Realm Of Chaos

A map Poster of the Realm of Chaos; note the positions and distances among the locations on this map are handiest allegPoster orical; distance and time haven’t any meanings within the Immaterium.

Poster Poster The Realm of Chaos is the call given to that portion of the Immaterium where the Chaos Gods and their daemonic fans make their houses, if this type of idea even has that means within the formless extradimensional area that is the Empyrean.

Beyond the bounds of physical area, unrestricted via time or causality, there is a size incomprehensible to mortal minds. It lies on the alternative side of dreams and nightmares, limitless in scope however without form or shape.

This realm is composed of the psychic strength of love and hate, worry and wish, ambition and melancholy, and yet it is uncaring, impassive void.

The Realm of Chaos exists a ways outside creativeness; an not possible abstraction made real simplest by means of metaphor and the roiling feelings of mortal minds.

It is constantly reborn but has never modified, forever transferring though endless in ability. No mundane sense can see, scent or hear it, and even the maximum effective psykers cannot glean the Warp’s actual nature, lest they be driven insane.

It is an area where gods thrive in regular conflict, fighting over the raw stuff of Creation that birthed them. In this unknowable realm, tremendous hosts conflict, locked collectively in a warfare this is as old because the universe and might by no means be simply received.

Vast armies rage and scream, every warrior formed simplest of the psychic energy of emotion, and each driven onwards with the aid of the whims in their darkish creators.

Sometimes, this dread realm shatters its barriers and spills into the territory of mortals in so-referred to as “realspace.” Nightmares and terror are unleashed upon the worlds of Humanity and extraterrestrial beings alike, as armies of slavering fiends and cavorting warriors pour forth alongside regiments of blood-pink infantrymen and batteries of brazen Warp-forged war machines.

While the skies burn with magical hearth and rivers of blood drown ravaged cities, the hosts of the Dark Gods slaughter and maim all of their path, feeding upon the souls of their sufferers. The Realm of Chaos has been made happen, and there may be no break out…

Dark Gods

In the Warp, the psychic reflection of comparable thoughts and emotions acquire collectively like rivulets of water going for walks down a cliff face. They shape streams and eddies of suffering and preference, pools of hatred and torrents of delight.

Since the sunrise of time, those tides and waves of psychic energy have flowed unceasingly through the mirror realm of the Warp, and such is their energy that they pressured creatures fabricated from the very stuff of desires and nightmares.

Eventually, these instinctual, formless entities received a rudimentary cognizance of their very own. The Chaos Gods have been born — huge psychic presences composed of the fantasies and horrors of mortals. These are the Ruinous Powers, and every one is a mirrored image of the mortal passions that shaped them.

First among them is Khorne, the Lord of Battle, possessed of towering and immortal fury.

Tzeentch, the weird and ever-changing Architect of Fate, weaves effective sorceries to bind the future to his will, even as remarkable Nurgle, the Lord of Decay, labours for ever and ever to spread infection and pestilence.

The ultimate of their variety is Slaanesh, the Dark Prince of Chaos, indulgent of each satisfaction and excess, regardless of how immoral or perverse.

As the intelligent species of the Milky Way Galaxy prospered and grew, so too did their hopes and dreams, their rage and wars, their love and hatred.

This burgeoning flood of raw emotion fed the Chaos Gods and nurtured their electricity. Eventually, the gods reached returned, into and thru the dreams of mortals, perpetually working to influence the bodily realm and its myriad sentient races.

A Chaos God can only develop in power through the moves and thoughts of mortals. Those who worship a Chaos God, and behave in a manner that feeds it, are rewarded with atypical “items,” extraordinary powers and probably, immortality as a Daemon Prince.

As the Chaos Gods war in the Warp, so their mortal fans salary war inside the material universe. The victors of the battles earn extra energy for his or her unworldy master, though the twisted plans of the Chaos Gods are such that frequently victory isn’t necessary; merely the acts of sacrifice and struggle themselves.

When devotees of Chaos die, their souls do not fade in the Warp and disappear like the spirits of others to some unknown and unknowable destiny. Instead, their immortal strength is swallowed into the greatness in their gods, their souls sustained forever, certain to the eternal electricity of Chaos.

Realm of the Gods

The forces of the Astra Militarum searching for to Poster repel a daemonic incursion from the Realm of Chaos.

Through the desires and nightmares of mortals, the converting tides of the Warp are moulded into a fantastical panorama and populated with mythical beings. Timeless and ever-moving, this psychic expanse is called the “Realm of Chaos,” “the Warp,” “the Immaterium” or “Warpspace,” depending upon which facet of its life one is looking for to recognize.

It is a dimension parallel to our own, a universe devoid of consistency and unbound with the aid of the bodily laws which govern space and time. It is a random, unstructured panorama of pure psychic energy and unfocused focus. It is Chaos in its truest feel, unfettered via the boundaries of physics and undirected through clever reason and could. The Warp is Chaos, Chaos is the Warp; the 2 are indivisible.

