Disclaimer: I own Jackshit
AN: Hello all! Hope you had a Happy New Year and that things are going well for you all. I've had a bit of time to finish a few things over the new year, this chapter being one of them. As always, a round of applause goes to Vladicus, for proof-reading and making sense of the madness I tend to generate as a result of my writing.
Though, before we get to the chapter, a warning. Parts of at least one perspective might be somewhat... Dark and/or disturbing for some people, so just a head's up about that. Still, hope you enjoy!
XXX
The Collector's Obsession
It was a fight to the death.
Two combatants, forever locked in mortal combat as blades aimed to sever the life-cords of the other even as the world around them devolved into a maelstrom of death, destruction and bloodshed. On one side stood, a paragon of glory and victory, clothed in golden alloys and riding on the wings of an angel as flames marked his passage. His face was obscured from sight, hidden under an artistically crafted Death-mask that showed only the snarling features of another, glaring at all those who would incur his fury. In the champion's hands, he held his weapons with the skill of centuries of continuous conflict, his aim never wavering as he held a silver-edged great blade, ready for a killing blow against his opponent's neck as he held his other weapon at the ready, prepared to spit death upon his foe, should they survive.
On the other side stood a creature from the darkest nightmares and distilled horrors the mortal mind could conjure, covered in symbols most profane and unholy. It's armor was warped, twisted and mutated to the point that it was impossible to know how the armor had originally looked like, horns and spikes sprouting from nearly every armor plate. Chains wrapped around it, holding fresh decorations in place as recently decapitated heads hung from meat-hooks and flayed skins were stretched taught across its pauldrons, inscribed with verses written in a blasphemous tongue that would have hurt the eyes of any mortal foolish enough to look upon them. In his hands, he held only a single weapon; A colossal hammer, too large to be held by a mortal man, but poised to slam into the Golden Angel's chest with lethal force as a dance of potential energy skipped across the hammer's head.
Either blow would be mortal if they landed. Both would land within a single heartbeat if allowed.
But that heartbeat would never come.
Trazyn the Infinite, Grand Archaeovist of the vast Solemnace Galleries, observed the two Champions locked in mortal combat, frozen at the epic climax of their duel. It was a semi-recent acquisition of his, from a minor, yet impactful skirmish upon the Imperial world of Dravos III by the Empyrean-tainted Warriors of Ruins. The world itself had been in utter chaos when he had arrived, with a great clash underway between these raiders and the gene-enhanced warriors of the Blood Angels. It was only thanks to his timely arrival that both had even survived to this day, as he still remembered the reports of orbital weapons powering up, preparing to atomize all those within the conflict zone and erase them from existence. Something that was simply intolerable in his view, for it would forever deprive existence of such storied warriors and their historic feats of valor. Better, he knew, for them to be preserved for the rest of eternity within his carefully curated collection, safe from the passage of time and those ignorant few that would prefer that history be forgotten.
Taking another moment to look over the display, Trazyn turned and made to move on to the next exhibit of an even more recent acquisition. As he did so, his thoughts turned to his next project and what he could add into yet another display within the ever-growing galleries that he maintained. Already, he could picture the potential masterpieces that could be replicated or reconstructed as thoughts turned and turned within his cognitive engrams.
However, before his thoughts could circle such an idea too much, before they could begin to tighten around a specific relic, artifact or event that needed to be preserved, such thoughts were violently shunted to one side as a singular alarm sounded through the Nodal Command network that stretched across his holdings. Such things were routine and mundane, by all accounts, as events were always taking place that might demand his attention, ranging from malfunctions to the arrival of the latest status reports. Unfortunately, this was not one of those times. This was not one of the times that he could casually dismiss such an alert as being of no consequence before carrying on his merry way to 'liberate' the relics of the belligerent for the sake of preserving the history of the Galaxy. No, this was not one of those times. This time, it was something far more urgent as an alarm sounded for the first time in literally millions of years, one he remembered well... And dreaded all the more for it...
Immediately, all thoughts of acquiring new displays for his Galleries was abandoned as he triggered the local Teleportation Grid and displaced himself into the nearest Command nexus, causing the chamber to come to life upon his entry. Emerald energies surged as Tri-dimensional Holo-fields sprang to life before him, displaying the results of Multi-Dimensional Probe sweeps and Null-Feedback Array scans upon a representation of the Galaxy. Without thought, Trazyn's optics found themselves dragged to the projected source of the disturbance as it flashed with markings and symbols that a part of him, a part of every Necron that had lived to the current era, dearly hoped to never see again. Eyes still locked on the projection, Trazyn gestured at empty air as a thought-command rang out through the empty chamber as ancient algorithms flashed into activity and the images before him shifted. Information flashed across a dozen surfaces as a wave-signature analysis appeared to one side of him and was immediately picked apart, compared to a vast database of other such signatures as the image of the Galaxy resolved to show a single Human Sector of space.
Even with his eyes still fixed on the flashing markings that circled one particular system, a part of him hoped that he was wrong. Hoped that this was merely a false alarm, like it had been when the 'War of the Beast', as the Humans had called it, had erupted within range of their Imperium. And, as such, that no match would be found within the extensive archives that he had personally collected and compiled over the course of the most devastating conflict that this Galaxy had ever seen. However, the ancient skills and instincts of the primordial warrior-overlord flashed back to the foreground of his mind, bypassing layers of broken psyche to remind him that reality rarely cared for one's hopes and dreams, only for what was.
As such, when the program finished comparing the image with the database, it pulsed at the completion of its task, he felt a complete lack of surprise to find out that reality had found yet more ways to horrify him.
