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Once the great fleet of the Terran Crusade was assembled in orbit of Macragge, the brother Primarchs made for Terra. The Warp churned. It roiled and raged. Temporal rip tides and squalls of insanity wrenched and battered at Guilliman's fleet. Whirlpools of arrogance; frenetic storms of anger and lust; becalming straits of misery circled by hungry daemonic entities; all had to be braved as the Terran Crusade pushed on.
On the pleas of their Navigators, the starships' captains dared only short jumps through the Warp. These quick and terrifying sprints ended - more often than not - in frantic crashdives into realspace as the dangers became too great. Despite many such horrors, none in the Terran Crusade so much as spoke of turning back. They braved the Warp Storms at the behest of two living Primarchs, on a mission to Holy Terra itself. Those who quailed in the face of such a momentous calling would surely be damned.
Guilliman travelled aboard his Chapter's ancient flagship, Macragge's Honour, a craft that - unlike so much around him - provided the Primarch with a welcome haven of familiarity. Horus remained upon the Golgo's Respite, perhaps choosing Captain Maranda's humble vessel as his flagship for the symbol it upholds as a whole. The ship had shared much of his journey towards redemption upon the Obscurus, if would be sheer arrogance should he abandon it now for something greater.
With the Immaterium in turmoil, those astropathic communiqués that made it through were jumbled, and nightmarish to interpret. What news the Crusade fleet managed to gather was uniformly dire, and left all who heard them cold with dread.
Whole star systems were being ravaged by unnatural phenomena, daemonic incursions and plagues of mutation. Psykers proliferated, bringing with them horrifc manifestations and outbursts of terror and madness. Loyal populations rose up as howling mobs of mad-eyed Chaos Cultists. Entire armies of xenos, saturated in the energies of the Warp, fought alongside daemons to bring death to the worlds of the Imperium. Star forts cried out for help, their corridors prowled by unnatural Warp entities that preyed upon their garrisons. Imperial fleets and convoys flung distress calls into the Empyrean as they were dragged light-years off course, or were beset by terrifying empyric predators.
Despite the lethal roiling of the Warp, the Terran Crusade forged onward. For the soldiery aboard the ships, the weeks crawled past in an agony of inactivity and agitation. A constant state of high alert was required fleetwide, for at any moment they might come under sudden attack. Yet for all their constant training, drilling, patrolling and waiting, still nothing occurred. Even amongst the superhuman warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, tempers frayed and inaction chafed. For the thousands of helots, naval armsmen and Chapter Serfs who crewed and garrisoned the vast warships, the constant state of readiness inevitably took its toll. The expectation of danger became the norm, to the point that laxness crept in and awareness slipped.
When at last the fleet was threatened, it came so suddenly that even the Adeptus Astartes and Cult Mechanicus were caught off guard. The Terran Crusade had reached the trailing edges of the permanent Warp rift known as the Maelstrom, and had found it swollen with fearsome new power. The fleet's Navigators moaned and screamed, describing something akin to an endless, impossibly immense tornado thundering in the Warp. Where safe channels should have existed, the billowing fringes of the Maelstrom had consumed all. Even the light of the Astronomican became faltering and nigh impossible to see.
Fearing for the safety of their brutalized craft, the fleet's captains ordered immediate translation to realspace. One by one, the Imperial warships tore through the meniscus of reality, streamers of glowing ectoplasm trailing from their hulls as they plunged back into the cold darkness of the void. Yet the thunderous shuddering on board each voidcraft continued, intensifying violently as impacts flared upon Void Shields and smashed through armored hulls.
The Hawk Lords frigate Wings of Glory was ripped apart by a string of punishing explosions before its crew even knew who or what was attacking them. The Ultramarines Strike Cruiser, Primarch's Wrath, sustained crippling damage after colliding with the White Consuls Cruiser Hope and Fire as both voidships attempted blind evasive maneuvers.
Frantic orders filled the Vox net and echoed through cavernous ships' bridges as furious captains attempted to establish the nature of the threat. Had the fleet dropped out of the Warp and straight into an asteroid field? Had they, by some horrible chance, emerged into the midst of a hostile foe?
