Omakes for the omake throne!
Ink for the ink god!
How Ciaphas Cain, Warmaster of Chaos (probably won't) end.
"It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He was the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He was a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He was the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die. His throne is now empty.
The deathless Emperor has laid down his ceaseless vigil. No more do his mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars. There is no Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies no longer give battle in his name on uncounted worlds.
Retired are the greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Retired also are their comrades in arms. Off duty is the Imperial Guard. Well-rested are the countless planetary defense forces. The ever vigilant Inquisition slumbers and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus are all off at their hobbies. Vacationing also are the countless multitudes of the alien, the heretic, and the mutant, safe in the widespread peace.
To be a man in such times is to be one vacationer amongst untold billions. It is to live in the paradise successor state to the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Remember the power of technology and science, as so much is rediscovered that once was forgotten. Remember the promise of progress and understanding, for after the grim dark past there is a hopeful and pleasing future.
On the world where it all began, a golden figure drifts from stars like a falling leaf, swirling on the breeze.
He lands, before a small ale-house, one of hundreds on this world. Conversation leaks out the door, from voices he's known and fought for a hundred hundred centuries.
He pushes his way through the bar's swinging doors. The Powers gathered here greet the golden newcomer with all the good-humored welcome of ancient friends. The golden figure is passed a beer. He drinks deeply and the last spark of the endless war is quenched as the last of the great powers…joins the rest on vacation.
It is as it should be. His guffaws join the others ringing through the bar, and the warp is calmed at last. Instead of war, there is peace among the stars, instead of carnage and slaughter, there is dancing and rebirth….and yet… the most important detail stays the same, for the bar, and the world, and the galaxy still reverberates with the laughter of thirsting gods."