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The plot thickens.

Lol, faibaddon will lose, I'll hide a bane blade in his toilet and yell Tactical Genius across the galaxy just before it kills him.

But seriously, whether or not the cadia stuff was planned, thanks.

Learned scholars from across civilisations have wondered at the nature of the warp since time immemorial. Regardless of species, creed or beliefs, each have poured their intellect into diffusing the vast and endless mystery that is our sister realm. And although no mortal creature could ever have a true understanding, many half-truths have been speculated and proven over the slow march of millennia.

One such key truth known to all is that the arrow of time has no place of authority within the Warp. Time is fluid there, bending and sometimes breaking to the whims of the powers that dwell beyond. Storms and eddies of emotional potential turn time in on itself, slowing its passage one moment before hurling it forward with reckless abandon. On occasion, time is grappled like a viper and twisted in upon itself forming a quantum oroborous that no mind could comprehend or survive.

However, even this understanding is staggeringly limited to the truth of infernal realm, and only the act of dwelling within its runnels and peaks would allow the mind to truly comprehend how little meaning time has there. Although it had been mere weeks on Terra since the passing of the Emperor, and seemingly shorter still since his wider domain fell into anarchy. However within the Warp, and its gates at the Eye of Terror, the hordes within had longer still to prepare.

Messengers and black-winged servants bearing the golden eye of the Black Legion rode through the warp, bearing summons from their master, Abaddon: Favoured of the Gods, Breaker of Bloodlines, Imperial Ruin, and Despoiler of All. Within the Eye the news of the Emperor’s passing had been known for months, and in some cases years, and Abaddon sought to draw as much power to his force as possible for his inevitable march on Terra.

At the heart of the Screaming Divide, dozens of Black Legion servants lost their lives to the wild eddies and billowing currents of the ether as they brought summons to Sicarus and its sister-worlds. Its masters, the Word Bearers, had fallen into a frenzy of gracious fervour after the death of their creator and met with summons with an enthusiasm bordering on madness. Thousands of their twisted number boarded devotional warships, armour consecrated in the blood and tears of billions of slaves and singing praises to the pantheon of the victories to come. Silence fell however when an ancient and rusted monstrosity rose from the tortured waves of Sicarus’ northern oceans, regal in its horror and heinous power. A ship, grey of hull and forged in a time of wonders, rose from the oceans clad for battle and glory. A name was scribed in High Gothic upon its flanks: Fidelitas Lex. Not seen since the grim days of the Heresy, the ship thought slain rose like a Leviathan of the Deeps, its majesty not dimmed by the passing of millennia. The miraculous reappearance of the flagship of the Bearers of the Word meant only one thing: Lorgar, Father’s Bane, Architect of Blasphemy and The Sole True Believer had deigned to join his sons for the conquest to come. The bloated and ravenous fleet pushed form the Screaming Divide to marshal its power alongside its brothers in the Black Legion.

Under the bleeding skies of the Judas Expanse, the delegation from the Despoiler brought their demands to fructuous Legion of Fulgrim. The former Children of the Emperor, always untrusted by the descendants of Horus, were given an ultimatum: join the black Crusade to come or face the wrath of the new Emperor when he takes his throne. The Emperor’s Children, more so out of a desire for mayhem than any sense of loyalty or fear, abandoned their hovels and dens of sin in droves, amassing in numbers not seen in centuries. Pleasure barges, stately cruisers and skin-draped gunships swarmed like flies upon spoiled meat, ready to bring anarchy and sensation to the dull-witted pawns of the dead Emperor. Of their Father, no sign was seen as he wallowed in his own decadent misery within his colossal temple, caring not for the fate of his sons.

As any sense of central leadership had been shattered long ago, the heralds of the Despoiler sought the barbaric World Eaters wherever they could find them, and with every new finding inevitably came hostility and violence. Warbands from the Desolate Breach, the Blood Trench and the Tract Manic were brought to heel under ceramite boots, and soon the fleets of the Black Legion were bolstered by thousands of ravening devotees of the Blood God. Where no oaths could be secured, the Black Legion simply abducted whole companies through sorcery and trickery, locking the Berserkers away within the depthless holds of warships in preparation to be dropped onto unsuspecting enemies and worlds. Abaddon however was wise enough not to approach the Sire of the World Eaters for aid: to approach Angron, even for one as mighty as the Despoiler, was to invite death.