The Chaos Gods and their dominions are one, for each are fashioned of the same basic psychic Warp strength. As a Chaos God gathers energy, it expands in electricity, its corresponding have an effect on upon the Warp around it broadens and its territory inside the Realm of Chaos grows large. No two visions of these divine realms are ever the identical, but all are based upon the equal essential topics and emotions.

As extensions of the Dark Gods, the appearances in their domains are shaped upon the equal emotions that created their masters: Khorne’s realm is founded on anger and bloodletting; Tzeentch’s lands are scintillating constructs of pure and ever-moving magic; Nurgle’s territory is a haven of loss of life and regeneration, and Slaanesh’s dominion is a paradise of damning temptations and hedonistic pleasures.

Though realm and god are as one, the Chaos Gods each have a form that embodies their personalities and dwells at the heart in their territories. Surrounded by way of their attendant Daemons, the Chaos Gods watch over their realms, in search of any disturbances in the pattern of the Warp that signal intrusion or possibility.

Formless Wastes

A Chaos Fury looking for prey within the Formless Wastes.

The Warp has no bodily dimensions and the Realm of Chaos is without limits or real geography. The regions of have an effect on managed via the Chaos Gods shape their nation-states and the relaxation of this roiling panorama is often mentioned truly as the “Formless Wastes,” the “Land of Lost Souls” or the “Chaos Abyss.”

Much of the Formless Wastes is random, continuously churning and reforming: rivers of tar glide thru petrified woodlands underneath red skies; super stairways lead into the heavens and be part of themselves from under in an ever-lasting loop, castles product of bones and fortresses of ichor stand amidst copses of limbs, and the departed spirits of substantial god-machines stoop in graveyard thousands. Every dream and nightmare, each lunatic imaginative and prescient and deranged fancy, unearths its domestic in the Formless Wastes.

The Formless Wastes are home to the Furies — Daemons created by using indecision and random chance. They are heralded with the aid of disembodied voices, lacking some thing however the maximum rudimentary focus and instinct.

Greater Daemons and Daemon Princes grown effective enough to instill a small degree of manage over their environment additionally create their abodes within the Formless Wastes — each of these small islands of shape is a petty domain in comparison to the significant nation-states of the Chaos Gods within the Realm of Chaos, but every embodies the whimsy of its creator, a small shrine or temple to a niche of belief.

Chaos Daemons

The Daemons of Chaos in all their hideous paperwork.

The Chaos Gods aren’t alone in Warpspace. They have created servants from their own essences — the creatures that mortals have named Daemons primarily based on their historical legends and religious mythologies — who aren’t so intently certain to the Warp. Daemons are entities of a rather extraordinary nature to their masters, and are the maximum severa of the creatures to be found within the Empyrean.

A Daemon is “born” whilst a Chaos God expends a part of its own energy to create a separate being. This psychic energy binds a collection of senses, mind and purposes collectively, developing a personality and focus which can flow within the Warp. The Chaos God can reclaim the independence it has given to its Daemon kids at any time, for this reason making sure their loyalty. It is best even though the lack of this power that a Daemon can really be destroyed, its thoughts dissolving into the whirls and currents of Warpspace.

Daemons haven’t any physical presence inside the Warp. The Realm of Chaos is anathema to the legal guidelines of physics and the starships that navigate its depths accomplish that by taking a pores and skin or bubble of “fact” with them inside the shape of their Gellar Fields after they input the usage of their Warp-Drive.

Instead of possessing a real physical shape, Daemons project a form conjured from raw psychic energy that is largely a lesser interpretation in their master’s fundamental nature. Hence, the bizarre and inhuman appearances projected with the aid of Daemons suggest their presence, popularity and allegiance to a Chaos God.

Though it is able to look like made of regular count number while it materialises in realspace, a Daemon’s form isn’t any extra bodily than it’s far in the Realm of Chaos. In truth, they’re beings of pure Warp electricity given form and depth.

When manifested inside the fabric universe, Daemons have precise invulnerabilities and weaknesses, in addition to many strange powers derived from their Warp-born nature as psychic beings. Slaying a Daemon’s bodily projection does now not kill it, but best severs its presence in truth; its actual essence inside the Warp remains unhurt.

When a Daemon is “killed” within the cloth universe, it’s far banished lower back to the Warp. If now not truly re-absorbed via its author, it ought to continue to be there to regain its energy that it ultimately might show up itself again.

Legend has it that a Daemon banished in this manner can’t go back for a thousand Terran years and a sun day, even though it’s miles of route impossible to show this sort of notion thru look at, and the idea of time itself is incomprehensible inside the Warp.