As Auspexes awoke and observation decks were unshrouded, the bleak truth became clear. The scattered ships of the Terran Crusade had indeed exited the Immaterium straight into the thundering guns of an enemy armada, but it looked as though this was no accident of chance.
Arrayed in perfect ambush formations were dozens of Traitor warships bearing baroque and ancient markings upon their hulls. The Loyalists realised that a vast fleet of the Thousand Sons surrounded them, deployed as though they had known precisely where and when the Imperial forces would emerge from the Warp.
At the heart of the enemy hung a strange craft of surpassing immensity. Only Guilliman and Horus truly understood its appearance, recognizing a vast silver facsimile of the Great Pyramid of Tizca. That cyclopean crystal structure had once stood as the crowning glory in the Thousand Sons Legion's capital city of the same name, upon their lost homeworld of Prospero.
Now it was resurrected in this monstrously magnified new form.
Vast as a planetoid, bristling with gun decks of baffling shape and function, and boasting an immense red crystal eye upon one flank, the insane structure was clearly both flagship and star fort for the enemy fleet. In this grandiose war engine, they saw all the hallmarks of the Daemon Primarch Magnus the Red.
Pandemonium seized the voidships of the Terran Crusade. Crushing tendrils of empyric energy wound about the craft like the tentacles of some leviathan beast. Bulkheads crumpled. Shields blew out. Raging fires and punishing gravity fluctuations tore through decks. Powerless to resist, the warships were plucked from reality and dragged into the Warp. Desperate Tech-adepts stumbled over their rituals as they strove madly to raise their ships' Gellar Fields. Some succeeded, but other craft were inundated with howling masses of daemons as they were dragged, unwarded, into the Warp. Madness and slaughter ran rife, and only the staunch determination of the Imperial armies aboard each ship prevented the Terran Crusade from being utterly annihilated.
As the loyalist guns thundered mutely against the vacuum of space outside, the Lupercal's calm but firm voice called for the attention of his followers within. He knew the ever-twisting plots of his brother Magnus, a maddening mix of simplicity and complexity at once. The one eyed Prince of Change favored fighting his enemies upon his own territory, leveling the playing field and shifting the odds in his favor.
By the time Magnus' spell ran its course, the starships of the Terran Crusade had been cast deep into the Maelstrom. Guilliman's fleet had, at least, been spat from the maw of the Warp once more, but the region they now found themselves in was a cursed one. But that was not the worst of the ill tidings, for once status reports had found their way to the bridge of the Ultramarines flagship, the Perfect Son soon realized that the whole armada had been cut in half. Horus was now in the Warp, forced to face Magnus on his own turf!
His first instinct was to plunge in after Horus, especially since the bulk of the Crusade's Retribution Class Battleships were on his side of the armada. Caution bade him to take pause, for his strike force was greatly reduced from Magnus' ambush, and so he did. For the moment, his brother will have to manage without him until he could find a solution.
Within the Maelstrom, reality and the Immaterium melted together in a strange morass. The stars were lost behind drifting veils of unnatural energy, and twisted worlds hung amidst the shimmering gloom. All attentions were drawn to the intense exchange between the voidfleets of Chaos and the battered armada of the Wolf of Terra, every effort thrown in to come through the battle victorious. There was desperation in the manner of Guilliman's planning, a stark contrast to his brother as Horus remained unfazed even in the face of tribulation, although this did little to hinder him from finding a solution.
The Greater Daemon of Tzeentch, Kairos Fateweaver, had joined the battle at the Daemon Prince's request. Upon a warped world of marble and flesh, the Daemon engaged the forces of the Lupercal- his followers now scattered upon the surface when ghostly tendrils reached out at Magnus' command and seized the Golgo's Respite. The Daemon had known this fate's fulfillment only when Horus dealt the killing blow upon Abaddon, then prophesied the return of the Perfect Son, aiding in the plot to ensnare the heroes of the Imperium when they began their journey towards Holy Terra.
