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Made in gb
Deranged Necron Destroyer






Hello folks

I don't know if many of you will remember, but there was an old thread on Dakka Fiction called 'The Death of The Emperor' and was a hypothetical discussion on what woud occur after the Emperor died which eventually evolved into a full-blown fiction by myself. Many of you showered it with praise (which I'm massively grateful for) however upon rereading it I'm not entirely happy with the quality.

Being myself, I am unable to let such things stand - so here I am again, with the all new Death of The Emperor!

I'm going to rewrite the whole thing, in proper prose and without the obvious mistakes that are a bit glaring to me now.

So take a seat, and I hope you enjoy

Remember and subscribe for updates as well!

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PDF Links

Book One: Elegy

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The Death of the Emperor
Movement One – Elegy

Part IThe Beginning of the End
Part IIThe Eye of Tranquillity
Part IIIThis Dark Night…
Part IVChaos Rising

InterludeLegions Sundered

Part VA Simple Citizen

InterludeWatcher in the Rain

Part VI Mars

InterludeA Shadowed Scheme

Part VIIUlgvig Stonecrow
Part VIII - Blood Storm

InterludeLong Before All Was Lost...

Part IX - Victory on Hul'Shadaam

InterludeSix Months Before

Part X - A Tale of Three Chapters: Son of Baal
Part XI - A Tale of Three Chapters: Son of Nocturne
Part XII - A Tale of Three Chapters: Son of Inwit
Part XIV - Redemption


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The Death of the Emperor
Movement Two – Threnody

Part I - Cadia

Interlude - The 642nd

Part II - ...For Your Sins
Part III - Et Factum est Bellum in Caelo
Part IV - Rage, All I Know is Rage...
Part V - Terminus Decree








This message was edited 35 times. Last update was at 2016/09/19 20:33:32


   
Made in gb
Deranged Necron Destroyer








The blessed few gathered closely to witness the death of their God, trading hushed and frantic whispers like merchants bartering their wares. Some spoke in tones of reverence, speaking of a divine order and the inevitability of the coming death, welcoming the events to come with zealous aplomb. Others jabbered in panic, hurling blame at anyone within earshot to cover their own sense of impending failure, fists clenched and aching with rage. Still some worked furiously to stem the tide of time: burning incense, raising hands, punching keys and staring through tear-stained eyes at cold glowing screens, battling the coming dark with every fibre of their being. Only one amongst them said nothing, standing impassively and stone-like before the corpse of his master, eyes fixed on the desiccated face of the one he had pledged to centuries ago.

The silent one stepped forward from the throng and approached the cadaverous throne, gazing into the hollowed eye sockets of the Lord of All. Had the eyes become darker? The lines on the brow deeper and more defined? Had the posture of his shrivelled master shifted these last few days? The silent one was sure of these things and drew his own grim conclusions. His order had always feared that this day would come, the day that the blessed wound on the side of the Corpse-God would reopen and spill sacred vitae upon its shining throne. The wound was a deep black crack just above the waist, pearls of shining ruby dripping out a steadily increasing rate pooling on the golden throne upon which the God sat.

The silent one raised his strong, scarred hands to his face and gripped the sides of the black sorrow mask he had worn these past four thousand years. He lifted it slowly, the leather gripping slightly to his face and neck. A hush gradually descended on the gathering, as the silent one dropped the blackened leather to the marble floor. He unbound the black rags wrapped around his upper arms, and pulled loose the torc of black mourning beads hanging from his neck. The beads fell rain-like to the marbled floor, tiny glass splashes echoing across the chamber. Now free of his funerary bonds, the giant, quiet figure fell hard to his knees and bowed low before the throne, tears stinging his opal-blue eyes. He sucked in a jagged breath and whispered:

I am sorry...I am sorry we have failed you

With a speed beyond any of the others gathered in the chamber, the silent one drew a long ceremonial dagger from a scabbard at his side, the blade patterned with swirling eagles and lightning bolts and more akin to short sword of the mortal world. The stunned crowd stumbled forward, crying out at the act but it was too late: the giant ran the blade through his own neck, severing his spine and snuffing his light out forever. His body slid forward and with a hard slap of flesh on stone, the silent one’s vigil ended.

