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The burning eldritch horror stood tall above the Phoenix King, smoke billowing like a cloak of ashen sorrow and sparks pooling as rain around its armoured, taloned feet. Rage radiated form it in a physical wave of heat, and the gathered masses backed physically away from the pair of deities, confusion and fear painting their sculpted features. If ever a manifestation of raw hatred had ever existed, it was eclipsed by the thing that towered over them.

Asuryan raised his spear in salute to the grim being before him, and his voice betrayed no hint of unease, just power and easy command.

“Hail oh Kaela Mensha, what brings you to this battlefield?”

The smouldering terror lowered its high-crowned head low, standing face to face with the Phoenix King, its eyes burning with the churning heart of a bilious star. Its breath was furnace heat and fury, and it’s voice was the sound of thick iron being bent and sundered by rage.

“All battlefields are mine by right, Phoenix King” spiteful sarcasm dripped from the horror’s use of Asuryan’s title and a steadily increasing mania underpinned its words, “And that victory you claimed there was not yours to claim. It was mine, it should have been mine”

Asuryan closed his eyes, the ghost of an indulgent smile drifting across his face.

“We have discussed this before Brother. We slay the Yngir wherever we may find them, but it is not your sole purview in this realm.”

“THE THING WAS MINE TO SLAY! MINE!”

A juddering wave of force accompanied the words, toppling many who stood behind the Phoenix King, and spittle formed of magma dribbled from the raging things cracked, metallic lips, dripping lazily to smoulder on the muddy ground. Asuryan stood against the tirade, and when he next spoke it was directly into the mind of his raging foe.

Brother, we have spoken of this. I understand your desire to assuage the stain in your honour, allowing the Bringer of Night to flee, but you cannot slay its siblings alone. It is not your place.

“Do not seek to understand my motives, oh High King…I have marked the Yngir for death, every last one of them. They are mine to destroy, to unmake, to rend, to tear, to devour. And you took what is mine”

For the first time in the exchange Asuryan frowned and took a step back, his legs naturally flowing into a defensive stance. This discussion had happened many times before and could only end one way.

The burning monster noticed and an ugly smile split its burning visage, cracking like the churning insides of the world they stood upon. When Asuryan spoke again, his voice was icy, utter control bereft of emotion, a cold fury to counter the wild fire before him.

“Brother, I am your King, and I will brook this insolence no longer. Return to the tasks you have been appointed and do not press me.”

A cackle escaped the iron throat of the Bloody-Handed, the sound akin to the crackling of a pyre fire, and it seemed to swell with malicious intent.

“You would fight me Phoenix King? You wish to test your might against mine? To stake your claim”

“Do not do this Khaine, it will not achieve what you hope…”

The Phoenix King stood en garde, his spear held in both hands. His hair stirred in the breeze and his blue-upon-blue eyes burned with an intensity to match the war god before him. Khaine stood shuddering before him, the only sound the crackling of the flames that surrounded him and the gentle groaning of it’s armour as it strained around the fury of the Bloody-Handed ones existence.

Silence hung in that moment, the only sound the barely audible moan of the wind’s mourning.

Ju’daai held her breath, pressed into the throng of the unaware warriors surrounding her. She blinked as a voice coalesced in her mind, the voice of Asuryan.

This is the moment that much changes Young one, and also where much might yet be changed. The shore you stand upon is one where I and my kind are dead, extinct, consumed. However in this place, the means of your salvation may yet still exist. Know this world by its name: Llawduwiau’col – it is where you might change your fate. Now behold.

The silence was shattered as Khaine raised his midnight blade and struck out at the Phoenix King with a roar that was the end of civilisations and hope.



They traded blows at a speed no mortal could ever hope to attain, each clashing of their divine blades striking lightning and blackened sparks into the air. Each strike rang with the mournful din of a funeral bell, each glaring smote the sound of Vaul’s hammer upon iron. The horde of warriors flowed around the battle, unable to tear their eyes away from the spectacle unfolding before them. Ju’daai was pulled along with the throng, unable to fight the pull and push of so many. She was a castaway upon an ocean of panicked people.

