A Legacy of Fire
The Scargiver rises from the field.
Ghost-pale, yet the day is not yet lost.
A warrior, of which war, she has not yet had her fill.
In service to the Motherworld, bred, not born, to kill.
A Child of Fire. Driven by faith, fury, and desire.
Seek not to entreat with the alien.
Do not buy their fruits, or sup from false wine.
Hollowed-out, soulless,
Creatures of nothing.
Fit for naught but flame.
The battle lost and won.
The earth scorched and salted.
Lo, behold, the barrenness of this place.
Heavy is the price in material cost,
But all subjects form the spirit of the Motherworld.
All kneel in supplication, unbidden,
With the descent of their king from on high.
Even the Scargiver, though her eyes dare wander.
To he at the king's side.
Tyrant. Monster. Father. Balisarius.
"Her eyes are strange," some whisper.
"Eyes that have seen much. In one iris, sorrow."
The glances are ignored, their scorn derided,
For she is a soldier of the Imperium.
A true Child of Fire.
This world but a ghost now.
Brought low by army of walking dead.
For how many of the Motherworld's children,
Can be said to truly be alive?
All play their part upon the stage, until unto stars they exit.
Yet a glance from the Child of Fire,
Beholds that which still burns, razed by Imperium's desire.
She knows this story well. A story remembered, if never told.
Known only by herself.
A world of light and laughter,
Now which rings in hollow ears.
Balls replaced by bombs.
Great works reduced to rubble.
Scargiver, she is called, but those which are deepest lie within.
Ghost of a world is left,
In flickering, pallid light
Of setting sun.
From the Imperium, she cannot run.
But how long, and to what darkness, does this bloody road lead?