Upon the blighted soil of the Death Guards citadel world, the emissaries of the Warmaster came before Mortarion and his damned sons with promises of vengeance and slaughter. The Plague Lord, solemn and brooding, heard the offers and missives, but waived the sons of Horus away from his realm with the threat of death. The death of one father had fractured the psyche of Mortarion, the death of another seemingly breaking it completely. Several sons of Barbarus left the Plague Worlds with the Black Legion, however the greatest number remained with their master, content to wallow in miserable mourning with him.

Of the Alpha Legion, the scions of the Warmaster could find no sign. The garrison worlds that the sons of the hydra had haunted for decades were empty, the fortresses abandoned, their populaces gone. Abaddon raged biliously at the apparent cowardice of serpents, however his seer council knew that when the sons of Alpharius hid from sight, then all should tremble at the destruction they would bring. Whether that destruction would be on the head of the dying Imperium or the forces of Abaddon himself they could not say, as the Alpha Legion had always pursued their own sinuous agenda.

Failure was to meet the Black Legion again on both the Planet of the Sorcerors and the Iron Citadels of Medrengard, as both Legions declined to follow the Warmaster on his latest ‘folly’. The Sons of Magnus were as obtuse and secretive as ever with their liege lord not even deigning to leave his spire to address the delegation. The Iron Warriors home world, always a monstrous thing of turrets, fortresses and redoubts had been garrisoned to the point of madness. It was as if the grim sons or Perturabo were preparing for a war on their own doorstep, or they were defending something precious to them. Either way, the Black Legion could not count them as allies in the coming conquest. Neither could they count the Night Lords in their number, the masochistic monsters dwelling far beyond the reach of the Eye, and the messengers of the Despoiler.

From every corner of the wrap, the traitors flocked to the banner of Abaddon the Despoiler. Astartes that had borne their hatred since the dying days of the Great Crusade to comparative youngsters who had abandoned their vows of fealty in recent decades both heard the call to war and embraced it with a victory-starved fervour. The end of the Imperium was at hand and they would have their share of the glory.

The fleets of the fourteenth and final Black Crusade gathered at the Point of Translation, the beginning of the so-called Cadian Gate, ready to bring ruin and death to the holds of humanity. At the center of the vile, armoured hordes sat the throne of the Despoiler himself, the Planet Killer, flagship and figurehead of the Black Legion. His forces marshalled, Abaddon allowed himself a satisfied smile, and prepared to unleash his hordes once more upon the Universe. Soon he would take what was rightfully his, and his dream of the Imperium burning beneath his armoured boot would be attained

This dream would not be fulfilled…

The awesomeness continues. Epic and inspiring stuff.

Well, I'm just gonna' leave this here

My jaw is 1000 feet underground right now.

Failibaddon may fail no more.

lliu wrote:
My jaw is 1000 feet underground right now.

Failibaddon may fail no more.

Well he failed to get three primarchs.

 Asherian Command wrote:

lliu wrote:
My jaw is 1000 feet underground right now.

Failibaddon may fail no more.

Well he failed to get three primarchs.

And Purturabo seems worried about something. Which doesn't bode well.

 Mr Nobody wrote:

 Asherian Command wrote:

lliu wrote:
My jaw is 1000 feet underground right now.

Failibaddon may fail no more.

Well he failed to get three primarchs.

And Purturabo seems worried about something. Which doesn't bode well.

Or there is a party.

lliu wrote:
My jaw is 1000 feet underground right now.

Failibaddon may fail no more.

I think you need to re-read the end.

I'm sure not only is he going to fail again, but in a massively spectacular way that makes it a win.

He gets lost on the way to Cadia?

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
He gets lost on the way to Cadia?

Welll... Purturabo has Leman Russ and the Space Wolves are coming for Purturabo and the World of Iron. As for Failibaddon... Where's that darned GPS??? My lord, you fed it to your pet grox... Where is the astronavigator??? You killed him because you dropped your ice cream yesterday. Oh...

lliu wrote:

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
He gets lost on the way to Cadia?

Welll... Purturabo has Leman Russ and the Space Wolves are coming for Purturabo and the World of Iron. As for Failibaddon... Where's that darned GPS??? My lord, you fed it to your pet grox... Where is the astronavigator??? You killed him because you dropped your ice cream yesterday. Oh...

