Chapter 1

Hartuna hung in the sky like a winking eye against the cold black void. The same sunlight which allowed the planet to be so prosperous caused the entire world to be bathed in a dim chalky light even during the darkest nights. The silent world below the bell tower had all the charm and contrast of a charcoal sketch, as thick inky pools of shadow pushed against pale grey cement and dull shimmering steel. As he watched over the city he kept righteous and pure, the preacher clutched the pendant around his neck. A glimmering silver icon bearing the symbol of the Ecclesiarchy. And then a vial of water bound in twine, once blessed snow from his homeworld. Gathered from the "Hallowed Whisper" plains of the Aquinas II, it had melted quickly beneath the sun of Ispros. At the time, with sardonic humor he had accepted holy water as likely being better than holy ice in the hierarchy of relics and quelled his disappointment. But now he engaged it with a different emotion, bringing it to his whispering lips he offered a hushed prayer to the God Emperor to watch over the souls of those who slept. For the forces of darkness are so foul that they invade the dreams of the pious so they may twist their thoughts and deal them the agony of sleep without rest.

As he pulled on the thick bell rope knotted and frayed with time, ringing out the hour of midnight to those still awake so they may offer their love to the Emperor, he recalled the many other ways that evil enters the heart and stops this love. It was not just wicked curses invoked through the murder, corruption, and torture of the virtuous and good that twisted flesh and mind. The serpents tongue and deceivers words possessed many of the fallen's mouths without a Daemon's help. And even what appears as pious doubt can be the few insidious words that break another's faith. What of the Martyr Azamaz of Imult? The tragic priest who believed he could reform the mutant and by purifying their souls, purifying their corruptions. Under the auspices of that reform, he asked the foul to partner with one of the unblemished, so they might be better saved by example. Only too late did he find his congregation could no longer be told from the mutant. Only by burning himself, the now tainted church, and the warp-touched within it that he was able to redeem himself and them through this act of martyrship.

He had read these stories dozens of times from the decrepit copy of Confessiones Hereticus kept in the small library of the parish. The Dictionnaire Infernal, Compiled Folklore and Common stories of the Imperium, and Doctrina Perversio. He had read them so many times that he knew their pages better than many men know their lover's body. Even the newest book in the collection was at least a hundred years old. He'd even mastered the three thousand page Collatis Sacra Scriptura, and had read it cover to cover twice alone. Not counting the constant readings and research required by the worldly side of his position. The simple leather shoes of a Priest squeeked softly as he made his way down the spiraling stone steps, their crumbling edges showing the weight of ages of use and bare bones upkeep. His hand ran along the smooth stone wall to guide himself as he held a dull iron candelabra in the other. Weak green orbs of flame clung to their wicks like specters, conjured from the wax of an otherwise inedible plant native to Isipros. They bathed what little could be seen in an unearthly hue and Thomas found the flickering shadows were always unnerving in the dark alone. It was only through stalwart prayer to the Emperor for protection that he found himself able to resist increasing his pace.

The Sancturia was crowded with candle holders of copper, brass, and iron while every stone nook and cranny in the surrounding architecture overflowed with dripping wax from candles placed there. These used the same wax as Thomas' candles, so that the entire room was filled with a brilliant emerald light that glistened majestically off polished metals. The Long Vigil of the Emperor's Faithful required them to create this scene every night using. Each candle was lit using a sacred flame at the end of a ceremonial blade. This represented the eternal light of the emperor overcoming darkness through his glory and might. When new to his rank and post Thomas had found the whole affair did have a certain majesty and hope, but a thousand repetitions had made it more of a household chore than active communion. His head dropped low in near automated reverence and he offered a holy verse to the three foot tall Emperor Idol placed on the altar.

"Sanctificetur Imperatore, Tua Micans nitore consumet omnia tenebris" (Hallowed Emperor, May your radiance consume all darkness)

The Idol had its back to the congregation as if it were looking into the future, and his eyes were cast upwards as if seeking something in the stars. The icon had been crafted nearly 700 years ago by one of the greatest artist that the small agricultural world had ever produced. Like most artists he found his patron in the Ecclesiarchy. The statue was formed from a smooth white stone and then painted in the most luxurious and rich colors. Its exquisiteness stood in proud testimony to the wealth and pride of the church. It perhaps made up slightly for it being the only object of worth in the otherwise plain church. The pews were of once roughly hewn wood worn smooth by generations of parishioners. The Electro-Choir in the corner hummed with static behind its repeated its perfectly rehearsed songs and psalms. A threadbare red carpet led from the entrance to the altar.

Compared to the ornate finery of the church, the Priest's quarters were furnished much more humbly. Bright electric lights kept the narrow hallway pragmatically lit, lined with bland paintings of religious imagery. The only thing of interest to Brother Thomas was the heavy wooden door that opened to the room given to him. It was enveloped in a sheet of darkness before he flicked on his reading lap. The room was a spartan affair with a mundane desk in one corner and an equally mundane bed in the other. There was just enough open space to conduct private prayers in the middle. But it was his, and it contained all his possessions and secrets. Secrets were the topic currently possessing the Priests mind as he pulled the top desk drawer out completely. In a hidden compartment in the back was a book and scroll case wrapped in cloth and neatly wedged together.

The book was thick and exotic. The cover of green grox leather so dark it was nearly black, reinforced with the bleached grox bone. The other was a collection of scrolls made of a thick blue paper bound in twine within a dull steel tube. The Book of Rumors and the 169 sacred numbers were both heretical texts that could quickly end his career and life.

Yet he was unable to help himself. His innate passion for knowledge and the ease with which he grasped that knowledge had assured him a position in the Ecclesiarchy. While his common birth and lack of exceptional disposition had found him rising no further than Preacher. An idle mind is more destructive than idle hands, and Brother Thomas Abbotsford found his heart throbbing in his chest as he opened the Book of Rumors. Like a child with a precious present or their favourite toy, he delicately turned the pages. Written as a series of cryptic rumors, he had settled on reading only one a day. New and enjoyable things are hard to find on a boring and out of the way world like Isipros and he wanted to savor this one for as long as possible. His thin fingers traced the ancient script as he read to himself. "...A merchant who often travels westwards through the sheer cliffs has assured me that if one continues past them for four days and three nights they will come upon a land of flattened earth. There is no life here, and the ground is barren. Here are found dreaded Obelisk wrought by the shamans of those who lived when the world was young. It is said that those who decode their secrets will learn of ancient magic long lost, yet so dreadful that even now its presence disturbs life. Only two runes tuck in his mind and neither were from the same source.. [Drawings here].."

Foreign and hopelessly intriguing, he committed the runes to memory as he had done so much scripture, until he found them burned on his eyelids when they closed. Woefully distracted by this practicing, Thomas was jostled and frightened when heard the next door over open and close followed by a muffled cough in the hall. Blood rushed to his head and his mouth ran dry as panic filled his heart. As quickly and quietly as he could, he returned his secret possessions to their rightful hiding spots and undressed in the same manner. As the unknown party made their journey towards the lavatories, Thomas blew out the lights and lay beneath his thin covers, filled with fear and guilt over his nocturnal practices. As adrenaline faded, he quickly drifted to sleep. Yet his dreams were alive with strange obsidian obelisk under an alien sun, inscribed with archaic burning runes. And creatures as strange as they were wondrous danced and prayed before them, reciting songs that were always so distant he could not hear them. So that when he woke up the next morning, he fell to his knees in prayer to the Emperor for his wicked dreams. As he prayed for forgiveness of this great shame and his forbidden interests, he admonished himself further for secretly enjoying them.