pray."
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The priest examined himself in his personal quarters, making sure his identity was well hidden. He was about to take part in something big, and supposedly many influential people were in on it. They knew their reputations were at stake; even he needed to be careful.
Without words or faces, as these affairs often went, or so he understood they went, they had communicated on the how and where. The topic didn't need to be said, they'd all been gathered in a general understanding.
He sighed, resting his weary body on his desk. He had a great weight on his shoulders; the weight of the good of his flock. As their shepherd, he owed them much, it was his responsibility. Opening his eyes, he stared himself down in the mirror. The elegance of the room was disgusting; it was all so wasteful in his mind. But he couldn't delay.
He stood and walked back to his theater. Tonight he would perform.
"All present?" came a voice in the dark. There were no murmurs, and no one spoke up. They'd worked out a system; they'd come in small groups to be sure they could be in ample communication.
"Then let us begin without delay," the man continued, voice careful and weary. He stepped back out of the dim light of the torch, back into the dim group in the shadow.
"We all know why we are here, no need to beat around the bush. What say you?" spoke one shadow to the others.
"Our planet has gone to Hell under this dim-witted mess of blundering politicians! They talk change and reform, but they do not act! When do we move beyond the memory of that old cripple?" another dark form cried, using his guise to speak freely.
"Watch your tongue!" another hissed, at the other. "Pay the Governor his due respect; you're surely not half the man he is." There were murmurs of agreement among the sheepish assemblage, no one willing to bring insult where it was uncalled for. The priest waited his turn; maybe someone would bring his words to voice before he formed them. He would greatly prefer that.
"There is no denying something must be done now, but the question is what? And by whom should would act?" a lighter voice offered. By then the priest figured there would be no direction here without him. But what was new in that? His purpose was to give direction.
He stepped forward, letting the light show his figure, his face hidden still.
"Do none of you, my follow men, find this parodious?" There was silence at his light up-speak. They waited for his offering to the faux-debate, and he gave them a few moments of anxiousness, hoping somewhere that someone else would have the mind to see his point, and take his place. He shook his head, choking down the fear. "We speak on a brave new ground in this supposed conversation, we are decidedly the courageous saviors-to-be of our people, but here we stand, silent and cloaked in animosity?"
He looked around, making his outward disappointment plain. Inwardly he struggled to keep his voice even; this was not his congregation, these were not the men he preached to every day. This was not the Emperor's word.
"Need I say it plainly? Are we that conceited? We would believe we talk of change, but what have we thus far achieved?" he began, voice rising, anger edging into his words, finding its rightful place.
"Excuse me, but our discussion has only just begun," a comparatively small voice came, challenging him. He wished he could chose to let him win, but he knew there was no choice.
"And already I see none among us wills to say the words that need be said," he snapped, tearing through the shadows with his gaze. "Need I alone be the one to bring them into flight, need I force them into your ears? Must I truly tell you brave men what you already know but fear to accept? Are we cowards!?"
His roar cut through the silence, as he stalked the center of the circle, fully in the light now. "And what exactly need we say, my fellow man?" called a hurt pride, singing a song of dissension against the new rule in the room.
"The word is uprising," he said softly, silence claiming them.
"Uprising, truly, then? Are we oppressed?"
"Yes, yes we have been. Despite our privilege in position, when our people are oppressed by a stagnant and lumbering government, so are we. No man under the just Imperium is rightly ruled in the tyranny of inaction."
There was a quiet murmur of agreement and the priest knew he had seen everything in the wrong light.
"The word is rebellion if it needs to be, conspiracy if you will. But action in the end is the strength the concoction of literacy must boil down to! Let us not insult our cause with sheepishness and stupidity! Need I say this for you, my congregates!?"
His beastly anger dragged the ideas the others cradled in secrecy right to the front. He had thought this was not like his church, but it was. He preached to his flock, and he would lead them.
The priest pulled his hood down, revealing himself shamelessly. This was the Emperor's will.
There was a general shock when he showed them what they had already presumed. They'd all been to his fiery sessions, but they all cried out the same, some in surprise, and others in approval.
"I am Arch Bishop Mavichel of the Cult Imperialis, and I say the word is revolution, and the word is the God-Emperor's. Are you with me? In His name!? What say you!?"
Later it was said that the cry was heard from all around, but it was a secret thing, it didn't carry beyond the walls of the cathedral. At this though, they were one true organized force, every man there showing themselves for who they truly were, no longer timid.
Still, soon the populace would be divided, and a great struggle would begin.
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Mavichel turned as he heard footsteps behind him, walking away from the group of eleven conspirators who began to disperse from his churches main hall. In the dark behind the pews, where Mavichel stood right then, the man was nigh invisible, garbed as he was in black robes, over which he wore a simple red hood.
"Arch Bishop," he said in greeting. Mavichel shuddered at the sound, but didn't recognize it from the earlier discussions.
"Yes?" He said anyways, stopping to converse. His eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw the man, who stood a little taller than himself, his skin fare as any Magnite man, and his hair pitch black, but falling straight to his lower back. Mavichel could tell that he wasn't Magnite, though, from the strange bone structure of his face that spoke of a different but unreadable ethnicity. He couldn't see his eyes.
"You've taken a great step today for your people," he said, his voice cold and unreadable.
"Excuse me?"
"The first step on the revolutionary road. It's noteworthy," he went on, "though it may not seem like much to you now. You'll be making history soon."
"Who are you?" Mavichel demanded, spooked, rounding on the man.
"A potential ally," he said, smiling. Mavichel was unconvinced, but saw the man's dead, cold blue eyes, and saw no malicious motive there. Mavichel drew closer, his voice falling to a whisper.
"Please understand if I find it hard to take your word at face value, but the way you speak of 'us,' is rather suspect. I find it hard to trust you. Are you not one of us?"
"No. I am an outsider, this much I'll admit," the man shrugged. "But not from the government, if that's what you suspect."
Mavichel nodded and backed off. "I suppose we all have to give each other our trust this early in the game. Later," Mavichel said making his point, "we will all have to prove our worth, yes?"
The man nodded. "I hope to prove myself to you soon, Father. You'll come to have need of me."
With that the man turned away and again was nigh invisible in the dark. Mavichel marveled at the strange suspect, but finally spoke up in question. "Do you have a name, brother conspirator?"
But there was no answer, as the man was already gone.