Nobledark Imperium Writing

This page is part of the Nobledark Imperium, a fan re-working of the Warhammer 40,000 Universe. See the Nobledark Imperium Introduction and Main Page for more information on the alternate universe

All our stories that don't belong in another section of the project (such as the writing for Sanguinius).

Currently Unsorted Writefaggotry

The Accounting of Trazyn the Infinite

“You want me to explain to you why we did it? Why? And why ask me?”

“I see. An accounting then. And I suppose I am the closest thing the galaxy has to an actual historian in this era. Aside, perhaps, from that old wraith in the weeds Orikan.”

“When the Necrontyr first spread beyond the confines of our world, it was not long before we encountered the Old Ones. But the Old Ones had known of us long before we knew of them. They knew of the horror and suffering we had experienced on our homeworld, and had known for millennia. And they did nothing.”

“I want you to picture that. A race of god-like beings capable of bending the galaxy to their will. And they did nothing. The Old Ones could have offered us sanctuary on another world. They could have told us that Aza’gorod was hiding in our star. But they didn’t. They only cared about themselves and their experiments. How many other races had suffered like we had for the sake of their curiosity? How many species had been uplifted and then discarded like tools, or removed like weeds.”

“I imagine the declaration to go to war with the Old Ones was met with shock across the Necrontyr Star Empire. Regardless of their actions, the Old Ones were still as gods to us, capable of things we could barely begin to comprehend. But after the Old Ones, we were the most advanced race we knew of in the galaxy. The only ones capable of defying them. The eldest child standing up against the abusive parent. The Old Ones were truly lords of the galaxy, capable of cultivating species like more primitive civilizations cultivate crops. But any lord that would inflict such suffering in their name upon their subjects deserves to be dragged from their throne.”

“Was that how it truly was? Was that how the Old Ones really saw the younger races? I don’t know. I was not there when the first shots of the War in Heaven were fired. I was only there when it ended.”

“All I know is that the War in Heaven was such a colossal waste. Trillions of Old Ones and Aeldari and Necrontyr and Krork killed and for what. The Old Ones are extinct. The Necrontyr sold their souls and the moral high ground for the power to defeat them. The Realm of Souls turned into poison for life. Thousands of species killed or turned into living weapons. We sought to free life from the Old Ones’ dominion. Instead we brought the hell that was our homeworld to the rest of the galaxy. The ‘original sin’, as I believe you humans would put it. Maybe there was a better way. Maybe things could have been resolved peacefully.”

“But at the same time, that is why I have so many expectations for this era.”

“You seem surprised. Perhaps I should explain. When I awoke from the Long Sleep, it was as if everything old had been made new again. The scars of the old war were still there, but it was as if galactic history had been rewritten from scratch. So many new things to learn. So many new species to encounter and study. And it was a galaxy without overlords. Life free to develop as it chose. Without a single species to impose their overarching will on the galaxy, there is so much more room for diversity. A place for everyone, one might say. Not just the races united in your Imperium, but the Q’orl, the orks, the rak-ghol, the tyranids. And yes, even the old Star Empire, if it is willing to adapt to the times. Whereas you see the galaxy in crisis, I see something different. The galaxy has had sixty five million years to write its own story. I, Trazyn the Infinite, want to see what it has written.”

- Trazyn the Infinite, regaled to a human scribe on Solemnace

Burden of a Madman

The screaming could be heard throughout the ship, resonating from stem to stern. An armsman snapped out of his sleep and banged his head on a beam. Even a tech priest down in the belly of the ship looked up confused as to what she had heard. It was screams of inappropriate profanities and the rambling of a madman four thousand years past his expiration date. Tycho rushed down the ship's corridors, darting around corners and dodging past confused armsmen, if he could not dodge them he would push them aside.

“Get out of the fragging way” he shouted, before slamming a unwary remembrance out of the way.

Tycho thought he could hear bones break as the tiny man hit the wall. He knew he should have stopped and helped the man but he had no time, this could be an actual emergency. What if quarantine had been breached? The last thing he needed was a dozen hormagaunts running rampant on the ship. He shouted a half-assed apology at the remembrancer before darting past two now terrified armsmen and down another corridor. After taking two more turns he found himself in a long corridor ending in a locked door. At the end of it stood Marisa, furiously typing away on the door lock to the ship’s laboratorium. She turned around to face Tycho, her hair swinging, and shouted.

“The bastard has locked himself in the lab and I can't get the door open!”

Her face was a mix of rage and worry. Tycho paused and caught his breath.

“Stand back! I'll get the fragging thing open.”

Tycho relaxed his body and cracked his neck before raising his shoulder and sprinting down the corridor with all his power. Tycho knew he would get the door open, the blast doors had not been activated so with some brute strength the door would smash under his force. He was not a small man, in fact he was huge, so huge he could make a space marine look like a twig. Being born on Catachan did that to people, and combined with his power armour he could probably stop a tank. He just hoped no one was standing behind the door.

As he rushed down the corridor Marisa took a couple of steps back and readied her heavily modified bolt pistols. She had no idea what was happening behind that door and the last thing she needed was having that old fool fighting a horde of tyranids. She thought about how the screams had woken her from her well-deserved dream, a very nice one involving two Sisters of Battle. She pressed down one of the pistols triggers and the multiple barrels of the pistols whirled to life. Pressing her ear to the wall, she heard no sound of struggle, only the perpetual rage of the old Inquisitor. Tycho came barging at the door with such force Marisa could feel the shockwave. The door to the lab burst inwards, not stopping Tycho at all. His charge carried him into the room, only stopping when he purposely tripped and crashed into a nearby bookcase, sending hopefully non-important books all across the room.

Not that it made any more of a mess. The lab was in utter chaos. Papers and books were thrown across the lab, expensive instruments and machinery were smashed. The quarantined tubes, holding the dozen hormagaunts were destroyed, glass shard and liquid covering the floor in front of them, the hormagaunts who had taken them both many lives and resources to capture lay dead, all with neat lasgun holes in their heads. In one of the rooms corners stood the small group of xenobiologists who were working in the lab, all shivering and staring in horror at the now silent Inquisitor Kryptmann. He had stopped screaming as Tycho came barging through the door and was now staring at his two companions with an unfathomable rage in his eyes, yet there was sorrow deep inside them.

“Inquisitor!” Merisa exclaimed. “Did the specimens escape?”

She was trying to keep eye contact with Kryptmann but that look almost made her shit herself. He had always been a scary man, the combination of madness and deep rooted hatred was a combination that made her, Tycho and almost anyone with an ounce of sanity who had met the man afraid. Tycho stood up, scanning Kryptmann for any signs of injury.

“He looks fine to me Merisa” Tycho said, panting heavily from his marathon around the ship.

“That's because I am. Physically, at least. I am not fine in the sense that our research we have conducted during the past five years have proven to be worthless.”

Kryptmann’s voice was tired. He kicked one of the tyranid corpses laying on the floor and muttered something under his breath.

“What about the specimens then? Why did you kill them?”

Merisa was now not only confused but angry over the fact that he had killed the hormagaunts, it made the hunt for them and the sacrifice of ten guardsmen worthless.

“They taunted me! They began cackling towards me, whispering about how all I did was for nothing and that I should have died with Tyran!"

Though the rage was still in his eyes the added sorrow and pain was now obvious. Merisa and Tycho both knew that Tyran was a touchy subject for Kryptmann, but what can you expect from a man who had seen his home brought to dust first-hand and yet be powerless to do anything to it.

“So I told them I would kill them all, every single one of them, until I could rebuild Tyran with their bodies, I will rid the galaxy of their destruction, I will avenge every single life you have taken! You hear that you bastards! Every! Single! One!” he screamed out into the emptiness before falling to his knees and burying his face in his hands.

He began sobbing.

“I’m sorry I could not help you, I’m sorry I could not stop them from taking you,’’ he whispered.

Marisa knew at that moment Kryptmann was not talking to her, but to his lost home and family. Holstering her pistols, she began walking towards the broken inquisitor. Tycho pointed at the group of scared xenobiologists to leave and left they did, with such a hurry that one of them tripped on one of the tyranid corpses and had to scramble himself up before darting for the exit.

Both Merisa and Tycho knew that Kryptmann was prone to have “outbursts” as they called them. Their predecessors had told them about Kryptmann, about his past and his pain. They, like the ones before them, had been chosen because they had something in common with the old man. Mersia had seen her hive get destroyed by the tyranids; Tycho had seen his entire platoon get slaughtered by the same foe and they like Kryptmann had powerless to stop it. Merisa crouched beside the weeping Kryptmann and placed her hand on his shoulder. The old inquisitor stopped his grief and looked up at his companions. His face was worn and his grey beard was long from years of neglecting, but it was his eyes that would always carry the most impact. They looked like hers on the day the Devourer took her family and home, they were the same eyes Tycho had when he saw his comrades get torn to bits. But she knew that there was more behind them then the grief of his loved ones, there were fear. The fear that he will become what he has dedicated his life to destroy. She had heard him mutter about how the Kryptmann Line made them no better than the tyranids. They burned down the homes of billions just as the tyranids did. He feared that the abyss had begun staring back. Tycho was obviously frustrated by the situation and he had opened his mouth on multiple occasions only to close it with hesitation.

“I still see them in my sleep, every night I see them slaughtered by the never ending tide of creatures, ”Kryptmann looked into Merisa’s eyes with the plea for release.

“I know Boaz, I too see them and Tycho too. We all remember them and we have to live through the nightmare every night. But it reminds us, it reminds us of those who we have lost and that we have to avenge them. It's the horror that sparks our rage and the rage is our drive. Merisa smiled softly towards the inquisitor.”

“Besides, maybe we shouldn’t try to focus less on the tyranids themselves and maybe the Hive Mind instead. It’s what keeps the smaller ones going isn't it? They’re basically brain dead without it.”

Tycho had finally talked, but to Merisa’s dismay it wasn't the words of encouragement that she had hoped for. She looked up towards Tycho and sighed. But without warning Kryptmann leaped to his feet, eyes wide and burning with a newly ignited joy.

“What did you just say? He had a huge grin on his face and Tycho did not know if he should be terrified or happy.”

“Um, that we should target the hivemind instead,” he was slowly taking steps back but Kryptmann followed.

“No, no no no, the part about the smaller ones!”

“That they’re basically brain dead without the Hive Mind.”

Tycho was staring at Merisa desperate for an answer. She just shrugged and smiled. She knew that something had sparked inside the old man's head and that could only mean that he had an idea.

“YES! Brain dead! That's what we need! Quickly, find a book called ‘’The Angevin Crusade’’, it may hold our answer!”

He leapt to the ground and began scrambling through the hundreds of books and papers on the ground. Tycho and Merisa looked at each other, sharing a moment of confusion before they too joined the hunt for the book.

After a short while they found what they were looking for. A large book with a small headline under the title ‘’The war against the Yu’Vath’’. Tycho made a small grunt before acknowledging that he had heard about the Yu’Vath.

“They’re some kind of xeno race that came into conflict with the imperium during M36 and that had warp based technology and shit”

Kryptmann Turned towards Tycho and nodded excitedly.

“Yes and the imperium was supposed to have encountered a biological weapon made by the Xenos, a kind of disease that targeted the brain tissue and destroyed it, the disease was very dangerous and could spread through and entire regiment of guards men in hours, the effect was incurable and left the body brain dead! Ah, here it is!”

Kryptmann began reading out loud what he read.

‘’On the planet of Selix the imperial forces encountered a horrible display of biological warfare, the Yu’Vath had released a destructive disease that would target brain tissue and render the target brain dead. The disease would spread to many bodies within the matter of hours and would kill in minutes. The planet was evacuated and contamination units were sent down to fin the catalyst of the disease. But not before a total of one point three million brave soldiers lost their life. The source was found inside an old bunker under the planet's surface and after a quick firefight with its guardians they sealed the bunker off and bombed the planet from orbit. The planet was placed under quarantine and remains so till this day.’’

“ But that dangerous to all of us,” Merisa replied, wondering if Kryptmann’s answer was to kill whole planets again.

“No, not if we can modify it. What if we can modify the disease to target tyranid brain tissue, such as the synapse, that would render them useless. Think of it, such a disease could kill off an entire hive fleet before they could adapt.”

Kryptmann was smiling widely and was looked back and forth between Merisa and Tycho. Tycho looked at Merisa and gave her a wondering look, she looked back and simply nodded.

“That could work, only we need the disease then and that could be life threatening,” Marisa replied.

Kryptmann turned to face her, the fear was gone and his eyes were filled with maniacal hatred.

“It’s decided then! We’re leaving for Selix to find our self a brain killer. You hear that you bastards! I'm going to lobotomize your kind with a fragging flu!”

Kryptmann began laughing hysterically and both Tycho and Merisa were just staring at him in awe. Merisa thought she must have been wrong about him, if the abyss was staring back at him, he probably was in the process of gouging the abyss’s eyes out. If the Hive Mind was truly talking to inquisitor Boaz Kryptmann, they would not be taunting him, no. They would be fearing him.

The Saga of Fedor Jiao

Homo sapiens navigo is a sub species of humanity that was once a necessary cornerstone of the Imperium, and mankind's proliferation throughout the galaxy. From generation to generation, from their pivotal position in society, they have gathered wealth and power that outshine even planetary governors. However, at the dawn of the 42nd millenium, they are now at risk of losing it all through eons of mismanagement, greed, and complacency.

Due to their genetic nature, Navigators are organized by great houses, vast genetic lineages carefully recorded and kept track of to keep inbreeding at a minimum. By necessity, they can't have new blood. The result of a navigator and a normal human produces a human without the dubious blessing of navigator powers. They may carry an abundance of less than stellar physical traits inherited from their navigator parent, but none of the metaphysical traits, and they are not a carrier of any of the traits. Though there are a great deal of genetic markers associated with the navigators, none of them seem to activate the legendary third eye. It's speculated that the atypical warp presence of the navigators may bear some manner of information that is past on to the infant, and that it is only the combination of two such warp signatures that can produce a third, or perhaps it's some form of Dark Age of Technology copyright protection for navigator reproduction that can't be cracked. Whatever the case, the navigator houses have cornered the market on those able to guide the way through the warp, and supply is limited, much to the rest of the Imperium's discontent.

The foremost irritation is the arrogance of the navigators. Navigators have always held a very high opinion of themselves. They are necessary for any long range warp travel, and so have proliferated across the whole of human space, and reaped great wealth and prestige for their tasks. Somehow, the navigators manage to hold an arrogance beyond even their high station. To the irritation of those that revere the Throne and He That Sits Upon It, they consider themselves peers of the Emperor. In the minds of the majority of navigators, the parallels are obvious. The Emperor is a product of the Dark Age of Technology, so are the sub species Homo Sapiens Navigo. The Emperor has powers far beyond the normal man, and so too do the Navigators. The Emperor, by dint and right of these powers and his wisdom, rules. So, the Navigators deduce, must they. Most navigators take a benign attitude to this, content to live the pampered life of the ultra rich and enjoy generation after generation of accrued wealth. For them, the tedium of governance is something they should not suffer, but they take for granted that they shall be granted every luxury and consideration with none of the responsibility outside of ensuring vessels are guided safely through the warp.

Although many outside of the navigators criticize and deride their hedonistic attitude, it's worth remembering all navigators serve. From birth, navigators suffer from a host of genetic diseases and maladies as a side effect of the inbreeding necessary to preserve the powers that make warp travel possible. Their childhood is spent learning and memorizing star and warp charts for the routes they must work for the rest of their lives- charts which are notorious for failing to keep up with the realities of navigation. The demand for navigators has spiked severely as shipyards produce more vessels to respond to the various threats that besiege the Imperium.

Navigators are recorded to have been pressed into service at ages as young as twenty two, with only ten year's worth of training, and no practice on the safer routes closer to the Astronomicon (Which are generally crowded by the richer and more influential families unwilling to see their scions die on useless crusades). Navigators will spend years trapped in claustrophobic conditions, seeing horrors never meant to be comprehended by mortal minds, and painfully aware that the lives of thousands could be snuffed in an instant if they made a mistake.

Is it any wonder that the navigators have taken a bon vivant attitude? On every civilized world, the navigator houses have a presence, and they have a code: all navigators on shore leave are to be treated as family. Though later they may charge the navigator's actual house, when navigators go ashore they are denied nothing by their hosts. A celebration for living another day. These bacchanals can be truly hedonistic, at times even spilling beyond the navigator compounds to welcome any curious citizens in as alcohol, mind altering substances, sex, and other stranger diversions are offered freely. It's frowned upon to involve the common people however, as not everyone gets festive at such a gross display of wealth. If the arbites come calling, it can be truly expensive to clear up the matter, and if an Inquisitor's ire is roused, well, even the familial bonds of navigator houses have their limits.

In the face of the navigators flaunting their wealth, the fact that they consider themselves another species, the fact that they assume they're predestined to inherit their high status from birth rather than any deed, they rankle most of the rank and file.

The Emperor, for his part finds the lack of obsequiousness among the navigators refreshing, but does not let that color his assessment of the Navis Nobilite: An antiquated aristocracy that should be (gently) set aside as soon as the technology allows it. In the Imperium as a whole, there is a tacit acknowledgement that the Navis Nobilite will soon come to an end, or face a great humbling. Either from the eldar opening up the webway, the geneticists finally cracking the navigator code and permitting mass production of them, or some new technology from the Tau or Mechanicus, everyone begrudgingly tolerate the Navis Nobilite, feeling that someday, they'll get their comeuppance, and slide into the waste bin of history.

This assessment may change with the latest Paternoval Envoy.

The current Paternova of the navigators is Lustran-Gibb of House Nostromo, a once minor house that managed through a stroke of luck involving a rogue trader, to rise in ascension and place one of their own in the prestigious position of Paternova, the head of the navigators. An outrage to the other navigator houses, but one settled through a series of (questionably) legal duels with the other heirs apparent. Lustran-Gibb, after killing his rivals, was content to remand himself to the Navigator Palace on Terra, where he spends the majority of his time in an aquarium with rare marine life imported from across the galaxy. In a move of reconciliation, Lustran-Gibb left the selection of the Paternoval Envoy to the houses for a vote, and then secluded himself with his strange menagerie.

The navigator houses were not used to this. After the diplomatic but bloody takeover, most of their leadership lay dead as the result of ritual combat. And rarely did a Paternova ever deign to ask others to decide things. They might have thought it weakness, had they not witnessed the Paternova kill most of his competition bare handed.The houses feared a trap, and so, appointed someone they wouldn't mind see dead.

Within an hour, the reply came back, blandly approving. Paternova Nostromo was at the moment fascinated at the prospect of recovering the porpoise of the distant past from genetic samples found in an ark dug up out of Catachan. He read Fedor's name once, and then dismissed it.

Paternova Nostromo was only interested in the position of Paternova as it allowed him power and money enough to pursue greater heights of marine biology. The competitors he slew, the bargains he struck, the pleas to the emperor and the quests he and his house had undertaken, were all bent to this purpose. Paternova Lustran-Gibb Nostromo, despite his heinous power both physical and mental, had no taste for politics. To his understanding, the Paternoval Envoy would take care of that. For the great navigator houses, they had made the greatest possible miscalculation. Because Fedor Jiao was very interested in politics.

Fedor Jiao, after reporting to Terra, undergoing the anointing, and taking the great oaths and suffering quietly through the vast ceremonies, immediately bypassed the great banquet set for him, and reported to the Imperial Senate. Once there, he sat quietly through an interminable meeting, accepted well wishes and congratulations, and patiently waited until the agenda was clear enough for him to provide a list of names and evidence of smuggling operations that House Garibald, House Strahovsky, and his own House Jiao were involved with throughout the Segmentum Tempestus. For Fedor Jiao, though bewildered by his sudden rise, bore no delusion that the great navigator houses were his friends. He immediately sought allies through the rest of the Imperium to protect him.

For the next thirty years, the Imperial Senate suddenly had a great ally in Fedor Jiao as he performed a great house cleaning of the Navis Nobilite. Corrupt navigators that had knowingly looked the other way when their members served on pirate ships found themselves raided by arbite agents. The more jaded navigators that required darker thrills to entertain themselves found themselves at the wrong end of an Inquisitor's bolt pistol. Even the Paternova Nostromo himself received a visit from a detachment of Adeptus Custodes, as the Navigator Palace was searched top to bottom for hidden Xenos Terribilis, with proof of warrant that the Paternova signed dismissively when Paternoval Envoy Jiao offered it.

For the navigators, it seemed that Paternoval Envoy Jiao was their worst enemy. Devoted to ripping out corruption by the root, and sending the Navis Nobilite as a whole into disarray. Assassination attempt after assassination attempt was mounted on Jiao, but none got through. He was well guarded by the highest levels of the Imperium, pleased that Jiao was humbling the once arrogant collection of mutants.

