Fragmented Dreams

These stories are part of the community effort on the Emperor's Nightmare chapter that are deemed too short for a full wiki page of their own.

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In one alcove alongside many in the quiet hall, Brother Nero slept, and dreamed.

He drifted in a comfortable void, and felt the minds of his fellow sleepers shining like stars around him. He was safe here, content, a long and welcome rest after months of growing mania had blurred the passing of days.

Roiling chaos scratched at the edges of his awareness, and a blade came to Nero's hand unbidden as he strode forth to ensure no daemon dared to trouble the rest of his battle-brothers. The dream-scape was secure, as it always was, but Nero still paced to the edges of his sight and examined each sleeping light for signs of distress.

He was about to return to his own rest when a far distant light flared with a golden radiance that pierced the chaos beyond and sent the daemons and warp-scavengers away howling in pain. Prostrate before Him, Nero beheld the light casting a strange shadow-play through the winds of the warp, and he saw himself and his battle-brothers striding through a city in flames even as a great beast gnawed at it's foundations. He saw terrible destruction, great works of man cast down, and-

Bondswoman Cassandra?

"Sir?"

Nero rose unsteadily and waved the adept away. A task was before him, and the time for rest was over.

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Quotes by Sleepless Dreadnoughts

"I AM THE FAITH THE FURY I AM THE GUARDIAN OF THE DREAMERS I AM THE BEGINNING I AM THE END I AM THE EMPEROR'S WILL MADE MANIFEST I AM THE DREAMER IN HIS DREAM THAT CANNOT DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM BECAUSE THERE IS ONLY THE DREAM AND THERE IS ONLY ME. PRAISE THE EMPEROR! FOR THE DREAMERS!"

"I AM THE EMPEROR I AM THE LIGHT I AM HE AND HE IS I AND IT IS HIM AND WE ARE UNDYING TRUTH CARRIED FORTH FROM THE LANDS OF MAN ACROSS THE DARKENING DEEP."

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"Brother Stefan, what are you doing?"

"Counting the stars that have passed through this porthole since we embarked."

"Surely, that is an impossible tas--"

"128,276. 77. 81. 82. 84."

---

Giant, statue-like figures. Unmoving. Sometimes joining one another, and just staring out that window. They were there when you first saw them. They were there when you disembarked. Just looking out into the void, in congregations of twos and threes.

---

Everyone on the deck snapped to attention, mirroring the Aquila on the their chests with their hands in humble salute. Some gave a slight bow, some even averted their eyes but all offered whatever respects they could.

All eyes followed them as they made their way across the staging deck. Some in the drab armor of the Night, others in the bombast of the morning, and all bearing the silver X slashed across the face of their helmets. They marched, chainswords and bolt pistols in hand, some looking too eager to use them.

The Restless, The Dreamless, The Waking Dead. Whatever they were called they all shared the same grim fate, they had awoken one day, only to be cursed to never be touched by The Sleep again.

For all their astartes enhancement, they were still mortal men. Their minds corroded, ground to mush by the endless waking hours of the material world. Most of them weren't much more than beings of muscle and instinct seeking the Final Rest.

Gideon mouthed a prayer as they filed into one of the Chapter's few Stormravens. May the Emperor's Peace find them all.

---

"Sergeant Cooper, is that boulder closer to our fortifications than it was when I went into my tent?"

"No captain, it remains just in front of the treeline."

The two men turn away from the bleak landscape to discuss logistics for a moment, "No, no I'm sure it's closer. Look now! Were not those bushes in front of it not a moment ago?"

"Which bushes captain?"

"The... oh forget it. The war's getting to my head that's all. I'm getting paranoid in my old age."

They turn towards the meagre camp again.

"Oi! Harker! Get up off your lazy ass and fetch us some caffeine!" The traitor captain turns back to face his sergeant. "You want caffeine serg--KHORNE'S BRASS BALLS LOOK OU...!"

But it was already too late. The modified dreadnought had vaulted the makeshift fortifications in a single disturbingly agile leap and the officer's last words were cut off mid sentence by the muffling void of the stummer field.

---

Mikhail was a Vostroyan, and it showed. He was cool even in the heat of battle- so when he joined the Astartes aboard their section of the ship, no one was surprised. They didn't say anything, nor did he. He would clamber atop a massive pauldron and sit and look out the window with them. The hours passed. The Marines were silent for the entirety of the voyage thus far, but the Guardsmen were happy to be alive under any circumstance. Another chance to live, to go home, to further the cause of the Imperium that much more. When Brother Tychus picked up Mikhail, all the others held their breath.

"Why are you here?"

"You are peaceful, comrade. I wish to be peaceful as well."

"We are not at peace, young one."

"Then why are you quiet?"

"We count the stars."

