The Poet and the Muse

Ratings and Triggers: When we're in the world of 40k, ALL triggers and content warnings apply. It's arguably the darkest universe in fiction. It's where the term "grimdark" comes from. Chapters will have their own independent ratings. Please observe them. Most of the time it'll stick at a strong M…but if anything Dark Eldar comes up, it'll jump to MA-17. When we spend time on Runeterra or other such worlds, it could drop to a T. This is your warning, don't tell me I didn't give you one.

Author's Note:
Since I don't know how much overlap there is between these two fandoms, I'm going to include a laughably brief rundown of each. Hate me now, thank me later. This'll save us so much exposition you wouldn't believe it. (Trust me, this is version 2.0 of this story for a reason). The universe of Warhammer 40k is-

"Can I voice the narration for the intro?" Tzeentch asked.
"Tzeentch, I haven't even explained who you are yet," I replied.
"Nyeh-I'm better at it anyways," he said as he shoved me out of frame.

Tzeentch cleared his throat, raised an eyebrow, and turned his attention towards me.

"It's really weird that you're writing my dialogue in the past-tense as you are actively typing it," he jeered me.
"Dude…it's industry standard for novels, which more or less is what this site emulates," I replied, "If I were writing a play I'd be using present-tense because that's the standard for that format."
"Bwaahhh!" Tzeentch snarled, "Look at how you're structuring this dialogue! Are you seriously trying to tell me this isn't stage-script dialogue format?"
"Well…uh…um," I stammered, "Fuck man! Look, I got my start with scripts and transitioned to novels. Some shit just sticks with you and it becomes your style. Saavy?"

Tzeentch shrugged, "Eh, that's fine."
"Now that we're done horribly confusing the audience, can I get back to trying to make things make more sense?" I asked.
"You can…under one condition."
"What's that?"
"I get to do the intro," Tzeentch said with an insidious smile.
I sighed long and heavy, "Fuck you. Fine."

Tzeentch's high pitched giggle warped and weaved into a mad cackle that echoed through space, time, energy, and matter.

"It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods," Tzeentch quoted Rick Priestly.

"Shit. That was pretty good," I told Tzeentch.
"Told you so," he fired back

If I may steal a quote from the great Bricky, "Everything blows and it blows fucking hard". Tzeentch goes to make a Slaanesh joke but I muzzle him and toss him off screen before he can. We'll never get through this if I don't stop him. It is the 41st millennium, aka 40,000 A.D., a LOT of shit has gone down. Humanity reached Star Trek levels of technology and then came crashing down all the way to Mad Max post-apocalypse. Then a ten-foot tall "man" with god-like psychic powers reunited the scattered remains of humanity across the galaxy under his totalitarian, genocidally xenophobic Empire of Man (FYI aliens are called xenos). He was also a famously awful father who eventually had half of his 20 (yes, 20 not 18) demi-demi-god sons (aka Primarchs) and their super-soldier legions (Space Marines) attempt a coup against him. The traitors ultimately lost but managed to mortally wound their father and fuck his shit up good before they did.

Now over a thousand psykers (people with space psychic powers. Think "newtypes" if that helps) are sacrificed to his corpse every day so that the Imperium can still use the Emperor's psychic powers to do FTL travel. Despite knowing about the Warp and the Chaos Gods in it (we'll get to them in a bit), the emperor was a fedora tipping, atheist, big brain logic boy. And despite their "God Emperor" being himself an atheist, in the 10,000ish years since his death, the Imperium has become a fanatical cult of religious zealots hellbent on crusading all other races out of existence and burning all heretics alive.

All the while there are "naughty" space elves, fungus orks with "the power of imagination", hangry terror bug infestations, undead Egyptian terminators, weeabo commie Na'vi, and also demons. Remember that thing called the Warp? It's basically Event Horizon. For lack of better wording, hell exists in the spaces between space, where all thoughts and emotions coalesce into beings with nigh omnipotent power. In WH40k sentient beings inadvertently create the gods…who then proceed to reinforce their existence by influencing the mortal world, aka the materium. Chaos, the demonic powers, are represented by 4 Chaos gods.

First there is Khorne: the god of violent slaughter and honorable combat. He's Mister "Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne." So long as blood is flowing, he's happy. He also hates magic and planning because "it's for nerds."