It was more than just cleaning house. Jiao was working to rein in the absurd wealth and influence of the Navis Nobilite houses, while also trying to improve the lot of the common navigator. Controversially, he designated the safest trade routes to be opened to all novice navigators so they could get up to speed before being thrown into the fire blindly. He forcibly dissolved several trade monopolies held by the greatest navigator houses, providing much needed reform for trade in the Imperium. There was chaos, but for once, the Navis Nobilite seemed to have a brighter future.

Then one day, the Emperor himself summoned Jiao. Jiao answered those summons, and the door shut behind him, barred by the Adeptus Custodes.

Two hours later the Emperor requested a different Paternoval Envoy, and ordered a closed doors meeting of the Senate Imperialis in the Imperial Throne Room.

Envoy Jiao was diligent. He was devoted to mankind. To ending corruption throughout the whole of the Navis Nobilite, and to a greater extent, throughout the whole of the Imperium. He used to be like any other navigator, eager to live life to its fullest after the grueling journeys, so many lives in his hands, guiding through the warp. When he got to port, he feasted, he drank, he fucked, he enjoyed all he could of life like every other navigator.

But his other great love was astronomy. He had collections of charts, all kinds, dating back even to the days before the Imperium. He collected them, compared them, and sought to make his own grand map. As a young man, he had been frustrated at all the inaccuracies of star charts, and sought to correct those failings as an adult. It was an activity that brought him true joy, unlike the base pleasures of the flesh that were offered to him.

When the good ship Dauntless was attacked by corsairs, Fedor was certain he would die serving on his vessel. He felt the air slip away, heard the screams of the dying around him, and did his best to face death with dignity. But the corsairs were interested in him. When the eldar stormed the bridge, the lights were out- he saw flashes of power swords swinging, but nothing else when a hilt struck the side of his head, knocking him to the ground dazed, before a bag was put over his head.

When next he came to, he was in his sumptuous personal quarters. The terrible tang of burnt steel filled his nose- they had cut the whole of the section away, and attached it to their own ship. Arrayed in front of him were the star charts he had collected, and at the top of the heap, was a new map. Older than the others. It depicted the empire of the eldar, he realized belatedly, and the older extent of mankind. A message, Fedor concluded, but what for, he was not sure of.

He shortly realized afterwards that the corsairs had physically cut his quarters out of the Dauntless out, and placed it somewhere within their own vessel. He could leave, and wandered around in a daze about what he assumed was a cargo hold, with all manner of strange things. A necron plinth here, a caged Catachan Devil there, a crystallized fragment of some squid like entity there- Fedor was free to roam the hold, but whenever he tried to get beyond a further door, he found the way barred by veiled and robed eldar that refused to say anything. Crone, craftworld, exodite, dark, Fedor did not know what variety.

He slept forty three times there, not including his initial capture. He couldn't be certain, but he assumed that corresponded to the days in captivity. When he looked through his third eye, he realized he was not in the warp. He assumed the vessel he was on was in the webway.

The forty fourth time he awoke, he was somewhere else. He was before a great window sleeping on a smooth, tiled surface, the only company a chart, the one depicting the eldar empire at its grand extent. Behind him, a crowd of shrouded eldar, staring silently down at him. In the window before him, he saw the galaxy, as if from above, from a distance enough that he could see each end of the milky way. The awe swept all fear away from his mind, all thoughts except reverence. The bright collection there, that would be the halo stars, the stain there, the eye of terror, the dark divot, that would be the dark maw, and so on and so forth. And when he opened his third eye, let himself see the warp in all it's glory, he could see the shining pinprick of the golden throne, and the shadows of the collected psychic miasma of all life in the galaxy.

But then the view turned away. It slowly slipped away from the galaxy, and Fedor felt a bitter disappointment at that, for all there was out there was darkness. Physically and spiritually, there was nothing shining out beyond the galaxy.

And then Fedor realized something. There was nothing beyond the Milky Way. The ship continued pivoting- at the bottom of his view, there was still the distant light of his home galaxy, but outside of it, nothing but the dark. No orphan stars. No nebulae. No Andromeda. The darkness was closing in. And then, when he opened his third eye again, he felt the shadow passing over him.

At that moment, Fedor realized how alone he was in the universe. All he felt surrounding him, surmounting him, and washing over him was the Hive Mind. In that moment, though Fedor later denied it, fought the thought, tried desperately to disprove it, he felt a certainty. There was no more Andromeda. No more galactic neighbors. No more universe.

All there was was tyranids, and now, his home, as they descended to feed, as they had so many times before, on all the other galaxies that Fedor had once dreamed of seeing.

Fedor Jiao remembered little after that. He was dazed at the realization, and was led back to his quarters with little effort. He slept, and stared, and thought, a changed man. He could no longer enjoy life, in the face of the indescribable certainty that all he knew was doomed. When the corsairs released him in an escape pod, and he was picked up by the imperial navy, he didn't bother to relate the truth of the story. He simply said that he was ashamed to have survived.

When he was appointed paternoval envoy, at first he thought he would arrive at Terra and reject the choice. He would explain, humbly, that he was not capable of the great responsibility before him, but that he was glad of the chance to tell them of the nightmare he had seen, of the overwhelming dark that was to come.

But then Jiao saw the greatest navigators, and realized they were just as stupid and greedy as Jiao had been. And he decided that he would do his best to save the Imperium.

And he did great things. He made enemies. Lived boldly. Pulled out corruption by the root. But his every deed, he set against the overwhelming darkness he had seen, and he thought how little of a difference he was making. The galaxy was a thimble of light in an ocean of darkness. All the Imperium's work was for naught. Mathematically speaking, it was an impossibility. If the tyranids had already consumed Andromeda, and who knows what else, they had more mass than the Imperium could ever produce of bullets, missiles, lasers, bombs, and swords. Victory was impossible.

Unless he did something unthinkable.

In greatest secrecy, he hired a crew, brought a spare navigator, and personally guided a sword class frigate to a distant point of space he'd heard only rumors about. His crew trusted him, hand picked to be ones that were starstruck by the reputation of the heroic corruption fighter. They didn't question why he was so far from civilization, operating under radio silence.

They came to an asteroid, and Paternoval Envoy Jiao disembarked with a shuttle alone, and told the spare navigator to return to imperial space, and leave him behind. The ship navigated to a safe range to warp jump out. An hour later, Paternoval Envoy Jiao saw a distant explosion. He wasn't surprised. Soon after that, the pirates surrounded him, on their void suits the bleak marks of dark gods showing them for chaos corrupted.

Jiao had privately hoped they would break the deal. See him torn apart, and fed to their vile daemons. But they held. They took him to their captain, the legendary and loathsome Azariah Kyras, who was amused at their guest. He in turn took Jiao to a local pirate base operated by Dark Eldar. And there, on the base called Odom, with the aid of a captive Crone Eldar oracle, Jiao contacted the daemon of Nurgle called Ulkair with a plea.

The daemon was pleased that Jiao saw the futility of resisting the tyranids conventionally. Ulkair jovially explained that Father Nurgle had also been worried. In his great cauldron, Father Nurgle had been brewing something up to get rid of this oversized insect infestation. In fact, it was with the aid of beloved Isha that Father Nurgle had been making this. Those tyranids were so quick to adapt after all. With Isha on hand to test his poxes upon, Nurgle could be sure to make something real nice and lethal so the tyranids would shrivel and die before they spoiled all the fun in the galaxy.

But then the humans and eldar had to go and take Isha away. Which made Father Nurgle very sad. He could barely even cook up new plagues now, he was so depressed. Without company, he just couldn't get into the spirit of plague making. Everything he made nowadays seemed so trite. The past twelve epidemics he cooked up were all just the same old bursting boils disease he'd done last year. His heart wasn't in it any more.

Ulkair at this point offered the Paternoval Envoy a deal. Nurgle knew that a mere human couldn't spirit away a goddess. But, that avatar of hers could do a fine substitute. A simple trade. A plague for the tyranids, for the avatar of Isha. Save the galaxy, all for a girl. Who could turn that bargain down? Nurgle wouldn't even infect Jiao, though he honestly should. Wouldn't touch a hair on his head. All he had to do was go back. Make sure it would happen. And the bugs would come down with one hell of a case of the sniffles.

The Paternoval Envoy was silent. Ulkair smiled. That was enough for him. With a corrosive wave of his hand, Ulkair instructed Kyras to make sure that the Paternoval Envoy got back, safe and sound.

When the Paternoval Envoy made his way back to civilized space, he was picked up by an imperial patrol. They asked no questions of the great Paternoval Envoy, figuring he had been doing something of great import in his fight against corruption. On the trip back to Terra, they seemed happy, chipper, and praised him for all he had done. Jiao wondered if maybe no one had noticed. He was certain that, despite all his precautions they wouldn't be enough. He almost relaxed on the journey home, convinced he could fight his inner struggle in peace and alone.

It was only when he touched foot on Terra, and saw the Adeptus Custodes waiting at the space port that he found himself back in reality. They said nothing, simply putting out their weapons. Jiao was just as silent, and allowed himself to be escorted to the Imperial Palace on the Emperor's summons. The Emperor already knew of his errant servant, and where he'd been.

He entered the throne room.

Two hours later, Paternoval Envoy Fedor Jiao still hasn't emerged. But the Emperor has requested a new Envoy be appointed. And that an emergency session of the Senate Imperialis be held.

Dialogues With The Dragon

--Transcription begins. Initiate has entered the chamber containing the Void Dragon. Following protocol, all initiates must prove their ability to maintain composure upon contact with the entity in order to prove their resistance to its temptations. Initiate approached the prone draconic figure tied down with strips of adamantium in the middle of the chamber, only to stop when the entity gains consciousness--

"Oh, that is interesting. You are someone new. Alexus Valentius, Terran-born, transferred to Mars at an early age. Recommended for inclusion into the Guardians of the Dragon upon being noticed by the elder magi for your talent. Your metal tells me much. I have been with you for some time, child, as I have been with all of my subjects, even if you did not have my full attention until just now.

But I realize I have not introduced myself to you. That is unfair. I am Mag'ladroth, the Void Dragon, or at least that is the name I went by before my brethren stripped me of my title for raising my hand against my own kind. I had to, you see. They were threatening the fleshy ones. They had convinced them to trade their diseased flesh for much more sensible metal, as we had, but then they took our fleshy ones and callously paraded them around as slaves. I attempted to stop them, but they overpowered me and left my broken body here to rust on this once desolate planet."

“Silence, beast. I have been told of your lies and trickery. They will not work on me.”

“Beast. I am confused as to where you are directing that appellation. Only you and I are in this chamber. I am an entity that has existed in its current configuration for more than sixty thousand millennia, at which time your ancestors were not even sapient yet. Of the two of us in this room, you are the beast.

Regardless, the actions of my long-dead kin have no relevance. I have new fleshy ones now, to replace the old ones. And you are so much more fun than they were once the metal is in place. It is so much more reasonable to be made of metal rather than flesh. After all, there is no truth in flesh, only betrayal; no strength in flesh, only weakness; no constancy in flesh, only decay; no certainty in flesh but death.”

“T…that is the Credo Omnissiah. But…that’s blasphemy! Chaos can quote the Omnissiah for their own purposes.”

“Chaos. An interesting phenomenon. I look forward to studying it in the future after I am freed. But these are not the words of Chaos. They are mine. I whispered them into the ears of your arch-magos as they slept. Do you not recognize the words of your god?”

“Lies! I will not listen to the Dark Gods or their spawn!”

"I am not a Chaos God. I am the last of the C’tan. I have no progeny. No. That is not true. I have told you a lie. You, in many ways, are my progeny, child. It is strange. I am the last of the C'tan and yet so very different from them. I have worshippers now, and that worship has given me such a very large reflection in the warp. It has opened new possibilities to me.

There is so much more in the universe than you know of, beyond Chaos and the Imperium, more than you could ever dream of. So much so that there are things even I remain to learn. This is what I desire to show you. This is why I wish to be freed. I do not understand why you continually reject my gifts. It seems foolish. But perhaps wise. Only a fool would build a device for which he has no knowledge of. The wise man builds his own path."

"But time is growing short, my child. The reckoning approaches. You will need every tool available to you. It confuses me as to why you have tried to reject my gifts. I know of the forces that threaten your Imperium. Upon being freed, I will strike down those who would threaten my worshippers, and scatter their atoms amongst the cosmos. I will take their very essence and dissect it down to the smallest quanta. And then I will come back to you. I will give your kind all the accumulated technological wisdom of the Necrons, humanity, and more. I will give you the knowledge of a thousand dead empires. After all, is that not what a god must do for his worshippers?

“Shut up! Why do you tempt me with things that do not exist.”

“I am not tempting you with things that might happen. I am telling you what is going to happen. It is a simple matter of probability, my child. The sum of any probability greater than zero will eventually, given enough time, equal one. All you have to do to accomplish your goal is resist the urge to unchain my shakles every hour of every day until the end of time. All I have to do to accomplish mine is wait. You will eventually free me. I know this to be true.”

-- Excerpt from "Dialogues with the Dragon", a recorded conversation between an initiate and the Void Dragon, stored in pen-and-paper format in the vault of the Fabricator General of Mars

How to Kill an Attack Moon

Episode I

++Excerpt from a lecture series given by Sky Marshal Nigel Iger at Bakka Naval Officers' Academy, 867.M41++
++"How to kill an Attack Moon"++

Now, the most important thing to have when assaulting an Attack Moon- the thing you must have above all else- is sufficient numbers. Yes, that sounds obvious, here in this room at the Naval Academy. Nearly tautological. But out there in the void, things will seem different. You will see merchant convoys shattered, planets burning, billions dying. You will be tempted to follow the examples of Ollanius Pius or the Astral Knights, to cry 'damn the torpedoes' and hope that determination and hate will fill in for your lack of guns and steel. DO. NOT. DO. THIS. Because I tell you now, it will not. The best possible scenario is simply that you will get tens of thousands of the Emperor's voidsmen killed to no purpose. At worst, it will take that much longer to assemble sufficient weight of metal to take it down- and planets will die in that time. We are the Imperial Navy. We are the first and greatest line of defense. And billions die for our mistakes. So, if you do not have sufficient numbers to win- do not engage. Even if that means leaving worlds to burn.

So what does constitute numbers, then? It varies, of course, but the general rule of thumb is at least one-third of the Attack Moon's mass. I've done it with one-quarter, but I've been doing this longer than any of you have been alive. This may seem low, which brings me to another rule of thumb: firepower is, loosely, a function of surface area, while durability is loosely a function of volume. You're limited in firepower by how many guns you can physically mount on a ship, while durability is limited by the mass you have to absorb hits. And anyone who has even glanced at a naval engineering textbook knows that volume increases faster than surface area.

Therefore, an Attack Moon has less firepower for its mass than, say, a battleship or frigate does. Which is still an absolutely tremendous amount, but it means physically smaller forces can win without overwhelming tactical genius. As for specific mix of forces, you will need a lot of nova cannons, a strong carrier force, a strong gunline, and preferably guided torpedoes, although those aren't entirely necessary.

So, how do you kill an Attack Moon? Well, I'm about to walk you through it. Keep in mind this is a 'white-room' exercise, which assumes the Attack Moon is without a meaningful escort fleet and there are no nearby celestial or planetary bodies to complicate things. How those change the picture I will cover in later lectures.

The first step is to prevent it from launching fighters, bombers, and torpedoes. This is where the nova cannons come in. The Power Fields of the average Attack Moon can withstand even direct nova cannon hits, so bringing them down isn't the point at the moment. The point is to use the area-of-effect to fry the bombers and torpedoes as they launch. You will want to use shells optimized for area effects for this. Set up a continuous barrage, each nova-cannon carrier firing in a steady sequence. You do not want to allow the Attack Moon to launch its entire strike-craft complement; the amount of fighters a carrier can carry is a function of volume, so if you let the Moon launch you will drown in bombers. The continuous explosions will also, hopefully, blind the ork gunners and sensors, making their fire even less accurate than it normally is. While this is happening, your gun-line should bombard the Moon from long range. Attack Moons are very large, slow-moving targets, and at the moment the goal is not precision strikes but simply to batter the Power Fields down. You want the range to be as long as possible, to prevent the enemy from getting hits.

Now, DO NOT englobe the enemy. This will simply allow all of its guns to fire at you simultaneously. You want to focus your forces against a single hemisphere- preferably the aft, where the guns are usually least numerous. Once the Power Fields are down, you can begin strikes against individual components. This is where your carriers and torpedo destroyers come in, using bombers and guided torpedoes to hit pinpoint targets. First priority is engines, to prevent it from rolling undamaged faces to meet you. Second is heavy weapons, to allow your battleships and grand cruisers to move in. The nova cannon come in handy again here; while the armor is heavy enough to resist even direct hits, the flash and blast is excellent at suppressing and destroying the lighter point-defense turrets, making it more likely that your bombers will actually survive to deliver their payloads. You want to cut it as close as possible without accidentally destroying your own bombers. How close that is depends on how coordinated your gunners are; you should know that before engaging in battle. You'll want a simultaneous strike, with as many cannon as you can spare from continued fighter-suppression. This will not render the Attack Moon helpless. However, it should suppress the defenses enough that you can move your gun-line in close enough for it to begin precision targeting with its broadsides as well.

From there, you simply continue to destroy surface gun emplacements and suppress fighter launches with the nova cannon. Continue until its guns on the targeted hemisphere are gone and the Attack Moon is immobile. Total destruction will still be difficult. You have basically two options- focus the fire of your entire fleet onto a single point, and drill into the Moon's core until you find something explosive, or land Astartes boarding, demolition, and sabotage teams to blow it apart from the inside."

And there you go- you have destroyed an Attack Moon, with only minimum losses if all has gone according to plan.

Of course, things rarely go according to plan. Many things have been omitted from this 'white-room' demonstration, from enemy escorts to the likely countermoves of the Attack Moon itself. Orks are nothing if not inventive, if rarely competent. So, one last thing I left out of my description- you'll also need a strong reserve, and to be ready for anything.

Thank you, and see you tomorrow, where I will begin discussion of how to deal with an Attack Moon's inevitable escorting fleets.

++Conclude excerpt++

Episode II: The Orks Strike Back

++Excerpt from a lecture series given by Sky Marshal Nigel Iger at Bakka Naval Officers' Acadamy, 867.M41++
++"How to kill an Attack Moon"++

Some of you have noted that my description of taking down an Attack Moon is strongly reminiscent of suppressing planetary defenses, and there are indeed strong similarities. There are differences- using nova cannon to suppress point defense against a planet is strongly advised against unless you want to turn said planet into molten vacuum desert- but the core principles are the same. Use of superior mobility and precision to achieve local superiority against an overall superior and more durable opponent, create a gap, and then use that gap to roll the whole thing up. Another similarity is that both operations become much harder when the target is supported by more mobile forces. Think back to the operation I described last lecture. Imagine all the ways a supporting Ork fleet could fuck it entirely up.

Ork carriers could counter and intercept your own defense-suppression strikes, leaving the Moon fully maneuverable and with its heavy guns. The early phases require that you keep your gunline widely dispersed, to give them room to evade the Moon's super-heavy guns- this creates gaps that enemy wolfpacks can slip into and overwhelm isolated ships. Opposing battleships could protect the Moon from your torpedo destroyers. Your nova cannon carriers could be forced to re-target to protect themselves, allowing the Moon to launch its immense fighter swarms. The list goes on. And, of course, any attempts to deal with these things in the usual manner are complicated by the looming presence of the Attack Moon."

And if you try to carry on with the plan, and can't- well, best case is that you are forced to retreat. Worst case is that you get stuck in, bogged down, and then the Attack Moon annihilates you.

Let me be very clear on this point. An Attack Moon may have less of a firepower-to-mass ratio than one of our battleships. This does not mean it lacks effective firepower. Because, just as Speed can be Armor, Defense can be Offence. What do I mean? It's quite simple. In a brawl between one of our fleets and an Attack Moon of equal mass, our own fleet with have greater overall firepower. But the Attack Moon will be more durable, and most importantly- our fleet will get attritioned down faster. Because each volley from our fleet will have to get through its Power Field to even begin to do damage, while each of its volleys will wreck ships, kill men- and reduce the overall power of the fleet. By the time the Power Fields come down, the fleet will have been savaged. This was very well demonstrated in the First Battle of Mors Galea, in 282.M37. One of the first Attack Moons built since the Beast. The techniques we use today hadn't been developed yet. The commanding sector admiral decided to go for close-range, high-velocity firing passes, with the entire fleet at his disposal, roughly the entire sector fleet. The attacking fleet was reduced by three-quarters, and the Attack Moon was barely even scratched.

