-Sautekh Dynasty-
The domain of Orikan the Diviner was normally quite composed, being the operating theatre of a being that could divine the future.
That was not the case today.
"I WANT THAT HUMAN'S HEAD ON A PIKE!" The roar rattled through the lair, scarabs scattering around as a table was thrown from the upper level of the tower, crashing to the floor.
"Millenia of planning ... ruined!" Orakin the Diviner snarled as he marched through his tower. "A single mayfly of a being, completely THROWING MY PLANS OUT THE WINDOW!" There are trinkets and furniture being hurled with every word.
"AN ENTIRE CHAPTER DECLARED TRAITORS! WARP DAEMONS WIPED FROM EXISTENCE! NONE OF THIS IS AS FORETOLD! NONE OF IT!"
Orakin raises his one-eyed gaze to the stars, and his demeanor shifts near instantly.
"Wait…oh yes. Ohohoho yeeeessss. This…this I can work with."
-Solemnace, The Museum of Death.-
"Oh Dear." Trazyn speaks, watching a holographic projection of Orakin cackling madly.
"The bore's finally lost it. I knew that human would shake things up a bit…but I wasn't expecting this."
He rests his chin on his fist as he watches Orakin continue to laugh maniacally.
"Should I swing by? Check on the boy? Maybe he's become something of worth for the collection now…No, I promised him ten years. It's not a long time to wait, and by then he'll have done even more insanity." He speaks to himself.
"Hmm…decisions, decisions."
He idly rubs at his necrodermis chin with his thumb and forefinger, before his molded smirk seems to grow just a bit wider.
"Hmmm yes. A visitor pass…It's been so long since I've had a proper guest visit my museum. He was learned…he might not just spend the whole time screaming." He mutters to himself, before stepping off of his throne and clapping his hands together with a laugh.
"And it would drive that one-eyed bore even further up the wall! HA!"
-Garden of Nurgle-
"My brother has Risen, Grandfather." Mortarion, Primarch of the Death Guard, Daemon Primarch, he is a massive example of a Primarch as he sits in Nurgle's Garden, resting in the residency of the Lord of Rot himself.
He is a fleshy amalgam of man, machine, and moth. A hood covers his head, and wings of rotted flesh are curled behind him, his scythe rests on the chair next to him, the blade resting on the ground with it's handle leaning on his chair.
"It is a setback, and a challenge, yes. But our Garden Gnome is making a name for himself." Nurgle responds, simply continuing to stir his pot.
"It's an insult, Grandfather!"
"Think of the story, child." Nurgle cuts in, causing Mortarion to tilt his head in question.
"Our Garden Gnome is setting himself up as a bastion of faith in the Carpenter. He's destroyed a few lesser daemons, he's been healed, he holds a relic important to both the Carpenter's lore as well as the Anathema." Nurgle continues to speak, sprinkling a little something into his cauldron.
"Yet he has his doubts. His fears. He is not like you, like your brothers. He is still, underneath that suit of armor and layers of ancient scripture, a flawed human being."
"And if he finds the strength to work past those flaws, Grandfather?"
"If he was as infallible as you seem to be worried about, my child, I would never have been able to visit his dream."
-Blood God's Realm-
In the Realm of Khorne, battles rage. Daemon against Daemon, Invading armies doomed to fall against the horde. Blood flows like rivers and storms rage in the skies. At the center of it all, Khorne, the Lord of Blood, Taker of Skulls, Lord of Battle sits, observing it all. Observing the war, destruction, hate and fury.
He seems almost bored of it all, head resting on his fist, until a twitch runs through him. Miniscule, almost imperceptible, and his helm snaps upright.
He moves his hands to the armrests of the Skull Throne, as if he's to lever himself to stand, before crossing his arms over his chest.
"No…not yet." He mutters, glaring at something only he can see. "Soon…Very. Soon."
-The Impossible Fortress-
Laughter echoes from within the walls. Chittering cries of amusement and satisfaction before words are able to be made out.
"All according to plan…"
-Palace of Slaanesh-
-REDACTED-
-Macragge's Honour-
Roboute Guilliman had sequestered himself in his quarters, calling forth only Marneus Calgar to discuss the events of his resurrection.
"M'lord." Calgar speaks softly, kneeling.
"Rise, my son. You've no need to kneel before me." Guilliman replies, a number of different dataslates scattered about the desk in front of him.
"There are items in these reports that require clarification. It reads like a badly written novel at times." The Lord of Ultramar speaks, placing the dataslate down.
"Recent times have been…eventful, Sire. I had doubts about their veracity until I bore witness to them myself…until I was affected myself." Calgar spoke, rising to his feet and standing with his hands held behind his back.
"Affected?" Guilliman asks, intrigued.
"Years ago, the Tyranid scourge assaulted Macragge. During the battle, I lost all of my limbs…many of my brethren in the 1st company fell whilst retrieving me." Calgar reports.
"In the Excommunicate Traitoris Campaign against the Minotaurs, my ship was delayed in warp transit. When we arrived, the Void battle was already taking place. I bore witness to a human tear a hole in a Battle Barge with his face."
"The Thunderstrike Protocol." Guilliman spoke, "Vulkan spoke of it being…effective."
"An understatement, my Lord. Moving on, twenty eight minutes after this event, a voice reported to belong to one 'Jesus of Nazareth' spoke whilst being psychically enhanced 'Be Healed.' and I looked down to find my augmetic limbs were no longer there, and I had regained my flesh."
"You were examined by an Apothecary? By the Chaplain and Librarian?" Guilliman asks, Calgar nodding solemnly.