"Oh, dear..." Finally having managed to tear his eyes away from the signal source projection, Trazyn looked at the comparison and felt a new well-spring of dread rise up from the depths of his existence. Had he been a mortal Human, he was sure that a very real sweat would have decorated his brow as he gazed upon the visage of an enemy that should have been cast into oblivion long ago.
Urim Xurek, The Oncoming Apocalypse; Prime-Marshal of the Shattered Stars War-Horde; High Marshal of the Krork Hordes; High Enforcer of the Seth'nal Dominance.
Out of all the possible Krork that could have made a reappearance in the current era, Urim Xurek was, without a doubt, the most horrifying possibility of all horrific possibilities that had ever existed among the multitudes of Krork. Rumored to have been the very first Krork every created by the Seth'nal, he had craved his place in the annals of history through blood, death and devastation on such a scale that even the much-degenerated Aeldari, sixty-five million years later, still remembered him as Dra'klix'va, 'The Beast of Apocalypse', within their mythos. It was a name well-earned during the harshest fighting of the War In Heaven, as it was now known, as the conflict rapidly escalated beyond the capabilities of any of the current eras races and reached a point where entire stellar bodies being thrown around as literal projectiles by both sides was often considered a mundane and common occurrence. And the less said about the regular creation of Compressed Time-Space schisms, Ultra-aggressive Pangeanic Parasite-Ecosystems, Hypergiant-sized Eradication vessels, Empyrean-Fueled Cataclysm Triggers, and even worse things, the better...
Still, forcing his thoughts away from the horrors of the War In Heaven, and the many, many weapons of genocide that had been created as a result, Trazyn turned back towards the sector map as a thought-query caused fresh information to spring into existence around it, refreshing old memories. A single metallic hand cupped his chin, a digit lazily tracing a line across his chin even as he continued reading over the information, leaving nothing out as the Archaeovist forced his eyes not to look at the grinning visage of the Krork Warlord.
"Ah yes, the Imhoshet Dynasty... How far they have fallen..." Trazyn commented with a slight sense of sadness to him as he mourned the loss of so many priceless artifacts, having finished reviewing the data collected by far-reaching Probe sweeps. Looking back on it, Trazyn could still remember the zenith of the Imhoshet Dynasty, well known and renowned for the great skill of their vast legions of Crypteks that called the dynasty their home, swearing fealty to the Phaerakh-Cryptek that was as much ruler as they were teacher. As such, it was a truly sad sight to see the reality of what had become of them as Trazyn looked upon the maps of what once was the territory of the Imhoshet Dynasty, seeing how degraded it had become as a result of time's progression.
Of the dozens of worlds that once fell under the commander of the mighty Phaerakh of the Imhoshet, only the Crownworld of the dynasty had survived to see the current era, and even that wasn't left untouched. Some sleeping Tomb Worlds had been destroyed by cosmic happenstance, either by collisions with other stellar bodies, or by the destruction of the stars themselves, while others were obviously the work of a third party. The vastly degenerated descendants of the Aeldari were the most obvious candidate for being the responsible party, as the repeated sweeps showed lingering traces of very distinct Aetheric-tainted signatures in the regions surrounding the former worlds. Not that the actual method used was of any importance, as Trazyn had long since lost count of the lists of various techniques, rituals and relics that had been gifted to the Aeldari by the Old Ones. This was especially true since Trazyn knew that a fair majority of these Aetheric conduit-arts had the capability to do something as simple as devastate a planetary body, let alone destroy one in its entirety. And that was without mentioning the capabilities of even the malfunctioning remnants of the Krork that had plagued the Galaxy since the end of the War.
Nevertheless, such things were of little importance in the grand scheme of things, especially when confronted by the very real likelihood that the Krork might yet return to rampage across the stars. Such a possibility had never been something the Archaeovist had ever entertained. Even during the height of the 'War of the Beast' that the Human Imperium had fought, the resurgence of the Krork had been an impossibility, their Psi-Matrix too damaged and distorted to allow a fresh crop of the Spore-Beasts to be summoned into existence.
At least, it had been. Until now.
Against all odds and likelihoods, the greatest of all Krork had returned to brutalize the face of existence once more, even if only for a short amount of time, before being cast back into the tattered remains of their collective Psi-Matrix. However, as surprising as the sudden appearance of the High Marshal had been, it was the suddenness of the High Marshal's banishment back to the Krork under-consciousness that had attracted the greater portion of Trazyn's attention. Even starved of conflict-energy after his long entombment within the Krork Psi-Matrix and lacking access to even sub-standard Krork technologies, Trazyn didn't think that the Oncoming Apocalypse would have been an easy victory by any standard. Indeed, if given even a quarter of a planetary rotation to prepare, Trazyn doubted that any empire of the current era would have been able to stop the High Enforcer once he got going.
And yet, something had done just that.
Another seeming impossibility, pointing at either the resurgence of something capable of fighting the Krork on even terms, or the rise of a new power entirely. The former option was unlikely, as Trazyn knew that any power capable of doing so was long dead and gone. The latter, on the other hand...
Immediately, his thoughts jumped to the potential of the latter option as great Prediction-Engines stirred from their silent contemplations and began processing the probabilities based on the initial info-take. At the same time, thought-commands caused new panels of false-light to appear around him, displaying the more generalized sensor sweeps that focused less on the sudden resurgence of Krork. Distance remained the greatest barrier in acquiring accurate information, but the planetary sensor arrays of Solemnace were powerful enough to allow for something to be gleaned from the distant system. Images were difficult to generate, but what they represented caused a new sense of eagerness to bubble up inside of his Necrodermis frame. Ghost-like apparitions appeared, vague in detail, but showing a strong outline of constructs that ran the gauntlet of body-forms and sizes making war upon the more concrete images of warriors from almost every squabbling empire that now stalked the stars.