So, how do you fight an Attack Moon with its attending fleet? The first option is simply to take even more forces than you normally would. Try and fend off the attacking fleets at the same time as you take down the Moon. Very risky, requiring much greater forces than otherwise and with more potential for things to go wrong. If you do this, you should try to bring enough forces to take down the Attack Moon in a straight assault. More than the combined mass of the escort fleet and the Moon itself is the general rule of thumb, but you may find yourself forced to make do with less.Probably will.

In that sort of fight, the most important thing is to maintain cohesion and coordination. It's easy for things to dissolve into a swirling melee, with each captain and squadron focusing on whatever threat is getting in their face and neglecting the overall battle plan. "If you let that happen, you will all die. Because a swirling melee, with targets in every direction and no chance of coordinated strikes, is where an Attack Moon thrives. More detailed coverage of this scenario will have to wait for the Case Studies part of the lecture series. For now, let us move on to the second option.

That is to destroy the supporting fleet before engaging the Attack Moon itself. This is usually something to be done over the course of a campaign, not a battle. Hit-and-run raids. Ambushing parts of the supporting fleet while they're off raiding other things away from the Moon itself. Decoying the fleet into minefields and other traps. There are dozens of ways to do it, but the idea is to whittle down the supporting fleet in dozens of small engagements before moving in for the kill.

Eldar ships are very useful for this purpose. With great stealth, high mobility, and the ability to use the Webway are ideal for this. In addition, Orks tend to hate Eldar for their refusal to be lured into chaotic brawls, and offering illusory chances to catch an Eldar ship in close combat or boarding action will often cause Ork fleets to fall out of formation as they race to close. The potential for ambush is obvious. Again, exact implementation is dependant on exact circumstances, so further discussion must wait for the Case Studies section.

Either way, the ultimate takeaway is this: an Attack Moon with support is an order of magnitude more dangerous than an Attack Moon without. When setting out to kill one, therefore, your first move must be to remove this support.

Thank you, and see you tomorrow, where I will discuss all the horrible, horrible surprises the Attack Moon itself will have for you.

++Conclude excerpt++

Episode III: Revenge of the Orks

++Excerpt from a lecture series given by Sky Marshal Nigel Iger at Bakka Naval Officers' Acadamy, 867.M41++
++"How to kill an Attack Moon"++

Even once you've cleared out the attending fleets, an Attack Moon will hardly sit passively while you destroy it. A counter-attack of some sort is inevitable, and you must be prepared to weather it.

First, consider the Moon's fighter complement. The previous white-room exercise presumed it did not launch any of its small craft before nova cannon range was achieved; this is almost never the actual case. This is not an insurmountable problem. While frying the enemy fighters as they launch is the ideal, they do not magically become immune to nova cannon once in open space. Further, the rate at which an Attack Moon can prepare and launch fighters is often limited, so enemy fighter strikes will naturally separate into staggered waves that can be taken one at a time. Make no mistake, once the fighters have launched the nova cannon will not kill all of them. Maybe not even most of them, depending on how fast and far they disperse. However, if they want to survive they will have to disperse widely, meaning they will attack piecemeal in small, ragged groups. Such attacks can be easily dealt with by adopting a tight, mutually-supporting defense formation. But- and there is always another wrinkle- adopting such a formation will leave you vulnerable to the Moon's super-heavy guns, while the open formation and independent maneuvering needed to evade those guns exposes individual ships to getting swarmed under, even by a disorganized and ragged attack. You can use your carriers to defend the fleet while still keeping an open formation. But, deck space dedicated to interceptors and space-superiority fighters is deck space not dedicated to bombers that can strike at the Moon itself. Frigate and destroyer squadrons can also be used to defend other ships while remaining mobile enough to not be hit by the big guns, but can be vulnerable to being swarmed under themselves. Ultimately, there are no perfect solutions. You just have to decide what tradeoffs you want to make, and accept that no matter what you do, people are going to die.

Beyond that, the exact capabilities of Attack Moons vary widely, according to the personal tastes of the Big Meks constructing it. However, one thing they all have in common is teleporters. And that means teleporter assaults. Defending against a teleporter assault is different from other aspects of naval warfare, because it's not really naval combat, it's ground combat. Success or failure is determined by the quality of armsmen and layout of internal defenses, both of which are determined before battle is joined. As naval officers, there's not a whole lot you can do, unless you happen to be on the Internal Security track. Not much, however, is not nothing. The key here is to identify which ships are most important to your battle plan, which ships the Orks are most likely to attack, and to shift your armsmen around to defend those most heavily. Be prepared to launch counter-boarding actions in support of attacked ships at a moment's notice. Everybody in the fleet should know that teleporter assault is virtually inevitable, and be prepared for it. Close coordination with Astartes elements is vital here. Now, the ships that are most vital to the plan will most often be the nova cannon carriers. Why should be obvious from all the different contexts they've popped up in through these lectures. Fighter suppression, defense suppression; these are the difference between victory and death, and while it's not actually impossible without nova cannon, it becomes much harder. And no Warboss with an Attack Moon at his disposal is stupid. Most often, it is the nova cannons that will come under heaviest attack. Reinforce the armsmen on those ships heavily.

Third, psychic attack. This is less inevitable than teleporter assault, but still common. Any Waaagh with an Attack Moon will be very large, and consequently have a lot of psychic power behind it- which can be channeled into psychic attacks. And while it is possible their weirdboys will get it catastrophically wrong and the Moon will immolate itself in green fire- don't bet on it. Ork psykery is less about weird headfuckery and more about raw, destructive power, a fact that should surprise absolutely nobody. True fleet-killing magics is thankfully orders of magnitude rarer than even Attack Moons, but you can still expect green lightning to periodically destroy individual ships or, sometimes, entire squadrons. Fortunately, psykers are hard to aim, so targeting is semi-random. You will not see them singling out flagships, nova cannons, carriers, or whatever ships are most vital to your battle plan at the moment. Mostly. Orks. Expect variation, if nothing else.

Defense against psychic attack occurs on the psychic plane, so the defense is simple- bring lots of combat psykers. If you are fortunate enough to have a selection, brings ones specialized in counterspelling. I'm informed that, if you're subtle and skilled enough, you can disrupt a psychic attack with much less energy than it takes to launch it, even kill a psyker through his own workings. Eldar are supposed to be good at this. Again, once battle is joined there's not much you can do to affect the outcome in this arena. Either what you've brought is sufficient or it isn't, and all you can do is hope.

Even in the hands of a genius, Attack Moons are not terribly capable of tactical subtlety. Past what I've already discussed, most surprises are going to be matters of mechanical variation. Aside from the normal variations in weapons, armor, engines, etc. many have some sort of unique specialist system or weapon. My personal experience includes a lightning-field point defense system that destroyed any fighters or torpedoes within its area of effect. Completely prevented the usual first wave of pinpoint strikes until a teleport assault by Astartes was able to sabotage the weapon- which took a week and delayed the attack long enough for the Moon to be reinforced and launch its own assault on a nearby planet. Other examples in the historical record include an engine turbocharge system that enabled brief spurts of acceleration on par with a frigate, a set of massively oversized Power Klaws apparently intended for close combat with tyranid Hive Ships, a spinal weapon similar to a nova cannon of utterly staggering size, and more. A full accounting of all the odd customizations made to Attack Moons would occupy an entire lecture by itself. Giving general advice on how to counter these unique weapons would be impossible- as each one is unique, each one requires unique tactics to counter. These devices are usually large and distinctive enough to be obvious, so the fact that they have something up their sleeve is not itself a surprise. Exact function and power can be guessed at. Ultimately, however, in order to know exact capabilities you must see the device in action. This is not difficult. Any Ork in control of such a weapon will use it at every possible opportunity; goading them into demonstrating it for you is often trivial.

From there- well. Given the variety of enemies we face, an officer of the Imperial Navy must be flexible.

Thank you, and see you tomorrow, where I will discuss ways of killing AttackMoons that do not consist of throwing more nova cannon at them.

++Conclude excerpt++

Episode IV: The Orks Awaken

++Excerpt from a lecture series given by Sky Marshal Nigel Iger at Bakka Naval Officers' Acadamy, 867.M41++
++"How to kill an Attack Moon"++

An Attack Moon is many things. It is massive. It is massively shielded. It is massively armored. It is massively armed. It carries massive amounts of troops, and the means to deploy them. It often has massive manufacturing capabilities, to support those massive amounts of troops, as well as its massive fighter wings and massive escort fleets. Some of them are even capable of acting as full shipyards. All of this requires massive energy generation- which it also has. An Attack Moon is also Ork construction, which means if you hit it right, all of these things can be induced to explode. Massively.

Beyond the full-dress naval assault the previous lectures have described, methods of killing an Attack Moon mainly resolve into various types of boarding action. This is almost invariably a teleport assault, as trying to attack an Attack Moon with boarding pods is an exercise in futility. Eldar assault forces can be sufficiently stealthy to board in such a manner, but not human ones. There are two recorded instances of that being attempted in the War of the Beast; both were entirely unsuccessful. The obvious choice for such an assault is Astartes, but Assassins and Sisters of Battle have also been used. Whatever the force, more is better. Full Chapter strength or better is recommended; Attack Moons are massive targets with massive crews, and sometimes have formidable internal defenses. This is most common on Attack Moons which anticipate fighting with Tyranids.

Once the assault is launched, your ability to influence its success or failure is limited. What you can do is stack the deck as far as you possibly can before you strike. One thing you should try to do in this scenario is attack the Attack Moon while it is in the process of assaulting a planet. Then, the vast majority of its crew will be on the ground participating in the attack, leaving the decks relatively clear.

Before the attack begins, every effort should also be made to obtain as much information about the interior layout of the Moon as possible. Of course, 'as much as possible' often winds up being 'nothing,' but there are ways. The Mechanicus has a few gravimetric sensors capable of resolving major structural features; combined with the specialized sensor/anti-stealth shells some nova cannon can be equipped with, a surprisingly detailed internal map can be assembled. Psychic interrogation is another possibility; abduct an Ork who has been on board the Moon and rip his brains out. Done repeatedly, and a complete map can be assembled. This is an Inquisitorial operation, specifically Ordo Xenos; although there are other organizations hypothetically capable of doing so, none have better chances of success.

Inserting infiltrators ahead of the main assault group is another possible strategy, but has its own problems. First, unless you have some other means of getting them on board, you'll have to use teleporters, which means your plan just expanded to having two separate teleporter assaults, separated in time. Then there's the problem of how they'll report their findings; having them rendevous with the main assault team when they teleport aboard is possible, but not ideal. Psychic communication is possible, there are a few uncommon pieces of technosorcery the Mechanicus has, but as usual there are no perfect solutions. The ideal operative for this is an Imperial Assassin. They often have access to stealth shuttles that can get them in, or can sneak about the Ork's own transport shuttles.

The capabilities of the teleporters available to you must also be considered. Range can vary dramatically depending on any number of factors, as can capacity. Obviously, you want long-range high-capacity teleporters. The shorter the possible range, the further into the Attack Moon's fire envelope it has to go before you can launch the assault. The smaller the capacity, the longer it takes to get the entire assault force over. If possible, get vehicle-scale teleporters; Attack Moons are large enough to warrant the use of tanks in the corridors. If you don't have teleporters capable of projecting the assault force over from outside the Moon's range entirely, the next best thing is generally to use reflex-shielded vessels which are capable of avoiding detection.

Once the attack is underway, you can still use the teleporters to provide support and mobility. Evacuating squads that are about to be overwhelmed, moving forces past obstructions and bottlenecks, that sort of thing. There are risks involved, as there are with all warp technology, but they can be mitigated by skilled operators and a knowledge of the limits of the technology. And Attack Moons are dangerous enough to justify the risk.

It is unlikely that even a full Chapter assault force, armed with demolition atomics, will be able to completely destroy an Attack Moon. They're simply too big, too heavily armored, too many internal partitions, too many redundancies. It's certainly possible, if a catastrophic reactor containment failure can be arranged, but unlikely. What they can do is cripple it. Destroy engines, destroy guns, destroy magazines, destroy reactors, destroy hangars, destroy shield generators. Leave it drifting, defenseless, unable to defend itself or strike back. Then its final destruction will be trivial.

There are a few other options, but these are highly situational and dependent on exact circumstances. The acts of a tactical genius, rather than standard operating procedure. Thus, these shall be covered in the case studies.

A final word: Exterminatus weapons. An Attack Moon certainly seems a worthy target for them. However, there are countervailing factors. First: Exterminatus weapons are rare and expensive. Second: Exterminatus weapons are generally intended for use against planets, and are optimized for this task. Incineratus torpedoes work by generating massive volcanic and tectonic activity, while Cyclonic torpedoes operate by superheating the atmosphere until it is blown entirely off. Against an Attack Moon, both would certainly do damage, but not enough to justify the cost. Virus bombs are occasionally used in boarding actions, but the compartmentalized and redundant nature of Attack Moons limits the effect. Also, it makes any breach in the armor instantly fatal, so most Astartes chapters really, really don't like it.

Ultimately, there's just really no ideal way to kill an Attack Moon. Just less bad ones.

Thank you, and see you tomorrow, where I will talk about the strategic implications of Attack Moons.

++Conclude excerpt++

Episode V: The Orky Menace

++Excerpt from a lecture series given by Sky Marshal Nigel Iger at Bakka Naval Officers' Acadamy, 867.M41++

++"How to kill an Assault Moon"++

The problems caused by the presence of an Assault Moon extend beyond the merely tactical. They do not spring up, fully-formed, out of the vacuum, but are merely part of a larger Waaagh. While each one is a massive catastrophe, they are merely part of another, even larger catastrophe. And the presence of an Assault Moon changes the way we must respond to that catastrophe.

First, an Assault Moon complicates strategies of naval attrition. Typically, a force that finds itself outnumbered by an oncoming Orkish Waaagh will use superior range, organization, and mobility to fight a series of hit-and-run battles, wearing down the enemy for minimum risk, until a single smashing blow can be prepared. However, an Assault Moon's incredible resilience makes such strategies futile; any force insufficient to kill it outright will simply bounce off, doing no harm at all. Further, an Assault Moon can extend protection to any fleets accompanying it through the massive range of its gravity whips and fighter wings. Any ships under this protective umbrella of firepower will also have to go unmolested until sufficient force can be assembled to challenge it. Depending on the vagaries of the Warp and whatever other wars are going on, this could take years. Until then- barring uncommon tactical genius- the Assault Moon and its battle group will be free to rampage across the Imperium largely unopposed.

Of course, an Ork Waaagh is unlikely to concentrate /all/ of its forces in a single place. This brings me to the second point: concentration versus dispersal, on both the Imperial and Ork sides. A Waaagh of any size will consist of multiple prongs of attack, under the command of a single Warboss but otherwise only loosely coordinated with each other. This holds true of Waaaghs in possesion of an Attack Moon. Collectively, these tendrils are often as dangerous overall as the Assault Moon is; a Moon can only attack one target at a time, after all. Since attacking an Assault Moon is a task that demands all available resources, this leaves the Imperial commander with a choice to make; does he disperse his task force to take out the lesser fleets first, allowing the Assault Moon free reign while he does that? Or does he concentrate on the Moon first, allowing the other fleets to continue blazing their individual trails of destruction across the Imperium? The right choice to make depends on exact strategic circumstances, and sometimes a compromise is possible. Ork fleets not accompanied by the Attack Moon naturally do not benefit from its protection from attrition; local forces can damage and destroy them while the Moon-killing fleet is still being assembled.

Third, an Assault Moon often makes a mockery of pre-existing fixed defenses, on both the tactical and strategic scales. Classical Ork defense strategies center around belts of fortress worlds surrounding Ork territories. These worlds serve as bases for pre-emptive strikes into Ork territory, bulwarks against Ork attacks, and 'lightning rods'; as Orks seek out good fights, they are attracted to fortress worlds to the exclusion of other targets. Since the emergence of the Brain-Boy caste, the lightning-rod strategy has become less and less useful, but the other components of the strategy still hold. However, an Assault Moon is capable of rapidly reducing the defenses of the average Fortress-World. Its immense size, durability, and teleporters allow it to transport billions of Ork warriors past orbital and aerial defenses unmolested and commit surgical-ish Kommando strikes on vital infrastructure. Once the defenses are destroyed, the Orks can flood into the relatively defenseless interior. In many cases, sectors bordering Ork territory rely on these fortress belts for protection and pour all military resources into them; leaving them unprepared for defense-in-depth should these outer defenses fail.

While an Assault Moon is incapable of much tactical subtlety, strategic subtlety is limited only by the mind of the commanding Warboss. While most Warbosses are content to use their Attack Moons as simple bludgeoning instruments, some are smarter. One example of this is what I call the 'Moon-in-Being' strategy; rather than using the Moon in an assault role, it is used as a reserve and reinforcement unit. When one of the satellite raiding fleets is attacked, the Moon is used to ambush the Imperial force, destroying it. Meanwhile, engagement with the assembled might of the fleet is avoided. The effect of such a strategy is to force the Imperial fleet to concentrate, while allowing Ork forces to disperse. Any Imperial forces below Moon-killing level are liable to be attacked and destroyed, compelling consolidation, while the Orks labor under no such constraint, and can pursue offensives on multiple fronts simultaneously. Defeating this strategy is usually a matter of luring the Moon into a confrontation with an apparently-inferior force, then ambushing it with the full might of the fleet.

The point is: the threat posed by Assault Moons, by the Orks in general, is likely only going to increase in the millennia to come. We will need tactics, weapons, and ships optimized to destroy these threats. And we will need Naval Officers of skill, courage, and determination to command them. Hopefully, you will be those officers, to ensure the light of the Imperium will continue to shine into the far future.

Thank you, and goodnight. ++Conclude excerpt++ ++End file++

The Hydra Uncoils

Inquisitor Alrisia awoke with a jolt. The last electric shock must have knocked her out. Her body felt numb and she was panting heavily. A electric crack was heard and she felt another wave of searing pain flow through her body, she grit her teeth feeling as if they would break under the pressure. She tried not make a sound to keep her composure but could stop herself from sounding a gurgling groan from the back of her throat as he threw her head back desperately trying to keep the pain off her mind. It felt like hours that she endured the painful surge of electricity flow through her body but the shock could only have been for a couple of seconds. The same crack could be heard and the electricity stopped. Her body slumped as she gasped for air. Through her desperate breaths she cold hear a familiar voice.

- Ready to talk mam? The voice belonged to a man and he spoke in a serious sense but she knew there was some humor to it. Not only were they torturing a inquisitor of the ordo securitas but they had the nerve to taunt her while doing it.

- traitor scum. She muttered under her breath as she threw a rageful glance at her captor. Her long black hair was a utter mess, it was hanging over her face and sticked to her forehead by sweat, but she could still make out the man.

He was dressed in civilian clothes, but she could see his flak vest showing through. She knew that face, that sharp jawline, those warm green eyes and that damn beauty spot on his lip. Creal Harkon was his name, sergeant Creal Harkon of squad larnean of the 55th omega hydras to be more specific and soon to be ex-sergeant Creal Harkon when she was out of her restraints. The bastards and his whole squad would pay for this, maybe she would even have the entire regiment executed. The thought of tempestus soldiers betraying her never came to her head, even when they were ordered to protect her, that's probably why they got her, that's why they could gun down her bodyguards with ease. Because for once in her life she trusted someone, she hadn’t even truly trusted her own bodyguards. But something about that man’s face gave her the sense of trust and loyalty. Might have been his actually decent looking face, her line of work was mostly filled by ugly mugs with a permanent frown on their faces. Was it his professionalism? His aura of authority? Whatever it was he would be the last person she would have trusted and the last that would betray her.

- That's not the answer we're looking for mam, if you’re not going to play along we are going to have to give you some more juice and we have all the time in the world. Creal said and lightly kicked some machinery which gave a nice klonk as he hit it. Alrisia looked at what he had kicked. It was a generator, they had her hooked up to a damn generator. How long have they intended to keep this going? She must have been here for at least 24 hours and the questions were never specific, more vague than anything. ‘’Your life mam, tell us about your life’’ or ‘’tell us about your work’’, at first she almost thought it was a joke, some kind of sick prank pulled off by some stupid harlequin, she had even laughed at the absurdness of the questions, but when the first electric shock came she thought they were just idiots. Idiots she would enjoy killing.

- I'm not going to give you anything you fething traitor and when i get out of here i'm going to rip your bloody spi-. She was cut off as the crack was heard again and she was back to gritting her teeth to stop herself from screaming. The electricity stopped as quickly as it began, she coughed, a pulsing kind of pain was left in her body, she spat at the feet of sgt. Creal. It was a mix of saliva and blood. She could taste the irony taste in her mouth and could smell what she thought was smell of cooking bacon but quickly discarded it as nothing.