Shhhhh dude, spoilers

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

lliu wrote:

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
He gets lost on the way to Cadia?

Welll... Purturabo has Leman Russ and the Space Wolves are coming for Purturabo and the World of Iron. As for Failibaddon... Where's that darned GPS??? My lord, you fed it to your pet grox... Where is the astronavigator??? You killed him because you dropped your ice cream yesterday. Oh...

Shhhhh dude, spoilers

Sorry.

I seriously can't wait for the rest. Amazing.

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
He gets lost on the way to Cadia?

Shouldn't trust Tzeench for directions....

At the throat of the Cadian Gate the fleets gathered as flies swarm to a bloated corpse, ready to descend and feed upon the red rotten flesh below. Surrounded by the howling fury of the Eye of Terror, the myriad ships huddled deep in the sole stable translation point that the Gate offered, a small pocket of calm in an ocean of bewildering madness. The Warp had been especially tumultuous these past weeks, furious channels of raw anger and despair billowing from deep trenches of abstract anarchy. Like the great waves of a typhoon, the ether boiled and crushed all in its wake, matter rendered down into particulate chaos under the relentless grinding of infinite lunacy. Already, several dozen vessels of the gathering fleets had been torn asunder by the capricious tides, and many had simply lost their way amongst the dense and labyrinth currents, forever doomed to sail the endless depths with no hope of rescue or redemption. However even these casualties could not dim the horrific magnificence of the martial powers arrayed here.

Ships of every tonnage and stripe had gathered, loosely formed at the commands of the Warmaster into Speartip ready to plunge forth and rend apart the throat of the dying Imperium. A dizzying array of colours and banners comprised the newest Black Fleet, forces drawn from the original Traitor Legions and many more from more recent inductees into the ways of the Gods. Monolithic cruisers painted in garish, luminous streaks of pink and red and adorned with miles upon miles of sutured flesh and golden ornamentation carried thousands of sensation-maddened Astartes of the Prince of Pleasure ready to cavort among the ruins and bodies of their enemies. Dominated by a grand-cruiser designated Succulence, the anarchic flotilla hovered haphazardly in the greater formation: maddened screams, inhuman snarls and senseless chattering filling the vox-channels between ships.

In stark contrast to the garish cohorts of the Emperor’s Children sat the patient and rotting hulls of Death Guard and their damned ilk. Although most had chosen to remain with their Father, a sizeable horde of plagued devotees gathered under Abaddon’s banner. Grim, silent slabs of iron and war drifted gently within the fleet, runnels of pus and frozen viscera dripping from rusted hulls, tracts of virulent foliage drifting dead and limp from metal, pitted scars. Centuries of damage and war wounds were displayed proudly, badges of martial achievement scabbing the hulls. The ships of the sons and daughters of Nurgle at first glance appeared weak and damaged beyond function, but heinous life and power coursed through them, hardened and armoured like frost-bitten muscle and iron sinew. The pestilent forces were dwarfed by their flagships, twin colossi dubbed Spiteborn and The Unbroken Advance, monstrous vessels wielding firepower enough to smother a world in atomic death.

Amid their larger brethren prowled gunships and frigates of deep crimson and black, hulls daubed in the bloods of slaughtered saints and blackened in the fires of unceasing conflict. The ships were in constant, palsied motion mirroring their crews: the insane and gore-hungry legions of the Blood God. Although smaller than their massive cohorts, the ships of the World Eaters and their frenzied kin were armed and armoured to a maddened degree. Weapons meant for larger vessels bristled from gunships, chains that could engulf cities hung from spines and blades of gargantuan scale and assault ramps, harpoon tubes and cannons honeycombed the hulls, all the better for allowing their twisted inhabitants the chance to grip their foes in a torrent of bloody melee. No form of leadership or order could be brought to the devotees of Khorne, however their presence was bolstered by an ancient iron behemoth named The Relentless, one of the few World Eater grand cruisers left in existence.

Shielding the rear of the fleet came the crimson and granite warships of the Word Bearers and their covens of slaves, mutants, lunatics and traitors. Each ship was not simply a weapon but also a monolithic temple and altar of devotion to the Gods of the tumultuous realm, palisades of gore-streaked marble and brass rising into ornate statues of blasphemous deities, great unceasing braziers of nuclear flame burning in caged displays of darkened metal, colossal stained glass windows of red, bone and black showing the rising of the Legion from serfdom to sainthood. Led by the glorious terror of the Fidelitas Lex, the Fleet of the Word outnumbered their sister ships three to one: a frenzied horde to lay waste to the broken Imperium.