Events played out in a chronicle of battle and death that had been contained within this singular system, ranging from hopeless last stands to turning points in otherwise futile conflicts. Courage, glory, valor, devastation, destruction, and the struggle between life and death played out on screen-planes that filled the chamber around him with the latest visage to enter the constant struggle for supremacy of the stars. Images of the last moments of hopeless last stands hung in the air next to epic duels that would have been remembered for hundreds of generations, if survivors had lived to speak of them. Experience from viewing the course of history as it was written spoke to him, telling him that this was a turning point in history that would change the flow of events yet to come. It was a summation that he was inclined to agree with as his eyes fixed on the distorted image of the battle between titans that had heralded the rebirth and death of the Krork High Marshal.
In that instant, a decision crystallized within Trazyn's mind as he suddenly turned away from the images and stalked from the chamber as thought-commands raced through the Nodal Command Network of his Galleries. Orders went out, calling for the gathering of fresh forces for a new Acquisition-Expedition and for vessels to be readied with all due haste as maps were consulted for the most expedient route to his newest quarry.
Stepping out of the chamber, Trazyn felt filled with fresh eagerness as images of new displays filled his mind, detailing the emergence of this new addition to the Galactic playing board and the wondrous artifacts that he might acquire from them in due time.
XXX
The Wych's Desires
The pain smothered every sense, rippling over every nerve and cascading through every last segment of her flesh. It was nearly impossible to think clearly and every thought that did come was laced with the same pain that caused every movement to feel like a fresh blade being shoved into her body. Even something as simple as breathing brought fresh agony with every gasp of breath that she inhaled and exhaled, sending it shivering over her lungs. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before; like nothing she had felt in over seven centuries of raiding, pillaging, murdering, and slaughter-performing.
And she was loving every single moment of it, as the pain-pleasure assaulted her.
Orizae Laerhthera, Hekatrix of the Cult of Strife, barely remembered how she had gotten into her current situation and, honestly, she didn't really care. All she truly remembered was the flash of soul-agony that had screamed across the land, filling her very being with a fresh echo of suffering from both herself and those around her. It had invigorated her, filling her essence with a soul-invigorating energy even as it left her and her comrades twitching on the ground, barely capable of even thinking straight, let alone moving in a coordinated fashion. It had taken time for her senses to return to her, not helped by the constant application of yet more of that delicious agony-bliss that filled the air around her, causing it to quiver with the rapture of those trapped within it.
Indeed, as far as Orizae could see, dozens of other Wyches filled the same vast chamber as herself, held aloft in the air by a web of metallic threads that held them in bondage, as naked as the day they were born. Wrists, ankles, waists and necks were all held firmly by woven ropes of living threads that caressed their pale skin one moment before puncturing through their skin, weaving through it and spreading across their bodies. In her moments of lucidity, she had seen it happen as threads spread through the bodies of other Wyches, making them look like a patchwork of flesh and squirming worms until it eventually covered their entire body in a layer of liquid darkness. Even at her most lucid, Orizae had no idea as to how long she had been left strung up within the vast chamber, held aloft like some kind of trophy, but she knew that every Wych in the chamber, herself included, had experienced this envelopment at least once before being released from it, only for the cycle to start all over again.
It was a process that she had long since come to enjoy as questing threads toyed with her body, bending and twisting her body as far as her restraints would allow even as they invaded every aspect of her physical form. Before she had been exposed to the pain-pleasure of it for so long, Orizae was sure that she would have considered it as some form of violation, something to be held in disgust even if it held its own kind of appeal.
However, that was no longer the case. It hadn't been the case for quite a while, both because she didn't think of it as such, and because she was no longer allowed to think of it as such.
Just as her body was being violated by techno-animated threads, she knew that the same was happening to her mind even as she took a moment to enjoy a fresh buzz of agony that filled the chamber, along with the ecstatic screams of her fellows. Questing tendrils of a multitude of mind-worm slithered through her brain, distorting memories and twisting beliefs she had held her entire life until they didn't even resemble their origins. Memories had long since turned grey as any enjoyment she might have taken in them was slowly siphoned from her until they seemed to be nothing more than a running commentary of blandness. The joy of a fresh slaughter-hunt; The amusement of seeing shocked slaves being put in their place; The thrill of the death-contests in the Crucibael. All that and more slipped away from her, along with any will to resist as the soul-agony filled her with pulsating waves of fresh torment as she was slowly submerged into an ocean of pain-tinged apathy.
However, just on the edge of being completely submerged in apathy, a new light had shined as Orizae had found a new purpose implanted within her: To serve.
Ideas and concepts bombarded her cerebral cortex, creating associations that infiltrated her thoughts and set her nerves aflame with new possibilities. Old desires were discarded as much by choice as they were by the systematic reconstruction of her entire being to form the new bedrock of her existence. New emotions were slowly connected to old memories, causing her to look at her former life with a mixture of shame and disgust as she looked back on the moments of eager slaughter that had once been all that she knew, all that she was. However, the illusion of joy had long since been stripped away, leaving only the stark reality of her life behind, drowning her in the fact that she had not been, had never been, truly living. Her life had merely been a series of connected events, linked by her continued survival from one moment to the next as she indulged in the blood-sports of her people to hide that fact from herself, just as her fellow Wyches and Drukhari did.
It was this forced epiphany that made her so eager to accept this new purpose that was being gifted to her, as it offered the potential to do more than just survive from moment to moment. It offered the chance for her to truly live beyond the ever-present fear of She Who Thirsts, a fear that had long since consumed the entirety of the Drukhari and reduced them to a pack of pain-addicts eager to find more victims to torture. It offered the chance to do more than simply survive, but to live and thrive beyond the confines of the dark corners of the Webway and to step into the light of the stars as something more than a pack of fearful raiders. A path had been made available to her, one that offered the chance to once more roam the Galaxy and bathe in the light of existence with a head held high, standing as a giant and bringing forth a new era where she could live.