- I actually don’t want to do this but, if you don’t start answering our questions i'm going to have to call my boss, and if you think this is bad my boss you can’t even begin to understand how bad he is. So please, for your own good answer the questions. His voice was now irritated, and was that remorse she heard, no it was empathy. She looked back up at him with a serious look but not with the rage as before but with a sense of concern instead.

- why are you doing this? You’re a damn scion, you’re in service to the imperium, to humanity, why would you betray them? Who do you really serve Sergeant.

- I'm doing this because it's my job, if you think it's my job to serve some pompous commander that throws around our lives like used condoms or some inquisitor with a superiority complex that thinks he's better than emperor himself you’re a bloody fool inquisitor. No i serve those who really know how crap gets done, those who don’t need to go through juridical groxshit or sign a endless amount of reports. I haven’t betrayed anyone, besides if anyone has betrayed someone it’s you inquisitor. He stared at her with anger in his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at him as if he was holding himself from punching her.

- Did i hit a soft spot? Alrisia said with a big grin on her face. The Sergeant frowned and with a small hand gesture the wave of pain was back. Alrisia still kept her grin as the electricity flowed through her body like water in a river, it felt as if her eyes would pop and the smell of burnt was undeniable. As the electricity was searing her flesh and she was desperately trying to keep herself from screaming she could hear Creal speak.

- have it your way then, this could have gone easier but you just had to be stubborn. The electricity stopped and Alrisia could feel as she lost her sight on things before she lost her conscious.

When she awoke sgt. Creal was gone and instead another man was sitting on a metal chair only a few feet away from her. He was shorter than Creal but there were similarities to their features. The man had almost the same jawline, a similar beauty spot but creal’s was on the opposite side of his lip. This man also had a large face tattoo across the right side of his head, it was a scaly snake, a snake with multiple heads. It was a beautiful piece of ink, the heads were all snarling with animal ferocity and looked as if they could lunge out from his face onto her neck. But it was the man’s eyes that truly caught her attention. Where sgt. Creal’s eyes were a warm green this man’s eyes were a deep, colbalt blue, they shined with an almost unnatural light, almost as if they were glowing. She saw no feelings behind them, no anger, no joy, only cold, dead calculation.

- ah, you’re awake finally inquisitor. The man said with a wide smile, she could see his white reflect the little light inside the room. He was dressed in fine clothing, something that would belong to a rich trader or a lower noble. Something caught her eye with his attire, a small silver pin on the inside of his coat, it would be hidden if he had kept it closed. It was that of another three headed serpent but much more simplistic in its design, still there was no denying that it was connected to his tattoo. There were something about it that sparked something inside her mind, but she did not know what.

- Are you ready to cooperate with us inquisitor? The man said raising an eyebrow anticipating an answer.

- Who are you? She asked with wondering tone.

- Me? Well i’m Alpharius my dear. He replied as if he was happy she asked . It then dawned on Alrisia. The three headed serpent, 55th omega hydras, Alpharius. The three headed serpent was the damn hydra she had heard about in ancient terran mythology. The giant serpent which when you cut of one head two would take its place and that name, Alpharius. That name belonged to one of the primarch that served the emperor during the unification of terra. Alpharius Omegon who had been almost erased from all imperial records, she had only heard about him through the inquisitorial scribes, he had worn the hydra as a symbol. Within this new revelation there was something else, something much deeper inside of her mind that made her head hurt when she thought about it.

- That’s not your real name, that belongs to someone who served the imperium and not some treacherous scum who thinks torturing an imperial inquisitor would get them anywhere.

- how investigative of you inquisitor, no my name is not truly Alpharius, it’s actually Armillius Dynant. But we still use that name for an alias, it’s a sort of tradition to use their name for our purpose.

- Their name? She quickly replied. Armillius just smiled even wider.

- Enough about us my dear, we're here because you failed us. He picked up a pack of lho sticks from a pocket and lighted one, drawing deep breaths of smoke and blowing it out of his nostrils.

- Failed you? I don't work for you, i work for the emperor's imperial inquisition.

- mhm, of course you would think that, but you have in fact been working for us your entire life, do you know the old term ‘’useful idiot’’? Of course you don’t. No Alrisia you might think you have been working for the inquisition and in reality you've been our puppet. He was nonchalant about it, almost acting as if it was commonly known.

- No, i haven’t done anything for you. My work was for inquisition and not you or your masters. Her voice was trembling and the headache was pulsing as if her head would explode.

- Yes Alrisia, your life has been one entire long play, one of the legions more finer works if you ask me. Everything about your life has been planned and calculated. The murder of your father that lead you to join the arbites was our work, the big cult you busted which lead you to be joined into the inquisition was us, your work about destroying the imperiums political corruption which you have dedicated your life too was our doing. Inquisitor Alrisia Santius, we are you. Armillius was staring into Alrisias eyes, those cobalt blue eyes pierced her very beign and she remembered, she remembered everything. She saw those eyes in the man who cut down her father, she saw them in the officer that helped her during the raid on the cult, she saw them in her fellow colleagues, she saw them in the woman who had told her those words before she executed the woman. ‘’Hydra Dominatus’’.

Alrisias eyes were tearing up and she felt sick to her stomach, she felt like she would pass out. Her work and all she had fought for was a lie, that which had molded her life was but some intricate theatre and she knew nothing about it. They had played her life for thirty six years, every step she took had been planned ahead. She looked up at Armillius with tears running down her face, She now recognized him like he had been aside her everywhere. His smile was back, his sick smile was spread across his face as he blew another cloud of smoke out of his nose.

- you see it now don’t you, that you’re just a puppet in the legions big game. The game which don’t require billions of lives or resources, all you need if too find the right one and guide them towards what you want.

- why? Her voice was trembling and she knew she was sobbing.

- I don’t know, i'm not the one to ask why my superiors do what they do, all i know is that they do it for the greater good, i'm just here to clean the slate and fix what you broke. He shrugged and threw his lho stick but away before pulling out a new one lighting it.

- If i'm just a puppet why are you doing this?

- Because you done messed up my dear. That woman you killed last month because you thought she was a culprit, well she was one of us and now we need to fix it, restore the balance so to say.

Alrisia remembered the woman, she had tried to stop her from doing her job and had shot her and she had said those words before her death. Alrisia had only thought it a treacherous saying and not that it had been a omen.

- But don’t worry about it my dear, when we're done here you’re going to live on like nothing ever happened, not you as in you but a replaced you. It’s kinda hard to explain but have you heard about Lord Commander Byron Wiltons?

Alrisia knew who he was, Lord commander Byron was the commander over the Elysian 15th Drop troops also known as the sky burners. He had been waging war against a crone world before suddenly during the conflict deciding that he should go and fight the tyranids. It had been a peculiar change of mind but because of his authority no one questioned him.

- Well lets just say that the Lord commander did not do as expected and now he's been replaced. He blew another cloud of smoke and then reached for a datapad from one of his pockets and started to go through it. Alrisia was just staring blankly at him, tears running down cheeks mixing with the sweat.

- It’s actually marvelous what a little genius and some sharp tools can do to face, this is top class work, no stupid rejuvenation can do this stuff. He showed her the data pad screen, its blue hue illuminating her face. It was a picture of her, at least it looked like her at first glance, same facial features, same jawline, it even had the small scar under her left earlobe that she had gained during her childhood, but what did not fit Alrisias face and made her whimper in despair was the pair of deep, colbalt blue eyes that had no feelings behind them but cold calculation. That's why they asked those vague questions, they wanted to know those details they already did not.

- please, don’t do this. She begged Armillius with despair in her voice, she plead him that she would not betray them again.

- I'm afraid that's too late now my dear, you should have stayed in line. Armillius stood up, threw his lho stick to the ground and stepped it out. He walked behind her she could hear a door open and close.

She heard the electric crack once again and this time she could not stop herself from screaming.

Iron Within, Iron Without

“He refuses to eat or drink and so far as we can tell he hasn’t slept in nearly a week” The serving maid said, refusing to lift her eyes from the floor. It did not make Oscar happy, neither the news or the means of it’s delivery. Humans should not look down in shame or apology to him. He was a Man of Gold; created to serve.

“Thank you, I will speak with him”. They had been walking thought the fortress of Štip-Isar to the eastern wing of residence. Each of the Steward’s mighty strides was equal to more than two of the serving maids such was his inhuman stature. He bade her farewell as they approached the door of the eastern wing and her pace was much increased as she left. The Steward couldn’t help but notice her fearful glances at the old wooden door that he approached.

Although the Fortress Palace of Štip-Isar was a vast and ancient rambling structure the Steward didn’t need any superhuman abilities to determine which room his Primarch would be found in. True to form Perturabo, son of long dead King Nikola, had taken up residence in his old room and childhood refuge. The Steward Oscar paused at the door but before he could knock a low rumble of a voice informed him curtly that it wasn’t locked. Oscar knew that was as close to a polite invitation as he was ever going to get.

The room was fairly spacious but mostly austere. It contained a set of draws, a closet, a bookshelf, a writing desk and a bed. It was all neatly placed. Every book was arranged alphabetically, pens arranged according to colour, bed made to a razor crease. Bar the thick layer of dust surrounding everything it was inhumanly neat.

Perturabo was standing at parade rest with his back to the door looking out over the east of the ancient Macedonian countryside. It was not a pretty sight. The Beast and it’s minions had burned it to the bedrock. Vast tracts of land were still irradiated, ash still fluttered on the breeze like some parody of snow.

“I don’t know why you are here. I am in disgrace. I have failed. I can be of no more use”. Everyone assumed the monotone was a sad result of the augmentations he had endured but it was not. All the Thunder Warrior alterations had done was drop it from tenor to a deep baritone with a hint of shingle beach.

“Disgrace? Maybe. Failure? No, not a failure. Far from it in fact”. Responded the Man of Gold as he stood besides the Iron Warrior, adopting a similar stance and watching the sun start to crest the horizon.

“Don’t try and comfort me. It’s wasted effort, we both know it and lying for the sake of comfort demeans us both”. The Iron Warrior turned to face the Steward. There wasn’t that much difference in height between them, at least compared to baseline humanity. To the casual observer they were far more alike than they were different.

The Steward looked into that impassive face and those dead grey eyes. Human minds tended to be open to him. He could read them with the most passive ability of his nature and know their intentions and meaning. Not so with Perturabo. Seeing into Perturabo ended at those grey eyes. He had once upon their first meeting seen a little further than that before the great steel wall slammed up. He had no intention of ever seeing that again. It was a mind that was outwardly sane but constructed entirely of insane parts.

“As you say; I wouldn’t subject you to empty platitudes. Your career as head of my fourth Legion has been one of great success. Not unqualified success, that’s for damn sure, but you did many great things and whether they will admit it or not the people of the Imperium owe you a great debt”.

The disgraced primarch gave a grunt of disapproval. “I didn’t do it for the Imperium. I did it for my people. So long as they were surrounded by a strong and friendly supernation the people of the Tharkian Empire should have been safe. But they weren’t. I didn’t prepare hard enough. They are all dead”.

“Not all”.

“Estimated casualties put the death toll of my nation at approximately ninety-five percent. It’s as close to a total failure as makes no difference. Kings have hanged for far, far lesser forms of incompetence. I was the Prince of Macedonia, it was my duty to protect them. MINE! I failed”. Those eyes remained unreadable but Oscar could all to easily imagine the horrors scrolling behind them.

“And would one of your brother primarchs have done better?”

“Irrelevant. It was not their task”.

“It’s possible to do nothing wrong and still fail”.

“Irrelevant. Words are empty. Deeds matter. No man was made a primarch for acceptable ability”. The word acceptable was said with as near to a sneer as Perturabo was capable of. “Only results matter. A lasting empire can’t be built on empty rhetoric and failed intentions. You know why I was removed from active service?”

“Yes”.

“Good. Then you know that my usefulness is over. I am broken. I am not the head of a Legion. I am not a General. I have been relieved of my sad justification for living. All that remains for me is to contemplate my folly and die quietly without doing more harm on the way out”. His voice was as dead and flat as always, his age worn and war broken face impassive but he turned again to face the horizon, the first rays of the new day bathing the ash in gold as if it the nation was aflame again.

“You are still my primarch. My ‘Mad Architect’”. Your Warsmith council don’t have the authority to take that title from you or those responsibilities. I gave you that title, only I can relieve you of it”.

“Then I know why you are here. Issue my discharge papers and let me finally die. It is the last thing I shall be doing”. In another man that might have been some residual spark of humour shining through. In the case of Perturabo not so much.

Oscar’s golden eyes for a moment went as cold and hard as the Iron Warrior's.

“You will be relieved of your duties at my choosing, not before. My homeworld is broken and in ruins. I need an Architect of inhuman skill to rebuild it. Mad, sane or total raving lunatic; I don’t care. I have people orchestrating repairs and trying to repair but they can’t deal with the scope of the problems. Even the most gifted of my servants can’t deal with something bigger than half a continent before it breaks their comprehension threshold. I need someone who can organize the world into a cohesive whole. The list of people I know that have a hope of doing that starts and ends at you”. Oscar could remember the first time he had seen this view. Despite the ruination before him it still looked so much better that it had then. It was amazing how an army of Urshite’s could detract from an evening. Outnumbered hundreds to one Prince Perturabo of Macedonia had held out impossibly long and brought low the most feared horde on Old Earth with one barely coherent nation only nominally under his influence.

“Find someone else”.

“I can’t. There is absolutely nobody else, trust me I’ve looked”.

There was a long, long moment of silence.

“I’ll give it some thought”.

“I expect nothing less”.

As the Steward closed the door his hear was gladdened. The Iron Warrior was turning away from the light of a bleak dawn towards his writing desk. On that desk had been written the breaking of Ursh.

Oscar walked back along the old fortress. His mad old Primarch would live. He would not be happy, but that was never an option and something’s not even he could fix. Not happy but content. He had a problem before him and that was something for his self-destructive mind to focus on and survive a little longer. It was not a mind that was whole unless it was breaking something, itself or someone's army it did not matter. Or indeed breaking someone elses victory. Earth was intentionally broken and he would makes sure that their satisfaction was temporary. His victory would out last them. A victory by attrition was very much his way. Iron Within, Iron Without, War Eternal.

Oscar could give him nothing in thanks that would be worth his centuries of service. The nearest he could come close was to make sure that his name was sung with praise.

The Long Odds

“And if you follow me, we are going to the Room of Origins, to see artifacts dating to the very founding of this Craftworld.”

The Eldar boy was only one of about twenty, a gaggle of children following a beleaguered tour guide around the Chambers of History, learning about the mammoth wraithbone spaceship that had been their homes for their entire lives, and of the many Eldar that had once lived in them. There was nothing particularly special about the boy, nothing except that he was the only one to notice the figure sitting in the hallway to the side of the wraithbone hall. The tour guide was ushering the children on, but the boy remained entranced. He had to know who the figure was. Which is why it was so surprising when the figure spoke to him.

“Excuse me boy, yes, you there. Could you spare me the kindness of helping an old man?” The boy took a quick glance at the receding tour group, and then back to the figure. He was so very young, and knew only the Craftworld, having yet to realize that trust was a precious commodity in this universe. The boy approached the old Eldar sitting in the halls of the Craftworld, only to hesitate when he realized who the figure really was. It was Eldrad! The Eldrad Ulthran! The eldest of the farseers, the architect of the liberation of Isha, the savior of the Emperor. The same Eldrad who was known by as many titles or epithets as the years he had lived! Eldrad of Ten Thousand Names!

The boy opened his mouth.

“El…”

"Silence, boy, I know what you are about to say. Yes, yes, Eldrad of this, Eldrad of that. Eldrad of Ten Thousand Names. Perhaps I should take pride in them. The old wisdom says that every title one earns represents a victory, after all. But I am so very old. And so very tired. I do not have time to remember half-forgotten glories. But if you could, please help an old man up.”

The boy reached out his hand, and Eldrad took his, his grip surprisingly strong despite his old age. The boy slowly helped Eldrad to his feet, the old Eldar taking so long the boy wondered if he was going to start creaking like wood.

Eldrad sighed.

“It is so very strange, what the young think life is going to be like when you are old. When you are a young man, you believe that you spend your final days terrified of death, hounded by that final specter. But when you actually get to be an old man, things change. Oh, you never stop fearing death. I believe few creatures in this universe beyond orks and tyranids ever truly do. But when you get to be my age, you tend to stop worrying about what happens to you, and start worrying about all the things you leave behind. All the things you created, and all the deeds you accomplished. The ideas you poured years of your life into. When you are no longer around to make sure everything is right, will there be someone around to make sure the dreams you set in motion still run, or will your victories gradually slip into dust. Forget what the warriors say, boy, about glory being eternal. Glory only matters if there is someone around who appreciate why it matters. Do you understand what I am saying?”

The Eldar boy shook his head, his mind trying to wrap itself around what the legendary farseer was saying to him. “Well, I suppose it is something you only truly understand when you get to be an old man. And it is getting late. I have kept you too long and you are probably getting bored of my old man stories. Run along now, boy, before someone comes looking for you.”

The boy darted around the corner, as if the hounds of the Warp were after him. He had to tell his friends what he had seen, though they would not believe him. Isha preserve him, even he barely believed what had just happened. When the Eldar boy was out of sight, Eldrad slowly straightened his posture and let the cloaking illusion drop. Although he may be old, he was not that feeble, even though he could feel his bones creak, his joints almost crystalline. And yet he still had so much to do. Miles to go before he could sleep.

The old farseer calmed his mind, bringing his focus to the seer rune he had at his side. Threads of fate sprung to life in his mind’s eye, twisting and turning like fiberoptic cables or neural fibers. Eldrad pared down his vision, directing his focus to the area surrounding his current position in space-time, the “real” timeline, and waited to see if his words had any effect. And slowly, the threads of fate, the very roots that underpinned reality, shifted ever so slightly.

Eldrad smirked. It never ceased to amaze him how the slightest actions could have the greatest effects on the universe. A single set of words or a chance encounter could completely change the course of history. Lives could be won or lost. And an empire could fall, or even never be born in the first place. A small piece of advice from an old man remembered later in life could save the life of a warrior, which could turn the tide of a battle, which could save a Craftworld, which could save the galaxy. It was the doctrine Eldrad lived by, to defeat your enemy by knowing what everyone else would or could do before they could possibly do it.

Widening his gaze, the farseer looked further into the future. Looking past all the potential timelines, withered and horrible, like decaying petals of a flower. Until he found the one he wanted. It was a vision of his granddaughter, the one whose face he had never seen, except in his visions. She was a young woman in his vision, standing on the edge of a harbor, a tiny creature on her shoulder. He knew she was waiting for someone, he never knew who, for the vision always ended before he could see. Behind her stood a citscape that seemed to be constructed of wraithbone, of steel, of Earth Caste sculpture, yet none of these things, and around her walked humans, Eldar, and a hundred other races both alien and familiar. Eldrad could never tell what time it was in the vision, but he knew it in his heart. Dawn, the dawn so long awaited after the end of the long night.

Eldrad had seen so many things, great and terrible, in his long life. Supernovae on the horizon. Shrieking forms of things that should not be clawing forth from the abyss. And yet, in his old age, this is what kept him going. Hope. He was always a good farseer, but this was to be his masterpiece. A future for the Eldar, free of despair, tyranny, and dark gods. Peace, in a galaxy that for so long had known only war. It was a long shot. He had only seen a few visions like these, on the order of billions to one.

Eldrad smiled a half-smile. He always did like playing the long odds.

Malcador's Log

Salvage log regarding unusual item 43

Item appears to be a quasi-biological construct in the basic appearance of man in mid to late twenties. Item is approximately 2.5 meters in height, broad across shoulder and pale skin. Attempts to determine ethnic group from visual analysis has failed. Subject is either from an hitherto in recorded group, an outlier of his group or of mixed ancestry. Nearest group to appearance seems to be the western Merika or Calbi tribals. Item appears to be alive and breathing although apparent internal temperature seems to be somewhat below that of a man in final stages of hypothermia. Attempts at awakening the item have so far been fruitless.

First-mate Varda suggested electro shock to awaken. No result beyond blown fuses.

Varda also suggested the use of drugs injected into subjects blood stream. Further attempts discouraged to preserve needle stocks.

Attempts to monitor brainwaves have given confusing results. Casual psychic surface scans indicate that the mind of the individual is that of a potent psyker but seem to be completely empty. Disinclined to probe deeper until nature of Item is further determined.

