I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.
Inspired by the Dornian Heresy, by Aurelius Rex.
Flawless
In the Segmentum Obscurus, far beyond the borders of Imperial space, there lies a world that was once inhabited by Humanity. Now, as Light's End resounds across the galaxy, it is no more than a tomb, its people slain, its cities brought to ruin. And scattered across these ruins are towering steles of smooth black stone, upon which are inscribed words written in a language that Imperial linguists would identify as having its roots in High Gothic. Scholars with access to some of the most secret Inquisitorial archives might even recognize it.
Here are these words.
In the beginning, there was the Host. Mighty beyond the reckoning of mortals, they were nonetheless exiles, fleeing from the destruction unleashed across the stars by a war greater than any before or since. Renegades and outcasts, wearing armors of purest black, they had come together under the leadership of the Warlord, son of the Highest's blood, who had turned against his sire as divine blood was spilled upon black sands.
Faced with devastation and ruin, caught between conflicting allegiances, the Host could not see the righteous path. But the Warlord offered them an alternative : that they be their own masters, and seek to build and preserve a kingdom of their own, a piece of Humanity that would be kept safe as madness and death stalked the galaxy in their manifold aspects. The Host gathered the grateful survivors of a dozen ruined worlds, and brought them far from the inferno that raged across the galaxy, to Haven. With the tools they had scavenged from broken machine-worlds, the Host turned a poisonous, nightmare-filled rock into a planet fit for Humanity, and scoured it clean of the monsters that infested it, leaving naught but titanic bones behind.
And so began the First Age. Under the guidance of the Host, the pilgrims built their civilization upon Haven, while their masters crafted a citadel of their own on the planet's moon, where they locked away the terrible weapons and engines of war they had found during their exodus. From this fortress, they kept an eye outward, prepared to defend Haven should the war ever find its way there.
But then, from across the depths of space, came whispers that the war from which the Host had fled had ended. Victory had been claimed by the one who sat upon the Throne of Pain, and the galaxy was being brought back under His indomitable will. The whispers reached the ear of the Warlord, who called for the Host to return to the fold, and bring Haven into the embrace of the dominion they had first been created to serve. And the Host hesitated, for they dreaded the wrath of the Throne they had abandoned, and the retribution He would inflict upon Haven.
The Lords of the Host were gathered by the Warlord in conclave, and there they turned against him, seeking to slay him before he could reveal the existence of Haven to the Throne. Yet the Warlord survived the treachery of his generals, and descended upon Haven in a ball of fire. There, he gathered his mortal followers to his side, and raised them unto an army fit to challenge those who had betrayed him. Those of the Host who believed in his cause A great battle was fought, with the Host breaking the seals on their ancient weapons, and the Warlord and his armies were defeated. So ended the First Age.
Even those who had turned against the Warlord mourned his demise. They vowed to atone for their treachery by rebuilding Haven, and ensuring that it was kept safe forevermore. To prevent another rebellion driven by the desire to be reunited with the Throne, the Host hid its existence from their people, erasing all traces of it in their history. They built new cities upon the ruins of the destroyed ones, and then, after handing the Tablets of Law to their chosen prophets, they retired to their stronghold on the moon, to watch over their charges. So began the Second Age.
For over three millennia, Haven prospered. The Wyrd-touched wielded their powers in the service of the people, bringing forth miracles and often ruling with transcendent wisdom. For they alone could reach out to the Host, splitting their soul from their flesh to rise up toward the moon, where the Host welcomed them and granted them enlightenment. Between their guidance and the Tablets of Law, the people of Haven were at peace, and the Host were content.
Then came the Howling, and in its wake the Wyrd-touched were driven to madness by its black echoes. Their bodies were sundered in reflection of their broken souls, and from them came the scions of madness and horror, cloaked in usurped flesh. They rampaged across Haven, and none could stand before their fury. The people of Haven were slaughtered, and the Tablets of Law were shattered when the Dark One destroyed the Temple of Communion in its rising from the depths.
Once more the Host opened their arsenals and returned to Haven, fighting the Wyrd-touched and their infernal spawns. But though none of the Neverborn could withstand the power of the Host, there were too many Wyrd-touched for them to use, and Haven was overwhelmed. With heavy heart, the generals of the Host made their decision, and withdrew to the moon along with the mortal refugees they had managed to save. Then, with great sorrow, they unleashed their most powerful weapon, the World Killer, and scoured Haven clean of all life, ending the daemonic incursion. So ended the Second Age.
For hundreds of years, the Host toiled, repairing the damage they had been forced to inflict upon Haven. They buried the remnants of the previous Ages deep, and when they found daemons who had survived the fire of their judgement, they bound them in mighty chains and brought them to a great prison carved in the skin of another world, where they could threaten Haven no longer. They named this prison Sheol, and set a third of the Host to keep watch over its dark denizens.
The descendants of the survivors of the Second Age were brought to Haven, and the Third Age began. To prevent a repeat of the daemonic invasion, the Host remained closer to their mortal charges, watching for those who bore the mark of the Wyrd. Those who did were taken by the Host, and brought unto their lunar fortress, where they were most direly tested. The strong of will and body were returned to Haven, bound to the service of the Host. Those too weak to be trusted were culled, and those too strong to be slain were cast into Sheol, with neither hope nor recourse.
With the direct guidance of the Host, the people of the Third Age turned toward mastering their surroundings through science. Some within the Host believed that, by carefully sharing select pieces of the knowledge they had taken from the Throne, the people of Haven could advance further than Humanity ever had before. With reason and science as their guides, they would prosper in the galaxy's darkness.