The moderate to a “slain” Daemon’s pride is sizeable, however, and the Daemon is compelled to bear the mockery of its fellows until it could go back to corporeal shape and avenge itself. The most powerful Daemons will name upon any servants and tributary Lesser Daemons to assist them achieve their revenge.

If it has many allies, it is able to also request their useful resource, though all Daemons are careful in doing so. Such favours ought to unavoidably be lower back, and no Daemon welcomes the dominion of any other creature, be it mortal or daemonic.

The Great Game

The forces of Khorne face the hosts of Slaanesh in one of the infinite battles of the Great Game

The Realm of Chaos isn’t always simply the home of the Dark Gods; it is also their battlefield, the arena for the Great Game of supremacy over Creation. The Chaos Gods are continuously at warfare with each other, vying for strength amid the immaterial planes.

Despite their myriad variations, the tremendous Gods of Chaos have the identical aim: overall domination of the universe. Such absolute strength cannot be shared — specially amongst the divine.

With the ebb and glide of psychic electricity within the Warp, the strength of a Chaos God expands and contracts, and his realm will shift accordingly. For long periods, one god might also dominate the others, fed by way of its own success, leeching its foes’ power for its very own growth.

Ultimately, the other gods will best Poster friend towards the dominant pressure and via mixed efforts reduce him in energy, until some other of their range rises to prominence. This pattern is performed out again and again through eternity. No Chaos God can ever virtually be successful, for with out the Great Game, the Warp might come to be a still, unmoving vacancy, as it became earlier than the start of sentient life inside the universe.

When the gods conflict, the Immaterium trembles and Warp Storms rage throughout the galaxy. Within the Realm of Chaos, hordes of Daemons are despatched forth to do their masters’ biddings, and the lands of the gods stress and heave at each different in bodily attack.

Possessed of character and intelligence, the Daemons of a Chaos God aspire to draw favour from their master, and often launch their own attacks into the domain names of rival Daemons. The armies of the Chaos Gods pour from one territory to another, and every reflects their master’s nature.

Khorne’s Daemons advanced as a superb legion followed by blaring horns; under brazen banners, the whips of roaring monstrosities urge on rank upon rank of bloodthirsty footsoldiers. With uncooked anger and violence, the legions of Khorne reduce a swathe even though enemy territory, the blood spilt via their assaults polluting the area of the enemy, turning it into Khorne’s barren region.

Tzeentch is possibly the most devious of all the gods, for he’ll constantly create a weak spot to take advantage of earlier than attacking. Through plotting, innuendo and magic, Tzeentch regularly sets the other gods to conflict with every different.

He waits patiently to see how these conflicts progress and while the time is proper, his cackling minions and manipulative magisters sweep forwards upon a carpet of magic, putting at the weakest of the contenders. With magical blasts and warping power, the armies of Tzeentch fast conquer all competition and the newly claimed territory hastily will become a part of Tzeentch’s crystalline domain.

When Nurgle’s minions are let loose, they march forth to unfold ailment and rot. Sonorous chanting and the rusted clangs of one thousand bells usher in their attacks, whilst the army advances beneath an impenetrable swarm of bloated carrion flies.

Capering Daemon-mites carpet the floor earlier than the host, and the noxious poxes of the fleshy hulks that command them kill the whole thing of their route, rendering all existence all the way down to mulch from which evil fungi and toxic vegetation erupt.

Slaanesh assaults in a extra insidious manner, as might be expected of the Prince of Pleasure. The first attacks are diffused, unnoticeable to the alternative gods. Inside the fabric of every other god’s realm, the tendrils of Slaanesh’s energy inveigle their manner into root, bone and crystal, corrupting them from within.

As the land itself turns into perverted to Slaanesh’s energy, it dulls the senses of the enemy’s daemons, permitting the quick-shifting armies of Slaanesh to strike hastily and decisively.

From time to time there arises a being, region, object or event within the fabric universe that draws the attention of all of the Chaos Gods. So important is that this new element, so favored or so risky, that each one contention is quickly placed aside so as for Chaos to take benefit of this unique possibility, or thwart the danger it provides. Then the 4 work as one for some time under the banner of Chaos Undivided, and the galaxy trembles earlier than their blended may.

For Mankind, the most widespread occasion of this kind was the upward push of the Emperor of Mankind within the late thirtieth Millennium. During this era, the Chaos Gods tried with all their may to result in the Master of Mankind’s downfall, culminating of their corruption of the Space Marine primarchs and the horrible civil wars of the Horus Heresy in the early 31st Millennium.

Other events have brought about briefer cessations of the war inside the Realm of Chaos: particularly promising Black Crusades, for instance, or the extermination or beginning of a new intelligent starfaring race.

Such interest in mortal affairs is fleeting, and treaties between the Chaos Gods do now not last for lengthy. As soon as their commonplace goal is finished, the gods start to resume their Great Game.