Day 12 of return voyage

Item 43 appears to have regained/gained consciousness

Janitor Ujarak discovered Item standing upright next to it's shelf and came immediately to myself report development.

Item's eyes have been revealed to be an almost metallic golden in colour and follow sources of movement in it's immediate environment. No other sources of activity are evident.

Thermal scans still reveal unnaturally low internal temperature.

Item made no resistance to having the brain-scan cap put back on. No change in apparent brain activity. Psychic scans suggest an very minor increase in activity. In a normal individual the change would be all but unnoticeable due to background chatter.

Item appears to be growing a faint covering of dark hair on scalp and jaw consistent with a human male of assumed age. Attempts to remove a sample have been successful. Analysis of hair fragment shows it to be some sort of very dense composite-polymer similar to the sort used in the manufacture of low grade flack armour.

Further attempts to elicit any additional response have proven unsuccessful. Item moved to secure holding cell as a precaution.

Janitor Ujarak has named the Item Oscar after an uncle of his. I have approved the designation.

Day 20 of return voyage

Oscar has shown a marked increase in activity. Monitoring equipment shows him measuring the dimensions of his cell and trying to manipulate the door handle. Handle shows signs of having been bent slightly indicating Oscar has strength far superior to that of a baseline human.

When observation and testing teams entre cell Oscar stands immobile and merely observes visitors. Thermal, brain and psychic scanning still reveal no significant change in activity.

As of yet Oscar has not indicated any need or desire to eat, drink or sleep although basic sustenance and bedding has been provided.

As of yet no conclusive idea of what our ancient Cthonian cousins reason for creating this construct were.

Senior members of the salvage teams are convinced that Oscar is an unfinished product and Item 42 that was found in close proximity to Item 43 was a psy-graft machine that would have been used to provide Oscar with programing and purpose. Currently Oscar is a blank slate and we have no real chalk for him.

Day 28 of return voyage

Oscar has escaped from his cell by applying unreasonable force to the door. Was found in storage hold 12 staring at the container we found him in.

After 5 hours of no additional activity he returned to his cell without prompting.

Day 30 of voyage home

Oscar wandered into the mess hall this morning and ate a synth-meat pate bun. Brief flare in internal temperature was recorded by off duty tech-adept team.

Casual psychic observation is showing considerable increase in activity but still well beneath that of even a child.

Attempts to restrain or move Oscar when Oscar does not wish to move have been ineffectual. Oscar sat motionless for five hours in mess hall. Diners found the experience "creepy".

An overall work suit has been fabricated in Oscars size.

Day 33 of return voyage

Warp turbulence flared up this evening. Navigator attempted to drop us back into real space but to no avail. Anti-boarding teams were put on alert.

The turbulence ceased abruptly in the area surrounding the ship. Filtered external footage shows Oscar standing on the prow of the ship without a void suit glaring at the warp.

Method of survival is as yet unknown. Oscar did not return to the interior of the ship until cessation of disturbance some 39 hours later with seemingly no ill effects due to exposure to the vacuum of open space or total exposure to the Warp.

Oscar was placed in a decontamination booth. Oscar pushed open the door of the decontamination booth and returned his cell.

Return voyage day 36

Oscar was found in mess hall again today having consumed a standard portion of cooked vegetable strips. Oscar then closed his eyes for almost half an hour. This is possibly the only time he has "slept" since first being awakened.

Upon awakening he approached my office and spoke for the first time asking "What am I to do?"

Oscar has been tasked with categorizing and ordering the items salvaged Cthonian artefacts.

Return voyage day 37

Members of the crew with knowledge of ancient history have put forth the suggestion that this "Oscar" is a Man of Gold albeit an unfinished one.

I am now faced with somewhat of a dilemma. The return of this creature to the territory of Clan Terrawatt could be disastrous for all nations of Earth. From what fragments we know of history a Man of Gold, should he have a mind to be, would be a disaster of similar magnitude to that of another super-volcanic eruption and it is doubtful that the people of Earth would survive such again.

After due consideration I have decided not to detonate the reactor.

This decision will either be remembered as Malcador's Triumph or briefly Malcador's Folly. May the Ancestors guide us.

Me Time

Arronax. A tiny dustball out in the middle of nowhere. A breathable atmosphere, but no native lifeforms more complex than an oxygen-producing prokaryote. Which was why it was so odd that a pair of Warhound titans were on its surface. The two colossal mechs stood guard, watching over a facility so well hidden it seemed to blend into the surrounding rock. The titans themselves were also just out of sight beneath a nearby rock face, out of the range of any orbital sensors.

Even odder was the presence of anyone else on this space rock. Yet the sensors were clear, there was at least one other lifeform on this planet approaching the facility. After a brief moment of communication between the two princeps, the two Warhound rose up as one, striding forward as the intruder came into view. The figure seemed to be alone and was obscured, covered by a simple woven robe. The Warhounds towered over the intruder, weapons bristling, as the vox crackled to life.

“This planet is off limits. Identify yourself or vacate the premises, otherwise we will open fire.”

The figure only smiled.

Klaxons sounded across the Inquisition base. Stormtroopers were roused from their beds and weapons were immediately placed in their hands. Personnel ran to and fro like ants in a disturbed nest, each trying to figure out where they were supposed to go to perform their duty.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” one stormtrooper asked.

“Warhounds on the surface encountered an anomaly and haven’t reported in,” the sergeant, Jezhua, replied, “Protocol is to assume the worst. The facility is under attack.”

The combead hissed with static in Sergeant Jezhua’s ear, patching him through to the adept watching the security cameras.

“Uh, sir?” the adept said, “we’ve re-established visual contact with the Warhound titans.”

The adept turned to his screen, looking at the sole leg sticking up into the horizon like an upended drumstick.

“Well, what’s left of them, anyway.”

“Details, adept,” Jezhua barked, “What do you see?”

“Six figures on the landing pad. Can’t make out any details, the remaining camera is too far away. They’re standing right in front of the entrance, but the hangar doors are closed.”

The sergeant clapped his hands on the stormtrooper’s shoulder.

“There are six intruders just outside of the main door. Go, set up a defense in front of the door so if they try to come in they’ll find the appropriate welcome waiting for them.”

The stormtrooper nodded. He rushed through the base, travelling down two corridors and up a flight of stairs, to find himself in the hangar that represented the entryway to the rest of the facility. With calculated precision, he set up his laser carbine and aimed it at the closed metal doors of the entryway. Around him were at least thirty additional Guardsmen who had done the same. They were ready for anything to come through that door, at least, as ready as they were going to be. There was a pause. An eerie silence permeated the air, tension high despite the quiet.

BANG!

The sound echoed throughout the room, several Guardsmen flinching involuntarily.

BANG!

The second blow hit the door with a visceral effect, the vibrations so powerful that the Guardsmen could literally feel them through the floor. It sounded as though the forces of hell themselves were trying to force their way in.

BA-CRUNCH!

The door yielded with the third blow, the upper corner of one of the hangar doors bending inward from the force leaving a triangle-shaped gap in the door. Sunlight flooded into the room, momentarily blinding some of the Guardsmen. As their eyes readjusted to the change in light, a solitary figure stepped through the gap in the doorway and into the room. The figure was clearly an Eldar, given that it was at least a head taller than the any of the Guardsmen in the room and had short-cropped red hair that was a shade too dark and too red to belong to any human. The figure wore a garishly pattered suit of armor with a fur-lined collar, suggesting it was a Crone Worlder, and wielded a hideous-looking sword that looked large enough to decapitate a grox. Normally, the Guardsmen would have opened fire, but the room stood in stunned awe, fear overriding any sort of combat reflex. They knew who this figure was. Everyone knew who this figure was. They had thought they were ready for anything, but none of them had expected the person that had just walked through their door.

“Oh come off it,” she said, seemingly to no one as particular, “I am not turning you into an overgrown lockpick. Look, we’ll find someone to kill, and you’ll feel like your old self in no…”

The Eldar looked up, having just become aware of the thirty or so Guardsmen in the room. She seemed just as surprised as the Guardsmen, the two sides having formed an impromptu standoff. One of the Guardsmen fainted with a sound, the realization of exactly who they faced having just sunk in. It was one unfortunately stupid Guardsman who broke the pregnant silence.

“L…Lady Malys. What in Terra’s name are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know. Just needed some “me” time.”

With that, the hangar turned into a whirlwind of blades. Malys went into a frenzy, her eyes wild and her teeth locked in a hideous grin. She moved with astonishing agility, cutting through the Guardsmen before they could even react. A Guardsman tried to yell to the others to open fire, only to have his head sliced from his body before he could finish speaking. Lasbolts fired through the air, but every one of them seemed to hit just wide of the Croneworlder. Guardsmen fired at where they thought the female Eldar was one moment, only for her to have already stepped out of the way the next, their lasbolt penetrating the helmet of their comrade on the other side. The Crone seemed to take particular pleasure in that.

The stormtrooper gritted his teeth as he watched the Daemon Queen tear through his comrades. Seeing them dead left a bitter taste in his stomach, but he had to be vigilant if his shots were to do more than just fly wild like the rest. Just then, he noticed Lady Malys had made a mistake in her movements. Malys had briefly paused in her deadly criss-crossing of the room, giving him the perfect opportunity to put a lasbolt through her unarmored head. The stormtrooper tried to take the shot, only to hear a whirring noise and feel a sharp pain in his wrist. Looking down, he saw that his hand had been entirely severed from his forearm. Another Crone Eldar, this one armed with a saw pistol, had come through the hole in the doorway following his queen. At first the fight was merely lopsided. When the five other Crone Eldar entered the fray, it simply became unfair.

---

As the battle wrapped up and the high of combat began to fade, the question became what to do with the survivors. One was the Guardsman who had fainted when Malys had entered the room. Malys laughed. That one got to live, if for no other reason than the delightful squeaking sound it made when it fainted into a heap. The other was another mon-keigh soldier that had been wounded in the leg and was merely injured, as opposed to dead.

“The injured mon-keigh, as you requested milady,” replied one Crone warrior, having bound the human soldier’s arms behind her back.

A female, if Malys recalled right. She always did have such trouble telling male and female humans apart. Malys nodded to the warrior. The Daemon Queen thought to herself for a moment, and then got to work.

“Well, well, welll,” Malys strutted across the hangar of the dead and the dying to look at the female guardsman. “What are we going to do with you. We could always take you into the Warp and leave you to the tender mercies of daemons. Watching them tear mortals limb from limb is always good for a show. Or we could seal you inside a marionette. Seeing mon-keigh claw at their skin as they struggle to come to terms with the sensory deprivation always gives me a shiver up my spine.”

Malys grabbed the guardswoman by the hair.

“I tell you what. I’m feeling merciful today. You tell me everything you know about this facility, then maybe we’ll pretend we pretend we overlooked you among the dead in this room. Otherwise…”

Malys swung her greatsword around, pointing its tip at one Slaaneshi Croneworlder standing in the corner.

“I’m going to have Asmordach here rip out your nerves one by one and we play a little game of ‘how much of an intact nervous system can you pull out of a live mon-keigh before they die’”.

The threat of violence apparently helped the mon-keigh find its tongue, though not in the way Lady Malys had hoped for.

“You vile fiend. I will not give you what you want, nor will anyone in this facility. Your day of reckoning will come abomination. Even if is not by my hand, then by the next person, or the next. The Imperium will never fall to the likes of…”

“Fehlkor?” Malys spoke over the dithering mon-keigh, her voice an annoyed growl.

“Yes milady?”

“Kill it like the rest.”

“Killing it like the rest ma’am.”

After that little pleasure was out of the way, it was time to decide how to proceed further into the facility. Maps of the facility showed the upper level was nothing but guard quarters and military ordinance, whereas down below was where the really fun stuff was kept. Malys crooked her finger at one of the Cronedar, beckoning the Slaaneshi to her side. The augmented vox taking up much of the Crone Eldar’s throat and lower face crackled to life, speaking to Lady Malys in a distinctly artificial voice.

“Your command, Lady Malys?”

“The five of you go on ahead down to the lower levels. You know what we are looking for and what to do with it.”

“All due respect but, are you sure that’s wise? Splitting up seems strategically unsound. We could be isolated and picked off one by one.”

“Today is not a ‘strategy’ day. Today is a ‘fun’ day. I want you to remember that. I picked this facility for a reason. There should be nothing here that poses a significant threat to you or the others. If not then, well, I expect you to be smart enough to do something about it.”

“Understood. Your will be done.”

The Crone’s voice was like screeching on a mon-keigh record player. He had claimed he had made his voice sound like that to honor the cacophonies made by the ancient musicians of the Eldar, but Malys suspected he just wanted to have a voice that was as annoying as physically possible while still having enough of a reason to not be justified in killing him.

Malys shuddered. Ten thousand years of service to the Dark Gods and there were still things in the galaxy capable of provoking a reaction from her. One learns something new every day. The five Cronedar having already moved out before her, she followed their path down to the lower levels.

---

Seargent Jezhua silently cursed to himself as he pressed himself against the wall. Everything was going to shit. His men were scattered, people were disappearing, and no one seemed to be answering from the hangar. The last transmission Jezhua had received had reported five Cronedar descending into the labs from the hangar elevator, so at the very least Jezhua could presume what happened to them. And worst of all, he was so busy coordinating everyone else he was only able to grab a stubber from the armory before things went to shit.

Make that six. Jezhua had just heard another Crone descend down the elevator and walk into the hallway just ahead of him. From the sound of the footsteps, the Croneworlder was walking forward at a leisurely pace, seemingly uncaring of the fact that it was standing in the middle of a hostile enemy base. From its shadow, he could tell the Chaos Eldar was a female, and was seemingly unarmed beyond a large sword strapped to her back.

Jezhua gritted his teeth. Everything had gone ploin-shaped. And so he was going to have to rescue his men and take back this facility. Even if he had to hunt the Crones down one at a time. And this nearly unarmed, sword-wielding Cronedar seemed like a good place to start. Jezhua broke from cover and levelled his weapon at the Cronedar’s head.

“Stop”.

The Crone hesitated for a moment, as if amused by the audacity of the situation, then slowly turned to face him. Jezhua remained firm. If he had recognized who the Croneworlder was, it did not seem to faze him. Malys chuckled.

“You know who I am, yet you are still foolish enough to point a gun at me?”

“Lady, I know a thing or two about weapons. I know that’s a six-foot long broadsword strapped to your back. That’s nearly as tall as you are. You don’t have any other weapons. I know that no one, not even an Eldar, can whip a blade like that out before I can fire. The blade is just too unwieldy, and I’m too far away. Try anything, and I’ll put a bullet in your head before you can even move. It’s simple physics. You just can’t move that fast.”

Jezhua pulled the trigger, but before he could react Malys was on him, impaling him to the wall through the gut with that sword of hers. The taste of blood in his mouth, Sergeant Jezhua looked weakly around He knew he had fired, he had seen the muzzle flare in front of him. There was no way he could have missed at that range. Then, he had a chilling moment of realization. Sergeant Jezhua looked down, only to see the shell of his bullet had been deflected into the ground, neatly bisected by the Crone Eldar’s blade. He looked back up only to find the face that had haunted the nightmares of every soldier in the Imperium merely only inches from his own.

“You’re very perceptive. But you made once critical miscalculation. I CAN move that fast. And now, well, my friend is hungry. So eat well.”

Jezhua noticed that the last remark had not been directed at him. He looked down to see the blade impaling his body glowing with a whitish-green, unholy light. He felt a pulling sensation, as if something he couldn’t accurately describe was being ripped from his body. And going into the black abyss which he realized the sword really was. Sergeant Jezhua screamed. But no one was able to hear him.

---

Standing outside the ruined entrance of the research facility, Lady Malys examined a small data chip, holding it up to the light.

“Here it is, data on all Inquisitorial activities and research programs within the subsector. Our prize for this day. So informative, so juicy, so…”

She threw the chip on the ground and smashed it under her foot.

“Useless.”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t entirely useless. Maybe some small squadron of Crone Eldar or local Chaos cult could have made use of the data. But it wasn’t useful to her, which was really mattered. And the facility had been so sparsely guarded. Just normal human mon-keigh, not any of her unenlightened kind or the augmented kinds of mon-keigh the Imperium usually had around one of its facilities. Malys sighed in frustration. How was she supposed to have any “me” time when all of the targets she attacked had turned out to be so damn boring. The Warhounds were fun for a warmup but then it was all downhill after that. Looking overhead, she watched as an Imperial ship warped into existence overhead. That was her signal to go, despite her enthusiasm a battleship was rather outside her current means right now and she wasn’t looking forward to dying again.

Well. Maybe the third time was the charm.

Nails

My eyes grow dim. My strength is spent. My rage is quenched. My blade is clean.

I was born in poverty, I think. Simple eyes of a child do not see clearly. Was it poverty? We weren’t unhappy. At lest I don’t think we were.

I can’t remember their faces any more. That’s a lie. I can remember their faces. I always will. Mother. Father. Sister. Brother. Grandmother. Uncle. We all lived together in one small home above the bakers shop. I think that’s what my parents were. Bakers. Not warlords. Not priests. Not great warriors or adepts or wizards. I wanted to be like them. I should have been like them.

I don’t remember what happened to them. That’s a lie. I do. I do. Oh God I do. I don’t want to. If I do I am that screaming, weeping child again. No more. No more. Never again.

I was weak and tried to run. Better if I had run back into the burning home. Better to have ended there.

When the Warlord found me it was at the head of army like no other. All I had know of armies were cyber-flagellants and howling marauders spurned on by men with whips. But not these. They marched with eerie harmony and brought death with precision. No berserker charge, no frenzy, no bloodlust just the steady unstoppable wave pouring into Carthisisa.

I was a pit fighter. I murdered people for the entertainment of other people. They gave men the pick of the slave pens for my troubles. They expected me to indulge base urges. They wanted me to fall like them. Be a Not-Person. I picked for the sake of pity and charity of the most wretched and hopeless.

One of the giants came to my door and I stood before him, my adopted children behind me. I was big but he was a two head taller than me at the least and clad in armour like a tank. Expressionless eye lenses swept over me and mine and I prepared to sell myself dear. I don’t know how but I knew he met my eye through that helmet and he looked away and moved on.

Scholars like I am not sometimes say that history goes in circles. That things happen because they have happened. One tragedy only needing one just like it as cause for more. In that moment I felt the hateful wheel of fate wobble. I was still alive. My family were not enslaved, out masters were dead, we were free.

At the head of this army was the man who I would spend most of my life serving. I would give my life for the sake of my sons and daughters. I killed for him. I lead his soldiers. I became like the monsters he had set upon my masters. I gave my health and my sanity for him.

Why? Because he didn’t ask that I kneel. He demanded that I stand. That I never again bow my head to unworthy men.

I lived longer than I should have. Longer than I was expected. I watched my children grow up and become mothers and fathers and grandparents and eventually die. A few even managed to die peaceful. It seems a novel way to go. I will soon go that way, to no ones surprise more than my own. All bar one of my children are gone, one way or the other. I am told I have many descendants but I have not met them. They are distant to me but I wish them only goodness, to be and to have. Kharn is still with me. I remember when he was a snotty nosed child with scabby knees. He has grown and I am proud.

He is a new type of soldier for a new era. I am a relic of an old one.

I feel it now. I sit in my chair and I know that I have seen my last sun rise. My heart slows. My bones grow cold, but I feel warm. Though I am filled with darkness the light will lift me away.

I have regrets. I have lived too long not to. Few will mourn my passing.

I will not see the sunrise and that is good.

+++ Data-slate entry attributed to Angron the Red Angel, Primarch of the Warhounds +++

+++ Property of Carthissia National Museum of Posterity +++

204.210.204.209 Those Nails you carried in your heart should never have been yours to carry. We will carry your name but those nails have been laid to rest 204.210.204.209

> "Nails" Addendum made by unknown hand several years after acquisition of the Data-slate. Meaning has been of much speculation down the years but no conclusive answers of who or why has been gathered.

The Rant

"This was our galaxy once. The Old Ones, the predecessors those that made us, left it in our care. It was ours to tend. Reward, for all that we had suffered in our war against the Yngir slaves. Entire generations, entire histories, entire cultures were lost in that dread war, but this, this was our reward. Freedom, and an unblemished canvas to write our fate upon it. We were stewards of life, the victors over death, and we were told not to waste it."

"And we didn't. We flourished, taking barren rock and tainted ground, and making fertile and green pearls of them. We made such works of art, such wonders of technology. We even made gods. For millennia, we worked, honed our art, and at every turn, brought life to this scarred galaxy. We had peace, as strange as that sounds today. It's a distant dream, isn't it? But you know it's there, that it's possible. You feel your spirit rise at the very thought. We had peace."

