Damantin's declaration had put me on edge, and not without reason. I wondered if this was what they'd been waiting for – that is, for me to show interest in their heresy, so they could take the opportunity to beat me over the head with the gospel of the Dark Gods. Nevertheless, my intrigue was genuine, so I followed him back to the rest spot, where Marrlë was busy explaining a unique feature on his chainaxe to a distracted Rosie and a bored Thurion. The Khornate didn't seem to mind that no one was really listening, content to ramble on about the throttle and the teeth and whatnot. Upon seeing us, he raised his hand in a cheery greeting, alerting the others to our approach. "Oi!" he called. "How was the shooting practice?"

"Fruitful," Damantin replied, "but we found ourselves discussing a topic both more pressing and more interesting than how to shoot an ork. Fenwick wants to know about the philosophies by which each of us live. Is that correct?" He looked at me, and while that hadn't quite been what I'd asked of him, I realized that hearing about that would probably answer my question anyway, so I nodded.

"Yeah, I would. That is, if everyone's, um, willing to share."

Rosie giggled, and my face flushed. I'd hoped not to come off as foolish, but now that I thought about it, I really didn't know much about any of them. Marrlë's story had given me some insight into who he was, but to my knowledge, Damantin was a quiet Thousand Sons sorcerer, Rosie was a suspiciously friendly Daemonette, and Thurion was a grumpy, oversized death machine in power armor. Now, with the prospect of learning about their personal philosophies hanging overhead, I found myself wanting to know about them. Who were they, really?

"I certainly would," Marrlë announced with his signature enthusiasm written all over his face and palpable in his voice.

"Me too," Rosie seconded, winking at me and quite unsubtly running her hands up her slender curves. "I'll tell you everything you need to know about the path of pleasure, Fen." Her voice was like syrup drizzled into my ears; it alone was enough to make my cheeks burn. Thurion snorted and crossed his arms, casually avoiding looking at me. It was clear he wouldn't be doing any sharing, which for once I was a little disappointed about.

"And, of course, I will speak as well." Damantin slowly sat down and motioned for me to do the same. I followed his lead, sitting cross-legged between him and Rosie, and looked around expectantly.

"I'll start!" Predictably, it was Marrlë volunteering to begin. His mouthful of iron teeth glinted as he flashed us all his signature grin before starting in earnest.

"I've been a servant of Khorne as far back as I can remember. I joined my first warband at twelve, and I've been fighting all over the sector ever since."

"You are still only a child, compared to me and Damantin," Thurion pointed out, making me wonder just how old they were – and how old Marrlë was.

The Khornate narrowed his eyes, but that iron-toothed grin held fast. "Be that as it may, I still consider myself rather successful as far as Khornate Berzerkers go-"

"You're a human. Berzerkers are Space Marines." Thurion again. I was beginning to get irritated, and apparently I wasn't the only one.

"Please, Thurion, let him proceed unhindered," Damantin said, and the powerful authority in his quiet voice seemed to be the key to getting the black-armoured Space Marine to refrain from commenting further. Marrlë nodded his thanks and continued.

"Yeah, so as I was saying, I consider myself a better-than-average servant of Khorne. The fact that most die within a few days of initiation helps quite a bit with that assessment, but I digress." He chuckled, and I actually found myself smiling. It was sort of funny, in a horribly morbid way. "So, the thing that most Khornates tend to forget about serving the Blood God is that he's not only about making the blood flow. That is an important part of the whole business, but there's more to it than that." Oh? He certainly had my ear now, so to speak.

"Khorne is the god of bloodshed and wanton, excessive violence; this is true. At the same time, though, he demands certain things of his followers; the most well-known of which is honour. Sneaking up and stabbing your opponent in the back isn't honouring Khorne; that's Tzeentch's way of getting things done." Marrlë leered at Damantin, who shrugged, making no move to deny this. "Fighting in the name of Khorne is done up-front and honestly. Tactics, of course, go a long way in helping you win, and every good general is a tactician as well as a warrior. So many Khornates run straight into gunfire, screaming oaths and holding their axes high, and of course they're mowed down before they ever get close to the enemy." He shook his head admonishingly. "I guess they don't realize that you can't serve Khorne one bit if you die before entering the melee. That's not courage or honour – just idiocy."

"That's another thing: courage. There's nothing courageous about striking down a defenseless opponent. In that same vein, Khorne despises cowardice. Your commissars unwittingly get plenty of nods of approval when they kill craven soldiers, Fen. Sacrificing babies in his name – which a disturbing amount of Khornate cultists do – isn't going to get you any blessings. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"That… happens?" I gasped, filled with utter horror at this revelation. In response, a grim nod was given.