A painful, charged silence descended on the remaining chosen. None of them had ever seen a Custodian die, many had assumed that such a thing was impossible. They were the sons of a God, wrought in flesh and gold, and as ageless and unending as the Great Mountain of Mars itself. One of their number, a Magos Biologis in robes of deepest crimson patterned with eldritch symbols of biology and chemical alchemy, stepped forward and placed his gnarled hands on the still-warm body. The act made the event real, confirming what his singular eye and multitude of dull optics could not, or would not, accept. This was the last sign, the final variable in the black equation. The Magos knew that this Custodian’s death at his own hands would not be last, it would repeated seven upon seven times and then the God would breath his last and leave this plane. His brothers and sisters began their tumultuous rabble again, wailing and keening like fleshling children, but the Magos knew all hope was gone.

Rising on ancient servos and bones that by all rights should have worn to powder long ago, the Magos stared at the face of the dying God-Emperor on his Golden Throne, and he despaired.

This message was edited 4 times. Last update was at 2015/02/04 19:15:18


   
Made in gb
Mighty Brass Scorpion of Khorne






Dorset, UK

Subscribed.....awesome to have you back DLS

   
Made in gb
Deranged Necron Destroyer







Seven upon seven: this was the number of deaths the Black Equation demanded, and this is what the Black Equation reaped.

Across the near-endless span of the Imperial Palace, Custodes ended their lives in a grim silent fashion. Most followed the trend set by the first, and drew their own blood with their own blades, falling were they had guarded for thousands of years, staining the holy ground of the Palace red with death. No explanation was forthcoming, and despite the impassioned pleas of those around them, the Custodes ran themselves through with painful precision. Some in their despair found more immediate, and more imaginative, ways to end their shame.

Within the deep generator vaults of the Western Palace, Custodian Vasily Graugh hurled his body into one of massive open-framed power conduits, his body blistering then burning into ash within seconds. The generator coughed and sputtered, showering the technicians and adepts gathered around it in super-heated gore, hysteria erupting as they clawed at their own melting flesh and robes.

Upon the Minaret of The Emperor’s site, Custodian Almeda of the Twenty Apostles cast down his ceremonial arms and plunged to his death miles below, his broken body leaving a small crater and stark bloody smear upon the domed base.

Gate-Commander Armia entered the Training Cages of the Custodian Barracks, leaving his weapons and armour on the training mats. Activating the bladed combat servitors, menacing arachnid constructs of sharpened edges and cruel intent, he removed the safety protocols and allowed the grim armatures to flay him alive like a slab of meat on a butcher’s bench.

Stranger still was Ulysses, the most ancient of his order, who simply lay on the floor of the Imperial Assembly, closed his amber eyes and stopped breathing, his sadness stilling his heart forever.

Smoke rose from several wings of the palace as Custodians turned guns and flame and in one explosive case grenades upon themselves. Panic swept through the menials and functionaries of the Imperial Machine, neither understanding nor comprehending the grim seppeku playing out before them, nor the purpose it was playing. These ancient guardians, the closest the God-Emperor had to sons since the death and dishonour of The Primarchs, surrendered their lives and their spirits to a force building within the Corpse of their divine Father. Those with the wit or ability to hear it noticed a steadily rising drone on the air, a morose bass note that permeated the foundations of the palace and increased with every death.

As the last Custodian laid down his life in silence, the dirge reached a peak, spiking into the minds of those sensitive enough to perceive it. And deep within the Imperial Dungeon, at the heart of not just the palace but the Imperium itself, a wizened corpse twitched and flexed as power beyond the ken of mortals rose within it.

This message was edited 3 times. Last update was at 2015/02/04 19:07:27


   
Made in ca
Perturbed Blood Angel Tactical Marine





Ontario

He's baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack! DLS! DLS! DLS! Will the old 642 be making a (re)appearance in this one? Don't mind what happened to me last time, don't mind something happening again!

The 642's Heavy Weapons Man.


MOAR SEANRON FLUFF NAO PLX.

http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/278316.page Forge World Imperial Space Marine WIP Plog

MasterDRD wrote:Oh god, waiting for moar Seanron fluff is like having your testicles pulled out of your sack, slowly... >.<

 
   
Made in us
Daemonic Dreadnought






AL

 Nuruhuine wrote:
He's baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack! DLS! DLS! DLS! Will the old 642 be making a (re)appearance in this one? Don't mind what happened to me last time, don't mind something happening again!


Oooooh! I'd like to see the 642 show up again in all their ass kicking glory.