"Dumb fucking jock," Tzeentch sneered.

Next there is Nurgle-
"Fuck Nurgle!" Tzeentch yelled, "But whatever you do, don't fuck that fatass. There is no crueler fate than death by Nurglian STD."

He is the god of disease, despair, and decay. All he longs for is the inevitability of rot and is the personification of oblivion. Though the Chaos gods are often viewed in a negative light, they also have a yang to their yin. Khorne has honor. I genuinely don't know what positive attributes Nurgle has domain over. He is the worst. He is depression and disgusting, agonizing death. He is Oblivion and I am a proud soldier for Infinity.

"My man!" Tzeentch proudly shouted as we fist bumped.

Then there is Slaanesh. She is called, "the Prince of Pleasure", but she's also the god of pain. "Whips and chains" excite her. (please follow the link to the relevant music: watch?v=KdS6HFQ_LUc&ab_channel=RihannaVEVO) She is ecstasy and torment…and all too often love falls into both those categories simultaneously. She was "birthed" by the Eldar (the space elves) when their cosmic space orgy went on for too long.

"Oh! That stupid slut," Tzeentch," whimsically muttered.

Lastly but certainly not least, is-
"Me!" Tzeentch yelled. ( watch?v=LJrejf8blAA&ab_channel=SyrebralVibes)

While Tzeentch is busy dancing to T-Swizzle and using his magic to stars in the night sky to act out the song, I'll tell you about him…or you can take the opportunity to let your own imagination paint this portrait for you. I'll be here…

…Where were we? Tzeentch (imagine me doing the "aliens!" hand motion as I say his name): the god of change, knowledge, hope, and magic. He also really likes neon colors, particularly blue and purple, and birds. Be forewarned; he's also the trickster and deceiver. Basically he's god mode (pun unavoidable) Loki. He's the Changer of Ways and the Architect of Fate. He knows all yet eagerly awaits every surprise. All is "according to plan" while simultaneously being perfectly unadulterated chance.

"What's more; I'm the who knows it's all a game and that I'm the puppet master puppet of puppet master puppets frantically searching for meaning in the ceaseless sea of chaos that is the savage momentum of existence," Tzeentch tells you.

And all he really cares about is keeping the great game of existence alive, fresh, and fun. Which bring us to me. I, dear reader, am one of his greater demons. What the primarchs are to Jimmy Space's corpse ("Jimmy Space" is what disrespectful louts such as myself, refer to the Emperor of Mankind by) I am to Tzeentch. Agent for the cause, arbiter for his will, and plaything improving my way through his mad designs. You can understand most of his designs so long as you imagine him saying, "wouldn't it be funny if x happened?"

How now shall I explain myself? In this world I am called, "O'dynn". It's spelt stupid to mock the naming conventions employed by the IP holders: the gits across the pond. Befitting someone with that name; I sacrificed my left eye to acquire the knowledge and sorcerous power of Tzeentch. In my eye's place sits an eyepatch emblazoned with a rainbow raven. My preference is to wander about like a wizard of old with my staff, cloak, and accompanying ravens. The primary departure from my namesake is age. At this point in this world, I am nothing short of centuries old and my form is little more than what my consciousness chooses it be in that moment. More often than not I cast myself as a moderately muscular, moderately handsome man of thirtyish springs. On the high end of average in both height and appearance with a neatly trimmed beard and short brown hair. I shall the leave the rumination of my intentions in this form to your imagination.

Explaining Runeterra will be but a sliver of the task that was cliffest of notes regarding WH40k. It's a world of magic and technology. Basically on par with the setting to most Final Fantasy games. It has its magical dimensions, ancient histories, and present day dramas. All that you truly need to concern yourself with is The Take of Two Cities between Piltover and Zaun. Piltover is the economic juggernaut of city-state lined with its ivory towers and ruled by aristocratic oligarchs. Zaun is the beleaguered undercity who are kept in the shadows by Piltover's boots. War is about to break out between the two of them.

Chapter 1:

A black feathered wing obscures the screen. Tzeentch in the form of a crow peels back his wing to reveal himself in an abandoned parlor. Daylight of the undercity shines through a shattered stained glass window of his colors.

