AN: Hey all, I'm cyberattaq. This is the prologue to a story I've wanted to tell for quite some time. I enjoy writing, and have been absolutely fascinated with the ideas of the second and eleventh legions for a long, long time. This story will tell their tales, hopefully well. Enjoy the prologue.
PROLOGUE: A DARK COUNCIL OF FOUR
Empyric waves wash, slosh, and froth in an angry, furious miasma. A diaspora of raging, alternating, chaotic colors. A deep blue, a furious red, a sickly and pallid green, a sensual violet. So many more, so much more depth that the mortal mind could not comprehend. The Warp in its vast, infinite rage and depth seized and shook as the rage of a thousand times a thousand daemons screamed out. The so called 'gods' of this hellish realm screamed their rage to all that could, and would hear. It was the rage of those who had been cheated, it was the rage of such ancient and eternal beings having been tricked, it was the rage of gods who had had their fire stolen.
Upon an ancient long forgotten rock suspended in an unknown but central part of that infinite and hellish realm, four thrones sat idle. Abandoned, decrepit, cold to the touch in this vast and dead space. A throne of brass and iron, placed upon a mountain of skulls sits across from a throne of depraved design. Devices of pleasure surround it, its metal is wrought with strange and pleasurable faces imaged inside of it, screaming, crying, moaning and other disturbing imagery. Adjacent to this thrones left is a throne of innumerable tomes, floating and whispering their dark secrets to whoever would listen, arcane runes humming across its armrests. The throne shifts and alters its form, never one thing, never another, always something in between. Across from this ever-changing throne is that of decay and stagnation, putrid boils and flies emerging from fetid, pestilent sacks of decaying flesh that grows, popping, and changing.
How long these thrones sat empty, awaiting their masters, none knew. How long they awaited their next convergent meeting, none knew. Yet despite sitting for an incalculable time empty, they are suddenly occupied.
A hound, a collared chain of still scorching, red hot iron piercing its next with spikes, eyes glowing red, maw salivating with blood occupies the throne of skulls.
A raven, eyes glowing blue, body never settling and constantly mutating, lands upon the headrest of the arcane throne.
A toad, corpulent and disease ridden, manifests from gnats, flies, and disease upon the decaying throne.
A viper, purple of scale and with a sinister hiss wraps itself through one of the horrific devices, flitting its black tongue out as it settles upon the strange throne of pleasure.
The hound speaks first, voice transmitted through flaring fire, and glowing eyes.
+WE ARE PLAYED FOR FOOLS. HE HAS DECEIVED US.+ It rages, voice thundering with a deep baritone of pure wrath, the swirling miasma of empyric energy flaring with a deep crimson red. The snake flits its tongue again, a voice that is both feminine and masculine at the same time, soothing and deeply disturbing emanating, combating the red waves of energy with its own deep violet.
+Calm yourself, Hound. There will be a resolution, there always is…+ It trails off with a haughty and pretentious laugh. The Hound's throne flares again with a growl of wrath that seems ready to turn into a violent attack of warp energy, before the toad belches, a slow and sickly yet powerful voice calming both.
+The Anathema believes he has stolen our knowledge. Yet his Empire is founded upon a rotted frame… one provided by us… his downfall, and the downfall of his progeny is all but assured.+ It says, the crow squawking, an insane, gibbering voice cutting it off in protest.
+A plan without a plan without a plan is no plan at all! The Anathema must be stopped. There are many ways, ways are many, to destroy him and his foul offspring. We must choose, we must act!+ It babbles, the Hound growling and speaking again, it's voice just as loud and dominant as last time.
+ENOUGH. I PRESUME YOU HAVE A PLAN, CROW.+
+Of course, of course. Plans, always plans. Our powers together… plans, always plans. Wrath…+ it cocks its head towards the Hound.
+Decay…+ now looking at the Toad.
+Pleasure and pain…+ it squawks to the Viper. It hops on the throne, indicating itself.