His schemes involved psychically torturing Guilliman to further weaken the already insecure Primarch, enhancing his doubts and increasing his despair until he might drive him to insanity. It proved to be extremely difficult, as he soon found out, perhaps due to the strength Horus gave his brother just by being present in his personal crusade to save the Imperium. This, of course, frustrated the Daemon to no end. So he opted to shatter the pillar holding the Perfect Son together- his brother Horus.
This was a daunting task in itself as well, and the Daemon started to have second thoughts about facing the resurrected Favored Son. Horus Lupercal had the host of the most loyal of followers at his back, zealous and hard-driven to their cause that there was no room for him to manipulate them over to the side of Chaos. Even the guardsmen, whose faith was as fickle as the flak-jackets they donned, remained steadfast amidst the maddening whispers he sent forth from the winds of the Warp. When it proved too much, they preferred turning their own weapons upon themselves than falling victim to the promises of Chaos.
And Celestine...that insufferable Greater Daemon of the Emperor. Horus draws strength from her as much as the battlesisters at her command, tripling the difficulty of his task to undermine the Terran Crusade. Their minds cannot be twisted, so he will have to be a little bit more direct in his methods. The Red Corsairs at Fateweaver's disposal were instrumental in this aspect, unleashing a thousand years of hatred upon the loyalists that have made planetfall upon Magnus' domain.
Screeching furiously and calling forth a mighty host of cackling daemon-spawn, the Heralds of Tzeentch engaged the Celestinians head-on. This was a great deviation from their usual strategy, but was not without its own purpose. Horus knew this to be so, having his own share of experience dealing with the followers of the Great Schemer in the dark days of the Horus Heresy.
Their task was to free the ships ensnared by the living planetoid, and they would do so quickly once Kairos' advance was stemmed. Horus raised Soulrender and cried, "To me, sons and daughters of Man! For the Emperor!"
A building roar of fury emanated from the ranks of the zealous soldiers of the Imperium, seconded by the roar of lasgun, bolter and plasma-weaponry. The warp-empowered bolts of the sorcerers lashed out against the pressed formations of the Sisters of Battle, but fell away harmlessly as the golden rays of the Saint enwreathed her followers with its hallowed glow, protecting them from the malevolent touch of Chaos.
A spell was cast and the very ground opened up, exposing the gashed earth lined with row upon row of jagged teeth. Many guardsmen and astartes fell to the trap and were crushed under the mighty jaws of the planetoid, their souls then turned to feed the ever-hungry Empyrean. Seraphim, aerial assault-sisters upon wings of steel and fire, swooped down from the bleeding skies and drenched the gathered cultists with bolter-fire, weakening their sorcerers as their rituals were interrupted.
Horus did not care for sitting in the sidelines on this one, and he rolled into the thick of it, further inspiring his followers to fight even harder than before! The shard of the broken spear made up for its shortcomings, much to the Primarch's delight. It was almost as though Soulrender never broke, and its power remained as true as the day it was bestowed upon him by the Emperor. Summoning all the willpower within him, Horus commanded Soulrender to strike at the tendrils grasping around his flagship, and it obeys. Beams of pure psionic energy, amplified by the eldritch forces of the Warp, struck the foul tentacles and forced them to release their victims.
Onboard the Golgo's Respite, Capt. Maranda Goodwill grunts as the ship lurched forward, freed at last from the grip of the Red Son. Quickly, she gives the command for the ship to open fire, targeting the conclaves dotting the face of the planetoid to slay the sorcerers channeling their power up to the Daemon Prince, turning the tide in their favor.
Below, Kairos Fateweaver sighed in frustration. His precognitive powers were useless in this battle, for some reason, a weakness sure to be exploited by the Favored Son. The future remained muddled and confusing to his foresight, there was nothing for him to make use of, rendering him quite useless in the fight against the loyalists.
This did not deter him from carrying out the task set to him by his master, however, and so he pressed on in spite of the hindrances present.