One god or any other, or all 4, oversteps the limits of the preceding alliance agreement and tries to usurp his fellow gods. Once once more the Realm of Chaos thunders to the march of daemonic legions, and their age-antique feuds spill over into the domain names of Humanity.

Brass Citadel of Khorne

The Realm of Brass and Blood, the area of Khorne within the Realm of Chaos.

Khorne is the Blood God, Lord of Rage, Taker of Skulls. He is wrath incarnate, the embodiment of a in no way-ending lust to dominate and smash. It is his sole preference to drown the galaxy in a tide of slaughter, to conquer and kill each dwelling issue until there is nothing left however spilt blood and shattered bone.

The Blood God is usually depicted as a extensive and muscular humanoid who stands loads of Terran ft tall. He has the face of a savage, snarling dog, though his twisted capabilities are all but hidden with the aid of a baroque helm adorned with the skulls of conqueror kings.

Khorne’s exaggerated physique is further distorted by means of heavy, overlapping plates of armour fashioned from brass and blackened iron. His every phrase is a growl of infinite fury, and his roars of bloodlust echo throughout his realm.

Khorne broods from a throne of carved brass, atop a mountain of skulls. The macabre trophies are the fleshless heads of his champions, stacked alongside those of their defeated combatants.

A hundred thousand species are represented, from Human heads beyond counting to Tyranid skulls the dimensions of hive metropolis hab-blocks. The ever-growing pile of bloodstained bone displays the fabric victories of his followers, feeding Khorne’s glory but by no means quenching his thirst for blood and death.

At Khorne’s facet rests a notable two-surpassed sword, a mythical blade able to laying waste to the substance of worlds with a single blow. This fell weapon is known with the aid of various names to the different wise races of the galaxy, which include Woebringer, Warmaker, and the End of All Things. It is stated that when Khorne takes up his sword, a unmarried sweep can reduce via truth itself, permitting Khorne’s daemonic legions to spill forth into the Materium.

The code of Khorne is straightforward: blood and extra blood. His most effective temple is the battlefield, his sole sacrament the spilled blood of nations.

Consciously or no longer, all warrior cultures pay him homage with their acts of murder and destruction, from the headhunting tribes of backwater Feral Worlds to the planet-conquering warbands of the Chaos Space Marines of the World Eaters Traitor Legion.

Every single life taken in anger will increase the Blood God’s electricity. He looks properly upon those warriors who slay their buddies and allies, for they prove their know-how of a more truth — Khorne cares no longer from whence the blood flows, only that it flows.

Friends or enemies, all of the useless are identical within the eyes of the Lord of Battle. Those Khornate devotees who allow an afternoon pass with out committing an act of bloody-exceeded slaughter inevitably incur the Blood God’s displeasure.

The dominion of Khorne is a monument to fury and violence. It is constructed upon foundations of murder and warfare and is home to each side of battle. This blood-soaked realm echoes constantly with Khorne’s bellows and the conflict of weapons, the cracking of whips and the clarion calls of innumerable brass conflict horns.

At its centre, Khorne’s cavernous chamber is lit through a exquisite hearth pit, wherein dark flames devour the souls of cowards who have been reduce down as they fled from conflict. This haze-stuffed throne room sits inside the central maintain of the Brass Citadel, the citadel of Khorne. Decorated with purple-veined marble, the metallic walls of the unholy citadel are damaged by way of jagged outcrops, encrusted with blood and armoured with serrated spurs of bloodstained brass.

Outside, hideous gargoyles leer from every parapet, equipped to spew scalding streams of steel upon the ones foolish sufficient to besiege the fort. The ambitious moat of the Brass Citadel is filled now not with water, however with the boiling blood of these who’ve lost their lives to battle throughout the galaxy.

Beyond this moat lies league upon league of cracked and barren land suffering from the splintered bones of those fallen in battle. Packs of slavering Flesh Hounds prowl those wastes for intruders, skirting along the edges of seas of blood, roving thru mazes of bone and tracking down any interlopers. This blasted desert is spilt by means of a first-rate crevasse, a canyon many Terran miles long and unfathomably deep.

The Brass Fortress, citadel of the Blood God.

It is said that during one in all Khorne’s particularly vehement rages, he took up his massive sword and smote the ground, splitting it asunder for eternity. Occasionally, the Canyon of Death erupts with a tide of hot blood.

The flood of gore spills out over the plains and sweeps away the lots of headless corpses and mountains of skeletal stays, surging forth as if the universe itself is bleeding from a few hideous wound.

A chain of massive volcanoes, continuously smouldering, girdles the Blood God’s domain. Khorne’s roars of rage motive the floor to shudder, and each day the volcanoes spew out rivers of earthblood as hot as his anger. They hurl burning brass skulls onto the lands of the vulnerable and disgorge murderous packs of Bloodthirsters that swoop down into the battles under.