+And schemes… together, we shall punish the deceitful Anathema. A fair deal we made him, a deal we made him was fair. To renege is to concede defeat, to renege is to welcome our wrath. Our wrath we will show him.+ it states, the other three agreeing in a glowering series of grunts and nods. The Toad speaks, its fat, corpulent tongue shooting out to catch and devour a fat disease bearing fly.
+All well and good… but how will we punish this liar…+ it grumbles.
+We will turn our knowledge against him. We will manipulate the product. We will change the outcome.+ It confidently squawks. The Toad seems in agreement, but not satisfied.
+You speak in circles, Crow. Speak the specifics of your… plan…+ it belches. The Crow's eyes flare, its heads multiplying for a second before hopping onto an armrest, books and tomes moving and shifting away from it. It giggles in an insane, gibbering manner, eyes multiplying as it speaks, humming a tune.
+Twenty becomes two less… Eighteen becomes Nine against Nine. The first two… the Lord of the Void, the Master of Law. Master of Law… a pointless title. Two fall first, half later. Plans upon plans. Upon plans are plans. + the Crow speaks, multiple voices speaking at once, some insane, some coordinated, some in between. The Viper giggles with a lustful tone, seeming to enjoy the implications.
+Brother against brother, son against son… the deceit is delicious. A betrayal of wrath, fueled by a plot of change, bolstered through pleasure and pain of divine quality, with a lasting presence to decay the Anathema's ever so lofty plans… I can taste the tears, the cries of confusion and suffering.+ Another sinister, sensual laugh of both the male and female voices echoes through the warp as the Viper slithers around the back rest of the throne, resting it's head upon a screaming iron-wrought skull.
The Hound barks, angered by the Viper's self-indulgence.
+SILENCE. WE ARE NOT HERE TO GLOAT. WE MUST ACT. I FIND THIS ACCEPTABLE.+
The council of four is silent for a moment, each glaring at one another. Hated rivals, hated enemies each and every one. Yet for this great purpose they would put aside their rivalries, their petty disputes and differences. This was the beginning of a great collaboration, this was the beginning of a cause since which there had never been such single minded support. The Anathema must die. He must be punished. For this, there would be no divisions. Finally the Toad belches again, speaking, a green miasma of disease sweeping across the rock and the surrounding ether.
+We will need an agent to manifest our will. Who is there to call upon. The First Made?+ it muses with glee. The Viper snorts, giggling.
+Silly Toad, the First Made would never agree. But the Second Made… He is loyal to us and us alone. Ambition is second to his loyalty, unlike the First.+ it remarks. The Crow bobs its head and squawks.
+Indeed! Indeed! The Second Made! The agent of our change, the agent of our will. He will be our instrument of wrath to dismantle the Anathema!+ it says in delight, hopping on the armrest with excitement. There is another pause, and then a consecutive, four way nod of heads (or in the Toad's case, chins). The Hound then speaks for the last time.
+I KNOW WHERE THE SECOND IS. WHERE IS HE TO BEGIN.+ it commands more than asks. The Viper then speaks for the last time itself.
+Send our wonderful tool to a dark, horrible planet… a place where he may begin his journey. Send him to Ryslax.+ it remarks. The Crow squawks for the final time in delight.
+Ryslax, where he will encounter one of the sons… a delightful choice, a choice of delight. Wonderful… wonderful!+ The Toad belches its last.
+It is settled. Let us begin.+
For a moment, there is nothing, then as suddenly as they had appeared, the otherworldly and sinister animal forms disappear without a trace. The thrones are dark and cold once again, once again but not for long awaiting their next convergence. Across time and space, across reality and existence itself, upon a world of little remark known as Ryslax, a saga of bloodshed would begin. A tale of bravery, of cowardice. A tale of love, and hatred. A tale of brotherhood, and broken bonds. A tale that speaks the history of a forgotten period and forgotten deeds. A tale that was a mere prologue to an event that would plunge the galaxy headlong into a state of furious, horrific, grimdark, never ending war.