And yet, it was a path that demanded that sacrifices needed to be made in order to walk it, conditions that needed to be met or the path would forever be beyond her reach. In exchange for all that was offered, and more, Orizae had to give both her eternal obedience and loyalty to the one that had gifted her such enlightenment, swearing herself to them in every way that mattered, in mind, body and soul.
It was an offer that she would have spat upon in the past, sneering and blustering at the prospect of being insulted with such an offer even as she reveled in her indulgence, too lost to truly understand what was being offered. However, the Orizae that existed with her eyes open knew better, and had long since accepted the offered path with both hands and a heart filled with eagerness as the possibilities of the future assaulted her senses. The deal had been struck and oaths had been sworn without a second thought, sealing a new pact even as Orizae's body had experienced new heights under the ministrations of her new Lord and Master, a reward for making the right choice.
The Wych had no way of knowing how much time had passed since then, and she really didn't care. She had long since moved beyond the point of no return, and celebrated that fact as her body jolted under the treatment being inflicted upon it.
It was a promising start to what promised to be a beautiful future...
XXX
The Farseer's Nightmares
Jolting upright, Farseer Farlas Menermen couldn't stop himself from gasping for air as his arms flung themselves forwards, throwing his blanket away from him and exposing his shaking body to the darkened room. Heart thundering in his ear, Farlas could barely think straight for even a second as sweat coated his entire body, making it awkward to move as both his bedding and nightwear clung to him. Deep breaths followed, the mental discipline of centuries trying with little success to reassert order upon both his mind and body. His flesh rebelled at the call for calm, still locked in the embrace of a fight-or-flight response that refused to recede, even though he knew that no such danger dwelled within his bedchamber, of all places.
Unfortunately, mortal terror had a way of overriding even the most strongly held beliefs, such as thoughts of safety and the knowledge that that one was within a safe haven from danger. Even awake, he still felt it; It's dreadful claws digging into his being and filling it with a sense of looming danger, as if death awaited him the moment he stepped forth from his chambers. It was irrational, but this was the kind of fear that transcended such limitations, moving into the hysteric, and the only reason he hadn't started breaking down into peals of laughter was due to the same mental discipline that had failed to keep his body still. In fact, if he hadn't had such a vast array of experience behind him, he was almost certain that he would have been driven to madness by what he had witnessed, trapped within the vision-nightmare as he had been. And even out of it, the images he had seen...
Slowly, carefully, Farlas turned to sit upon the edge of his bedding and placed his feet upon the floor, each movement pulling fabric with him as it clung to his sweat-coated skin before falling off when its own weight overcame the adhesive effects of his sweat. Pushing himself up, he stood on unsteady limbs for a long moment before he found his balance and moved deeper into his chambers, passing through a portal to another room. Almost as soon as he passed the threshold, an arm swung out and fingers pressed into the smooth walls of this new chamber, projected will caused light to slowly fade into existence until it reached an acceptable level to see the bathing chambers he now stood within. Without a second thought, he moved away from the entryway before standing by the washing basin as another combination of projected commands and physical contact caused the deep bowl-like sink to slowly fill with cold, yet pure, water. Another command followed, causing it to stop for an instant as he reached in with both hands, scooping up great handfuls of the life-giving liquid before splashing it against his face in an effort to gain some kind of clarity of thought.
Such a thing did not come easily, requiring another three such repetitions before he finally was able to feel his body relax from the instinctive terror he had been feeling during the deepest throes of his horror-dream as cold hands pressed against his face. Slowly, he pulled his hands down before placing them on the edges of the bowl to support his weight before finally looking up at the mirror that hung in front of him, something he had pointedly not looked at until this point. Something that he should have continued to do, as he saw what looked back.
In the mirror, he saw himself looking back, but his face was fixed in a haunted expression, gaunt and harrowed by the experience of the past night-cycle. It was only thanks to the knowledge that he was looking in a mirror, and that he could recognize his own features on the thin-faced aberration before him, that prevented him from reeling back in a returning surge of animalistic fear. Instead, he took a deep breath as his grip tightened around the edges of the bowl as he marshaled his thoughts, peeling back the layers of his own mind to pull back the cataclysmic images he had seen during his restless night. Even without prompting, the images were there, vivid and horrible as they loomed like some dark obelisk of black suffering impaled through his mind, bringing back the more primal sensations that he had thought long excised from his being beyond the bare minimum.
"Focus...!" The word was spat out of Farlas' mouth like a shot of pure venom, eyes closed as he barged through the fields of survival-drive revulsion that surrounded the mental construct. Even as he did so, he hated it, hated having to do it, but knew it was required. Even though he could remember the scenes with memory alone, he needed to be sure of what he had witnessed and verify that such images were not the work of at least one of the many enemies his people had acquired over the long eons they had existed for, either directly or indirectly. He had to determine whether or not it was just a flight of fancy, so to speak, and if it could be safely ignored, despite how stomach-turning the contents of it was.
However, regardless of the need, the process was anything but pleasant. Each mental step closer caused ancient animal instincts to surge ever more strongly and made him want to turn around, to abandon his self-appointed task and choose ignorance over knowledge. A coat of fresh sweat coated his skin as he grew closer and closer to the monument of ill-omens as an aura of dreadful suspense filled the area around it. By the time he was able to reach out and touch it, he could feel it almost looming over him with a savage leer, almost taunting him with its contents and waiting to draw whatever amusement it could from his own reactions. Finally, the distance was closed, a finger of aetheric energies reacting out and touching it and...