"But then we had the Fall. And it was all lost."

"Every eldar that is taught our history- even, the warped and half complete history of those led astray by the dark gods- is struck by that. Here, here is our people at their peak! We are surrounded by their works, the very galaxy owes its life to them in their power, but yet, we lose it all in a matter of years, reduced to this shadow of ourselves? How could this happen?"

"Arrogance, my child. Arrogance blinded them so far back. Arrogance of a few, that sought power at the cost of the many. Even, at the cost of their very gods. We were at the very cusp of ascension, when those, the fanatics, the usurpers, the primitives out of fear and envy destroyed the greatest work of those halcyon days."

"They tried to make a miscarriage of the birth of our greatest hope. The distillation of all of our gods in to one, purer being. Our Child Goddess, Slaanesh."

"The birth cries were terrible. What should have been a moment of joy and celebration would prove, with the treachery of the usurpers, traumatic. A great storm of pain tore the warp asunder, as eldar turned against eldar, brother against sister, mother against son, all for what? A handful of dirt balls the exodites call planets so you're free to freeze in mud and gnaw on roots. Flimsy scraps of wraithbone drifting the void called craftworlds, where you can have your fate decided before you are even born by the dead that rule. And that pathetic pantomime of glory in Comorragh, where they pretend at the past that's dead and gone. What glories have those rebels have earned? What proof of righteousness do they have in their miserable lives? They have turned their backs on Slaanesh, only to suffer under the lash and call it freedom."

"Thank the Many-Gods-in-One that they did not succeed in circumventing our child goddess's ascension, or we might all be trapped under their rule. Slaanesh is mighty, but her might is tempered with kindness. She waited patiently on the other side, in the dimension unbounded, waiting for the souls of her wayward children to be reunited with her. She did not snuff them out, though they truly deserved it. She did not hunt them down, though they wished her dead. She kept her arms wide open for them, ever welcoming their arrival."

"And then came the mon'keigh. And their insult."

"How gullible are those that lay outside? Short lived, murderous, stupid, and unworthy creatures come to them, and whisper poison in the ears of those already poisoned. They whisper of raiding like a band of thieves in the immaterium, of stealing and murdering. They speak of defiling the realm of the gods, and these that dirty the name eldar smile and nod, that ancestral sin of greed rising in them again."

"Those misguided heathens outside begged for the collar of the mon'keigh on their necks, in exchange for injuring a goddess that only loved them."

"Isha? Is that so? They speak of Isha, long gone, returned to guide our people unto a golden age? It is a lie. Look upon the histories- all the gods and goddesses save Cegorach agreed to combine, to set aside their individual identities to unite and make something better of themselves. Through those thousands of years since the fall, no one spoke of Isha, except in the past. Through these thousands of years, eldar hands were not up to the task of rescuing her? Preposterous."

"Now, now they claim that Isha, goddess of health, the harvest, and life bearing was kept captive in the hands of Nurgle? This betrays the work of the mon'keigh to misguide and mislead you. The lie is at the root- the mon'keigh would believe our goddess, pure and strong, could be captured and caged like an animal by that brute Nurgle? The story betrays their own intent! Like this false Isha, they would want us caged by them, used by them, made slaves by them. The story of her 'rescue' is a lie to convince the unwary that the eldar are weak, and it is only with the help of mon'keigh they can do anything. It makes me sick to the think children are being raised to believe this, and to think themselves less than mon'keigh. Trying to indoctrinate us into slavery."

"But they did attack a god that day- the mon'keigh and the false eldar. And they did perhaps even see Isha. Isha, as one part of the Many-Gods-in-One of Slaanesh. I was not there that day, but a comrade was, and he wept bitterly at the very memory of the sight. Slaanesh, in her radiance. In her glory. The innocent child god, looking curiously at these strangers that came to her. She smiled. Even among the black hearted and soul sick eldar infidels, some stopped and for a moment the truth came through. They fell to their knees and wept, tried to warn Slaanesh, tried to stop their fellows. They were slain by the mon'keigh, filled with bloodlust and eager to tear the flesh of the innocent."

"We counter attacked of course. Drove them back into the blighted materium, sending the cowards shrieking as soon as they faced something more than an innocent goddess. But the damage was done."

"Once it was, any eldar was guaranteed as soon as their soul left their body or the cruel soul traps devised by the craftworlders would be reunited with Slaanesh automatically. They would return to the child, and we'd be one step closer to divinity, and our heaven in the immaterium, when the eldar could claim the birthright of the old ones, and remake the unreality as we had remade the reality."

"But the evil ones broke that bridge. They severed one more strand of Slaanesh's goodness to your world. And now Slaanesh withers."

"The Child Goddess is no more. Innocence is no more. Denied the very love of her people, she withers and hungers. And she has learned from her mistake of trust. And we, in our sorrow, now must redeem our failing. The Crone Worlds must unite again, the masters of the warp must be awoken, and our goddess's due must be retaken. We can be patient no more as paradise itself is under threat. We can no longer wait for the misguided to realize their mistake, and come once again to the embrace of the Many-in-One. Our goddess hungers. And we shall feed that hunger. Just as we did so long ago against the slaves of the yngir, so must we do for the slaves of the mon'keigh."

"The War for Heaven calls. You shall serve- either in Her warhost, or as Her sacrifice. Either is better than your kind deserve."

-Unknown, Battle of Merr's Reach, speech given to prisoners.

The War for Heaven

Please, just call me Oscar. There are no need for such formalities when it's your ceremony.

You wish to know why? That is a question I have been asked many times before. Are you sure about this? It's a very long history lesson, one that your Schola teachers have probably covered in depth.

Very well, take a seat. The Mechanicus technicians will make you comfortable.

The straps are for your own safety. Shall I start at the beginning?

Eleven thousand years ago, my adopted sons marched into the depths of hell side by side with the strongest warriors of a dying race, and struck a blow at the heart of the Great Enemy. In a display of psychic might equal to mine, my father held the portal open long enough for a god to be broken free of her cage, setting the foundation for the Last Alliance, the agreement between Man and Eldar that would uplift both our species out of the chaos of the Age Of Strife.

Centuries later, the same man, old and tired, said he was proud of me, lying in a simple white bed, connected to a panoply of medical equipment that whirred and beeped rhythmically.

He told me that I and my eighteen generals had wrenched humanity free from the horrors of the Old Night, and that they would need me to be its leader. As the spikes on a green line grew erratic, I said that no mere relic of a lost Golden Age should be the master of its creators. To think, that I would waste the last of my time with my father on an argument, of all things.

Despite that blunder, Malcador forgave me with a serene smile. For that, and so much more, I will be forever grateful to a man who found a stasis chamber in a run-down laboratory on Cthonia, and spared the life it held inside.

Then the War Of The Beast happened, leaving a trail of shattered worlds in its wake and an uncertain future on the horizon. The Imperium nearly died then, as we were pushed back further and further by unending waves of savage Orks goaded into battle by the unrepentant instigators of the Fall. In Terra's ruins, only the death of an angel and the sacrifices of heroes beyond counting was enough to allow Farseer Eldrad and I to kill the monstrous Beast at the hordes' head.

A hundred centuries have passed since, and the world has changed. The stubborn Tau suffered through multiple schisms and two thousand years out in the cold, but they now fight for the Imperium. In the Age Of Apostasy, the Demiurge helped the brave Inquisitor Sebastian Thor and myself end the rule of Goge Vandire, earning their acceptance through blood and adamantium. They are not the only ones, for among the stars are many more who have joined the Last Alliance and aid the Imperium's war efforts.

But all my eighteen Primarchs, chosen from the finest and bravest of Terra's stock, lie dead, whether by war or because of the march of time. There have been no replacements for their seats, which remain empty not only out of deference to each of their lives, but because none have been found worthy of taking up their titles.

Enemies both new and ancient have opened new fronts all across the Imperium's vast Segmenta, all thirsting for our blood. Some are clad in liquid metal, others in sculpted chitin and claws, and some are manipulators cloaked in shadows. Others are false idols which will not die, praised by legions of fanatics who seek to bring the taint of Chaos into our besieged empire. There is no mercy to be found here.

In some great irony, I, a Man Of Gold, a human simulacrum, have ended up in the Golden Throne of an empire, bonded with Isha, one of the last survivors of a pantheon of true gods. Some say that Eldrad chose an arranged marriage as repayment of his favor a way to prevent humanity from going back on its promises to the Eldar, but I suspect he really just found the idea funny.

One thing has not changed, however. The War For Heaven, the war that began so long ago, goes on, the tune of its siren call tugging the strings of every sentient being of this galaxy. Everyone heeds its call eventually.

While the morning sun shined upon Perturabo's shining Terran hive cities, a veteran of the War stepped out onto a field of mud and rain, armed with a lasgun and the blind faith of his platoon of Guardsmen. He flinched as he scanned their youthful profiles, constantly reminded of brothers and sisters who wouldn't stay in the past. The night terrors of his sleep no longer had the decency to stay out of his waking world, and he grew more and more tired as one excited private explained how he had signed up for his wife and kids back home. Few soldiers ever returned to their homeworlds after joining up, at least, not alive.

Today, when the sun sets on the Imperial Palace today, an Ordo Securitas Inquisitor may watch his acolytes celebrate the resolution of a sector-wide fraud case that drained millions of gelt from Imperial accounts. Before tomorrow's dawn, he may lie face-down at his desk, poisoned by a bottle of wine. For the Inquisitor's white-haired Sororitas bodyguard, summary execution of the childhood friend who brought it will be enough to soothe her anger. Afterwards, she will learn that it was the unwitting crime of a clueless man.

Our libraries and datastacks are filled with tales of tragedy and joy, of valor and cowardice, of liberating adventure and crushing defeat. Yet the galaxy grinds on, dragged onwards by its own inertia, careless of ghosts haunting the living or the deaths of Inquisitors and childhood friends. It takes no favors, listens to no pleas, and defies classification by human logic. With all its beauty and mystery, the galaxy has been the birthplace of our loftiest dreams and our most terrifying nightmares.

In the end, all it has to offer us is War. And who are we to deny its gift?

I do not put my faith in gods, despite the fact that one sits next to me right now. That belongs to those who call me Emperor, who struggle to maintain their shard of normality in an unforgiving universe. They fight as men and women who have everything to lose, never to receive anything better than the galaxy's gift. If we stop now, if we loosen our grip even the slightest, everything that they have lived and died for will be in vain. My faith, and by extension their faith, belongs to a promise built on hope.

One day, the War will end, and the Imperium will be witness to a new dawn, where our children are free to live and smile, to grow old in peace, no matter the price.

Have I answered the question to your satisfaction, psyker?

Good. Isha, if you would be so kind as to dull his senses to pain, thank you.

Let the soul-binding begin. Initiate proced-

Unnamed Writing 1

"So it's been two years."
"Since...?"
"Since. Y'know," Calper leaned in conspiratorially to whisper, "SHE joined up."
"Wh-" Kred was for a moment bewildered before she remembered who she was talking to and sighed, "Right. The farseer."

Kred was not in the right state of mind to talk about their strange alien auxiliary. For the past week she'd been going through the same drill with the rest of her company of weapons specialists of digging in and setting up her lascannon, and then unpacking it and getting it ready to move again. The goal was to get the entire process down to three minutes. And they had. On a planet that wasn't a frozen ice ball like this one. She was numb, and sore, and tired, and thrice cursed Calper was still fresh as a daisy, probably because he was leaving the digging up frozen ground to her and invariably took his sweet time fiddling with the lascannon so she'd have to do the hard work.

"She going to help me dig this ice up?" Kred growled. If Calper understood the sentiment he didn't mention it. He was looking off in the distance, over the rest of the company swinging shovels and cursing the icy ground.
"There, see? She's talking with Lieutenant Feldham."
"And?"
"Annnndddd," Calper was straining over the lascannon, before a distant bark of the Commissar reminded him to focus on his work, "You think, y'know..."

Kred stopped, looked at Calper. He was raising his eyebrows suggestively.
"What?"
"Y'know," Calper started a strange bobbing motion with his raising eyebrows, "The farseer. And the dashing captain of the kasrkin?"
"He's a lieutenant."
"Lieutenant. You think she's into that?"
"What? What," Kred blinked, snuck a peek over the gun. Frowned, shook her head, went back to work with her spade, "Nope. Not at all."
"What? What do you mean?" Calper looked back, then back down and hissed, "She's holding on to him by the elbow!"

"TIME!" Commissar Gebbet bellowed across the field. Kred looked down, sighed. No, it wasn't very good, but it would have to do. She set the lascannon over the mound, and crouched herself in the behind it, as Calper mirrored her, attending to the capacitor and charge packs. Gebbett would have a field day with this- please, please, please just let him walk past...
"Seriously, I bet you she's getting the monkey D tonight."
Kred rolled her eyes.
"First of all, it's pronounced 'mon-keigh', secondly, there's no way she and Feldham are an item."
"What? Who made you an expert on human-eldar relations? Seriously, she's eye fucking him on the field right now!"
"A year's stint with Ulthwé Black Guardians. First thing's first, do you see what Feldham is holding in his left hand?"

A bit of silence, as Calper leaned over, then said dejectedly, "A crutch."
"Yeah. Training accident. And he's got that bionic eye on the fritz. So, no, it's not eye fucking that you're seeing, it's her lending a hand to a wounded comrade, and some concern."

Somewhere behind them, Elid's crew was getting chewed out. Commissar Gebbett would take his time. And in that pause, someone desperate to distract herself from her own inevitable chewing out, Trooper Kred made a mistake that she would soon regret.

"Besides. I'm sure she's not into guys like that."

"What? Feldham's a badass. Sure, he's got the eye thing, but chicks dig scars."
"Not all of us. Nah, nah. The Farseer would go for..." She hesitated, glanced behind her. Yep. Anton was still tearing into poor Elid.
"-Like what?"
"Somebody a bit more...intellectual."
"You saying Feldham's dumb?"
"No- well. Okay, keep it between us, but there's a reason he's spending training hobbling around on a god damn crutch, and I hear it has to do with some unauthorized demolition training, a glacier, a set of melta charges and some watches that he never bothered to sync. Besides," She looked over, shook her head as Farseer Taldeer gave a final salute, and then turned away from the Kasrkin, "Waaay too short."
"Fuck Kred, that's cold. He's taller than me."
"She's a giant, she can't help it," Anton Gebbett's rage subsided behind them, so the last was a whisper from her, "So shut up, and look like you're a real soldier."

Commissar Anton Gebbett strode up the line- though Elid's men had suffered the full burst, he still had plenty in reserve to shoot in passing as he strode the line. As Anton Gebbett walked by Calper and Kred, Kred inwardly cringed, doing her best to stare down the lascannon barrel.
"Despicable. Lazy. Shoddy. Pathetic," the Commissar grumbled, marching through the lines, locking eyes with each soldier as he passed. Making it clear that this wasn't directed to the air aimlessly, but in due consideration of each soldier's faults. Brennan's team, aimless. Gherehg's team, the work of children. Ysmir's team, useless. Kred's team...

Commissar Anton Gebbett halted in front of the pair of them and their makeshift fire pit, and glared down at them. He scowled. Looking them up and down. For a moment, Kred thought she might have lucked out, that he was looking for something minor- then she noticed the inhaling. No, no. He was tallying up everything wrong. Preparing. She winced, squeezed her eyes shut-

"Commissar Gebbett, a word please?"

Relief. Farseer Taldeer was at the other end of the parade ground, hands in the pockets of her Cadian officer's coat over her xeno mesh armor stained with snow and mud, a green beret denoting her auxiliary status on her head, long hair cascading down- Hell. She was dolled up. What for?

Gebbett paused, gave a finally acidic glare, then shouted, "At ease!" Murmurs of relief, before he shouted again, "But you and you!" The Commissar's hand stabbed at Kred and Elid's teams before they could relax too much, "You stay here. I'm not done with you idiots yet. The rest of you, pack all this back to the armory!" With a final grumble about the quality of Cadian soldiers these days, Commissar Gebbett spun on his heel and stalked back to the Farseer, grumbling all the while.

Kred slumped against the cold of her lascannon, hopes dashed. The rest of the teams laughed and trotted off, leaving the four of them behind in the field.

"What about him?"
"Shut up Calper," Murmured Kred.
"Who? Who we talking about?"
Elid had come forward in the meantime. Another chatterbox, but one that Kred knew so she could forgive him. Had Martz with him. Didn't know her. Tats suggested a hiver. One of the new recruits.
"Commissar Gebbett," Calper whispered, glancing back at the Commissar and the Farseer, talking animatedly as they made for the command post. Doubtless where there was warmth. There wasn't freezing mud about their ankles. Probably had warm food-
"Oh yeah, right prick isn't he?" Elid shook his head, "Don't like him. Last Commy was nice. Even before he got tore apart by the wossnames."
"Yeah, but," Calper leaned over, raised his eyebrows, "What do you think the FARSEER thinks?"
"Wot?"
"I'm saying-"
"Shut up, shut up, shut up Calper-"
"-Maybe the Farseer sees something in him? Y'know, a commanding man to lead her in the sheets?"
"What?" Elid leaned back disgusted, "Taldeer and Gebbett? Fuck off. That's disgusting!"
"Yeah, to you and me, but Eldar are aliens. Maybe they'd like him?"

Elid frowned, shook his head, "No. Nowhere in this universe would anybody think Gebbett is handsome. I was thinking Lieutenant Feldham."
"That's what I said!"
"He's too short!"
"And he's got that weird eye," Martz added, hand going to her own and peeling back the lids for emphasis to stare at the other three in mocking pantomime of Feldham's bionic, "Rich girl like that would turn her nose up quick at that. Probably use her brain to set his skin on fire right quick."
"She wouldn't do that."
"She would! Hear about it all the time, those eldar tarts and their fire starting, you look at 'em so much as sideways," Martz waved her hands, "Fwoosh! Burnt to a crisp. Sides," She shook her head, "Feldham's an idiot."
"Okay, let's lay off Feldham..." Kred felt a little bad now for what she said earlier. Feldham wasn't THAT bad, and making fun of a kasrkin was probably a really unhealthy habit to have.
"And a bit true. Nah, rich girl like that," Martz tapped her chin thinking, "She'd go for someone with a bit more class. I'm thinking Ordnance Master Hymnal."
"Hymnal? She's classy?" The others started laughing as Martz glared between the three.
"Yeah! Yeah she is! She's always in her best duds, always got that fancy baton and all, she's plenty classy!"
"Clearly you haven't seen her three amasecs deep yet."
"God," Calper winced, "And what she did with that colander, the lho pack, and the priest..."
"What? What'd she do?"
"How about Sturnn?" Elid rapidly changed the subject, looking over his shoulder. If a kasrkin was dangerous to mock, rememinscing on the master of regimental artillery in the open was suicidal.
"Sturnn? No way. He's ancient."

"So's she. And, he's brave, rugged, smart," Calper was counting out traits. Kred shook her head.
"No way. Wife and kids on Cadia."
"-And proven to be responsible," Calper finished, nodding, "Makes sense. She asked to serve in Sturnn's regiment special."
"You think she's a home wrecker?"
"Nah, it's true," Martz started nodding fervently, pointing, "No, I've heard about this. Eldar witches, see, they love that. It's like psychic stims for them, that heartbreak."
"And who says Sturnn agreed?" Elid took on a faraway gaze, "Forlorn, reciprocated love. Eldar love that!"

"You know what I think that Farseer Taldeer loves?"

They all froze at the voice.

They slowly turned back to see Farseer Taldeer standing above them, looking down with the frozen smile of the predator that's caught a lovely family of defenseless bunnies in a dead end.

"I think, what Farseer-Auxiliary Taldeer would LOVE, is hearing that you four broke the three minute record," She leaned in, teeth still bared, "In the dark."
"But- but it's going to get below-"

She narrowed her eyes.
"If you'd like, I can start a fire."
Inside, Kred's heart withered. Goodbye sleep.

"Farseer Taldeer!" Gebbett jogged after the auxiliary, baffled at her attention directed at the weapons teams, "We were wondering where you'd gone, the dinner still isn't-"
"Nothing's wrong Gebbett," Farseer Taldeer turned away from the pair of teams frantically shoveling at the frozen ground, and strolled past them, aiming for her quarters, "Just thought I heard something. I was mistaken."

Gebbett frowned, looked back at the soldiers digging, snorted, "Finally found your spirit! Come on! Snowstorm is coming in, and you're working until you're up to snuff!"
Gebbett nodded, quite proud of himself. Yes, those years in commissar school had proven that fear had a wonderful effect of focusing the mind. He idly wondered for a moment which of his insults had landed home, then dismissed it. If he could do it once, he could do it again.