On the inward slopes of these jagged, fire-tipped peaks sprawl the foundries of Khorne. It is stated that inside these dire forges labour the souls of warriors who died in their sleep, all the time doomed to serve Khorne as slaves.

Great smokestacks billow forth clouds of ruddy vapour that blend with the fumes of the volcanoes to choke the blood purple skies with the enterprise of war. These grim edifices preserve Khorne’s armouries stuffed — his numberless warriors armed and armoured through ceaseless toil.

Here too can be determined the pens of the Juggernauts. Behind buckled and cracked walls thicker than any mortal fortification, the Juggernauts of Khorne are corralled. The enormous daemonic beasts constantly combat among themselves, butting heads and goring every other to set up dominance.

Legends inform of Daemons, or even mortal Champions of Khorne, who have dared the wrath of the Juggernauts to take one as mount for themselves. The smashed stays of these warriors are left smeared over the wall; only a few of the bravest and most powerful succeed in using from the top notch gates atop any such murderous daemonic beasts.

On the outward slopes of the volcanoes are vast parapets and bastions. Carved from black granite, these tower kilometres into the sky, a daunting defence against any unwise sufficient to assail the kingdom of the Blood God. Great infernal cannons and cranium-clad altars watch for Khorne’s command to unharness the fires of war within the nation-states of the alternative Chaos Gods.

Mighty fortresses punctuate the brass battlements, every packed with Khorne’s bloodthirsty legions. With a single growl from Khorne, those armies spill forth across the domains of the alternative gods to bring slaughter and struggle. At Khorne’s urgings, his infinite tide of squaddies are whipped right into a frenzy and could fall upon each other in their desire to spill blood if no other foe can be observed.

For it’s far conflict — consistent, senseless bloodletting and destruction — this is all Khorne cares for. He is heedless of who’s triumphant, just that they combat until they could combat no extra. All that Khorne exists for, all that his complete being is bent in the direction of, is the waft of blood from fresh wounds and the taking of skulls.

It is no twist of fate that battle has spread from one aspect of the Imperium to the opposite, for over the aeons, Khorne has ensured that genocidal fury has coursed throughout the stars. The galaxy is aware of no peace, and Khorne has grown effective certainly in recent millennia. Uncounted worlds resound with the clamour of struggle, each scream and death rattle a small devotion to the respect of the Blood God.

With each new dawn, ichor mingles with blood on 1,000,000 battlefields, every bloodbath and cataclysm sparkling meat for the Lord of Battle’s desk. Aeldari and Human, Daemon and Ork, Tyranid and T’au; all are gore-splattered playthings for the Blood God’s private gratification.

None encompass this unsettling reality greater than the hordes of greenskins that combat within reach of the Fortress of Khorne inside the Realm of Chaos. The authentic Ork invaders attracted the gaze of the Blood God when they plunged headlong into the Warp/realspace interface referred to as the Eye of Terror with the resource of many Weirdboyz in search of clean carnage.

Their dangerously unhinged Warlord Tuska, the self-styled “Daemon-Killa”, had already made his mark upon the Eye by bringing war to numerous Daemon Worlds committed to Khorne’s opponents.

The Ork Warlord proved unstoppable until his WAAAGH! crash-landed on a flesh planet belonging to a mighty Daemon Prince named the Blood Prince who stood high within the standing of Khorne.

The Warboss’ vast horde was finally slain to an Ork by means of the wrathful Daemon Prince and his minions, however his joy inside the murderous spectacle was such that Khorne himself ensured the Greenskin crusade rose once more on the very subsequent sunrise.

History repeated itself time and again once more as the Orks fought tooth and nail, by no means once displaying signs of surrender or despair. The Blood God become so inspired by means of their infinite battlelust that he took the Orks into his very own area.

In the shadow of the Brass Citadel, his elite Bloodletter generals warfare in opposition to the Daemon-Killa’s timeless horde on a daily foundation.

Each cycle, splendid clouds of fungal spores are released via the death greenskins to take root and flourish within the bloodstained foothills of the Osseous Peaks.

Yet extra Orks are born, grow to maturity and price into conflict once more. Such limitless cycles of bloodshed are most alluring to the Blood God. After all, the only proper constant within the galaxy is that of endless war — Khorne himself had made certain of it.

Crystal Labyrinth of Tzeentch

The Crystal Labyrinth, the ever-changing realm of Tzeentch.

Tzeentch is thought by using one hundred thousand titles throughout the galaxy, among them the Weaver of Destinies, the Great Conspirator, and the Architect of Fate.

In his mind, he listens to the hopes of each sentient being from each planet within the universe. He watches over the plans of his playthings as they spread into history, toying with fate and fortune; both for his personal entertainment and to further his unfathomable schemes.

Tzeentch feeds upon the want and preference for alternate that is an vital part of all existence in the universe. All mortals dream of prosperity, freedom and a better the following day. These desires aren’t just the keep of the impoverished or the powerless — even Imperial planetary governors and Imperial Navy battlefleet admirals dream of further riches, or perhaps even an stop to their obligations to the Emperor.