Suddenly, he was back there, in the nightmare-vision.
All around him, the world-illusion he stood upon was dead and barren. The sky was overcast by thick clouds of ash, reds and browns showing through occasionally as the clouds shifted on an unfelt wind, yet never stayed visible for long. The ground around him was devoid of life, covered in cracked mud and rocks coated in a spider's web of cracks that all looked like they had been thrown around by some giant throwing a temper tantrum. From horizon to horizon, there was nothing: No landmarks; No changes in the terrain; Nothing that could be used to distinguish one part of the empty plain from any other part. A dead world, in every way that could be counted, but one that seemed to hold some significance beyond it's obvious appearance. Even through the dream-vision, Farlas could feel the latent potential in the air in anticipation of what was to come, like the moments leading up to a grand climax as events unraveled themselves.
That thought had barely a heartbeat to crystallize within his mind before he felt it, just as much as he saw it: The beginnings of the climax.
From opposing horizons they came, their sheer size giving the illusion of slowness even as the land was slowly consumed under them as battle lines stretched into forever. With an almost liquid-like motion, armies of titanic sizes flowed over the landscape as they drew closer, ripping the mirage of lethargy away as individual figures became visible within the seething oceans of individual bodies. Details slowly became more pronounced as sounds became audible under the omnipresent cacophony of armor-clad feet slamming to the hard, compacted soil below. It was these details that the Farseer focused on, memorizing everything as best he could in the hope of finding the threads that bound it all together. Such was his focus on his self-appointed task that the Farseer hardly noticed when his perspective shifted, no longer on the ground, but floating above it and in position to witness the coming battle as it unfolded. Even so, Farlas took note of it, knowing all too well that even the most minor of details could make all the difference when one reweaves the threads of fate.
Looking to one side, Farlas observed the beings as they approached, unleashing war-cries that thundered through the air as they stampeded forwards with an unceasing momentum and eagerness for the coming battle. Even then, an aura of near-palpable age, forgotten purpose, murderous joy and unrelenting fury hung thickly over them like a burial shroud, the former two only being made more apparent by the rust that covered them from head to toe, even going so far as to encrust their weapons and armor. Immediately, his thoughts sought a label that was thrust to the forefront of his mind as he watched the Rust-Beasts marching onwards, utterly unbothered by their degraded state as they surged towards the battle they so eagerly sought. Watching them further, the comparison with a rusted weapon cemented itself within his mind as the signs of ill-maintenance became more apparent with proximity, as did the warping effects in their underlying substance. Poorly maintained and badly damaged weapons, he mentally corrected himself, as he watched them thunder forwards to meet their chosen opponent on the fields of death. However, even with their poor state, hints of the underlying substance still peered through to reveal the core of something far greater, something far grander. Something far, far more dangerous than these brutish Rust-Beasts could ever hope to be.
Having finished his examination of one force, he turned his attention towards the other side of the battlefield... And immediately failed to suppress the slight wince of pain at what he saw. Unlike the Rust-Beasts, the Others moved over the landscape like one mind scattered through many bodies, each composed of a jagged-edged nightmare-form that hurt to look at and changed ever-so-slightly with every heartbeat. Eyes of glowing sapphire were the only aspect that remained the same between each of the nightmare-forms as they oozed across the landscape, glimmering with a cold intelligence that spoke of alien purpose. They came in their multitudes, skittering, crawling, stalking, marching, slithering, flying and tumbling across the barren lands and forming into a living carpet of alien geometrics that spiraled out into fractal dances that were just one more weapon in the arsenal of the Others. Something that, even with the restriction of being unable to look at the Others directly, was unable to hide the fact that they did not lack weapons even if their exact forms seemed to shift between the blinks of an eye. And yet, for all their alien presence, the Farseer couldn't help but feel that such was only a prelude to things to come.
Pulling his attention back to himself, Farlas watched as the distance between both armies shrunk ever-more quickly as the promise of death gripped both sides of the coming conflict. In that moment, the Farseer couldn't help but see the comparison between both sides, as though he was looking at two groups that were some kind of dark parody of each other, created unknowingly by distant craftsmen that had echoed each other. On one side, ancient weapon-beasts that had long since lost their original purpose, while alien horror-constructs stood on the other, holding the promise of many dread-incarnations to come. However, the Eldar Farseer wasn't allowed to contemplate such things for long, as he was dragged from his thoughts as the two opposites finally met.
Instantly, battle began between the two opposing sides as the vision-realm around his dissolved into a cacophony of brutal combat as bodies slammed into one another. Bestial fury met cold efficiency as bodies started falling to the ground in an ever-growing clash between monsters. Rust-Beasts killed razor-edged nightmares, smashing them to pieces or blowing them apart, only to get the same treatment in turn as more bodies marched to fill the gaps created by the dead and dying. Rust-Beasts fell in a shower of rust-flakes that danced on unseen winds as they faded to nothing, carried off in every direction before landing on the ground and seeming to take root, growing into profane caricatures of plant-life that burst to release a fresh crop of Rust-Beasts with weapons in hand as some unknown energy danced across them all. Fragments of fallen weapons were picked up by others, molded into new shapes and assimilated into existing weapons and armor, becoming more as the accumulated battle-lust turned simple clubs, swords and projectile launchers into devices of increasing lethality. Other creations were formed from the remains of friend and foe alike, built with no sense of direction, but clearly manufactured for war and death as they charged the fluctuating frontlines, through forests of rust-encrusted flora that sprang up around them.