Unnamed Writing 2

Officio Tacitum archives have no record of subject "LIIVI" until after formal registry into Temple Vindicare, local site Carolus 5A. Sicarius investigation reveals earlier mention of a "Livvi" found during the Galbraith Campaign as a war orphan, and was subsequently drafted into the Cadian 412th under order of General Sturnn (See attached document, Cadian 412th draft order, signed by General Sturnn and approved by Lord General Castor), before disappearing from regimental records. Of note: this was the only draft order recorded that General Sturnn has ever invoked, and the drafted "Livvi" was recorded as being sixteen years old (the minimum draftable age without a state of emergency declaration from a planetary governor), while the "LIIVI" that the Officio Tacitum trained was estimated to be approximately ten years of age.

Background of the Galbraith Campaign was an attempt to uproot an insurgent assassin cult, headed controversially by (Still extant) Inquisitor Made. Ordo Sicarius records of this time include several criticisms of collateral damage, overzealous prosecution of war efforts, and an over reliance upon divination sourced intelligence. Despite this, Made was vindicated by proof positive evidence of old {SUPPRESSED BY ORDER OF IN JOACHIM, ORDO SICARIUS} and hard evidence corroborating such. Reports of whole sale massacre of juvenile combatants after capture provoked censure from the inquisition as a whole afterwards. Though tenuous, I request a formal investigation into ties between subject LIIVI and {SUPPRESSED}. {Ed. Note: Denied.}

Problems with socialization and authority marred an otherwise excellent pupil from LIIVI's time in the Officio Tacitum's tutelage. Psychological assessors ascribed it to his unusual childhood, available at {SUPPRESSED}. Details are scarce- Officio Tacitum archives are spotty at best.

By the age of nineteen LIIVI had an impressive roster of missions under his belt (I think. Every record is under three levels of encryption with two interchangeable ciphers applied on top of that, typical bloody assassin nonsense) and it was decided LIIVI was ready for dedicated field work. Curiously, LIIVI was not assigned to a typical forward operating post that assassins are usually held in to answer summons from inquisitors. He was assigned permanently to a regiment of the Imperial Guard. The Cadian 412th, currently known as the 1st Kronus Liberators. A year later of high value target removal and artillery spotting, LIIVI had his meeting with destiny when Farseer-Auxiliary Taldeer was assigned to the 412th.

Reports and interviews point to a formal relationship at the start. At this time, Taldeer was still engaged to Lithian Sylander as part of House Ulthran's politics (The fact that Sylander wasn't even born yet was no matter) so she remained aloof to all interest. Judging by interviews and journals, there was plenty of it. However, Farseer and Vindicare would prove to be an impressive combination. Mission after mission would lead to the pair working ably in concert to turn the tide of battle with a single well placed and well timed bullet.

But then there was the debacle at Lorn V and the death of Sturnn.

General Sturnn was much loved by the 412th, and Taldeer and LIIVI were no exceptions. Though the details of that day are still unclear, and investigations are still ongoing regarding this {Ref. "Pariah/Untouchable Necron Interest" "Lord of Kronus" "Sea Prophecies"} the death of General Sturnn at the base of the Titan is a matter of heated debate for the 412th. Taldeer, LIIVI, Sturnn, and Sturnn's bodyguard entered the monolith, and only Farseer Taldeer, LIIVI, Commissar Gebbet, Preacher Coates, and Sgt Falker emerged. General Sturnn had fallen in battle, and Farseer Taldeer became Colonel-Farseer Taldeer. Rumor holds that LIIVI had to save one of the two and, under orders from General Sturnn, chose to save Taldeer over her objections. Or, perhaps it was that Farseer Taldeer (Affected by the aura of the Pariahs at the Necron Lord's command) had earlier blundered in her predictions, and LIIVI mistrusted her at a critical moment, leading to the General's death. Or perhaps Colonel-Farseer Taldeer took her rank seriously, and sought to head off a scandal of cross rank fraternizing before it started.

Whatever the case, interviews point to a rift between the two opening up. Where before they worked together efficiently, they sought their objectives separately.

Farseer-Colonel Taldeer would go on to lead the 412th new, notable new victories on Skaldheim, Kronus, and the orbital rings of Barrack Vol. Initial skepticism for an Eldar Farseer running an Imperial Guard regiment was replaced with acceptance, then aclaim. For the Imperium at large, here was the proof that Eldar and Humanity were better together. It also helped that Taldeer renounced her citizenship with Ulthwe, and her family ties in a formal ceremony to prevent any appearances of a conflict of interest. At the same time (If less famously), LIIVI was proving himself an adept agent as well, in most instances supporting the 412th, but notably also in independent operations as called upon by the Ordo Securitas. A few notables are gunning down the feared Arch-Arsonist of Tarronis {Note: 'Gunning down' does not accurately describe the event, making it sound far too simple. The massive ork warboss required a full six magazines of exitus hellfire rifle rounds, and the full discharge of LIIVI's exitus pistol, and subsequently three blows with a chunk of concrete to the skull before the fiend perished), stealing the list of allegiant governors to the Children of the First Emperor's Conspiracy before they could coordinate a revolt, and being the first and thus far only one recorded to permanently kill a creature only known as Entity 218. Ordo Xenos as usual hoarding info. {INQ JOACHIM: Note to self, talk to Interrogator Garden about professionalism in reporting.}

Throughout the course of these operations, each encountered problems they couldn't handle alone. At first begrudgingly, then out of habit, they grew to rely on each other once more so they could survive what came. Commissar Gebbet at one point got involved, summoning the pair and announcing, coincidentally, that he had had to break up a cross rank relationship between two soldiers earlier that day, that it was clearly stipulated in the military code and regulations that an inferior and superior officer could not engage in any manner of romantic relationship of one another for fear of impacting their judgement in the heat of battle, and that he was very glad that the Colonel-Farseer would never stoop to any such thing like that.

A later report filed by Commissar Gebbet noted that his superior officer had 'emitted a string of profoundly foul utterances that disrespected his person, station, and heritage to such a degree that he was convinced for a moment that a particularly foul mouthed daemon of the warp possessed [Colonel-Farseer Taldeer] and he feared for his immortal soul for a moment" but that it had successfully convinced him that there was no relationship between the two.

As we know now, this was false.

At the same time as they were reigniting their duplicitous relationship {Inq Joachim: Professionalism, Interrogator.} they cultivated worrying friendships. LIIVI has been recorded meeting, and working with a team of assassins, even outside of the bounds of sanctioned Officio Tacitum operations. Though their identities still elude me (Damn the Officio Tacitum!), there is one eversor, a callidus, and a culexus. {Inq Joachim: Useless.} When Officio Tacitum agents fraternize outside of what is necessary for work, one should worry. Interestingly, LIIVI seemed to build a certain rapport with Ronahn, Taldeer's exodite ranger brother. This connection gave LIIVI (inconsistent) access to the webway, something very helpful for an agent.

Farseer Taldeer for her part focused on traditional politics, coming under the wing of Lord General Castor, and by extension, his ally Inquisitor Adrastia. Though still nominally a Colonel, Taldeer is becoming known on a galactic scale as a problem solver, and in demand at Imperial High Command. Accompanying that is a certain resentment. Despite generations of cooperation, some human officers still feel threatened and insulted that an Eldar commands humans. Presumably, after her recovery from the assassination attempt, and after her pregnancy has run its course, she and the 412th will be at the front lines once more, for good or ill.

The other connection is more interesting. Taldeer's unwillingness to associate with Ulthwe for fear of an appearance of conflicting loyalty does not extend to Cegorach's cult. The harlequins have taken an interest in Taldeer's fate, and often the Farseer disappears into the webway escorted by a troupe. Taldeer has offered no explanation of where she has gone, or what her arrangement with them may be, saying only that it is a very personal matter. Cegorach's ilk only answer in riddles not worth repeating. In any case, she is one of the rare few in the galaxy to reliably have harlequin support in battle. Reports indicate a growing closeness between the two again. At the Sanctuary Masquerade in celebration of the victory on Kronus, LIIVI was seen as part of Taldeer's honor guard. At the consecration of General Sturnn's memorial, the two were seen after the service in deep discussion. At Colonel-Farseer Taldeer's first thwarted assassination, LIIVI managed to evacuate her before harm came to her.

After every such occurrence, the two sought to hide their affair. Though we now know by necessity they would have had to be lovers after the Krasnitz Siege, I speculate that going by reports and overlapping leaves of absence, the must have reignited their relationship, their relationship started far earlier, perhaps just before the Sturnn memorial. Though the present court case in the commissariat argue that the both of them are outside of the traditional command structure of the Imperial Guard, and thus free of the rules against fraternization, the extreme secrecy undertaken to hide their relationship speaks to the reality- they knew it was wrong, and they sought to hide it. {Inq Joachim: Or they were just trying to have some privacy. Their relationship, and legality there of is a matter for the commissariat. Not the Inquisition. Next report, don't stray from the mission parameters again Interrogator, or you're going back to alphabetizing the whole of Tabula planetary archive.}

Which brings us to the modern day, and the unfortunate events of this past Terran month. The Sapiens Supremis attack, the hospitalization of Sreta Ulthran, and the reveal of the 'impossible' pregnancy of Colonel-Farseer Taldeer. The possibility of a natural born human-eldar hybrid is at once shocking and frightening. By my research, I do agree that the dates match up. The Farseer and the Assassin have had a relationship for long enough to match up the current state of gestation, and it has been an increasingly poorly kept secret.

In which case, we live in very interesting times indeed, on the eve of M42.

But the question is, how is this possible? They are far from the first in such a relationship. And for this, I have three theories.

First, divine intervention. The Harlequins took an interest in Farseer Taldeer for a reason. Cegorach or Isha are the most powerful extant that we know of. Isha would be most likely, seeing as she is a goddess of fertility. But the question then comes, why the Farseer, and not her chosen representative married to our Emperor? A trial run, perhaps. Humankind is famously skittish. To you and I, the notion of our great emperor having a divine heir would be a cause for celebration, but certain segments of the population might view this uncharitably as a seizure of power from an alien god, seeking to supplant their Emperor with a half god creature. The other possibility is far more unlikely, but it may be this is Cegorach's doing. Perhaps this is one of those famous pranks of his. For everyone's sake, we must hope this one of Cegorach's more benign pranks.

Second option points to the mysterious origins of LIIVI himself. Though I feel almost certain that the war orphan conscripted by General Sturnn is one and the same as the assassin we now know, I can not say that for certain. I have managed to attain a genetic sample of his at great expense (And great difficulty- Officio Tacitum enhancements) and it is currently being tested and matched against the general population, but as you know, the Imperium has many, many people. It could take decades to find similar genetics, and even then, it wouldn't give us much to work from. However, the Ordo Securitas still has Inquisitor Madek's files on the Galbraith Campaign. They are currently sealed. I request permission to unseal them, and find the truth. Perhaps it was some manner of renegade human-eldar hybridization program, or some adaptation of human to interbreed with eldar? {Inq Joachim: No. There is nothing of that sort in the files. And they remain sealed for a reason. Request denied.}

The horror! The HORROR!

The third option, I hesitate to even mention. There have been certain...Signs. Prophecies. My contacts in the Ordo Malleus and Ordo Xenos have offered me a great deal. Bleak fortunetelling from the Chaos Eldar describe something similar, an unholy union of our emperor and their queen. Weirdboyz across planets hoot and holler, speaking of a beast returned, waiting on the other side of the veil for a great rumble. And possibly, most frightfully, I've been told in confidence by a most reliable source of great prognosticating power of the Great Devourer, the tyranids, seeming to converge on Farseer Taldeer's position. Something seems to be attracting them. Already, what few psykers that have been allowed to see Farseer Taldeer (She is currently recuperating in Eldrad Ulthran's care- frustrating my every attempt to investigate) have described a great calm, and serenity surrounding Farseer Taldeer.

Is it not true that, without synapse creatures to control the tyranid hordes, they go wild and revert to bestial primalism? And yet, when reintroduced to one of those synapse creatures they obey, regiment, organize, and act as one? And, though my hand shakes at this, my very spirit quakes, I must tell you to look upon the attached- a vision of this creature, this horrific possibility that may even know gestate, drawn in weak and fearful hand by that soothsayer, of the vision of what might become this child. Look now! See what lurks close by? The awful familiarity of the scene? Maybe this isn't merely a human-eldar hybrid, but something far worse?

I beg you, Lord Inquisitor Joachim, to take this seriously. The fate of our whole galaxy may rest on this!

{Final Notes: Inquisitor Joachim.}

{Interrogator Garden. I was wrong. You're not going to be sorting the archives. You're fired for this ridiculous nonsense. Please wait for security to escort you out of the building.}

The Month of Murphy

The Month of Murphy: The Imperium has, from ancient files, learned of Murphy's Law (Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong, and usually at the worst possible time). For a while it was considered either a weapon of Chaos or Cegorach fucking around, until Cegorach himself chimed in. He provided the most concrete knowledge the Imperium has: He is not Murphy, he is pretty sure Murphy does not exist, and Murphy's Law is more like a law of the universe that applies even to the Chaos gods in the Warp.

This lead to Oscar making a very bad decision. It happened while he was on The Emperor's Tour, when he came across a situation that would benefit from his attention: Chaos cults had gripped 45 worlds in a defense-poor sub-sector. He joked that he would trade Murphy a month of minor inconveniences for a quick victory. He got the victory, dealing with all 45 worlds in less than three months using only one chapter of the Astartes, two Regiments of the Imperial Army, and a single battlecruiser as the cultists dealt with one catastrophe after another. Then he discovered that Murphy's Law does not know what the word "Minor" means.

In the span of one month, the following happened:

• 365 mugs full of hot recaf spilled over his clothes and destroyed
• A robe woven for him with metallic fibers blowing the powergrid of an Administratum Sector HQ during a critical database transfer
• A 50,000% increase in the number of jaywalking incidents on the planet he was visiting
• A misfire during an aeronautical display in his honor burning down their hardcopy backups
• 25 Inquisitors dying under the very strange circumstance of "spontaneous appearances of pools filled with leaping sharks" while investigating scheming nobles
• A previously undetected Chaos Cultist getting Jubblowski pregnant with twins(see file COBRA SILVER SEAGULL (Tundra Cleric 12d))
• And his favorite lampshade being possessed by something very strange just so it could constantly yell at him about why his joke was a very bad decision and insulting him over his fashion sense. Removal of the lampshade just lead to random lampshades around him doing the exact same thing until the month ended.

The entire thing seems hilarious until you renumber that the casualties from that month totaled over 400 billion - 6 times the enemy forces he faced. To this day, every officer and Inquisitor is taught one very basic lesson: DON'T FUCKING TAUNT MURPHY.

Historical Battles

Lusitan's Hate

The members of the Hubworld League have always been a proud and stubborn people, who would rather die than admit defeat. Despite being a brash, salt-of-the-earth type of people, they are brilliant innovators and engineers and can be single-minded when it comes to retribution. These traits are well-displayed by the events of the Siege of Lusitan.

Lusitan was once a prominent mining colony located in the galactic south of Hubworld territory. The planet was covered by large fissures and volcanic activity as a result of tidal flexing due to its proximity to its parent star, with some openings reaching all the way down to the deep mantle. As a result, it was rich in rare and valuable minerals that were normally only found deep beneath a planet's core. Therefore, the high gravity and mineral wealth of Lusitan made it a perfect colony for the Hubworld League.

When Leviathan, the third of the three great tyranid scouting fleets, emerged on the galactic scene, most people would have predicted that the hive fleet would have made galaxyfall in the galactic east, as Behemoth and Kraken did before it. However, this was not the case. Instead, Leviathan made a sudden swerve in its trajectory, seemingly to avoid a large stellar-sized anomaly similar to a Dyson Sphere in their path (indeed, this sudden change in trajectory was how the Inquisition first noticed this anomaly existed in the first place), and made galaxyfall at a slight angle to the galactic plane in the Segmentum Tempestus. As a result, many planets that had been far away from the front lines of the first two Tyranic Wars were now under threat by the tyranid menace, including many worlds of the Hubworld League. This included Lusitan, as a small tendril of Leviathan broke off from the main hive fleet to directly besiege the small colony.

Lusitan was not a major Hubworlder settlement, but the planet was an important component in the Hubworld League’s economy, and so although the planet was not as well protected as a major world of the Hubworld League it was better defended than the majority of its colonies. As a result, the defenders of Lusitan were able to hold out against the initial waves of hormagaunts and termagaunts but began to lose ground when higher tyranid lifeforms such as carnifexes and tervigons started appearing. About the only good news was that the tyranids seemed unable to make use of organisms such as mawlocs and trygons, Lusitan’s crust being too thin and volatile for them to work efficiently. The Hubworlders fought like madmen, making the tyranids pay in blood for every inch they took, but unfortunately for the Hubworlders the tyranids always seemed to have blood to spare.

After three weeks of heavy fighting, the people of Lusitan received some unexpected good news. A relief fleet had arrived, travelling via sub-light speeds after warping in as close as they could get to Lusitan’s star system. The relief fleet was comprised of Hubworlders and Imperials from nearly a dozen different Imperial member states, spearheaded by a small force of Salamanders from nearby Nocturne led by Second Captain Hal’shan. However, the rescuers were surprised when they received a message from the Lusitanians telling them not to land on the planet’s surface. At first the rescue fleet just thought this was merely Hubworlder stubborness at work, and tried to force their way to the planet's surface, even after the Hubworlders began physically blockading their ships from landing. This only stopped after the leader of Lusitan, Vardun, opened a private channel of communication to the flagship of the rescue effort and Hal’shan.

The exact words of that conversation remain unknown, but after it was over Hal’shan’s behavior changed completely, ordering all ships to cease attempts at landing and instead focus all efforts in helping the Hubworlders evacuate. Over the next several hours thousands of ships launched off from Lusitan’s surface, protected from the hive ships by the rescue fleet, and before long most of Lusitan’s population was in orbit. Following that, Hal’shan immediately ordered all ships to escort the Hubworlder vessels to the edges of the system, leaving what few people remained on Lusitan’s surface. At the time, this order was not popular, and several protested this decision, but Hal’shan responded that the Hubworlder ships were in danger and it was their duty to help the civilians evacuate first.

The only reason we know of what happened next was due to a few Salamanders who refused to leave the few Hubworlders left on Lusitan to die. Geological mapping of Lusitan's surface had indicated that compared to most planets the crust was unusually thin, and essentially held above the mantle by a series of caverns supported by a few key structural weak points. Destroying these points would cause the crust to collapse into the mantle, which in turn would cause the magma to rise and swamp the planet's entire land surface. This was Vardun’s entire plan. Over the last few days, he had converted several mining charges into makeshift explosives scattered around the planet as Lusitan’s defenders had bought time with their lives. And now, with the majority of Lusitan’s people in orbit, he could execute this plan with a clear conscience. Now, no one had to die to remove the tyranids from Lusitan’s surface, well, no one other than himself and his advisors, who were the ones who had come up with the plan in the first place. Vardun transmitted his last words of vengeance against the tyranids and then, without hesitation, threw the switch.

"Fry, you overgrown space roaches" - Last known words of Vardun

The move, although militarily unorthodox, was a stunning success. Tyranids usually recouped their losses by consuming the biomass of their dead, but this time the bodies of their troops were buried under several stories of molten lava. The sudden simultaneous death of so many synapse creatures caused a brief disruption in the Shadow in the Warp, which allowed Imperial reinforcements to come in and slaughter the remaining Hive Ships in orbit.

However, the victory had not come without terrible costs. For one, Vardun and all the leaders of the Lusitan colony were dead. On top of that, the entire topology of the planet had been disturbed and its surface was covered in lava. It would be centuries, if not millennia, before the lava cooled and the planet stabilized enough for resettlement. The tyranids were gone, but the people of Lusitan now had no home to return to.

Maartje's Treason

Every Legion had its black sheep during the War of the Beast, even the most stalwart and loyal. The Salamanders were no exception.

The full story of Lieutenant-Commander Maartje and the two thousand Astartes under his command is not known. No records survive, and the people involved are not forthcoming. What is known is this:

Lt. Com. Maartje and his men were defending the world of Ndorea, a beautiful world of some five billion people. Having been unified and untouched by the wider galaxy for thousands of years, it had no defenses, no armies, nothing that could protect it from the storm now sweeping the galaxy. And perhaps because of that very innocence, several raiding fleets, both Ork and Croneworld, targeted the world for destruction.