All these goals create a powerful impetus for change, and the aims of countries create a pressure which could mission records. Tzeentch is the embodiment of that force in the Warp.

Tzeentch isn’t always content to merely look at the achievement and disappointment introduced by using the passage of time. He has his very own plans — schemes that are so complex and closely woven that they touch the lives of each dwelling factor, whether or not they comprehend it or no longer.

The Chaos God’s masterly comprehension of time, history and intrigue permits his ploys to intertwine seamlessly, forming a web of causality that spans the stars.

Tzeentch is aware about the visions and plans of all mortals inside the galaxy. He takes superb delight within the plotting and politicking of others and favours the cunning over the strong. When the internal voice in a person’s head speaks, when the determined whisper their prayers into the night, it’s miles the Architect of Fate that listens.

He perceives every event and purpose, and from this records, his potent thoughts can workout how each will influence the future. The intertwining latticework of possibility, desire and alternate is Tzeentch’s meat and drink — without it he could sooner or later fade away.

Perhaps the Architect of Fate has plans to overthrow the alternative Chaos Gods, or to increase his dominion over all the mortal geographical regions. Perhaps not even Tzeentch himself can say for positive. Whatever his remaining intention, he seeks to obtain it by means of manipulating the man or woman lives of Humans and xenos alike.

By imparting the power of know-how and sorcery, he can recruit influential Chaos warlords and magi to his motive, affecting the lives of many more at a unmarried stroke. However, few of Tzeentch’s plans are ever easy; a few span aeons with their complexity, while many appear contradictory to others, or even in opposition to his own hobbies.

Only Tzeentch can see the threads of capacity futures weaving thru time like tangled skeins of multicoloured cords; cords which themselves are made of selection, happenstance and fluke.

Tzeentch is the undisputed grasp of magic in the universe. Sorcery is one of the maximum robust dealers of exchange, and those who use it are among the most ambitious and hungry for strength.

The raw psychic strength that empowers the psykers of the mortal realm is the actual cloth of the Realm of Chaos, the same material that makes up the Ruinous Powers, their Daemon servants and the shadow-selves of mortals that flicker within the Warp and that Humanity calls “souls.”

The use of psychic electricity, or “magic” as it may rightly be called, is held because the final expression of religion amongst Tzeentch’s followers, who have a great deal to benefit from his patronage.

Though it will like as not cost them their immortal souls, they’ll as a minimum have boundless energy to show for it at the same time as they live; that is in stark assessment to the terrible wretched psykers of the Imperium of Man, who are coralled by using the Inquisition’s Black Ships and taken to Terra in which many of them feed the dying Emperor’s boundless hunger for psychic strength.

In Tzeentch’s eyes, mortal creatures are immeasurably steeped in ambiguity, yet they by some means salary their private wars absolutely unaware of the limitless contradictions in their souls. Tzeentch can’t help however dabble in the mortal realm; a few among the Inquisition agree with that the Great Conspirator is answerable for the exponential will increase of psychic ability inside the Human race in latest millennia.

His personal want to manipulate and manage, and his preference to growth his own electricity within the Warp, mean Tzeentch is ceaselessly gambling the Great Game waged among his brother Chaos Gods.

The Architect of Fate isn’t always above sullying his clawed palms with the bloody enterprise of war, though he much prefers to win his battles via guile and sorcery than brute force.

Consumed through his personal ineffable thoughts, Tzeentch binds the galaxy inside the weave of his complex schemes simply as a spider binds a fly. Though his schemes can take Terran millennia to spread, while they arrive to fruition, it also includes truth itself that can pay the rate.

While one mortal lies to some other, while envy and ambition live to tell the tale amongst Humans and aliens, Tzeentch will work his magic because the puppet grasp of the universe, running towards the day when his very last extraordinary work could be found out.

The skin of Tzeentch crawls with constantly converting faces, leering at and mocking onlookers. As he speaks, these faces repeat his words with subtle however critical variations, or offer a commentary that throws doubt upon his words.

These lesser faces appear and disappear quick, but the puckered visage of Tzeentch himself remains low down in his chest, so that head and frame are one.

From above Tzeentch’s burning eyes spring two sweeping horns, the spiralling extremities of which crackle with arcane fire. The firmament surrounding Tzeentch is heavy with magic; it weaves like liquid smoke approximately his head, forming subtle and interwoven styles.

Forms of locations and those seem within the smoke as Tzeentch contemplate their destiny. Those who seem there’ll necessarily find their minds, our bodies or destinies mutating into peculiar new paperwork, for none can come to Tzeentch’s interest and stay untouched.