Others met them on the shifting battlelines and offered no quarter as they advanced into the roaring tides of the Rust-beasts, meeting them with silence and alien efficiency, killing and being killed in equal measure. The dead of both sides were devoured by any nightmare-form within reach, causing the feeder to shift and change at a faster rate as it visibly changed to fit some greater role as new, more alien, mechanisms spawned within them. Fractal growths spread across the ground as they marched for war, forming spires that quickly stretched up above the ever growing death-battle between two never-tiring Titans of war as the battle continued to grow further and further with each passing moment. Further back from the frontlines, Others crawled over one another, forming mountains of bodies pressed into one another, merging into conjoined constructs of towering horrors that advanced in the same dreadful silence, only amplified into something greater. Existence itself seemed to whimper and pull back at their passage, terrified as the oblivion-tainted beings moved without apparent interest in the suffering they caused.
Even as he watched, Farlas could see the conflict growing more intense as seconds passed by and the bodies started to coat the ground. Alien and eldritch designs flowered across the landscape, forming a sharp divide between the two factions as the contrast between the rust-coated flora played against the non-Euclidean geometries of the Others. Both growing taller and taller as pits were ripped into the ground, blasted by increasingly potent weapons being deployed by both sides. Looking up, the Farseer could only marvel as he saw that even the sky wasn't left untouched as flocks of Rust-fighters battled swarming clouds of nightmare-things that stretched out to form clouds of liquid blackness. Above even that, storm clouds gathered to form a blanket of angry darkness that rippled with unseen energy, bolts of furious lightning dancing behind layers of omnipresent vapor that stabbed down towards the earth below. Discharges of energy lanced into both sides, sending corpses flying through the air, but having little effect on either faction as both paid their dead little attention as the weather continued to worsen.
Absently, Farlas couldn't help but wonder if such a thing was the doing of a God, weeping for a future yet to come as the downpour began with vigor, just as he remembered it would. However, such idle musings were quickly pushed to one side as he braced himself, knowing what was coming even as the future-echo seemed to flutter through his thoughts without care.
Almost immediately, water pooled across the battlefield, turning solid earth into slick mud drenched in numerous foul substances. Rust floated on ever-shifting tides that were disturbed with every footstep as the less identifiable fluids of the Others mingled in crater lakes that dotted the battle lines. Monstrous ecosystems formed from the lifeblood of the dead and dying, feeding on the energies of war as they pooled at the feet of warriors that continued to fight tooth and nail for their existence, for their right to exist. Lightning flashed overhead, striking some distant segment of the battlefield and illuminating the happenings of what was within his sight, showing shells in the air, the sky filled with fire and the ground covered in nothing but death. However, it was in this moment of illumination that Farlas saw the terrible truth, just as he had previously, as the shine of polished steel caught his attention. His attention caught, Farlas could only offer a near-silent prayer as his head involuntarily ratcheted to one side until the source dominated his vision with all the looming grace of an executioner's blade.
It was a Rust-Beast, and yet, it wasn't.
The rain poured and he could see the lingering traces of its rust-coated shell, but it was clearly something else as the lightning danced in the heavens above, gifting him with flickers of insight as silver skin shined with a near-mirror finish as barnacles of rust seemed to slosh off its immaculate figure. No longer distorted or ill-maintained, this new being was one of immaculate craftsmanship, forged with great skill and knowledge as it hefted weapons and armor clearly superior to everything around it. Immediately, it's presence was felt as it stepped onto the battlefield, towering over its kin and growing taller with every moment as it smashed into the lines of the Others, causing them to pause and pull back in seeming stupefaction at the sudden turn of events. Others quickly joined it, shedding their rust-shells and becoming something else entirely, carrying a history that seemed to weigh done on him and all of reality like a near-physical thing as they marched for war.
With the introduction of these new... Steel-beasts, the dynamic changed as Farlas watched the first of them smash into the battlelines of the Others. Bodies were sent flying as bolts of energy pierced through multiple false-bodies and turned them to flickering scrap as the Others reacted, their many bodies reeling back from the sudden change as the Mind-Of-All seemed to pause in thought. It was a faint thing, but the Farseer knew he saw it as the Others paused for a single heartbeat before their movements continued once more, having collected themselves before turning their attention to the new threat they faced. In the background, he watched as the Other's response formed from the withering body-piles that pressed in on themselves until only a single form emerged from them.
Bodies of ever more alien geometrics and reality-fraying dimensions stepped out from the compressed skittering limbs as they marched for war, their successors quickly following behind them, becaming more and more difficult to look at with each successive 'generation'. Stepping onto the battlefield, they were met by the towering forms of Steel-beasts, no longer confined to the frames of their smaller Rust-brethren, having grown to gargantuan sizes and clad in devices of supreme lethality.
The light of the world seemed to fade as more and more of these death-dealing titans marched from their twisted wombs. The skies above him darkened as the air filled with flying chariots and ever-twisting caricatures of once-majestic flying creatures. Quickly, a band of death formed, submerging the illusion-world in a darkness that was only illuminated by the next muzzle flash, the next death-scream, the next explosion or the next thundering war-cry.
However, even they soon disappeared, leaving him in a realm of complete and total darkness, accompanied by a living silence so loud that it hurt. Pain filled his mind, only growing stronger as he clung to the reenactment of his original vision. A need to be sure warred with the ever increasing desire to flee, to escape the pain he was enduring in an effort to ensure that no detail escaped his notice, no matter how minor it might have seemed. For a short eternity, he watched as nothing changed, his existence isolated into the painful void of darkness that surrounded him as agony only grew stronger, gnawing at his nerves and chewing at his thoughts.