"Oh, yeah. Somewhere along the line, it seems like a lot of Khornate cults forgot what it is Khorne really asks for. It's not the blood itself – it's the glory of battle, and the blood that is spilled as a result of that!" Marrlë made a chopping motion with his hand, as if to emphasize this. "I love fighting – every good Khornate does. But fighting is one thing, and butchery is another. I would like to think Khorne appreciates the former more." He shrugged, giving me a rueful smile. "But then, I suppose it really does depend on one's own interpretation. Most Khornates would've killed you, Fen, had they been in my position. But you weren't a coward, nor could you have given me a good fight. You were just-"

"-Weak," I finished, without a hint of bitterness. "I was weak. And now what? If I become strong, will you decide I'm worth killing then?"

Marrlë snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. We're friends, and friends means we'll fight beside one another. Of course, if you somehow end up in front of me…"

We all laughed at that, except Thurion, who elected instead to sneer. I was surprised to find myself moved by Marrlë declaring that we were friends. Despite him being an unapologetic servant of a Dark God, I couldn't help but be glad that he thought of me that way. Even if the part about me winding up in front of him had only been half in jest…

"Shall I speak now?" Rosie asked, sensing that Marrlë had finished his piece. The Khornate shrugged and gestured for her to begin. As soon as she'd gotten the go-ahead, she turned her head to eye me, and wet her lips suggestively. With a nervous chuckle, I shifted away, and she responded by shifting closer.

"Slaanesh, as you all know, is the god of excess – pleasure, sensuality and debauchery are their realm of influence. Anything that heightens the senses and brings fulfillment to one's desires brings a smile to Slaanesh's face. For example…" Leaning towards me, she reached out and took my chin between her dainty fingers, gazing at me through half-lidded eyes as her face grew closer and closer. My senses were dimming by the second, and my heart had all but stopped in my chest, when Damantin came to my rescue.

"Don't badger the poor boy, Rosie. You don't have to shove your tongue down his throat to prove your point." Marrlë sniggered unabashedly at that. The Daemonette paused, inches from my lips, and feigned disappointment.

"Very well, if you insist…" She drew away from me, and the very real disappointment I felt was tempered with tremendous relief. Of everyone here, she inspired conflicting feelings in me like no other. I supposed that came with being a Daemonette. "Now, you must remember – Slaanesh is the god of excess, and encourages it wherever it arises in their own uniquely insidious way. However, their domain extends to all pleasure. From the very smallest things, from, say, drinking a bottle of quality amasec, to delicious lovemaking, to the unparalleled taste of victory – all of these exultations are in Slaanesh's name, whether attributed directly to them or not." She smiled at me, which by itself was enough to make my heart skip a beat. "You may be noticing a pattern, Fen."

"Y-yes," I stammered, forcibly collecting my thoughts. "Chaos, it's… universal, and, I don't know, what's the word…"

"Nuanced?" Damantin offered. I nodded.

"Yes. It's nuanced, and it seems like it encompasses everything in life, no matter how small." Rosie was positively beaming now, until I continued. "So what's the catch?"

The Daemonette swayed towards me. "There is no catch. It's all wondrous delight-"

"That is a dishonest answer and you know it," Damantin said sternly. "There is a catch – an immense one, at that. Would you care to answer again, truthfully this time?"

Rosie hissed, playfully slithering behind me and sliding her arms around my neck in an expression of mild defiance towards the sorcerer. My breath caught in my throat, and I found myself wishing she wouldn't do such things; not because they weren't pleasurable – they were, frighteningly so – but because they made it terribly difficult to focus.

"Very well. The 'catch', as you so crudely put it, is that the Chaos Gods are the apotheoses of the things they represent. The aspects they engender – violence, sensation, change and stasis – grow more and more excessive the closer one grows to the gods, their apexes. Therefore, followers of the Chaos Gods are inevitably victims of these excesses. Chaos by itself is not an inherently malicious force, but the Gods certainly are." She laughed, a musical yet sinister sound that chimed teasingly in my ear, and drew her arms tighter about me. "Wouldn't you like that, Fen? To be corrupted by your dear, sweet Rosie…"

"Enough." Damantin's voice literally made the air tremble. It was not a shout, but it carried an iron incontestability that unwound Rosie from around me and caused her to recoil with a threatened hiss. "The decision to turn to Chaos – or not to – is his and his alone, Ruzal'kara." My mind instantly cleared, and I realized it was the first time I'd heard Rosie's true name. Striding forwards, he reached down and pulled me to my feet. A little shaken by just how much power the Daemonette had been able to exert over me, I nodded my thanks. After releasing me, he stepped back and stared at me in what I surmised was a serious manner. Once again, that helmet made it impossible to divine his intentions until he spoke.

"All that Marrlë and Rosie have said is true. It is a similar thing for Tzeentch and I – only, unlike the others, I do not follow him out of choice. My soul has been eternally and inextricably bound to the Changer of Ways, and I never had the chance to prevent that from happening. For that reason, I would see to it that you, Fenwick, know what all of it means, and why it carries such weight." He crossed his arms, staff resting between them, and, with an uncharacteristic note of caution entering his voice, said, "If you would… as we have shared our perspectives on Chaos, I would hear your view of the Imperium you serve."