Of all the outlandish landscapes to be determined in the Realm of Chaos, Tzeentch’s domain is the maximum weird and incomprehensible to mortals. His realm is woven from the uncooked material of magic. The Crystal Labyrinth, as it’s miles acknowledged, sits upon a giant irridescent plateau, its presence felt throughout all of the daemonic realms.

Shifting avenues made from crystals of each color criss-go Tzeentch’s realm as it contorts through 9 dimensions of space immediately. Hidden pathways built from lies and schemes infiltrate the dominions of the alternative Chaos Gods, binding collectively the fractious Realm of Chaos the higher to direct them to Tzeentch’s will.

The Labyrinth has no formal warriors defending its countless reaches, for the battles fought right here are of the thoughts. Its glittering corridors reflect now not only mild, however also hope, misery, desires and nightmares.

Its very own interchanging causeways and passages are sufficient of a barrier to confound any intruder no longer blessed by using Tzeentch’s contact, mortal or daemonic. Woe betide the rival daemon who strays into its reaches, for such simple creatures in no way final for long.

The Crystal Labyrinth does not simply replicate but also distorts, pulling aside aspiration and cause, turning it to insanity and depression. In its attempts to mirror Tzeentch’s own convoluted scheming, the Crystal Labyrinth constantly movements and rearranges.

Those brave souls misplaced in the maze’s reaches will wander for eternity, their minds shattered and their dreams broken upon the wheel in their very own failed ambition.

The faces which are meditated from the crystalline partitions at such intruders are hardly ever their personal. Everywhere, doppelgangers of those caught inside the thrall of Tzeentch flicker and spark across the prismatic walls.

In the internal reaches of the maze, an internet of crystal corridors bursts into jagged shards as Ahriman, the notable Heretic Astartes Sorcerer of the Thousand Sons, leads the warriors of his Traitor Legion to conflict — simplest to be trapped over again by means of their personal reflections.

A planar sheen buckles under the gaze of the Asuryani Farseers of Poster Ulthwe before throwing back the image of a burning craftworld.

A Radical sect of Inquisitors binds a replicate-daemon to their will with a forbidden version of the Emperor’s Tarot, little understanding that in doing so, they have got sure their souls to its counterpart.

These and one million different glimpses of truth flicker like flames inside the wind, their strength making the labyrinth glow with possibility.

Impossible Fortress

Another view of the Impossible Fortress of Tzeentch within the Crystal Labyrinth.

At the centre of the maze, hidden from those without the lunatic perception to discover it, stands the Impossible Fortress. Twisted crystal spires and towers of blue and red flame writhe and burst from the majestic fort’ core.

These exist for simplest a heartbeat before they shimmer and disappear, simplest to be replaced by way of new and ever extra maddening structure. Gates, home windows and beckoning doorways yawn like hungry mouths in a twister of dislocated angles before shutting moments later.

The nature of the Warp is encapsulated within the Impossible Fortress, for physical space and time are useless concepts there. One may wander for weeks internal a chamber no larger than a thimble, or traverse leagues with a unmarried hesitant step.

Gravity shifts and changes, or disappears altogether. Light of each colour and of sun shades unknown inside the real universe springs forth from the transferring walls to blind, disorient and enlighten.

For mortals, the ever-mutating fort is fully impenetrable. So locked of their physical ways, mortals are rapidly pushed insane, while their bodies implode or are pulled apart with the aid of Tzeentch’s meandering mind. Even rival gods cannot without problems endure the twisted horror of the Impossible Fortress.

Only the Lords of Change, the best of Tzeentch’s Daemons, can think their way through the name of the game paths to the inner sanctum of the fort; the Hidden Library where the Great Conspirator concocts his everlasting plots.

The Hidden Library is infinite in dimensions and constantly folds in upon itself below the weight of its personal future. It carries each scrap of know-how, each concept of each sentient creature across all of area and time. The books, parchments and scrolls that line its ever-folding partitions are bound with chains of magical fire, row upon row, shelf upon shelf, stretching into the imponderable recesses of Tzeentch’s lair.

Countless Horrors, both Pink and Blue, creep and crawl right here, tending the big collection of the Hidden Library. The grimoires chatter to their keepers, trapping the Horrors in webs of deceit and scandal so that the daemons eventually fade into the substance of the predatory library itself.

Garden of Nurgle

The Garden of Nurgle – the pestilent domain of the Lord of Decay inside the Realm of Chaos.

Nurgle is the Great Lord of Decay and the Master of Plague and Pestilence. All things in the universe, no matter how stable and everlasting they seem, are susceptible to eventual corruption and loss of life.

Even the manner of creation is but the precursor to destruction and decay. The bastion of nowadays is the next day’s destroy, the maiden of the morning is the crone of the night, and the desire of a moment is however the basis of regret.

Though he is the creator of every infection and epidemic to have ever swept the universe, Nurgle is not a morose purveyor of despair and gloom, however a colourful god of life and laughter. In dying, there’s existence. Upon the decay of the dwelling untold numbers of bacteria, viruses, insects and other carrion-feeders thrive.