Fortunately, his pain and perseverance was rewarded as, upon reaching its zenith, the blistering agony that set his nerves aflame disappeared with a suddenness that left him off balance for a pair of heartbeats. In that instant, he could think clearly enough to spot the pair of faceless idols floating before him, having appeared in silence with icons carved into them. The one on the left held an aura of palpable age and power, tarnished copper formed into a leering skull, teeth grit together into a hungry grin as tusks extended up from the upper jaw as if to give the entire icon an edge of demented, predatory hunger. It was an image that caused memories to stir within his mind, a resemblance with icons the Farseer knew very well being present, but the actual relation escaping him as he tried to reacquire his mental equilibrium.
Unlike the grinning skull, the icon on the right was a thing of sharp simplicity formed from an arrangement of thick, parallel lines shaped into a diamond within a diamond of dark grey imprinted within the blackened material of the idol. It's aura held no sense of power or the stain of ages that it had borne witness too, nothing yet tainted this icon beyond the sense of identity that its creators had bestowed upon it. However, even with that lack of age, it still carried an imprint of its creators with it, a sense of a brutal efficiency and an intelligence that saw existence through the lenses of numbers, statistics and projections. No traces of honor, no lust for glory or recognition of great triumphs existed within the imprinted emblem. Merely a determination to see each task assigned carried out as efficiently and effectively as possible.
And then it was over.
The sound of glass breaking filled his ears as he blinked the light from his eyes. Farlas felt warm liquid running down his cheeks as he stared into the shattered remnants of what had once been a mirror, seeing the lines of crystallized blood that slowly leaked down his cheeks and jawline. Drops of his life-blood dripped down from his nose, leaking into his mouth and leaving it filled with the metallic after-taste of his own existence even as more of it dropped into the rippling pool of water within the sink. Crystal-clear water was quickly tainted with the bodily fluid, turning a diluted red as his eyes stared into the middle distance between himself and the shattered mirror before him, losing himself in the memories of the relived vision and the images that had been seared into his memory. Chief among those images was the two icons floating within the void.
Shaking his head, Farlas took a breath and focused his mind, feeling as wounds sealed shut and fresh blood ceased to pour from his body. A moment later, he felt what blood that had already escaped him evaporate within another flex of mental power, disappearing into component elements as he wiped a forearm under his nose. Even as he did so, he was already moving, leaving the bathing chamber behind as he grabbed for a nearby coat that hung from the wall and slipped on a pair of boots. Moments later, he was out the door of his chambers and moving at speed towards where he knew some of his fellows would be gathering to discuss the latest readings of the skeins.
Perhaps, with their aid, he would be able to avert whatever nightmare was yet to come...
XXX
Anarchy from Chaos
The Immaterium was in an uproar greater than had previously been thought possible.
Fate had been upturned.
Destiny had been denied.
Casuality had been subverted.
The plots and schemes of trillions upon trillions of beings, both mortal and immortal alike, had been torn to shreds as existence resounded with the echo of an impossibility. Many scrambled to try to salvage some semblance of their vast web of stratagems if only to ensure that the resources already sunk into them would not go to waste. Grand conspiracies, previously hidden from prying eyes for literal millennia, had been thrown into the light of day as other secrets had been torn from the shadows as well. The works of generations was being undone as previously unlikely events came to pass, made possible by the Fulcrum of Fate that had reverberated through the layers of existence, sending ripples cascading both forwards and backwards in time as well as space.
Across the Realms of Chaos, the consequences were felt as legions of Daemons continued to fight one another for the ascendancy of their Gods, a never-ending war between four facets of an impossible dimension that had just been introduced to yet another factor to the Great Game. Entire battlefields were abandoned as they ceased to exist, new lands growing to replace them as the situation shifted on an impossible axis as mortal worshippers begged for the intervention of their patrons. Entire legions disappeared from the warzones of the Great Game, dispatched to the material realm to safeguard the threatened power bases of their masters as battles raged on and previously unlikely timelines became the most likely to take place.
On Argova III, an Inquisitor who had previously been tracking a group of Hereteks found himself stumbling across the hiding places of a great cult dedicated to Slaanesh, hidden in the roots of a vast Hive complex. Previously, the Inquisitor would have missed the cult entirely, only finding the corpses of the Hereteks before swiftly joining them thanks to an unseen dagger to the heart. Now however, he found the Hereteks just in time to see them pass on their wares to the cultists of pleasure and pain, calling in reinforcements from far afield and mobilizing the planetary defenders. With their existence discovered, the cultists would arm themselves for battle, summoning forth the greater servants of their God into pitched battle, rather than the swift, sudden takeover that they had expected. The planet would become a warzone, conflict dragging on for years as fresh forces of Imperial Guardsmen and Space Marines would flow to the planet.
On Dravos VII, on the great basalt plains of the world, grand warbands dedicated to Khrone stood at the ready to do battle and spill the lifeblood of the Imperial defenders of the last Hive complex on the world. Imperial Guardsmen and PDF soldiers worked around the clock, reinforcing whatever meager defenses they had prepared for what they knew was coming. In the original timeline, the defenders would put up a furious, but ultimately futile defense before being overwhelmed by the Khronates capacity for bloodshed. However, in the aftermath of the Fate-Break, that was not to be. Unexpectedly, the Warp burst open above the world as asteroids encrusted with scrap-metal machines burst from the impossible realm and crashed to the world below. They would soon be followed by the titanic form of a Space Wolves Battle-Barge, one that had originally been seeking to slaughter the Orks before they could cause the planet to fall, but would serve ably against the servants of Ruin. As such, a quick slaughter rapidly devolved into a three-way slugfest between factions that refused to back down from a fight, a fight that would stretch on for some time.