"Hello, dear readers," he speaks to you, "O'dynn think he sees when he's actually blind…at least in one eye. For those here for a very specific person, here she comes. Heeeeheeeeee haaaaahaaaaa haaaa…," his laugh faded into caws and then silence.

A young woman in a black halter top, with purple cargo pants, and untied boots stepped through the glass. Her blue hair is done up into twin, floor length ponytails. Somber in her disposition, she examined the ashes of a former life. Her attention focuses on a scoreboard; one that is littered with her sister's name. At that moment Tzeentch jumped up onto the counter and caws. The young woman draws her pistol on him. Tzeentch cawed and she seemed to understand him. There is a tense moment of silence. Then she faintly chuckled and shot him.

Some days later…

Jinx screeches as she unloaded rounds of hot lead into her target, illuminating the lightless dinner parlor with the flair from her chain gun. The room grew quiet, all save the creaking of a swiveling chair. Watchful crows leapt into the air. In the heat of the moment she shot her father figure, Silco, and now he is dying strapped into a chair, bullet ridden. Jinx panted heavily, frozen in utter shock. Her long lost older sister Vi, tied to another chair across the dinner table, stared on at the sight with mouth agape. Silco gasped breath and Jinx ran to his side.

"No! No! No! No! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!," she pleaded. In the heat of the moment she was just reacting. She never intended-
"I never would have given you to them," Silco the cunning, scheming crime lord with a deformed left eye, tried to assuage his adoptive daughter's grief with his dying breaths, "Not for anything…"

Jinx scrunches her face trying to hold back the tears but she can't.

"…Don't cry," Silco told her as gently as he could manage, "You're perfect."

With those final words, his life faded away. Jinx whimpered in agony as she sat at the feet of his lifeless body. As she mumbled in her grief, a wind blew past her. On it carried whispers of ominous power. She regained herself and rose up. The question of "who she was" had been answered. The raging duality that tore her mind in twain finally laid silent. She lumbered toward a seat on the side of the table.

"Powder?" Vi, calling her sister by her childhood name, tried to offer comfort, "It's okay…"

Jinx would not respond. She stood there silent, quietly panting as her hair hung in her face.

"…It'll be okay," Vi continued, but it was to no avail.

Jinx, taking her handgun and using it to turn the seat labeled "Jinx", sat down in it. She had made her choice. She knew who she was, what she was. The meek little girl who always needed her big sister to save her was dead. All that was left was the acceptance of what she truly was.

"I thought maybe you could still love me like you used to…," Jinx, still on the verge of tears, told her sister. Vi gasped in hurt but unable to find the words. "…even though I'm different," the weight of Jinx's anguish hangs on her every word, "but you changed too. So here's to the new us."

Jinx rose up out of the chair.
watch?v=Ph7Mhlgwig8&ab_channel=MrSunday

She picked up her gun and slotted the blue magical orb into the chamber. The gun twisted and contorted itself into the shape of an open mouth shark rocket launcher. She stared across the sea, past the blood red moon hanging in the sky towards the glistening towers of Piltover.

"We'll show them all," Silco's words echoed through Jinx's mind. She had accepted the change. Powder was gone. She is Jinx, now and forever. Blue lightning rippled around her as she's engulfed by magical energies. She fired the rocket, knowing precisely what its intended target was. Those smug aristocrats in Piltover, the ones who killed her parents, the ones who forced her to live in poverty and oppression, the ones trying to steal Vi from her, they could all burn…and she would see to it that they did. She howls with primal fury and the blue light engulfs her.

After that light had faded, Jinx fell to her knees upon a cold, hard surface. She wailed in agony, tears pouring down her face as she gasped for breath. "Don't cry," Silco's gentle voice comforted her. She glanced up to see his reflection in a crystalline wall that stretches upward into infinity. A crow caws off in the distance. The frightened, distraught young woman stumbled past the horrors of her life reflected back at her: the masks of Piltover enforces twisted into violent beasts by her trauma, the mishappen drawings of the adoptive brothers she accidentally killed, the flickering green firelights of her friend turned foe, flashes of the happy faces of her sister and the Piltover enforcer she had replaced her with, and the image of her "father" killed by her own hand.

Tzeentch chuckled with devious joy as he watched her from a Palantir in his palm. He'll make sure this one finds her way to his innermost sanctum.