Gods? There are no gods. Merely existences, obstacles to overcome.

"And what if I told you the Wolves tried to bring a Legion to heel once before? What if that Legion sent Russ and his dogs running, too ashamed to write down their defeat in Imperial archives?" - ADB 
   
Made in us
Stalwart Space Marine





An excellent read.

Great imagery and eloquently worded; complex enough to convey depth, but still reads like a graphic novel.

Very eager for future installments, I was a touch disappointed there were only two here! If that's my only critique of wanting more, I think you're in a fine place.

FM Argos

Thunder Hammers and Melta weaponry solve everything... 
   
Made in gb
Deranged Necron Destroyer







With a wet pop of soft bone in mould-ridden socket, the head of the Corpse-God twitched. Its palsied arms shuddered and strained, the sunken chest hiking as a sorrowful din escaped the dry, hollow throat. Dust that had remained untouched for centuries shifted and fell as the cadaverous Emperor stirred.

The arguments of the gathered adepts and lords faded to a charged silence as the Corpse-God writhed on his golden throne, the bulbous, worn head rising on a brittle neck to gaze upon its subjects with hollow eyes. Some fell to the floor in supplication, throwing their hands in the air at what they saw as the revival of their master. Others clasped their hands in wringing appeal, begging the animated cadaver for forgiveness, revealing sins that until this point they had expertly hidden. Still others cried daemon in terror and confusion, casting charms and totems before the throne, screaming for the banishment of whatever heinous intellect had infected the body of their Emperor.

Only the Magos saw what was truly happening.

While his old, rheumy eye perceived the horrific animation of the Corpse-God as the others did, his insect optics beheld the truth in the terror. Through anti-matter readings, multi-spectral analysers and Gellar-cartography the Magos saw the build-up of warp energy surrounding the corpse-god, the tell-tale signs of a Mass-Empyreal Implosion, a monstrous release of energy on both this plane and the next. The Corpse was not alive, it was now closer to death than ever before. The Magos turned from the throng, roughly grabbing the arm of his young apprentice who at that moment had been supplicating upon the marble floor. He pulled her to her feet and started marching with haste to the grand chamber doors, dragging her behind like wrathful parent.

Tripping on her flowing scarlet robes, the apprentice knew not why her Master was leaving the chamber, why he was turning his back on the revival of their God. She pulled against his iron grip, demanding an explanation.

“My Lord, where are we going? Stop, please! We need to be here! We need to…”

The Magos turned on her with a rare fury she had never seen before, his singular cataract ridden eye focusing on her confused face.

REBUKE: Stupid Girl, I have taught you better than this! – EXPLANATION: Use your brain, this is no rapture or revival. We need to leave this chamber now!”

The Magos pulled her arm one last time and she capitulated, speeding her pace to keep up with her hooded Master. The shouting of the throng behind them could no longer be heard over the drone emanating from the mouth of the Emperor and she cast a quick and wary look behind her. Over the heads of the bickering mass, a grim marionette display was unfolding with necrotic slowness.

The corpse was physically vibrating now, and began to rise to its worn feet. Cables and catheters that had been forced into the flesh millennia before snapped and popped, spraying ancient effluent and machine oils over the gathered functionaries. They screamed as the liquids burned their eyes and seared their skin. The revenant-king continued to slowly move off the throne, its spinal and cranial implants tearing and falling to the floor, staining the ground with ancient, foul viscera. Meat tore and ancient organs spilled onto the golden housing of the Emperors former cradle, and the with the sound of an ancient tomb opening, the Emperor stood tall from his Throne. It raised its crooked arms in the air, dust and detritus falling like robes of dirt as they rose, and with an audible tear it opened its mouth as wide as a pythons.

The drone stopped.

Time stood still.

And then the God-Emperor of mankind exploded with the fury of a miniature sun.

The gathered dignitaries were the first to die, their souls and minds ripped from their bodies as a light brighter than any beheld before thundered through them, leaving nothing but burnt husks in its wake. The Magos saw all this, his optics failing and his eye searing open against the divine light. He seized the hand of his Apprentice and threw her to the floor, opening his robes and shielding her bodily with his mass. As the light hit their prone forms, emergency protocols in his mechanised body activated, coating him and his prone student in a thick energy-retardant foam. Designed to combat extreme temperatures and fusion meltdowns, the protocols had saved many an adept from fiery death.

It was nowhere near not enough.