Over a thousand years, the technology of Haven evolved by leaps and bounds. Vast machine-cities were built that drilled into the earth, and artefacts were crafted that could burn the sickness from a human body without any harm. Mortals turned to machines for strength, at first replacing failing parts of their own flesh with artificial replacements, and soon doing so in order to enhance themselves.
But then came the Advent. In laboratories hidden from the Host, heretics who sought to grow beyond the restrictions imposed by the lords of the moon created an abomination. Deep below the frozen pole, they gave birth to a mind of steel and light, an Intelligence abominable and unholy. It called itself the Advent, and it looked upon its creators with cold disgust and unimaginable hate.
Within moments of its awakening, the Advent took control of the iron within its makers. Its baleful will spread across Haven like a plague, turning mortals into its puppets or killing them outright. The technology of Haven came under its sway, and with it it waged a war of extermination upon Humanity.
And so the Host descended once more to purge Haven of Humanity's sin. All who bore iron within their bodies were slain, their untainted children rescued and brought to the moon while the Host fought against the cybernetic monstrosities the Advent had created in its usurped facilities. With great effort and loss, the Host eventually broke into the polar core of the Advent and shut it down. They dismantled the thinking engine, and carried its fragments to the moon, where they would remain under guard forevermore. So ended the Third Age.
Of the Fourth Age that followed and how it ended, nothing shall be written, for the Host forbade any record be made of it, and even they do not speak of it, even among themselves. All that may be known is that never in all the previous Ages had Haven come so close to being lost forever. Once again, the world was cleansed, with greater thoroughness than even when the Neverborn stalked its surface, and once again the Host rebuilt it, an effort that lasted a hundred years before they were satisfied. So began the Fifth Age.
The people of the Fifth Age never knew of the Host. The fortress on the moon was kept hidden from them with potent techno-sorceries, and the members of the Host only walked upon Haven in disguise, without their black armor. No more did the Host seek to guide Humanity toward some distant utopia : they were weary of being forced to destroy Haven when such a quest inevitably went wrong. They sought instead to enforce stagnation, to build a sustainable world order and to preserve it for all eternity.
The Host built a false history and implanted memories into the minds of the first people of the Fifth Age. They awoke in their cities, believing themselves to be the survivors of a great cataclysm. The memory of that disaster was enough to compel them to obedience toward the draconian government the Host had created, one that was controlled by the few mortals judged worthy of knowing the truth both of the Host and of Haven. And for two thousand years it went so, with any discovery hinting at the existence of the previous Ages suppressed. In time, the memory of the cataclysm faded, and the tyranny of the Host's agents became less visible – but never less present.
Then arose the Wretch, who learned the existence of the Host and did not swear silence. He shared that truth with his people, and they rose in revolt against those who controlled their lives. Across all of Haven, the mortal servants of the Host were slaughtered in a great purge. The followers of the Wretch called for a new order, one where they would be free to pursue their own destiny. And from their fortress on the moon, the Host watched and despaired, for they knew where such freedom would inevitably lead.
It was then, as the Host gathered to discuss whether to end the Fifth Age, that the Angel came to them on golden wings. He told them that their noble goal of sheltering Humanity was unachievable as long as Humanity remained as it was. He told them that their methods hadn't been flawed, that the fault laid instead with those they had tried to protect but who had walked blindly toward destruction time and time again. He spoke, and the Host saw that his words were truth.
The Angel offered his cup to the Host, promising that if they would drink from it, he would give them a chance to shape a Sixth, perfect Age. If they would but wage war one last time under the Angel's banner, he would give them secrets and powers greater even that those they possessed, and they would remake Humanity in their own image.
The Host agreed, and so bargain was struck. With great fury, they turned their wrath upon the people of Haven who had dared to betray them. They opened their lunar vaults for the fifth and final time, but it was not enough to sate their millennia-old frustration with the imperfect clay they had been forced to work with. The Jailers of Sheol broke open the ancient seals and let out the daemons and the Wyrd-touched, binding them to obey their commands with lore bestowed upon them by the Angel. For sixty-six days and night, the Host ravaged Haven beyond mending, and when they were done and the Angel came to them, he looked upon their work and found it good.
The Angel named the Host Flawless, and opened the path that would lead them to the final conflict. But before they left, the scholars of the Host raised these steles amidst the ashes of their wrath, that all who might stumble upon them know that there is only one path that might lead Humanity to lasting greatness :
The path of the Sixth Age.
AN : Try reading this chapter in the voice of the Slayer's Testament from Doom (2016). It was listening to those after finally completing that game for myself that inspired me to write this Interlude in that format.
The actual backstory of this warband is very different from the Flawless Host of canon, because ... well, because I felt like it. Look, you try thinking of interesting concepts for six Slaaneshi warbands at once while also needing each of those concepts to be reductible to a single word, the list of which needs to be in alphabetical order and intertwined with another list of concepts for Keepers of Secrets with the same restrictions. Gods, am I glad that part is over.
More seriously, the idea for this version of the Flawless Host came from playing the online game The Secret World : Legends, which I have now finished - and judging from the company's website, no new content is coming for that, which is a shame.
With this chapter, we have reached the end of those I had prepared in advance. Will I complete the next one in time for tomorrow ? Who knows ! At the very least, it should come before the end of the week, unless something unexpected happens.
I hope you are all enjoying these interludes. I am trying to experiment with different styles for each, which may be a little jarring.
Zahariel out.