Asuryan was poise and grace itself, always defending, always flowing around his enemies blows. His spear left contrails of crystal light in its wake, and if not for the fury of the duel could be considered both beautiful and graceful. Whenever he did strike it was with the pole of his spear or the flat of the blade, never to kill or maim, but simple to push back. He had no desire to slay his opponent, only to halt him.

Khaine had no such compulsion; he drove forward like the rage of his species given form. His blade hove in jagged lines and twists, the air crisping at its assault. It wailed as it struck, the scream of uncounted millions slain and many times more yet to feel the cut of hot steel. His blows possessed the power of worlds and the heaviness of a singularity, but still Asuryan stood before it.

Complete, soul-swallowing rage against total and complete control and skill. This battle could rage for infinity and never abate.

Suddenly Khaine cut across and to the left of Asuryan, missing him completely and cutting into the ranks of gathered warriors staring aghast at what was transpiring. Twelve died upon contact with the blade immediately, their bodies sliced in twain, with many more burning as a wave of hate-borne flame consumed them. Khaine struck left and right, raining blows upon both the Phoenix King and the Eldar around him. Dozens fell in bloody chunks, and soon screams of both fear and dismay filled the air.

Panic broke out, and the hordes of warriors tried to fall back before the fury of the War God. Hundreds died as he vented, no longer aware of who fell before him, caring only that someone suffered for his rage. Asuryan’s implacable expression faltered and concern broke across his face, and his defence became more desperate, his spear pulling in wider and wider curves to try and spare the people around him.

Khaine bellowed and raged incoherently, stamping, kicking and hacking into the throng. His bloody fist struck out, tearing the heads from those who could not flee fast enough, his blackened blade now more a club of thick blood and abused meat. Fire followed in his wake, setting ablaze the air and surrounding ground, consuming many and maiming more. He was a blizzard of barbarity, claiming lives in a mounting display of butchery and callous malice.

Then it happened.

A female warrior clothed in bone-white armour and a flowing headdress ceased her flight and turned, the only one of her kin to do so. Fury stitched her noble features, enough to match even the hideous murder-god before her and she brought to bear a great blackened fighting star, curved and elegant in its perfection. She screamed fury at the War God and hurled herself forward in defence of the Phoenix King.

Khaine roared in fathomless rage and struck out toward her, his blade leaving a trail of weeping gore in its path.

Asuryan saw this, and moved his body to fend off the blow. His spear spun in his grip but would not be fast enough, so he pushed his own hand before the falling black of Khaine’s weapon.

Archaic blade met divine flesh, and Asuryan let out a howl of anguish as the wailing doom of Khaine’s blade parted his hand from his arm. Power exploded in sheets of furious, divine light from the sundered limb and Khaine was hurled back by the force of it, leaving rages of armour and clots of burning matter in his wake. He landed heavily, his armoured bulk crushing several panicked warriors behind him with a sickening wet crack.

Several ranks of Eldar fell at the explosive impact, including Ju’daai, floored by the release of such force. They toppled and feel, screaming and in confusion.

The nameless female warrior lay broken on the ground, slain by the impact, her spine bent back and limbs useless. Her jade eyes stared blankly into the skies, devoid of life.

Asuryan stood shuddering, gripping his sundered limb. His armoured hand lay curled like a spider on the muddy ground, shockingly crimson blood flowing from it. He looked with fury upon the prone form of Khaine, who writhed weakly beneath his shadow. The War Gods form was burned and melted beyond all recognition, iron armour bubbling and cracking like clay. His spiteful visage was cracked and bleeding magma, which pooled beneath him, steaming the gore of his victims who lay there.

The horror chuckled cruelly in its agony, a black, formless mirth wracking its abused form.

As the gathered army rose again to its feet, several leaning heavily on weapons or wrapping arms around comrades, Asuryan raised his spear shakily, pointing the blade at the fallen avatar of battle.