The furious tide of energy tore through his body, blistering the foam shield and savaging the Magos’ exposed back. Binary terror escaped his mouth and his apprentice covered her eyes and screamed as the immense pressure thundered around them.

The palace shook and trembled, elegant towers that had withstood the many wars of Terra cracking and collapsing like blackened tinder. Men and women screamed and panicked, ignorant to the grand celestial event erupting from their home. Survival became tantamount in the chaos, and riots or panic erupted within and around the Holy Palace. The palace cracked, and warped, star-scrapers and Hives breaking and shifting like the continents of old.

Astropaths and Navigators screamed as energy beyond even their heightened perception grew in a sphere from the Imperial Dungeon. Some died with blood pouring from their eyes and ears, others went insane with the energies thundering through their minds. The sacrificial offerings of the Astronomicon chamber to a man and woman died in agony, their bodies’ combusting and their essence imploding into the Holy Light they helped maintain. The Astronomicon itself flared with an intensity not known since the days of the Great Crusade, ships and warp-borne entities for light-years around blinded by the sudden glut of psychic souls. The warp itself roiled and fought against the expanding light, its myriad predators squealing in terror as the golden light tore not only at the real world, but the non-realm of their home as well. The sphere grew rapidly, consuming the Warp around it in a frenzied, burning haste.

And just as quick as it began, it ended.

Istavael released the shuddering breath she had been holding and tentatively opened her eyes. She could smell burnt flesh and iron, and all around her fires burned like funeral pyres. Her body ached, her skin was raw and a faint ringing sounded at the back of her hearing. She felt a weight on her chest and pushed at it carefully, and as it fell to the side, the weight gave a wracking mechanical cough. She realised it was her master. She was on her knees at his side as quickly as her aching body would allow, placing her hands at the sides of his burnt face, tears stinging her eyes.

“My lord…My Lord are you still here. Don’t leave me please. I don’t know what to do”

The Magos’ cracked optics glowed faintly, and a rasping cough escaped his throat. Blood and burnt matter coated him entirely and the smell of rancid cooked meat permeated the air around him. Raising a shaking arm he placed a scarred and broken hand on his Apprentices pale cheek, and he spoke in a hoarse, mechanical whisper.

REQUEST: Remember this. Remember what has occurred here…you need to take this news to Mars. You need to warn the…Fabricator-General. There will be War, unceasing War. And Mars must be ready.”

Istavael wept and nodded at the dying Magos,

“I will, I promise”

Laying his head back on the marble floor, the Magos let a cracked sigh escape his ancient lungs and closed his optics for the last time. His body was beyond repair.

“Thank you…thank you and be safe…my daughter”

And the Magos breathed his last.

As the young adept wept and cradled the dead body of her Father, the chamber around her burned, silent corpses and flames standing testament to the divine violence that had raged moments ago. Voices echoed from the chamber entrance, harsh torch line scanning the wreckage of what been the Imperial Throne room. Armoured boots thundered into the room as Astartes of the Imperial Fists thundered into the room, beams of light from the torch packs casting aside the gloom and smoke, scanning the room for the source of the recent commotion. All lights lay on the Golden plinth at the centre of the room: where once the Emperor had rested, lay now an ash covered crater of gold and rubble.

The Emperor and his Golden Throne were gone, and Mankind would never be the same again.

This message was edited 2 times. Last update was at 2015/02/04 19:07:12


   
Made in gb
Is 'Eavy Metal Calling?





UK

Brilliant. So far removed from what I was expecting, and I'm just amazed at how well you've handled the single most important event since Horus fell on Davin. Just mind blowing!

 
   
Made in us
Stalwart Space Marine





Yay more!

Eagerly awaiting future installments.

FM Argos

Thunder Hammers and Melta weaponry solve everything... 
   
Made in us
Rough Rider with Boomstick






Excellent work

You say Fiery Crash! I say Dynamic Entry!

*Increases Game Point Limit by 100*: Tau get two Crisis Suits and a Firewarrior. Imperial Guard get two infantry companies, artillery support, and APCs. 
   
Made in us
Quick-fingered Warlord Moderatus






Ho. Lee. .
Also, SEANRON IS BACK!!

Lord Judicator Valdrakh of the Atun Dynasty (6th Ed: W:3, L:4, D:0)

 H.B.M.C. wrote:
Well GW were mostly responsible for the Berlin Wall, so it's natural for some people to harbour resentment towards them.
 