With a single thought, the Greater Daemon tore a rift in the fabric of reality and joined the Red Corsairs assaulting the Macragge's Honour beyond the gaping maw of the Warp, leaving his underlings to handle the Lupercal and the Celestinians below.
The Chaos onslaught was swift and savage. It had to be, for though the Ultramarines were outnumbered, they held an incredibly defensible position against the enemy boarding parties. Guilliman's gene-sons crouched behind consoles artfully designed to double as barricades in the event of a breach. More of their number occupied elevated positions on gantries and balconies overlooking the bulkhead, taking up positions amidst the looming grandeur of the bridge.
The first servants of Chaos to bound and cartwheel onto the bridge had absolutely no cover whatsoever. Pink Horrors of Tzeentch were engulfed in a storm of disciplined, expertly aimed fire that ripped them to pieces. Into the meat grinder poured more and more daemons, while behind them squads of Red Corsairs lunged through the blasted bulkhead and dashed for any cover they could find.
Bolters roared, their massed echo and strobing muzzle flare rolling around the bridge like a raging thunderstorm. Daemons exploded in puffs of ectoplasm, smaller simulacra bursting from their corpses to be mowed down in turn. Traitor Space Marines clad in the defaced liveries of a dozen Chapters fell dead upon the killing ground, their armoured corpses continuing to twitch and jerk as more rounds struck them. Bolt shells, plasma blasts, las beams and missiles fell like hailstones, ripping the deck plates to blackened ruin and annihilating dozens of invaders.
Inevitably, though, the boarders began to gain ground. A jetting blast of purple fire leapt out to turn a gantry to slime, sending a squad of Red Corsairs Terminators tumbling a hundred Terran feet into the Vox pits below. A cluster of Krak Grenades rained down upon a console-barricade, their detonations killing one Veteran and forcing two more to beat a hasty retreat. In the moments before he fell, a Red Corsair unloaded his Plasma Gun into another barricade, killing several Ultramarines before being killed by his own overheated weapon exploding in his hands. So it went on, the enemy eroding Guilliman's defences through reckless assaults.
Then came Kairos. The first warning the Loyalists had of the Greater Daemon's onset was a thickening of the air as the Empyrean stirred. Librarian Pollonius cried out in sudden agony, hands clamped to his skull and eyes bulging as the energies of his own mind were turned against him. Fast as lightning, Guilliman hurled himself aside, barging Captain Sicarius clear in the instant before Pollonius' body detonated in a wave of blue fire. Several Ultramarines were not so lucky, their armour dissolving and flesh turning to ash as the flames washed over them.
As the commanders of the Ultramarines reeled, the next rain of firepower to fall upon the kill box was transmogrified. Instead of mass-reactive shells and whistling grenades, all that struck the attacking hordes was shimmering starlight and wisps of silver steam.
A fresh wave of leaping Flamers and cackling Horrors surged through the bulkhead and leapt to the attack. More Red Corsairs came with them, lumbering Chaos Terminators and fang-helmed warriors with Bolters blazing. At their back, his ragged wings spread wide and his staff tapping before him, came Kairos Fateweaver himself.
Seeing the Lord of Change, Guilliman roared a battle cry and charged. Cato Sicarius and his warriors followed close on their Primarch's heels, while Greyfax and Celestine hurled themselves into the foe to either side.
Guilliman stormed through daemons and Traitors alike, his flaming sword swiping in unstoppable arcs. Volleys of shells thundered from the Hand of Dominion, while the crushing fist obliterated an enemy with every blow. Daemons exploded in sprays of unnatural ichor before Guilliman's fury, while those Traitors foolish enough to stand in his path were smashed aside like rag dolls.
Following the trail of carnage wrought by their Primarch, Sicarius and his Battle-Brothers hacked and blasted those enemies who tried to encircle Guilliman. Sicarius himself was a blur, his Talassarian Tempest Blade drawing golden arcs through the air as it lopped horned helms from armoured shoulders, and split daemons in two. At the same time, blinding light shone from Saint Celestine as she carved her way through the Warpspawn, and Inquisitor Greyfax sent one Traitor after another crashing to their knees as she crushed their minds with her telepathic powers.