“You have gone to far this time Kaela Mensha. You will answer for the lives you have taken this day. There will be a reckoning for this, I swear.”

Light burst from the spear and consumed both the Gods in its potency, the furious Phoenix King and the Laughing Lord of Murder. Those closest covered the eyes from the glare, and when finally it relented they were gone.
The horde stood listless and uncertain, a pall of sorrow hanging above them. They began to gather their dead and march southward, no songs sung and no victory banners raised. The Eldar had won a victory here, but you would be hard pressed to find any joy.

All that remained of the battle was the churned bloody mud, the burning remains of fallen starships and the curled armoured hand of the Phoenix King upon the muddy battlefield, forgotten.

Ju’daai saw this as the world began to melt around her, the memory no longer of this place.

Realisation struck.

She opened her eyes.

[In Will Farrell voice] I believe the Emperor was killed when Darth Vader threw him down a shaft. No, wait that's the wrong aged, space monarch

When they eventually found Ulnaan Alnathian, he was as he had been when the great doors behind him had closed: crouched low, his knees almost touching the pale, misty floor. Both hands held the mighty blackened form of Ob’novimastr’dei, its point close to the floor, its metallic length rising to just behind And below his shoulder. Behind his furious helm his eyes were closed, and he breathed slowly and deliberately, meditating on the moment to come. He was as a statue in a gallery, unmoving, upshifting and utterly at peace.

He did not require his sight to know who approached, the clatter and march of their feet being like a tumult of rain on a metal roof. He smiled, although they did not see it behind the grimace of his warhelm.

“And so at last you find me, honoured students”

He opened his eyes to behold those who would intrude upon his watch. There were seven of them in total, all fanning out to surround the wayward Autarch, trading concerned glances like the flitting of insects on a breeze, their movements disturbing the mist that pooled above the floor of the chamber.

Five wore curved plate similar to Ulnaan, although where his was elaborate in its form and carving, theirs was demure and devoid of ornamentation. Their armour was identically white with swirls of orange and red, and a pictogram of a red, winged serpent rose on their shoulders. They went helmless, and their faces were painted with concern and confusion, each looking uneasily to the other. These were the Guardians of the Craftworld, not true warriors but citizen militia, their unease a product of their path.

Four of them carried long, fluted blades that shimmered and crackled in the low light, whilst the last of them carried a black, glossy firearm, long and tapered, humming quietly in his grip. The weapon was capable of spitting thousands of razor sharp monomolecular discs at dizzying speeds in the time it took breath to leave the body. All were capable of inflicting gross harm and dismemberment.

Compared to Ulnaan, they were toys in the hands of babes.

Ulnaan drew his gaze to the final two figures that stood just behind the gathered warriors. One was clothed in yellow and golden robes and wore a tall helm, ornate and swollen in design, and their silken belt hung with numerous crystalline tools and pouches. They moved in svelte grace like a feline.

A Bonesinger: one of the Craftworld’s many builders and artisans, here no doubt to seal the portal behind him.

The final figure was a haggard ancient Eldar that Ulnaan recognised immediately, as would anyone who had been born upon the Craftworld. Clothed in shimmering blue and black robes of sumptuous fur-lined material, he was the head of Ju’daai’s order and defacto leader of the Craftworld’s council. His hair hung in long, thick braids of grey and white, and thin whiskers of silver drooped low below his chin, putting one in mind of a catfish. His eyes were an intense auburn that burned with arrogant fury and his brow creased his tanned, smooth face in a manner most unbecoming of a child of Isha.

He was Ermach Uldritch, Primary Farseer of the Craftworld and First Song of the Council. Where he spoke the Craftworld listened, and his advice was ignored only by the brave or foolhardy. As to which Ju’daai was Ulnaan was still unsure, but his course was set and he would see it to the end.

It was to him that Ulnaan spoke with forced levity.

“So lauded Ermach, you bring children to bring me to heel now? An impressive host you have gathered”

The Farseer sneered at Ulnaan’s tone, and his voice was one that was used to having its demands met, its commands obeyed.