   
Made in gb
Insect-Infested Nurgle Chaos Lord







Why would the Custodes kill themselves?

They'd know that the Golden Throne stops Daemons from pouring out onto the surface of Terra. They'd defend the breach with their lives.

   
Made in fr
Nurgle Predator Driver with an Infestation





Calixis sector / Screaming Vortex

 Medium of Death wrote:
Why would the Custodes kill themselves?

They'd know that the Golden Throne stops Daemons from pouring out onto the surface of Terra. They'd defend the breach with their lives.


Shush...
Don't let logic get in the way of pure awesome!

although I'll admit that I didn't know that a Magos could have children (even Magos Biologis).
Maybe he meant daughter in a general sense? since he's a priest of the machine-god.

CSM
Militarum Tempestus
Dark Angels (Deathwing)
Inquisition 
   
Made in gb
Ultramarine Librarian with Freaky Familiar





yeah I just assumed it was a term of affection, as though he regarded his apprentice as his child.

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2014/12/08 20:38:00


 
   
Made in us
Daemonic Dreadnought






AL

 Medium of Death wrote:
Why would the Custodes kill themselves?

They'd know that the Golden Throne stops Daemons from pouring out onto the surface of Terra. They'd defend the breach with their lives.


"Ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to do or die."

Gods? There are no gods. Merely existences, obstacles to overcome.

"And what if I told you the Wolves tried to bring a Legion to heel once before? What if that Legion sent Russ and his dogs running, too ashamed to write down their defeat in Imperial archives?" - ADB 
   
Made in au
Hungry Little Ripper





This is really cool!! Looking forward to the next post~!
   
Made in gb
Deranged Necron Destroyer









Kara’shahr, Lustridden, The Stain on Honour, the Shame of Pythia felt the last strangled gasp of breath from the flayed wretch beneath it and purred in deep, dark satisfaction. It leant its lithe frame forward, an obscene tongue sliding from a fanged maw of too many angles and licked the skinless face of its latest expired plaything, tasting the viscera and fear that had built up there over its days of exquisite torture. The last frightened breath of the dead man was mixed with a heady feeling of satisfaction and overwhelming want, as the ruined body had emptied its seed in a bloody and unlovely fashion into the writhing creature mounted upon it. Kara’shahr straightened, the spines upon its back and shoulders stiffening, raising its four taloned arms above its head as if stretching to loosen muscle and bone. Its skin was a pale peach in colour, its long limbs and supple breasts coated in a thin sheen of acidic sweat. The physicality of its latest act was hugely gratifying for the Lustridden, and it revelled in the warmth spreading through its body. It kissed and stroked the cooling body beneath it as a lover cares for a wounded partner.

Kara’shahr however was no physical creature but a warpthing, a stain on the fabric of reality, and its movements was more of an elaborate show for the bound and frightened mortal creatures bound around the daemons personal hovel. It cast its multitude of eyes upon its waiting morsels and grinned with an expression that promised much pain.

In the Realm of the Gods, the hovel of the Lustridden lay on an expanse of guilt and torment, bordering a deep and pyrotechnic sea of desires best left unfulfilled. It was a small, rotten satellite realm crawling over the skin of the warp like a bloated, monstrous tick. The Warp was the domain of the four great powers, but even here heinous afterthoughts such as Kara’shahr could carve their own twisted province, a mocking and craven imitation of the glory of the Warp’s divine masters.

Rising from its place upon the steaming corpse, its legs and inner thighs stained with gore and bodily fluids, Kara’shahr approached the bound slaves in the manner of a gluttonous hunter. Licking its lipless mouth with a tongue too long and black to belong to any natural creature, the daemon ran its claws through the hair of a young Eldar maiden, her hair like spun silver, terror fogging her eyes and skewing her mouth. She whimpered as the creature pushed its face into the nape of her neck and drew a deep heady breath through its slit-like nostrils. She smelled of innocence and fear, abstinence and desire. It would enjoy coupling with this one, even more the prospect of flaying and breaking her during the act. Claws ran up the pale arms of the elfin maid to her bindings, the act slow and deliberate, better to drink in the emotion of the moment.
Then, just at the edge of hearing, there was a dull pounding, like an avalanche heard through thick walls. The daemon rose abruptly, its spines rising in threat, the Eldar girl suddenly forgotten. It turned from its morsels and stalked towards the boundaries of its hovel. It narrowed it multitude of eyes, the walls around it shifting and melting to allow their master to better perceive the source of the sound.
What it saw gave it pause for the first and last time in its rotten existence.