Smaller but no less dangerous clusters of warships drifted amid the larger battlegroups, warbands of a thousand different origins clamouring for a chance at glory and wanton destruction. No uniformity existed between them, and they roved like rabid packs of dogs, hungry for the bloodshed and mayhem to come, snapping and barking at one another in agitation. Each boasted their own honour-roll of desecration and horror, and the swarm boasted several ships that had haunted the dreams of Imperial Navy men and women across the galaxy: The Redolent, Aura Demetria, The Sword of Golgotha, Weeping Sore, The Murder of Martyrs, Abyssal Sorrow: all strained to be first into the warzone and the attentions of the Warmaster and his Legions.

And at the center of the web of iron and death, squatting like a cancerous spider on a fetid nest dwelt the flagship, the throne of the Despoiler himself, the dreaded Planet Killer. Miles upon miles of reddened steel and iron hammered together with spite and purpose before being cast into the heavens like a mountain put to the void, the ship was incalculably ancient and powerful and proved time and again to be fitting throne for the Lord of the Black Legion. Further cementing its status was the ring of black-hulled escorts and deathships that surrounded it, all uniformly gilded and dangerous. The Black Fleet had always been an impressive and intimidating display, however Admiral Urkrathos had gathered a host worthy of even the glory days of the Old Crusade, with near a thousand ships flying the black banner alone. The entire fleet could easily drown systems in a torrent of fire and blood, and united there was no force in the physical universe that could oppose them. Scout ships and frigates had been dispatched, and data on the dispersion of the Imperial Defences of the Gate were fed back every minute to the vast murderous flotilla.

There would be no trickery this time, no sorcery or feints to blind the enemy and bring disarray, this would be a hammer strike to the Imperium’s skull, a thrust spear into its throat to sever the head and bleed the corpse dry. The time for nuance and grand strategy was over, the weakened Imperium awaited its deathblow, palsied and injured. All it required was the strike of the Despoiler’s hordes to bring complete victory. With his mortal forces arrayed and ready to bring ruin, Abaddon the Despoiler, Warmaster of Chaos, signalled the seers and summoners of the fleet to begin their work, to bolster the already terrifying force with the foot soldiers from beyond. The Gods bowed to Abaddon, and they would follow him on this final conquest.

The Unholy Host of the Despoiler would ride from the eye, and hell would follow with them.

a frenzied horde to lay waste to the broken Imperium.

You need to put a to here. Sorry I was reading through it and saw this. It happens to me too :(

Continue the great work here!

This is too awesome for words.

 Asherian Command wrote:

a frenzied horde to lay waste to the broken Imperium.

You need to put a to here. Sorry I was reading through it and saw this. It happens to me too :(

Continue the great work here!

This is too awesome for words.

Fixed

Ooooh, exciting stuff, can't wait for the actual invasion.

Not that I'm worried for the Imperium, I mean, Failbaddon couldn't actually beat the Cadians, could he?

Yeah, I'm just saying that yes, just yes.

Iron Warriors do not gather for nothing and magnus might see somthing coming.

Greater things are in motion?

Seated upon a throne of cold iron and colder stone, the Despoiler looked upon his mightiest work and was pleased. Spread upon the myriad screens and viewing ports before him lay a gathering of unimagined power and majesty. A fleet of ships, thousands in number, oathed and dedicated to his cause spread before him like an arrowhead of iron retribution, a veritable horde of sky-borne fury and destruction ready to be unleashed at a single command.

His command.

Easing his massive armoured form into the back of his throne, Abaddon sat like a furious God over his realm. The bridge of the Planet Killer was alive with activity: mortal and astartes both working to fulfil the will of the Despoiler. Bridge crew prepared weapons and transport systems, checking and re-checking key tolerances from around the gargantuan vessel. Warp-blessed mages and hereteks ran gnarled and twisted fingers across console banks, urging their charges to full power, coaxing the darkened machine-spirits within to release their secrets. Hulking Astartes in blackened plate staked the walkways and awnings of the massive chamber, ensuring the complete obedience of their mortal charges. Automated defence systems and clusters of weeping, pus encrusted eyes hung form the high chamber ceiling, watching and waiting for any sign of disloyalty. The atmosphere of the bridge was charged, a terrible storm waiting to be unleashed on the unwary. This scene would be played out across the fleet, with every ship poised to strike at the hated Imperium.