It did not take Kairos' matchless future-sight to foresee that his enemy would attempt to reach and slay him. The Lord of Change was no match for Guilliman in battle, but armed with his faultless precognition, he had long prepared for this moment. Now, as the Lord of Ultramar smashed his way closer, Kairos set his devious scheme in motion by unleashing a pulse of blue flame from his staff.
Nine Heralds of Tzeentch had worked their way through the press of battle, concealed behind shimmering spells of illusion. At Kairos' signal, the leering daemons cast aside their sorcerous shrouds and began a babbling incantation. Bolt shells whipped in towards the Heralds the moment they appeared, but their daemon minions leapt willingly into the path of the shots. Shielded by the shimmering flesh of their underlings, the Heralds continued their chant, nine voices rolling and twining with each other over the cacophony of battle. Raising the Staff of Tomorrow high above his heads, Kairos joined his croaking voices to the burgeoning spell.
Since Guilliman had first entered the Maelstrom and begun to hear Kairos whispering in his mind, the Greater Daemon had been planting traps in the Primarch's subconscious. It had not been easy, for Guilliman's mind was a pristine fortress of order and rationality, and his mental defences were formidable. Yet slowly, carefully, the deed had been done. Kairos had teased forth Guilliman's guilt, his anger and disappointment at what remained of the Imperium, his fears for its future. The daemon had intended to continue his work until the Primarch was quite mad before attempting this ritual, but the intervention of the interfering Eldar had forced Kairos' hand. His preparations would have to be enough, or else Guilliman would surely banish him back to the Warp and escape.
Swaying and gibbering, spinning and leaping, the daemons worked their spell and dragged forth the incantations laced within Guilliman's mind. The Primarch stumbled, bellowing in pain as streamers of incandescent energy poured from his eyes and open mouth. Squirming tendrils of green, psychic guilt twined around serpentine streamers of disgust and surging red tendrils of anger. Engulfed by the whirling storm of psychic energies, Guilliman tried again to forge a path forward, but with a howl of pain he went down on one knee. Greyfax, bogged down in the morass of combat, could only watch helplessly, while Celestine's attempt to fly to the Primarch's aid was thwarted as several daemons latched onto her wings.
Sicarius and his Battle-Brothers, crying out in impotent fury, tried to cut their way through the foe, hoping to stop the incantation in any way they could. The 2nd Company Captain ordered all fire concentrated upon the daemons tormenting the Primarch. It did no good. Those shots aimed at Kairos puffed away as clouds of glittering dust, while the Heralds remained shielded behind squirming bulwarks of daemonic flesh.
Though the outnumbered Ultramarines fought furiously, they could not reach the daemonic sorcerers to stop their ritual. Roaring his anger, Guilliman surged to his feet once more, hammering off a volley of shells that struck Kairos Fateweaver and ripped bloody chunks from his gaunt torso.
Though the daemon was wounded sorely by the explosive impacts, his chant did not stop. Instead, it redoubled in intensity, the daemon's voices ringing out cruel and cold. Whirling and lashing, the coloured streamers of ectoplasmic energy surged from the Primarch's mind. All of Guilliman's negative emotions, all of the threads of madness and wrath and fear that Kairos had seeded into his mind, blossomed forth and wrapped themselves like vines around the Primarch. They thickened and twisted, pulsing with power as they hardened into heavy crystal chains.
Arms and legs bound tight, Guilliman crashed to his knees once more. This time, held firmly by Kairos' spell, he was unable to rise. The Oracle, projecting his voices to every warrior upon the bridge, commanded the Ultramarines, the Living Saint and the Inquisitor to lay down their arms at once. If they did not, the Primarch would be crushed and throttled to death before their eyes. One by one, the guns fell silent as the horrified Ultramarines complied. The battle was over, and Kairos Fateweaver stood gloating and victorious.
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Should've updated this a long time ago. Writer's block is a bitch, but I've beaten it back for now :)