Across the Warp a wall of light and fire was spreading, tearing the chaotic life that called the infernal realm home apart in a wave of holy violence. An orb of brilliance was forming within the bitter realm and nothing could slow or stop its monstrous growth. Sholes of ether things were dragged into its colossal gravity, their screams and essence burning into nothingness as they were consumed. Larger, lumbering concepts battered at each other in their haste to escape, tearing the limbs from each other in a gruesome panic. But their fate would be the same as their smaller kin: the monstrous forms flayed piece by piece in an eruption of sheer radiance. Wherever the light touched, the Realm of the Gods was scoured and faded into an inky blackness, a painful order descending on wings of gilded gold.

Kara’shahr drank all this in before the light scoured its eyes and blinded the daemon for the remainder of its existence. It roared as the brightness consumed it and its domain, the creature being rendered into nothingness by the fury of a dying god. The grateful slave’s bodies were atomised, their souls being pulled from them in a torrent of energy, their pain finally over after years of horror and degradation. The great orb of light thundered ever outward into the warp, expanding and consuming everything around it.

And when it finally subsided, a black orb of calm lay within the realm of the Gods.

Spanning as wide as the Imperium’s Segmentum Solar, a dense sphere of reality had pushed its way into the Warp, corrupting the endless and boundless chaos within with order and physicality. Its central point had been the real space location of the human world Terra, and now an Eye of Tranquility squatted in the Godsrealm. No daemon could approach the hated cancerous ball of reality, no entity could bear to be near it: for the Warp around the central spar of Mankind’s realm was not becalmed, it was no longer there at all. Only the deathy or birth of a God could wound unreality so, and the Four Powers percieved.

The Warp had been torn and such an act could not go unpunished.

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2015/02/04 19:06:24


   
Made in ca
Stormin' Stompa






Ottawa, ON

I really like the eye of tranquility idea. An opposite to the eye of terror.

Cool stuff here.

Ask yourself: have you rated a gallery image today? 
   
Made in gb
Jealous that Horus is Warmaster




Behind you

Oh my god-emperor its so COOL!
   
Made in us
Devastating Dark Reaper




Hampshire, England

This is awesome. I've spent the last few days reading through the previous work (see link in OP) and just when I was feeling sad that it had ended, you've started writing again


Over 4000 points of Eldar goodness  
   
Made in gb
Thunderhawk Pilot Dropping From Orbit





Scotland

Keep up the superb work. I'm hooked...

   
Made in ca
Enigmatic Chaos Sorcerer





British Columbia

 Eggs wrote:
Keep up the superb work. I'm hooked...

Agreed. I keep coming back everyday hoping for the next installment.

 BlaxicanX wrote:
A young business man named Tom Kirby, who was a pupil of mine until he turned greedy, helped the capitalists hunt down and destroy the wargamers. He betrayed and murdered Games Workshop.


 
   
Made in gb
Deranged Necron Destroyer






Thanks guys glad you're enjoying the rewrite. It's good to know there's still a wee home at DakkaDakka for my ramblings

   
Made in ca
Longtime Dakkanaut






Toronto

This is history, right here, right now!

Adepta Sororitas: 3,800 Points
Adeptus Custodes: 8,100 Points
Adeptus Mechanicus: 8,400 Points
Alpha Legion: 4,400 Points
Astra Militarum: 7,500 Points
Dark Angels: 16,800 Points
Imperial Knights: 12,500 Points
Legio Titanicus: 5,500 Points
Slaaneshi Daemons: 3,800 Points
 
   
Made in us
Perturbed Blood Angel Tactical Marine






I was so hoping you'd come back and revisit this.
   
Made in ca
Enigmatic Chaos Sorcerer





British Columbia

Isn't Black Library recruiting right now? Just saying...

 BlaxicanX wrote:
A young business man named Tom Kirby, who was a pupil of mine until he turned greedy, helped the capitalists hunt down and destroy the wargamers. He betrayed and murdered Games Workshop.


 
   
Made in gb
Jealous that Horus is Warmaster




Behind you

Please get a job in gw I want fluff in my books cool stories not like two lines!
   