"Then I shall count them with you."

There was a long silence, and then Tychus placed the young man back upon his shoulder. The hours sunk slowly into the night, and the Vostroyan was soon curled up asleep. The Marine left him there and felt some pang of gladness that the boy could sleep. Tonight, the Sleepless would descend and defend those could do the one thing that he could not. There was honor in that.

And honor is all that dead men have.

---

The Dreamlands: The layer between the Materium and the Warp. The landscape changes and shifts constantly. One moment it's a sandy, sunny beach with clear skies and gentle waves crashing against the shore, then in the next it becomes a dark, hazy swamp filled with man-eating flora, then a city, then a countryside, and countless more locations. Various daemons lurk here, taking thousands of different shapes to confound a dreamer and lure them closer to the Warp, where their souls will be devoured.

The Emperor's Nightmare Chapter have waged war here for nearly two thousand years, fighting the daemon in all it's forms to protect the spirits of humanity in their most vulnerable place. The Chapter's Dreamers, those few marines with psychic potential, battle in this bizarre land while their brethren who remain awake, the Watchers, guard their sleeping forms from the enemies in the Materium. Though the daemons in the Dreamlands are strong, the Dreamers of the Emperor's Nightmare have honed their skills in the waking world, and fight them with deadly skill developed over periods of sleeplessness, during which their training becomes an outlet to fight the madness of insomnia.

---

And so on that day of 459.M39 the Blood Ravens and the Emperor's Nightmares strove out to bring the warring sector back into Imperial Hands, braving the dangerous Ork Waaagh. But too soon did the two Chapters realize their differences. The Shock and Awe tactics of the Primus Company drew scorn from the Ravens, calling it a waste of munitions and is still debated hotly to this day. The Blood Ravens claim that the Orbital Bombardment favored by the Nightmares destroyed countless artifacts of value despite there being no such record in Imperial Texts while the stealthy Marines of Secundus found the Psychic Might of the Blood Raven Librarians too distracting and flashy for their tastes. It all came to a head when the Sleepless, driven mad by the combat assaulted a Blood Raven squad and killed them all. Only the timely intervention of Guard reinforcements stopped the inevitable war between Astartes, each side seeking to save face before the men of the Imperium.

Also of note is the loss of no less than seven Rhinos and Land Raiders, along with several treasured artifacts dating back to the Chapter Founding. No destruction of these mighty weapons and relics have been confirmed as of yet.

-An Imperial Record of the Ork Waaagh Gitchop

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Inquisitor Armoring frowned and tapped his dataslate. He requested a Space Marine, and he was given...this? His Magos was tending to (but mostly poking at) a gently snoring suit of 'Corvus' power armour, painted in the yellow and purple. He received this marine five days ago, and he hadn't even...woken up? yet. He wasn't sure that this was even a real space marine. Some trick by his ri-

"Greetings, Inquisitor Armoring. Magos Risze."

The Inquisitor and the Magos jumped around to look at the space marine standing in the corner.

"I have not given you my name," The Inquisitor stated. The Magos hadn't either, but one thing at a time...

"The dataslate you are holding contains the shipping records to and from the planet Carthaginus III. The ring on your left middle finger is most likely a digital laser; only the most wealthy or an Inquisitor can afford such...extravagance." The marine's tone was clipped and short, amplified by the vox-speaker. There was silence for one, two, three seconds before the Inquisitor spoke up again. :"...and my name? And his name?" He waved to the Magos. How could one space marine learn so much in...the thirty seconds he has been conscious? He knew of the legendary abilities of the Space Marines, but this was insane.

The Space Marine turned and nodded his thanks to the Magos, picking his boltgun up from the table beside the reinforced cot.

"I did some research."

---

Techmarine Hadrianus had never liked his work. Praise the Omnissiah, yes, but the Golems. He glanced toward Those That Eternally Did His Will and shivered. They were crouched low, mechadendrites buzzing. One was close enough that he could hear the chanting, no the droning of a human machine – pitch perfect repetition of the Liturgy of Crafting over and over.

These were once brothers that were now focused on a single task to the exclusion of all others. These were the Sleepless the Omnissiah. Hadrianus watched them, his work forgotten for now. They were amazing and awful at the same time. Did the mechadendrites awaken and control a body? Did they truly exist as one step from utter madness, focused so intently on the perfection of the minute they staved off true Sleeplessness?

Hadrianus wondered as he watched. It was these Sleepless Techmarines that where the great secret to the Chapter’s fortune. These were the master crafters.

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They all think I'd be a monster. I am no fool. Committed, yes. Driven, yes. But no fool. If the day comes--when the day comes, if I am not swift enough--you have the codes. With the lockout, I can no longer change them even if I wished to.