Over the tumult of the bridge, Abaddon heard the familiar click and static buzz of inter-suit communications. Flanking his throne were two monstrous shapes of black ceramite, hulking behemoths armed with ruin and crowned in burning ire and ivory horns. Through reddened lenses these two colossi watched for any threat to their master, metallic fists gripping weapons of a brutal mien. The Black Legion had ever boasted a great horde of Tactical Dreadnought Armour, and Abaddon had equipped his entire personal retinue in the imposing suits ready for the coming war. He knew that in the shadowed recesses of the chambers and throughout the ship his servants stood ready to enact his blessed will. The warrior to his right, a robust and chain-laden figure by the name of Huursk leaned toward the ear of his master, his baritone whisper rising just above the bass drone of his armours systems.

“He is here my Lord, no retinue. He requests permission to approach the bridge.”

Abaddon nodded shallowly, his face like soulless stone. Huursk rose again and the crackled clicking and buzz of internal communictions sent Abaddon’s order to the main chamber gates. From behind the regal throne the sound of grinding metal and released pressure sounded, followed by the familiar march of terminator sheathed feet, and among them almost like an afterthought a lighter and more considered footstep. The armoured tread ceased alongside Abaddon’s throne, his guard bolstered in the presence of their visitor. The Despoiler registered a soft golden glow in his peripheral vision, almost angelic in its beauty. It took all of his iron will not to turn and bask in the light, he had to appear strong in front of his minions and his guest. A voice, like a learned teacher and parent, patient, calm and without malice rose beside him.

“Would you not look upon me mighty Abaddon? Have you not the time to welcome your Uncle in person?”

Slowly craning his neck, Abaddon looked upon his visitor for the first time, his eyes narrowing as the light fully encompassed his vision. It took his mind several moments to process what it was seeing, the immediate impression being light and immense will. But as his eyes adjusted, Abaddon saw fully the figure before him, and had to resist the ingrained urge to drag himself from his throne and abase himself before the beauty of the figure before him.

Clad in ceremonial armour of gold and ruby the figure was tall and supple in form, the craftsmanship making the hulking terminators around it seem clumsy and ill-made. The grieves and shoulders were crafted with graceful flames and filigrees of Holy Scripture, each straining to contain the boundless energy of the figure within. About the visitor’s waist hung delicate, lantern-shaped braziers of brass and stained glass, gentle light and incense rising in light trails about the regal form. About his legs hung a ritual kilt of leather and parchment, inscribed with blessed names and acts of valour in the names of the Gods. The chest plate of the visitor was a thing of unmatched glory, worked into the form of an open book its pages etched in fine ruby and emerald. The metal from which it was crafted seemed to shift and dance before the eye, like a powerful fire coursed through its fabric. Around the angel’s shoulders hung a cloak of deepest red emblazoned again with the image of an open book and holy flames in finest ivory thread. In its mailed fist the regal giant carried a mace of deepest metal, taller than an astartes and crowned with spiked sphere that promised righteous murder with every strike. A warrior god in every aspect.

But nothing could compare to the visitor’s face.

Fighting his own urge to avert his gaze, the Despoiler took in his guest’s angelic visage and almost wept to know such perfection. The face was long and noble, proportioned perfectly so no single feature seemed out of place. A beatific smile was framed by a strong, noble jaw, clean shaven and perfect in its dimensions. A straight, regal nose spoke of a bloodline of excellence and noble countenance. The head was shorn of any hair, and upon it rose six regal horns of purest ivory, each curving gently to the centre, like a natural crown wrought in heathen times. The skin of the visitor shone a warm hue of burnished gold, liquid metal seemingly flowing through the veins beneath, lending a hint of barely restrained power to the giant. But his eyes are what truly made the figure godlike: two deepest pools of jet black, like portals into the deepest, darkest ocean Abaddon could imagine. To look too long into the twin abysses was to invite madness and death, but to look away was to know regret and sorrow at having lost such perfection. Cuneiform scripture was etched across the skin of the giant in red gold, the writing shifting and writhing as the muscles and skin beneath moved. Abaddon recognised the writing as auld Colchisian, language of the Holy Scripture, passed from the Gods to the realm of man.