Made in nz
Spawn of Chaos





Lost in the Chaos Wastes

Suicidal Custodes, the Emperor spontaneously combusts, the Eye of Tranquility is born... sounds like the perfect recipe for awesome

FTW 
   
Made in gb
Deranged Necron Destroyer







Despite the Ordos of the Inquisitions greatest efforts, there can be no denying that human kind is a psychically attuned species. When the ancestors of man were first coaxed from the oceans by now forgotten ancient creators, the new born species was set on a path that would lead to psychic awakening. Although the vast and innumerable hordes of mankind could never be described as psychically aware, a murmur of mental potential boils under the unknowing minds of the masses, sharing our hopes, dreams and fears.

Much like the brutally direct greenskins or the near-extinct Eldar, mankind has a communal tapestry of psychic awareness burning just beyond its own awareness. Although nowhere near a hive or group mind, the shared psychic consciousness of man has grown and increased in potential as humanity has crept its way across the inky night, and binds together the emotions and racial consciousness of the species, giving him strength and hope from the ether.

Millennia ago, this potential found a linchpin when a golden-eyed child was born in the ancient and green lands of Anatolia, and as this child grew from a boy to man, a man to an Emperor, an Emperor to a God the full impact of mankind’s potential was kept corralled and controlled. What right a single individual has to judge the psychic evolution of a species is of course a deeply tenuous and riven topic, but that debate is for another time and another place. Right now, as the God draws his final breath on the mortal plane, his death rings out and touches the species that he has tried so hard to save from itself.

For most, the death registers as merely a feeling of loss, a sudden onset of sadness that can neither be explained nor fought. For others, a feeling of acute rage settles and across human space murder and violence erupt from a seemingly unexplainable source. Dark impulses run wild as humans around the galaxy feel a lifting of the Emperor’s hand, and the whispers of the Dark Gods turn to seismic bellows. Many do not know why they feel as they do, they simply know that to feel any other way would be entirely against their basic humanity.

For those attuned to their talents, the death comes as a staggering and horrendous blow. Psykers stagger, blood flowing from their eyes and ears. Some convulse as energies held back for millennia are suddenly turned loose, others destroy and feast on their fellows in an orgy of power. A small number gird themselves against the torrent, and although weakened and physically damaged come through with an acute understanding of what mankind has lost.

On worlds uncounted, the factories and forges stop momentarily, the gears and smog of the Imperium stopping for the first time in millennia. Wars across the cosmos fought in the Imperium’s name cease and stutter as mankind’s armies’ reel from a blow they could not defend from. Ships deep within the warp are either lost to cosmic violence or vomited unceremoniously back into reality, with all ships in the area of Segmentum Solar suddenly finding themselves inexplicably back in real space. All is confusion and torment as the death of The Emperor takes a piece of mankind’s soul with him.

However, the worst is reserved for those of the Emperor’s bloodline: those blessed few who can draw their heritage directly from the chalice of the former Master of Mankind. His militant sons and grandsons feel the blow keenly, and many thousands are struck down with visions of death and light. They feel the loss and both lament and celebrate as is their want. Some are given hope, some are driven mad and some look to their birth world for the first time in living memory.

But an even rarer breed feels the loss the most keenly. To the common knowledge of the Imperium, the Emperor had no natural-born children. The Primarchs in their glory and damnation, although sons in mind and aspect, were not what could be considered as true children of the Emperor. However the Emperor had walked among his race for aeons, and in that time when the stars were aligned and the need arose, the God of Mankind would lie with his people and fruit would be borne. This fruit would be the true heirs of the divine, and each of them, anonymous and unknown fell to their knees in grief, knowing the loss more acutely than any other.

Allisa Traynor fell to her knees in the grip of panic and despair. She emptied the contents of her stomach onto the paving beneath her, steam rising from the bile into the cold air. People moved away from her, some gasped or pointed or laughed at the red headed woman who suddenly came crashing to a halt in the middle of a busy concourse. Others seemed to be in a similar state of disarray. Allisa gripped her stomach as more liquid forced its way out her throat. Tears stung her eyes and her breath came in short, foul-tasting gasps. She staggered to her feet, dizzy and disorientated as several hands reached for her. She swatted them away, crying and screaming, not realising that the hands meant her no harm. A sudden burst of noise behind her forced her around, and she only had time to cry out a name before the freighter smashed into her and everything went black.

The name she had called was Father.

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2015/02/04 19:06:45


   
 
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