“You’ve brought this on yourself Autarch! Do not delay us any further, tell us where she is and there will be no need for reparations”

“You know fine well where she is Farseer” Ulnaan retorted lightly, “I assume that is why I find you here before me now.”

Ermach took a furious few steps forward, shouldering past one of the Guardians before him. His robes billowed around him in his sudden movement. His every movement was aggressive arrogance, without restraint or meekness. Ulnaan had always respected the Farseer’s wisdom, but had loathed his haughty, derisive attitude.

“She was not to enter the Avatar Sanctum. I told her implicitly the dangers of such folly. How could you allow her to do this?”

Ulnaan laughed then, his spear dipping slightly. There was no malice in his tone, simply genuine puzzlement, like a parent to a wayward child.

“Nobody allows Ju’daai to do anything, honoured one. She is a force of nature, and to try hold or bar her way is as to try and catch the wind with ones hands. I could no sooner stop her than you could the passing of the universe itself. You knew this when you first took her under your wing.”

Ermach glowered at the Autarch, while his companions shifted uneasily at the exchange.

“She has endangered us all, and you are complicit in her crimes. You have no right to wear the trappings of the Aspects whilst you do this.”

Ulnaan nodded.

“I am complicit yes. She believes that what she does is for the betterment of our people and I stand by her. I have never known her judgment to be wrong, and I could not assuage my conscience if I stood by and let her face this peril alone. This is my path, and I shall walk it to its end.”

The Farseer beckoned for the Bonesinger to approach, who did so with great trepidation, the lenses of their helm never leaving the crouching Autarch. A female voice drifted from the helm, like warm milk and honey.

“If it pleases my Lord Autarch, I need to seal the portal, lest the power inside tries to escape.”

In one graceful, fluid movement, Ulnaan raised the tip of the spear in a sudden flourish to point toward the Farseer and his coterie. The Bonesinger stopped in her tracks, visibly shaking.

“I’m afraid, my Lady Bonesinger, I cannot allow that. No one may enter the sanctum while Ju’daai works and no one shall bar her way when she is ready to return. If the worst is to come then on my honour I will end it, but no one may interfere with this duty”

The Farseer’s face reddened, his fists shaking in frustration, and he pointed harshly toward Ulnaan.

“We do not have time for this! Move him aside! Autarch, do not stand against us.”

Ulnaan smiled as the Guardian’s rushed toward him, swords raised and looks of consternation beneath the façade of fury.

The first reached him, her sword slashing down in a furious charge, her poise near perfect and her strike almost flawless. Ulnaan was impressed. He swayed to the left as a reed in the wind and swung Ob’novimastr’dei in a broad loop, pulling her legs from under her with the haft of his spear. She went down hard, toppling face first, and with a quick spin he smacked the back of her head with the pommel of his weapon, knocking her out and leaving her drooling on the floor.

The second and third warriors came at him together, their superior numbers bolstering their confidence. Both tried to flank him in a pincer, bringing their blades in low in a bid to present him with too many targets. Ulnaan saw the feint, and twirled on one leg, bringing his spear close to his body and turning it loosely to present the flat of the blade to his opponents. He brought it round sharply like a paddle, the heavy mass cracking into the side of the second warrior and smashing him bodily into the second in a jumble of limbs and armour plates.

With a casual flick, he launched both off the flat and hard onto the floor. The struck the floor badly and with a clumsy, audible crack, both lying bruised and unable to rise, fragments of broken armour scattered about them.

The fourth did not run at him head-on, seeing the ruin of his cohorts and thinking better of it. He circled the Autarch, panic painted on his features as the ancient warrior circled in kind. He looked to his partner with the firearm, who was unwilling to fire with another Guardian so near to his target. He held his blade before him stiffly, the blade shaking from his anxiety. They paced around each other for many breaths, summing up the potential of the other.
Ulnaan’s smile could be heard in his voice.