Forcing himself into a shallow bow, Abaddon greeted his guest in as powerful a tone as he could muster.

“Greetings Lorgar, it has been many a moon since we have drawn blades together.”

Lorgar Aurelian, Seventeenth Son of a Dead Emperor and Lord of the Word and all it touches smiled warmly, ignoring his nephew’s failure to address him by his title. The Primarch of the Word Bearers had always been a patient and glorious figure, and his ascension to Daemonhood had dulled none of his regal majesty. He bowed indulgently, and returned the greeting.

“I thank you my Nephew, it is quite the wonder you have crafted here. A gathering befitting a true Warmaster.” Lorgar nodded toward the Despoiler, “The Sight of the Gods is upon this moment, and they see that it is good.”

Abaddon pulled his eyes from his luminous ally and returned his attention to the sprawl of ships and forces before him. It was a mighty host, perhaps the largest amassed since the ancient days of the Great Crusade and his Father’s revolt. Such a force would cast any foe before it, and these were just the Despoiler’s mortal forces. When they rode from the warp, the pacts that the Gods had promised Abaddon centuries before would be honoured and legions of warp spawn would follow in the fleet’s wake. The Despoiler allowed himself a bitter smile: victory would be his. Lorgar noted the smile and his silken voice gave Abaddon pause.

“Finally, we will bring the glorious truth to all of mankind. The Gods will have the victory that was writ long ago in the stars of the nether. They will tear down the false idols and bring truth to the universe once more.”

Abaddon’s face darkened at Lorgar’s mention of the Gods victory.

“The Emperor is dead Lorgar, there are no more enemies to bar our way. We will ride and butcher our way to the empty throne and then I will rule, as your Gods foretold. Victory for me is a victory for the powers beyond, but do not forget for who it is you fight.”

Locking eyes with the daemon Primarch, Abaddon noted a faint twitch in Lorgar’s smile. A cold pain twisted in his stomach as the Primarch replied:

“I have never forgotten who I fight for, Abaddon Horus Son, and the God’s will have Victory now and always…”

The sudden shrill cry of alarms filled the bridge as sensors detected massive energy fluxes building around the fleet. The Despoiler looked into the face of the Primarch as a clam smile spread across Lorgar’s angelic features:

“The God’s shall have victory over man, Despoiler, as for your victory…I cannot say…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Warp around the Black Crusade buckled and boiled like a current passed through water. Vast waves of mortal terror buffeted the ships, torrents of despair and fury crashing against each other in a pyrotechnic display of non-colours. At the words of Lorgar the calm shallows the fleet had orbited became a furious tumult of raw power and aggression, ships colliding and splitting under the currents of the ether.

Several ships tried to drift from their formations to avoid rupturing upon each other, only to be met by a squall of blistering emotion that tore at their shielding and exposed their guts to the uncaring warp. Crackling contrails of ether-spawned lightening stabbed like blades of rapturous light into hulls, cracking and blistering were they made contact. A vortex of blood-hued anarchy spiralled within the fleet, rending battle groups and casting ships from time and space into a blackened nothing.

And out of the anarchy, the true armies of Chaos came.

A boiling tide of daemons rode the currents of the warp, colossal predators with carrion maws ready to swallow the ships of the Black Crusade whole. Twisted limbs bearing weapons of daemonic steel tore from the ether into the stranded vessels, monsters and horrors flooding the bulkheads and corridors in a tide of blood and madness. Astartes turned their weapons upon the invaders, surprise giving way to anger and fury. Daemon fought post-human in the darkened fleet, blood slicked the metallic corridors and walkways, fire erupted from ruptured hulls and true and total chaos gripped the gathered hordes.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Abaddon stared in disbelief at the chaotic spectacle unfolding before him. The Warp was tearing his fleet apart and daemons, whose loyalty should rightfully been his, were unmaking all he had built over painful months in a matter of minutes. He rose from his throne, his mouth working wordlessly in rage at the injustice he was witnessing. Already, the sounds of gunfire and slaughter could be heard within his vessel. The Despoilers bodyguard hefted their weapons in the direction of the main access corridor, with some even pointing their weapons at the Primarch in their midst. Abaddon turned his fury upon Lorgar spittle flying from his gnarled mouth in rage:

“What is this!? What have you done!? You dare stab me in the back when my triumph is at hand!?”