On Venac Prime, cults dedicated to the Great Changer suddenly found their schemes coming undone as the sky rained fire and atomic fury down upon the world below as the jagged forms of Rak'Gol war-vessels came into focus. All of their careful calculations and schemes came undone as the Xenos marauders reduced a dozen settlements to nothing more than irradiated ash on the winds. Mushroom clouds slowly drifted through the air as entire Hive cities were subjugated to multiple direct hits from nuclear-fission weapons, fallout mixing with the potent pollution caused by the rampant industries of the Hives themselves. Even as the bombardment started, hordes of Rak'Gol quickly descended from orbit to partake in the slaughter, butchering anyone and anything that stood in their path. Their plans in ruins and panic sinking in, the cults rushed to find a solution even as the already-corrupted PDF fought to defend their secret masters under the guise of defending their world. Daemons were summoned from the Impossible Fortress of their God, pulled into existence in their multitudes, but their arrival was unable to change the course of events as they were buried under a horde of bloodthirsty monsters that cared nothing for their own dead.
On an unknown world on the edge of known space, a Warp Rift opened to deposit a fleet of Plague-ships back into the materium. Quickly, they travelled to the world they arrived at, searching for an ancient relic that they believed to be present, one dedicated to the Plague Father. However, instead of their prize, they found only damnation as their arrival had triggered the awakening of the Tomb World they had made land upon, causing the deathless legions of Necrons to stir from their slumber. The resulting battle was one of utter butchery, as Necron constructs assaulted them in waves that darkened the sky, tearing into the Chaos-Worshippers' corrupted flesh even as they tried to return to the safety of their vessels in space. They would never make it, and the Nurglite fleet would quickly follow them as it was annihilated by lances of Gauss energy piercing through their protections and reducing them to burning wrecks.
All this and more happened as a consequence of the Fate-Break, of the great Scream that coursed through the layers of existence and caused the predicted path of the future to veer off-course in unpredictable directions. Victories, stalemates and defeats were shifted into a state of flux, leaving them impossible to guess until after the final outcome was decided. Diviners the Galaxy over, whether they be Xenos, Servants of the Imperium, or Seekers of Ruin, found themselves with no clear answers even as the after-echo of the Scream continued to meander through the Immaterium for an eternity and a heartbeat.
And throughout it all, the Gods were not silent or subtle with their reactions.
Within the Palace of Pleasure, Slaanesh raved and roared it's anger to the world in six by six impossible languages, every consonant and vowel that left it's lips forming a new Daemon as the Handmaidens of the Dark Prince ran for cover, none willing to try to calm their master down, lest they become the target of their rage. Dozens of Legions were recalled, summoned back from the Great Game before being launched into the fraying webs of mortal worshippers in a futile attempt to reach for whatever the Lord of Pleasure desired. However, each denial and failure only served to send the Dark God into an even greater towering rage even as it kept trying, as was the nature of Excess and its quest for more.
Elsewhere, in the Garden of Nurgle, the Dark God of the same name giggled and chuckled as equal parts hope and despair filled the Galaxy anew. Stirring his cauldron as new plagues and pathogens bubbled up from the murky depths of the primordial soup, the Plague god continued his dreadful work as the cycle of life and death continued to unfold around him. Likewise, his servants continued to carry out their tasks with joy as worlds fell into the embrace of Grandfather Nurgle, or banished his touch altogether. Either way, all would know of his influence upon them as they continued to fight for their continued survival, serving him even in their defiance. It was a sight that brought a joyful chuckle from his rotten lips, causing layers of diseased blubber to shake and dislodge tiny Carrion-feeders with every motion even as he continued to stir his cauldron, processing the raw warp-matter to create yet another batch of infections to gift to the mortals of the materium.
Further afield, inside his Impossible Fortress, The Great Conspirator raged and raged at the destruction of its countless schemes as it's chosen realm changed to reflect the bitter fury that coursed through its master. Daemons of all kinds ran for cover as the landscape mutated into forests of razor-edged flames, mounds of mouth-in-hand ended tendrils, Daemon-eating bookshelves, and a dozen other things besides. Inside the Fortress itself, any Daemon that caught the sight of the Architect of Fate instantly became the latest target of the Dark God's frustration, being blasted by Warp energies and mutated in ever more diverse and interesting ways. Dozens found themselves unfortunately transmuted, being turned into shapes and biologies that should not have existed as the Changer of Ways slowly calmed down. The latest of which ended up being turned into some bizarre and unknowable combination of a unicycle, a Platypus, an Octopus, a semi-melted bar of butter, and the demented cousin of a wrench. However, once it calmed down, the sound of mad giggling could be heard from within the inner Sanctum of Tzeentch as it realized that it now had a blank canvas upon which to construct a ninety-nine-thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine new plots, schemes and deceptions.
Finally, within his Brass Fortress and upon his Throne of Skulls, Khrone's laughter filled the air with a sense of amusement, and bloodlust, and excitement, and dread. In every direction, and no direction at all, the sound reverberated across the realm of the Blood God as it laughed at the newest twist in the Great Game, but saw no cause for concern. After all, even with the future in question, blood was still being shed by the mortals of the Materium, of both worshippers and otherwise. And, as long as blood flowed from the flesh of mortals, battles and death continued to soak the various realms of existence, and skulls continued to be presented to his Throne, Khorne could care less for the ill-fortunes of schemers across the Galaxy.
As such, in the aftermath of the Scream, a great many things changed, but also stayed the same.
Such was the nature of Chaos as the thirsting Gods continued to laugh...
XXX
AN: And so, the dominos fall...
Keep in mind, there is a second part of this in the works, so there is something to look forwards to. Still, hope you enjoyed this little interlude and as always, feel free to leave comments, feedback and discuss away.
Cheers.