“I have taught each and every Guardian on this Craftworld the path of the warrior, young student, including you. Some of those students have been exceptional and have become opponents I would pause for breath before drawing my steel against…”

Ulnaan stormed heavily forward suddenly, a flash of armour and robes, spinning Ob’novimastr’dei one-handed above his head. His opponents eyes and sword went up to meet the spear, and Ulnaan took full advantage of the distraction by driving his mailed fist fully into the young Guardian’s face. Blood spurted from his broken nose and the young warrior dropped his sword as he went down. He lay mewling on the floor, cradling his broken face.

“…You sadly, are not one of them”

The final Guardian yelped frantically and depressed the handle of his catapult, the weapon spitting dozens of razor-thin discs in a blizzard toward the Autarch. Ulnaan turned fully to face the oncoming storm of projectiles, and brought his armoured arm up before his face like a shield. The discs cracked and smashed against his armour, leaving tracer thin lines in its polished form, but none penetrating the venerable suit.

Ulnaan hurled himself forward with a roar, his spear pointing outward haft-first, driving the flat pommel into the stomach of the young warrior. The armour cracked and winded the Guardian, pushing him to the ground sucking for air, and a quick swish of the pommel to the side of his head stole consciousness from him in a resounding crack.

The melee last no more than a minute, and yet the Autarch left all five Guardians mewling or dazed on the ground. He stood glacially still, no exertion shaking him, and turned his helm to face the Farseer.

Ermach now stood alone, the Bonesinger wisely choosing to flee before the controlled fury of the Autarch, and his rage physically shook his aged body. Ulnaan flourished his weapon once more and adopted the crouched stance once more. The tip of the spear hung low and pointed toward the Farseer. The smile never left his voice.

“You will need to bring many, many more warriors to dislodge me honoured one. Do not force this issue”

The pressure in the air changed, suddenly becoming heavy, and Ulnaan could see the gathering of mist around the feet of Ermach. The Farseer’s eyes blazed with a sickly light, and his voice seem to ring with swarming dissonance of many.

“Stand aside Autarch. I am the Will of the Craftworld and the Will of the Craftworld be done”

Ulnaan knew what was coming and sprung forward, his spear singing as he brought it up in a flashing burst of speed. The Farseer raised his hands, now crackling with glacial flame, his mind like a million, million blades unsheathed and thirsty. Ancient wraithbone met crackling energy in a starburst of lilac sparks, and both Farseer and Autarch lurched in recoil from the blow.

Before either could attack again, a deep, monstrous boom sounded behind them and hurled them both to the floor in a clumsy tumble of mist and limbs. Ulnaan’s head met the floor sharply and his helm skittered free from his head. His vision swam as an intense heat suddenly bathed the chamber.

The great doors opened, yawning wider and wider like the maw of a great serpent who seeks to devour the world. Intense, raging air rippled outward, chasing away the mist on the floor and casting everything in an orange, hazy glow. Sparks and ash drifted in the air, fleeing some great tumult of flame within, falling like smouldering snow to smoke and wither on the wraithbone chamber floor.

A single figure walked serenely from the dark sanctum, her flowing blue robes fanning about her like great wings, and her hair billowing as a starburst halo. Sand and mud stained her dainty feet and in her hands she carried the broken length of an ancient spear. Her face was one of beatific calm and serenity and her eyes shined with confidence and purpose.

She looked to the scattered figures before, before her eyes locked with the crumpled form of Ulnaan. She smiled warmly as their eyes met, and as the great portal behind her closed she whispered only to him.

“I was right”

I've got to say that I'm loving the story and I've been following it for a long while now. I love that you're exploring such obscure parts of the fluff too. I do have a couple of (hopefully) constructive criticisms from a writing style point of view though. The use of the present tense in the first Eldar battle scene is really effective at building up tension and engaging the reader. However I noticed with the introduction of Khaine you mix the tenses a little bit and I found it a bit odd. I think it makes more sense to just stick with either the past or the present tense in a single narrative thread.