Pulling his blade from his scabbard, Abaddon held its point threateningly toward Lorgar, his every motion speaking of rank hostility.

“Your Gods have turned their back on me! Why Lorgar!? Tell me why!?”

The master of the Word Bearers smiled lightly, and mirth danced in his darkened eyes. He hefted his monstrous mace onto his shoulder easily, and in a tone belying the chaos unfolding around them addressed the Despoiler:

“The Long War is won Despoiler. We have no need for you and your kind anymore, beyond the cattle you so clearly are. This realm and the next was not meant to be ruled by the bastard-spawn of failed gods. It was meant for the True Pantheon. Your services…are no longer needed”

Tears of rage stained the Despoilers eyes as he raised Drach’nyen above his head and bellowed a challenge to the daemon Primarch. Reality rippled and split around the golden giant and creatures of a dark and terrible aspect flooded the bridge in a ceaseless torrent of bloody anarchy. The bodyguard of the Despoiler turned their weapons on the invaders, bullet and blade meeting livid, unholy flesh in battle.

Abaddon shouldered his way through the melee, his maddened fury intent on Lorgar. The Primarch swung his ancient crozius in broad, deliberate arcs decapitating and maiming even astartes in terminator plate. He turned his gaze to the approaching Warmaster, and laughed cruelly at his rage.

“Oh Ezekyle, how much like your father you are” Lorgar taunted, spinning his mace around his head and bringing it en guarde before his foe. “He, much like you, was a failure also…”

Daemon blade met blessed crozius in a shower of luminous sparks as the combatants clashed. Lorgar was all defence, contemptuously turning each blow away with ease. Abaddon was all fury, his sword and talon striking and blurring in a state of lunatic madness. More and more, the despoiler realised he was being toyed with, but his mind was not his own: unbound rage was his mistress now and he had no choice but to vent it onto his foe. Again and again he hacked at the Primarch, each time his frustration building. He spun the blade in a complex reversal, raising the blade above his shoulders and striking in a frenzied stab at his opponents head.

Lorgar, with a grace belying his size, slid his armoured wrist around the descending blade and gripped it in his gauntlet. The duel paused as Abaddon attempted to dislodge his weapon. Looking into the tear-streaked eyes of his opponent, Lorgar leant his serpentine mouth to the blade and whispered a single word in Colchisian.

With a sound of shattering glass and warped screams, Drach’nyen burst into unholy flame and power, destroying itself in indulgent fury and taking its former masters left arm with it.

Howling in agony, Ezekyle Abaddon fell to his knees, blood vomiting from the wound were his arm once was, coating the floor in a shower of gore. All around his men died as the servants of the dark Gods tore them apart in frenzied combat. Lorgar, seventeenth son of a dead emperor, stood above him triumphantly, crozius held aloft in a signal of victory. He looked upon the son of his brother and felt no mercy or loyalty of blood. He closed his eyes in glorious peace and spoke one final time as he brought his crozius down in a slow and deliberate arc.

“Your failures end now, Son of Horus.”

As the fleets burned and died around it, the Planet Killer was enveloped in a light brighter than any sun. Energy boiled and crackled from it as the mighty vessel rent itself in twain. Secondary explosions detonated along its length and with the sound of worlds ending and dreams dying, the flagship exploded taking her passengers with her.

:celebrations are heard across the imperium:


Yeah!

Nice work mate!

YAY! this soo needs to happen. And forever after when someone says chaos they will talk about DAEMONS rather than spikey marines!

Oh My God!!! So Lorgar is stronger than Abaddon? Isn't Lorgar the one who agreed to serve Abaddon?

Well, can't say I saw that coming! Once again, what I find most impressive about this is that you have the guts to make such drastic moves within the setting and the skill to pull it off! If someone had told me that there was a fan fiction in which the Emperor died, Abbadon was killed by Lorgar and [insert next epic plot twist here] I would have dismissed it out of hand, but here it is, and it is awesome!

This is awesome!

You are not a published new york times winning author is disquise?

Now I'm curious as to how the Iron Warriors are faring. I'm assuming they anticipated this hence why their fortress world is even more heavily fortified

But peturbo? He is a deamon prince but not tied to a god.
Will he side with sons or gods?

After 10k years to build though probbly make Cadia seem like a wooden hut with paper door.