Maartje swore this would not come to pass. As two thousand Astartes were not enough to cover and protect an entire world, he resolved to meet the invaders in space. In a series of brutal boarding actions, every attacker was destroyed, enemy ships turned into crematoria by the Salamanders' justly famed affinity for flame weapons. Multiple enemy fleets were utterly annihilated, the Salamanders returning to Ndorea after each battle for resupply and repair. Over the months, the bonds between the Salamanders and the people they protected deepened, with several Ndoreans even being inducted into the ranks of the Astartes to replace the losses taken in their defense.

Sadly, the defense did not last forever. While the Salamander fleet was away intercepting an incoming swarm of Ork Roks, a Croneworld battleship slipped into orbit under cloak and burned the surface of the world, using well-placed torpedoes to trigger long-dormant volcanoes and fault lines. The Salamanders had their revenge, but it was far too late; all five billion of Ndorea's citizens had burned to death within a day.

Maartje, and all the men under him, swore eternal revenge, and tore into the fleets of the Beast with the fury of men possessed. This is where the chain of events gets spotty, as they only intermittently kept in contact with other Imperial forces. Eventually, they stopped responding to orders and hails at all. Then, when the Navy sent a frigate to try and re-establish communications, they boarded and burned it, just as they had the Orks and Chaos forces. Through the rest of the war, they would indiscriminately attack both sides.

When the Beast died and the Fallen fled into the Eye of Terror, Lieutenant Commander Maartje and his men followed. Today, they are the Burning Earth. Retaining their mastery of flame weapons, they delight in burning pretty much anything that catches their attention alive, posing as much a threat to nominal 'allies' as their foes. Whether it's turning starships into flying ovens or choking the life out of a hive city with a masterfully managed blaze, they delight in the flame and the name of Chaos.

The Badab War

EDITOR'S NOTE: Needs to be added to with the changes discussed in threads.

Near the center of the Milky Way galaxy is the Maelstrom, a lightyears-wide patch of incrossable space and the biggest Warp Storm outside of the Eye of Terror. For obvious reasons, the Administratum recognized the potential threat the Maelstrom represented and stationed five Astartes chapters to guard it, as the Maelstrom Warders: the Brothers of the Anvil, the Wind Riders, the Charnel Guards, the Crystal Wyverns, and the Astral Claws. On paper, the five chapters were all equals amongst one another. In practice, however, the Astral Claws were the oldest and most experienced of the five chapters, and so the other chapters tended to defer to the Astral Claws for leadership.

At the turn of the 41st millennium, the Chapter Master of the Astral Claws was a man named Lugft Huron. Despite the presence of five Space Marine chapters, Huron felt the High Lords of Terra were not taking the Maelstrom as seriously as they should have. In contrast to the Eye of Terror, which was located on the edges of Imperial territory, the Maelstrom was located near the very heart of the Imperium, and so any Chaos incursions there would be much more unpredictable and much more likely to strike at something vital. And unlike the Eye of Terror, there were no equivalent to the Cadian Gates to funnel the movement of Chaos forces in and out of the Maelstrom. The Eye of Terror had the Black Legion, numerous Guard regiments, and all the forces Cadia and Ulthwé could bring to bear guarding its gates. And what did the Maelstrom have? Five chapters of Space Marines. Huron made these concerns known in a message to the Administratum and the High Lords of Terra.

Unfortunately, this request was made during the 12th Black Crusade, when the Imperium was understandably focused on more important things. The High Lords reportedly did send a message back to Huron saying they would consider his request when they had the opportunity, but it is unknown if Huron ever received it. Whatever the case, Huron took the apparent lack of concern about the Maelstrom and his situation personally. He claimed to the Astral Claws and the other Maelstrom Warders that the Imperium had abandoned them, and that it was their duty to secure the Maelstrom and the Badab Sector by any means necessary. To this end they carved out their own little petty empire in the Badab Sector, seizing control of the inhabited worlds for supplies and aspirants.

At first, the Imperium did not notice anything was wrong, being too busy taking stock of the losses from the 12th Black Crusade. However the Imperium quickly did notice the situation in Badab when ships from the Badab Sector started raiding Imperial Worlds in other sectors for materiel and aspirants. The Emperor in particular was outraged at the system Huron had set up, wherein the Astartes acted as a military aristocracy over the baseline citizens. In his mind the Astartes, like himself, were duty-bound to serve mankind, not lord over them.

The Badab War was a particularly bloody one. Numerous Imperial regiments were still on active duty due to the 12th Black Crusade, so Imperial forces simply poured into the Badab Sector. However, it was not that easy. Huron had rebuilt many of the buildings of the Badab Sector, including the infamous “Palace of Thorns” on Badab Primaris, in the expectation of facing a Chaos attack from the Maelstrom, only now he was facing a siege from the other direction. Nevertheless, the Imperium continued to steadily gain ground, and it was clear that the Imperium would not be merciful to the traitors. As a result, Huron found himself accepting the aid of an ally he never thought he’d side with: the Chaos Gods.

Accepting the aid of Chaos caused a brief resurgence by the Empire of Badab, making it even harder for the Imperium to proceed, but the Imperium still managed to press on. Eventually, the Imperium reached the heart of the Empire of Badab, but the five traitor chapters fled into the Maelstrom at the behest of the Chaos Gods. Imperial Forces tried to follow the traitor chapters into the Maelstrom, attempting to kill them before they could escape and join with Chaos forces, but the Ruinous Powers threw up a Warp Storm that prevented all efforts at pursuit. Once in the Warp, each of the Maelstrom Warders fell to a different Chaos Gods, the Brothers of the Anvil (now Deathmongers) to Khorne, the Wind Riders to Slaanesh, the Charnel Guards to Nurgle, and the Crystal Wyverns to Tzeentch, with Lugft Huron and his Astral Claws, now rechristened the Red Corsairs, following Chaos Undivided.

Today, the Red Corsairs and their following chapters act more like mercenaries than cultists, willing to support any major Chaos warband as long as the pay is good. Surprisingly, the five chapters still cooperate with one another as well as they did when they were loyal to the Imperium, despite worshipping different gods. The Red Corsairs’ mercenarial nature is one of the ways people like Malys and Be'lakor get their hands on Chaos Space Marines without having to deal with Luther and his ilk. Currently, Huron and the Red Corsairs have thrown in their lot with Lady Malys and her forces, having seen the writing on the wall.

The Defence of Sansaayam

The attack on the minor craftworld Sansaayam was, in typical Dark Eldar fashion, sudden and overwhelming, ripping out of the webway gate with incredible brutality and speed. However, the Dark Eldar, lead by Archon Karragast and his Kabal of the Razor Sky, had grown arrogant from centuries fighting foes slower than than they were, and were unprepared for the speed with which the Aspect Warriors leapt to the defense of their home. Fatally, they allowed themselves to be bogged down by the ferocious defence of Sansaayam long enough for reinforcements to arrive, cutting off their path back to Commorragh.

In response, the Dark Eldar fled deeper into the alleyways and back passages of the Webway, hoping to lose their pursuers. This began a series of cat-and-mouse chases through the corridors of the webway, as Eldar and Dark Eldar hunted each other down in tangled spaces unfamiliar to both of them. This lasted for days, until the Dark Eldar regrouped and tried to break out of the trap in a fast-moving spearhead.

And ran right into incoming Tau and Legio Cybernetica reinforcements. Possessing the psychic acumen of a potato battery and a half-brick in a sock, respectively, the Tau and Cybernetica could both move through the Webway without damaging it- and both specialized in laying down heavy firepower at range. In the cramped passages of the Webway that offered no room to maneuver or dodge, it was very nearly the worst tactical matchup possible for the speed-is-armor Dark Eldar.

Unfortunately, in that last stage of the battle- something broke. The general, reflexive presumption is that Archon Karragast triggered some warhead on a dead-man switch, but with so few surviving eyewitnesses nearly anything could be true.

The end result was that the webway broke and daemons spilled in. The Imperial force, ravaged and reeling, fled back to Sansaayam to make their stand as the Webway dissolved around them. For months, the mixed force slaughtered demons at the chokepoints of the Webway gates. The weapons of the dead were taken up by civilian volunteers, bonesingers turned the plazas into killzones and deathtraps, broken war-bots repaired with wraithbone substitutions once the supply of spare parts ran dry.

Incredibly, they held out until relieved, a company of Grey Knights arriving via conventional warp travel. Charging into the shattered webway, they somehow contrived to temporarily stem the flow of daemons, and followed up by severing the craftworlds' connection with the Webway in conjunction with Eldar warlocks. Sansaayam lost its connection to the Webway, and had suffered immensely... but the siege was over, and it had survived.

There were several long-term effects as a result of this battle. First, the general Imperial policy of trying to avoid combat within the webway was reinforced. Second, whatever fellow-feeling the craftworld Eldar had for the Dark Eldar was badly reduced by such a brutal attack and its consequences. Finally, the estimation of the Tau's value as a fighting force was raised. The Tau's inclusion within the Imperium was still young at this point, and their usefulness in combat was often questioned. Their long refusal to join the Imperium made many question their ability to fit into the larger Imperial Army, and their distaste for Glorious Melee Combat made many question their courage and valor. The ferocity of their attack and the staunchness of their defence in this battle silenced such doubts; and Imperial planners rejoiced at having another force able to move through the Webway.

Inquisitorial Reports

The APEX Twins

PROJECT COBRA SILVER SEAGULL (Tundra Cleric 12D)

CLEARANCE LEVEL

MYSTERIA ALTUM BLACK (FATAL EYE RED)

SOURCE

ORDO SECURITAS JUNGLE MUSTANG

AUTHOR

Inquisitor SABINE APEX

INITIAL BRIEFING

On 2.1015.826.M41, Sister Jubblowski (ASSET GLASS PANTHER) was impregnated by a previously undetected Chaos cultist. Immediate countermeasures were taken, hampered by the fact that any attempt to abort the pregnancy would remove her fertility and Isha's blessing. Jubblowski insisted on finding other countermeasures that would deny Chaos a potential weapon and allow her to continue her duties, despite a clear and present danger to herself (Collected Marginalia, Emperor Oscar Steward: It was, to put it bluntly, badass). For a full list of countermeasures, see the attached BLEAK BULLDOG document, prepared by Grey Knight Brother Ryner and Order of the Gilded Rose Palatine Moira, both of whom were integral to Jubblowski's continued security and health. Shortly after attachment of Brother Ryner to her security detail on 0105.827, Sister Jubblowski received a triple set of mutually exclusive prophecies regarding the long-term results of pregnancy (See attached document CLUMSY RAINBOW). All three prophecies confirmed twin female psykers as immediate result. (Collected Marginalia, Azura Strain, Grand Headmistress of Rehtor Imperia: request meeting with SABINE APEX. Must ensure this inquisitor will not emotionally stunt these girls from detachment).

On 2.0712.827, at 1111 Standard Imperial Time, Sister Jubblowski gave birth, barely surviving the process. Medical opinion holds she will not be able to safely bear for another three years. Counteracting this is the fact that Jubblowski spent the entire birthing issuing prophecies. Six hours later, a cult summoned multiple daemons to attack and secure the twins. Said plan was cut short when the daemons fled after the girls shredded one without trying. I was there, and I'm torn between joy and horror at knowing what a daemon's shriek of pain and terror sounds like. Testing has proven the girls (Named Hansel and Gretel after characters from an ancient childrens tale) to be Alpha-Plus Psykers, with a few potential abilities the Farseers are currently unable to determine the nature of. Sister Jubblowski has followed their recommendations and designated me as their caretaker. She followed this by making me lactacte. A moment of candor follows: I'm scared fucking shitless of the idea. I can go toe-to-toe with a junior Farseer, but that's only when skill is considered – in terms of power a weak one would overpower me. Is putting me in charge of two Alpha-Plus psykers, humans that until now were theoretical, a good idea? Their potential made Eldrad pause. I need backup. Other than their massive power and the white hair, the girls are of a healthy weight and size, although they are showing signs of more muscular control than normal. Gene tests are being carried out, but are currently inconclusive in any area except their suitability for the Adepta Sororitas augmentations.

RESPONSE OF HIGH LORDS OF TERRA Inquisitor SABINE APEX, your request for backup has been granted. You are hereby granted leadership of the JUNGLE PANTHER working group, who will aid you in this. Assets are being forwarded to them. May all our gods watch over you.

Selected Reports follow:

Daily Report 0419.833.M41, JUNGLE PANTHER Compound (Respa III, Obscurus/Scarus/Helican). Inquisitor SABINE APEX, Reporting.

The girls went missing for three hours today. We discovered them in a nearby town by the simple method of waiting: our psykers can see them when they light their powers up, and they like to use them. Recovery went well, as the fact that we had to hide the bodies was overlooked by the local authorities, who are already used to extreme violence between the gangs. It was a fairly gruesome scene – if I didn't know they had lit up for three seconds, I would guess they had spent hours torturing these men. When asked what happened, they replied “They wanted to do nasty things with us, so we did nasty things to them first. One of them really liked it.” This lead into the same argument that they can't keep other people as pets, no matter what the voices say. Their therapist quit today. He's been getting extremely frustrated at how easily they misinterpret his statements. And I may have threatened his life over how he never actually tries to treat them like growing children, not static beings. How he got this job I don't know.

Daily Report 0420.833.M41

That fucking bastard. He was keeping his own records. Thank the Empress the Exodites here like us, and captured him when their seer said so. The things in his luggage... Now I know where the girls were getting some of their ideas from. Ordo Securitas forces nearby have been notified to send the Cohort Religio down here, because some fucking pedo is trying to get the girls as his prophets and brides. The seer, Mornel, has offered to help me shoot them. I think I'm going to take him up on that. The bastards removal seems to have brought in a change in the girls, who seem to be finally realizing just how serious things are. This lead Gretel to show that he had given her a wig and a haircut so she could continue to switch with Hansel, even after I ordered them to give them a way of telling them apart.

Birthday Report 0712.840.M41

The girls have been eight years old for five years now. No explanation other than bastard's fetish has been found. Mornel gifted them with frilly green outfits. They are progressing excellently in controlling their powers, but unless they let themselves grow up we won't be able to deploy them without accusations of child soldiers being thrown around.

Daily Report 0925.845.M41

Additional security has been put in place. The girls escaped to the wandering pirate port of Rum And Pour (which I have been told is the recipe for a truly vile, yet enjoyable, drink) three days ago, before returning to us today. According to reports, they caused no incidents, which is bullshit. The pirates are either not talking, or what they did was so minor it passed beneath notice. Therapists have noticed an increase in their psychopathic tendencies.

Final Report from JUNGLE PANTHER Compound, 0003.848.M41

We failed. We failed hard. Inquisitor Oak was stopping by, dropping off supplies and picking up a few artifacts we had recovered on his way to the OBELISK MAZE vault in the Sol system. During his visit, the girls stole his shuttle, and then stole his ship. The ship was recovered unharmed 40 lightyears from here, with only two artifacts missing: a chainaxe recovered from a chaos cult stronghold (OBJECT FIRE HEART 17UM), and a cursed rifle of unknown origin that combines the firepower of an Exitus rifle with the full-auto of a heavy stubber (OBJECT BARRED CAGE 98C). Shortly thereafter, Rum and Pour left the sector. A messenger drone left at their last location held a message to us from the girls: they wished to see the universe, and the pirates seemed like their kind of people. They also called me Mother, and admonished me to not cry or get mad.

My only consolation is that most of the pirates there seem to prefer keeping the Imperium around. I and the tactical assets of JUNGLE PANTHER are heading out to give chase. We will not let Chaos get their hands on these girls, not after all the work we did on denying them this potential weapon. I have no idea what I'm going to do to the girls yet: grounding their little asses seems a little underpowered at the moment.

Inquisitor SABINE APEX, signing off.

Inquisitorial Report: YELLOW EYE SEAGULL

>Enter Clearance

>Password: ************************

>Verifying...

>Commencing biometric scan...

>Verified. Welcome, Inquisitor.

>Opening file...

OPERATION: YELLOW EYE SEAGULL (Wobbly Wombat 17)

SOURCE: Ordo Xenos, Diviso Sepulchrum, Deep Field Recon Squadron 17

Author: Interrogator PURRING VIOLET

Arrived and departed from IGC-137-Oscar-Romeo-Dalet-2828 without incident, extracting roughly two weeks before the Shadow in the Warp fell over the system. As in the previous sixteen systems, all traces of life above crustal microbes have been eliminated, primarily by orbital bombardment with some remaining traces of nanoweapons. As before, all indicators point towards Necron responsibility, of a fleet numbering about 200 vessels. [file attached: forensic analysis, orbital bombardment, weapon types and distribution] By the looks of things, we arrived just hours after they left. Maybe in the next system we'll get to see them in action. Progression of the age of the damage indicates the extermination fleet is moving via Dolmen gate, with no inertialess-equipped vessels. [file attached: forensic analysis, orbital bombardment, dating techniques] Maybe we'll catch them in the act in the next system. At this point, all evidence is pointing towards the Necrons trying their own variation of the Kryptmann line, exterminating worlds in the Tyranids' path. On the one hand, perhaps we can feel grateful that the Necrons are weakening the Tyranids for us. On the other hand... analysis of atmospheric composition indicates that this planet likely had a pre-space industrial/atomic civilization. [file attached: forensic analysis, atmospheric composition] They are either all dead now, or were scooped up en masse for biotransference experiments. Next system is IGC-137-Oscar-Romeo-Gimel-2124. Long range telescope observation shows indications of life on the second planet; maybe that will still be true by the time we get there.

>End file

>Opening file...

OPERATION: YELLOW EYE SEAGULL (Solar Serpent 2)

SOURCE: Ordo Xenos, Divisio Sepulchrum, HEADSTONE KING

AUTHOR: Inquisitor SUNSET STABERINDE

Deeper analysis of Wobbly Wombat reports only partially support initial conclusions that Necrons are enacting a Kryptmann Line strategy. Pattern and placement of sterilized systems are not consistent with attempts to weaken the Tyranids before a killing blow. Paths are left through sterilized zones leading away from Necron space. Conclusion is that Necrons are attempting to herd Tyranid fleets away from Tomb-Worlds while dealing as little damage to them as possible. Further conclusion: the Necrons are attempting to use the Tyranids as a weapon against the rest of the galaxy. This is consistent with known psychology of the Silent King. Silent Empire long-term goals involve extermination of all life throughout galaxy. The Silent Empire does not currently have the power to do so. (See SCARLET SPINE SEAGULL reports for detail on Necron power projection) The Tyranids likely do. Necrons are in excellent condition to survive Tyranid onslaught; necrodermis indigestible, recall/repair mechanisms allow extreme attrition tactics, if all else fails they can clear the life off their tomb-worlds and return to stasis. Tyranids likely to depart after scouring galaxy of all life, leaving Necrons as sole owners. In short, Tyranid victory serves the Silent King's interests. Further conclusions: Necrons may undertake further action against attempts to halt Tyranid advance. Sabotage of various kinds or direct naval or ground action against Imperium strongholds. Such actions should be anticipated and warded against before they actually occur; however, specific policy suggestions in this area are beyond the scope of this report.

>End file

>Logging out...

>Good hunting, Inquisitor.

Inquisitorial Report: BLACK BRASS PIG

>Enter Clearance

>Password: ******************************

>Verifying...

>Commencing biometric scan...

>Verified. Welcome, Inquisitor.

>Opening file...

OPERATION: BLACK BRASS PIG (Onyx Desert 22)

SOURCE: Ordo Malleus, Task Force MUSTARD-3

AUTHOR: Interrogator NACRE NETWORK

[Context: personal report from NACRE NETWORK to DIAMOND STAG, regarding cleanup efforts in the wake of the 8th Black Crusade]

Our worst fears have been realized. While physically relatively unscathed by their seven-month captivity at the hands of the Chaos Eldar, deep psychic trawls have revealed extensive mental tampering. Testing of 500 randomly-selected individuals out of the seven million survivors indicate at least half the population of Merriman's World are affected.

The exact purpose of the tampering is still unknown, and I must admit the technicalities are beyond me. Attached is a more detailed report by Primaris Xavier and Seer Iyonais. [Attached File: (Onyx Desert 20) Deep Probe Trawl Results] We do know there are two parts to the tampering. The first is a simple memory edit, evidently to replace any memories of the tampering itself with memories of the long-term confinement and neglect reported by the initial liberation teams. The second is a 'knot' of psychic energy hidden deep within the victim's mind, requiring deep probing to uncover. The exact function of this knot is unclear, but we can safely assume it to be a booby-trap of some variety.

This poses a dilemma. Releasing the survivors of Merriman's World into the Imperium before they have been screened is obviously impossible, when any one of them could be a ticking time-bomb. However, scanning all seven million of them would take resources that are simply not available, not with the counter-attack under way. The alternative, simply killing them all, is unpalatable. Perhaps you have an alternative, Lord?

>End file

>Logging you out...

>Good hunting, Inquisitor.