There I was, suddenly on the spot. I hadn't expected to be called on for any sort of introspection; rather, I'd thought that I'd be plopped down and preached to for a while. Having been pleasantly surprised in that regard, it only stood to reason that something would be demanded of me as well. I wracked my brain for something coherent and meaningful, and, after a minute of shuffling my feet nervously, lifted my chin in what I hope was a convincing facsimile of confidence.

"W-well," I said, loathing the momentary stutter in my voice and ignoring Thurion's sneer as best as I could, "I understand that the Imperium isn't perfect. I'll give you that much. They've done plenty of wrong and made a ton of mistakes."

Damantin gave a solemn nod, and my heart went out to him, remembering what he'd told me as we walked. Of all those Astartes Legions who had been deemed traitors, the Thousand Sons must've been the ones who suffered the most tragic fate, and the greatest injustice. Brutalized by the Space Wolves, deceived by Horus and Tzeentch and finally villainized by the Imperium, it was no wonder they now walked the path they did. "What happened to you and your brothers, for example. On behalf of the entire Imperium, I'm sorry about that."

"It is not your mistake to apologize for, Fenwick," he said, more quietly than usual. Before things got truly uncomfortable, I pressed on.

"The Inquisition and the Ecclesiarchy have done some truly reprehensible things – any native of Fenksworld knows that. The amount of wrongfully convicted heretics and needlessly slaughtered innocents makes my stomach turn. The rampant superstition, hatred of psykers, fear of the unknown and excessive punishments – there are good reasons for all of those things, but I still don't think that they're right. I think more people think that than are willing to admit." Marrlë grunted in agreement, and I met his eyes. I could tell he was wondering where I was going with this, and I decided not to keep him and the others waiting any longer.

"But, even considering all that… I can't turn my back on the Imperium, and I don't think I ever could."

That got mixed reactions. Rosie huffed and crossed her arms; Thurion growled and spat on the ground – away from me, thankfully; Damantin let out what sounded to me like a sigh of relief, and Marrlë continued looking at me, his eyes impossibly intense. I couldn't avert my gaze, and found no reason to.

"That's what the Imperium is about. To live and serve in the Imperium is to believe in the impossible. It's to dream that at the end of this, beyond the xenos and the Chaos and the hatred, there's something worth living for. To hope for a better future, even when all the signs seem to be screaming at us to give up, that it'll never happen. That's why millions of men and women fight and die every day. That's why the Space Marines descend from the skies to bring the judgement of blade and bolter. That's why the tech-priests build machines, and why the Inquisition journeys into the heart of darkness. The faith that the Imperial Cult is always on about? That's it. It's what gets me up in the morning and lets me sleep at night. And as long as I live, I won't ever stop believing in it."

There was silence for a while. I held my ground, meeting Marrlë's crimson eyes with as much conviction as I could muster. I heard the breathing of the others, and the wind carrying dust through the air around us.

At last, Marrlë gave me a soulful smile. "That dream of yours doesn't sound too bad."

"Indeed not," whispered Damantin. "But-"

"But it won't ever become a reality," Thurion rumbled, rising to his feet and stalking towards me with heavy, clanking steps. Looming nearly three whole feet over me, he narrowed his eyes and snarled, letting me see his mouthful of pointed teeth. Not iron spikes like Marrlë's, but I still didn't want them anywhere near my extremities. "Tell me, Guardsman," he hissed. "Tell me how, in the face of all of that failure and corruption, you can still believe in such a thing."

To be honest, I wanted to wet myself and run. I would much rather have a rematch with the ork that took my fingers than stand up to the hulking monster that was Thurion, but there was nothing for it. Drawing myself up to my full less-than-six feet, I gave him a wry grin.

"Well, that's the thing about faith, isn't it? It's not faith anymore if success is right in front of you. It's about believing in spite of how bad things are, and continuing to believe no matter how much worse they become."

"That is idiotic," he growled.

I shrugged. "Hey, no one ever accused humanity of genius. And anyone who did obviously never had the chance to meet a proper red-blooded Guardsman." I could practically feel Marrlë and Rosie grin from behind the mass of Thurion's power armour. The Chaos Space Marine studied me for a moment longer before smirking and shouldering past me.

As soon as his back was to me, I finally let the breath that I'd been holding in my chest for the last minute escape and bent over, gasping for air; that had been just about the most terrifying thing I'd ever done. Despite him looking no happier and acting no less contemptuously towards me, I sensed that my answer had, in some way, satisfied Thurion. As I felt Rosie helping me straighten up and making sure I wasn't having a seizure, I allowed myself a little congratulatory smile.