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

A single warrior hobbled forward out of the crowd, his face bloody and his side rent with a deep, monstrous wound. He wears star-forged armour, dented and pock-marked by battle...

Asuryan speaks to Ju’daai although his lips move not...

Ju’daai stared in mounting horror as the furious warrior approached.

The second thing I've noticed a few times is that you sometimes repeat certain words. I've highlighted the passage in the part of the story but I've noticed it before. I don't know if it's just a case of proof-reading or what but I thought I'd point out that it is quite noticable sometimes!

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:


Behind his furious helm his eyes were closed,

The final figure was a furious ancient Eldar that Ulnaan recognised immediately... His eyes were a furious auburn that burned with arrogant fury and his brow creased his tanned, smooth face in a manner most unbecoming of a child of Isha.

Please do take this as a sign of how much I enjoy and appreciate your work that I want to give feedback!

 master of asgard wrote:
I've got to say that I'm loving the story and I've been following it for a long while now. I love that you're exploring such obscure parts of the fluff too. I do have a couple of (hopefully) constructive criticisms from a writing style point of view though. The use of the present tense in the first Eldar battle scene is really effective at building up tension and engaging the reader. However I noticed with the introduction of Khaine you mix the tenses a little bit and I found it a bit odd. I think it makes more sense to just stick with either the past or the present tense in a single narrative thread.

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

A single warrior hobbled forward out of the crowd, his face bloody and his side rent with a deep, monstrous wound. He wears star-forged armour, dented and pock-marked by battle...

Asuryan speaks to Ju’daai although his lips move not...

Ju’daai stared in mounting horror as the furious warrior approached.

The second thing I've noticed a few times is that you sometimes repeat certain words. I've highlighted the passage in the part of the story but I've noticed it before. I don't know if it's just a case of proof-reading or what but I thought I'd point out that it is quite noticable sometimes!

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:


Behind his furious helm his eyes were closed,

The final figure was a furious ancient Eldar that Ulnaan recognised immediately... His eyes were a furious auburn that burned with arrogant fury and his brow creased his tanned, smooth face in a manner most unbecoming of a child of Isha.

Please do take this as a sign of how much I enjoy and appreciate your work that I want to give feedback!

Thanks for taking the time to read this.

To answer your feedback, the changing of perspective is quite deliberate. I was wanting to experiment with time and the perception switching (as Ju'daai finds herself in the past, and Asuryan in the future, etc) - I was hoping to imbalance the reader and provide that sense of disattachment that Ju'daai would be feeling as well. I quite like the effect, but get it might be quite galling for others.

As per the repetition, hands up, did not notice I was repeating myself so much. It's fixed now.

Thanks again for reading, hope you enjoy and stick with it.

Hey folks, i hope you're all well

As you've probably realised from my lack of activity over the last while, I've made the difficult desicion to cease updating The Death of the Emperor. It's been a hard choice to make as I love what you've all helped me craft here, and I love how you guys have embraced myself and the story.

The reasons are twofold:

First, it seems Games Workshop are actually starting to push the story forward, what with the fall of Cadia, the birth of Ynnead and the ressurection of Guilliman. I love the 40K setting and I have no wish to counter the new lore coming out (plus I'm hoovering up these new stories with aplomb)

Secondly, with much prodding from my fiance, I've decided to leave the relative safe-waters of fan fiction and begin crafting my own stories away from the bosom of 40K. It's time to put my big boy boots on and begin crafting my own fiction instead of dwelling within someone elses.

Dakka is where i cut my teeth on prose and writing, and you guys are like family. But it's time to move on and if anyone ever tells you that writing fan-fiction is easy, you tell them where to go!

So thanks again guys, see you on the flipside, and maybe I'll have a new scifi/horror epic for you all to read

Love you all and thanks again!

Thanks for all the magic Dark Lord.

Sad to see you leave this, but happy to hear you're forging ahead 'on your own', as it were!

Good luck, and don't forget us little people when you're rich and famous!