"Yes, Sire. I was restored to my prime and cleared of any corruption that may have been caused by the healing."
"The priest, Foothill, What do you make of him."
"He's adamant that he isn't a priest. Claims he was never ordained."
"That is not what I asked, my son."
Calgar straightened himself quickly.
"Interrogator Repentia David James Foothill is officially the Quartermaster of the retinue of Ordo Xenos Inquisitor Amberley Vail. He's an ally of the Salamanders, the Lamenters, and has his own retinue. He is under the protection of one Shield-Captain Lictor Raya of the Adeptus Custodes, and is betrothed to his guardian. He is…old-fashioned."
Calgar takes a breath before he continues.
"He is earnest, eager to help, but holds a melancholy to his movements. His mindset is that of the time he claims he was pulled from."
"Claims?"
"Reports say he was pulled from the 3rd millenium by the Emperor himself, Sire. His mannerisms, philosophy, and worldview; that being loyalty to his friends, family, and valuing the lives under his command more than completing the mission, all support this. However we have not received confirmation from Terra of this as of yet."
Guilliman lets out a heavy sigh as he leans back in his chair, shaking his head.
"Don't bother. It's true." He speaks, glaring at the Aquilla on his wall.
"Sire?"
"Father spoke of a contingency, during the Heresy." Guilliman speaks, lacing his fingers together as he leaned on his desk. "He would talk about the ramifications of meddling with time, about how his plans would need to change. I had always assumed he would simply send himself back, not pull someone forward…This Foothill, what is he, Marneus?"
"...A Craftsman, Sire."
"Not a warrior, general, or priest?"
"No, Sire. David James Foothill, when you get down to his core…" A small smirk graces Calgar's face.
"Is a very stubborn, very loyal Gunsmith."
-The Externus Exterminatus-
During the warp transition back to Terra, I had time for further training, but right now, I was standing across from Chapter Master Tu'Shan in his quarters. Finally given the chance to have a proper conversation without the normal veil of humor, training, or impending doom.
"I had expected this to occur at some point during our venture. Take a seat, David." Tu'Shan spoke, gesturing over to a seat on the opposite end of a properly Astartes-sized desk. Tu'Shan's quarters were honestly rather spartan from what I'd expect from the Chapter Master of the Salamanders. This may simply be because he would only be here temporarily, there's only a few torches placed on small altars, but there was scrollwork everywhere. Reports, designs, instructions on forgery and combat.
Every Astartes is a Scholar in addition to a Warrior, and in Tu'Shan's room, I see this evidently. Still, I was here for a purpose. I set down Silver's helm on his desk and settled into the chair, and Tu'Shan reaches up to his helm and with the hiss of cracking seals reveals his face to me for the first time since we've met.
His skin is the Salamanders' signature charcoal palor and his eyes are a blazing crimson. His face is covered in honor markings, centuries of service branded upon his skin. He has his own claw scars on his face, stretching from the left side of his mouth towards the back of his skull.
"Am I that handsome that you're struck speechless, my friend? I'm certain your beloved would have words." He spoke, his unvoxxed voice reminding me of better times, and a small smile on his face.
"A mortal looking upon the visage of a Chapter Master is not a regular occurrence, but now I've seen two of them. But, my existential crisis can wait. We need to have a conversation." I responded, earning a nod.
"The Silver Carapace. A relic from the Great Crusade crafted by Primarch Vulkan. It is fused to your vertebrae, and seems to have chosen you as it's wielder." Tu'shan spoke and I shifted in my seat nervously.
"It's yours by right." I mutter, earning a nod from the Astartes.
"Indeed. Yet I haven't stripped it from your flesh. Why is that?" Tu'Shan's eyes are mischievous, but he holds a gentle smile.
"I doubt that Silver is one of the nine artifacts of Vulkan, even if it is made by his hands." I threw my theory out there tentatively, but Tu'Shan shakes his head.
"The possibility is there, I've been in constant contact with Vulkan He'Stan since I laid eyes upon the Carapace. The discussion on whether or not to lay claim to the Carapace occurred, then the battle occurred, and you fought alongside us without hesitation."
I let out a scoff.
"I wasn't supposed to be boots on the ground in that fight at all, Chapter Master, The plan was to bring the bomber to bear."
"Yet, when push came to shove, you marched alongside Astartes, alongside Salamanders. You declared yourself an ally of the Salamanders, and on that day, you proved yourself willing to fight to enforce that." Tu'Shan leans forward, poking me in the chest with a gauntleted finger.
"Words are worthless. Tools are useful. But blood. Blood has worth, David."
He stares me down, settling back into his seat with a nearly silent breath.
"Had you been born on Nocturne, I would be proud to call you Brother. Now, I settle for Friend. I simply ask this for the sake of the record, because I already know your answer. When the time comes, and the Salamanders call, will you answer?"
There are times in one's life where you're filled with a pride and conviction that light a fire in your belly. Times in which the choice isn't so much a choice as it is an instinct. This was one of them.
"I will. You can be absolutely certain of that."
-Terra, The Golden Palace-
"Guilliman has been healed, Father." Dorn speaks, standing before the Golden Throne.
The Emperor of Mankind, Revelation, he is no longer simply a husk of a man slumped on the throne.
He is sitting straighter, his hair is no longer hanging over his face like a veil. He is not his formerly massively muscled form, but he is now back to being defined, his face is full, his arms show definition as he drums his fingers on the Golden Throne. There's life in his glowing gold eyes.
He slowly gathers his strength, and with great effort pushes himself off of the Golden Throne, and stands on his own two feet.
"Hell. It's about time."
-End of Act 1-