-Master of the Forge, Valter Fervesco

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The Tower of Mercy - A looming spire within Betten-Burgen, the Tower of Mercy is very different from the other architecture of the Chapter Keep. Every surface and decoration is crafted with the single-minded passion of obsession, each surface diverting into fractal patterns of staggering complexity. To walk this tower is to walk a disturbing graveyard, for all around there are shockingly lifelike stone carvings of Emperor's Nightmares. These are the Sleepless who have died, practically given new life in stone by their fellows. Most realistic in every statue is the face, the haunted, tortured look and the maddened eyes carved to a level only the deepest empathy could draw out.

Non-sleepless Nightmares visit the Tower to pay homage to these tragic heroes, but it is not a pleasant experience. To walk within the Tower is to feel a thousand stone eyes upon you, a spine-chilling herald of what await all Nightmares.

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Death rained down on all. Shas'La Nyr saw his commanding officer torn apart by the thousands of strikes which fell upon them. His squadmates were helpless as the cover they sought disintegrated under the assault cannon fire. There was nowhere to hide, and their combat armor was like paper in the face of the onslaught. Nyr felt the rounds hit him, penetrating through his flesh and out the other side to bury themselves deep in the dirt. He could do nothing but sink to the ground as his blood ran down his armor to pool under him.

Yet as he laid there dying he could think of nothing but the sheer surreal quality of the scene around him. In all the carnage, there was no sound. There had been no warning, no telltale whining of the heavy cannons spinning up. Even as they had been torn apart the only sound to be heard was the whistle of flying rounds, cut off in sick thumps as they found their targets. The other fire warriors had not cried out. Nyr mused idly that perhaps most of them had been dead before they could have thought to.

Laying on his side now, Nyr could partially see the carnage around him. Some part of his mind realized that a hole must have been punctured through his helmet, but such facts seemed so distant now. He saw the heavy armored boot of one of the Gue'la walkers land silently, barely disturbing the valley floor. Such an impossibility seemed to fit perfectly in the dream world Nyr found himself in. The deep purple machine strode across the killing ground, pivoting from side to side to ensure that the entire patrol had been accounted for. Another walker joined it, and together they moved off into the forest to vanish like the ghosts Nyr knew them to be. As his vision faded, he realized he could hear the birds in the treetops again.

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It was an old train. Their fathers had worked on it, and their fathers before them. Some two hundred and eighty seven years all told. Even the ageless coal-servitors had been replaced more often than the train’s conductors. Tobias was proud of this fact. He and his family clan were very good at their job. The grizzled old man surveyed the ancient machine once more, pacing back to the engine with trepidation and running a gnarled hand across the habitation car as he passed it. This was it, he surmised. Their last chance.

Everything had to go perfectly.

A light acidic rain had begun to fall on the train yard as Tobias pulled a cigar from a tin in his pocket and banged on the cabin door with an open palm. “Ferriday m’boy! Ferriday get out here.”

“Not now grandpa. The rail transfer overrides are malfunctioning again. In their current state the cogitators could throw us onto the wrong track at any time or even broadcast our real location to the guilds. I need to fix it before we go.”

“Let me do it boy,” Tobias snapped. “We don’t have time for your damned Omnissiah’s rites. Go tell your sister we’re ready and then bring me the maps. We need to leave in the next twenty minutes or we‘ll miss the rendezvous.” Caked in grease, the scruffy blonde youth freed himself from the engine block, stuck out his tongue and dropped down into the conductor’s booth before nimbly avoiding his grandfather swatting at him with a schedule pad and darting back down the length of the train.

Tobias cursed as he hauled himself up to examine the cogitators. If only he hadn’t listened to that damned woman’s people. If only his damned son in law hadn’t bet the train on a salt flats race in the first place! The fool had never even seen a racing servitor before and in his haste and greed he bet against it immediately on the assumption it was as slow witted as the coal-shovelling ones labouring in their train. The woman’s people had offered to settle their debt in exchange for a favour but this operation was too dangerous. Too reckless. Tobias has made a mistake in accepting her organization’s help. His own father, the family’s previous patriarch, would be so ashamed…

“Nana Wendigo” they called her. That’s what Ferriday said anyway but they‘d all heard the stories under one name or another: A widow who had lost everything to the Nightmares and raised a guerrilla army to take it back. “Nothing but a load of grox vomit,” Tobias had said. “No one could go to war with the Nightmares like that on Icelus itself. No one would dare.“ But now here they were, blackmailed into risking their lives for her to steal… what? What was this mysterious cargo that was more valuable than a train deed?

An alarm beeped. No time for regrets now. The trains would only be parallel for twelve minutes and Tobias had a family to provide for. He shut the cogitator’s casing with a forlorn sigh and climbed down into the conductor’s chair one last time.

“All aboard!”

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