All lifestyles feeds upon different life to exist, and from each plague grows new generations, more potent and more virile than people who got here before. Regeneration comes from decay, just as desire springs from melancholy. The greatest concept comes inside the darkest moments; in instances of disaster mortals are really tested and driven to excel.

To apprehend what might otherwise seem contradictory or even perverse in nature, one have to first recognize that which Nurgle embodies. On the only hand, he’s the Lord of Decay, whose body is wracked with sickness; on the alternative, he is complete of unexpected electricity and a preference to organise and enlighten.

The citizens of the Imperium recognise full nicely that their lives will cease someday and that a lot of their range will live with ailment or other torments in the intervening time, but they force this know-how deep into the corners in their minds and bury it with dreams and ceaseless pastime.

Nurgle is the embodiment of that information of mortality and the subconscious, fearful response of all sentient beings to the expertise in their own finishing. He is the hidden fear of disease and decay, the gnawing reality of mortality and the power of defiance that it generates.

Nurgle himself takes the shape of a great flesh-hulk riddled with decay and pestilence. His colossal carcass is bloated with corruption and exudes an overpowering stench that gnaws the mind. His skin is greenish, leathery and necrotic, its surface considerable with jogging sores, swelling boils and fruitful infestation.

Nurgle’s gurgling and pulsating organs are rank with the excrement of deterioration, spilling and spurting via his rupture skin to hang like obscene fruit round his girth. From these organs burst swarms of tiny Nurglings that chew on Grandfather Nurgle’s rotting intestines and suck upon his bountiful, noxious juices.

Every unmarried Human being within the galaxy has been touched via Nurgle’s foetid hand at some point. Countless trillions are host to his malignant, invisible creations, which corrupt their bodily bureaucracy and sow despair in their minds. Interplanetary visitors ensures that contagious sicknesses are carried from world to international by the ignorant, the willful and the strong.

As Nurgle’s presents multiply in full-blown pandemics, his strength reaches a top. Whole superstar systems — even whole sectors — are quarantined as plague runs rife across the stars. Proud civilisations wither away at the same time as Grandfather Nurgle conjures obscene new life from their remains. Wherever there are plague pits and mass graves, the rotting splendour of Nurgle shines via.

Despite his constant generosity, only an enlightened few really include Nurgle’s greatness amongst men and extraterrestrial beings. Yet his worshippers exist in numbers enough to make sure his daemon servants get entry to the fabric size anywhere plague abounds. This is simply as properly, for of all the Chaos Gods, it’s miles Nurgle who most appreciates the personalized touch.

The domain of Nurgle within the Realm of Chaos is not a barren wilderness, however a macabre paradise, a close to-endless jungle of loss of life and pestilence. Tended through the Lord of Decay, this unwholesome realm is home to each pox and anguish conceivable.

Twisted, rotten boughs entangled with greedy vines cowl the mouldering floor, entwining like broken hands. Fungi, both plain and extraordinary, destroy through the squelching mulch of the wooded area floor, puffing out clouds of choking spores.

The stems of 1/2-daemonic flora wave of their own accord, unstirred via the foetid, insect-choked air. Their colors puncture the gloom; havens of cheeriness in a dark wooded area.

Human-featured beetles slit alongside the banks of slow, muddy rivers. Reeds rattle, whispering the names of the poxes inflicted upon the worlds of mortals by using Great Nurgle or lamenting the ones who have died from the caress of their author.

Jutting from amidst this primordial mire is Nurgle’s manse. Decrepit and historic, but forever sturdy at its foundations, the mansion is an eclectic shape of rotten timbers and broken partitions, overgrown with crawling poison ivy and thick mosses.

Cracked home windows and crumbling stone compete with verdigris-coated bronze, rusted ironwork and lichen-blanketed cornices to outdo every different with their corrupted appeal. Within those tumbling walls, Nurgle toils.

Beneath mildewed and sagging beams, the incredible god works for eternity at a rusted cauldron, a receptacle big enough to contain all the oceans of all the worlds within the galaxy.

Chuckling and murmuring to himself, Nurgle labours to create contagion and pestilence — the maximum sublime and unfettered forms of lifestyles. With every stir of Nurgle’s maggot-ridden ladle, a dozen fresh sicknesses flourish and are scattered via the celebs.

From time to time, Nurgle reaches down with a clawed hand to scoop a part of the ghastly combination into his cavernous mouth, tasting the culmination of his labour.

With every passing day, he comes toward brewing his best disease, a non secular plague so that it will unfold throughout the extent of the universe and see all dwelling things gathered unto his rotting embrace.

Dwarfed by their effective lord, a bunch of Plaguebearers are accrued approximately Nurgle. Each chants sonorously, retaining remember of the sicknesses created, the mischievous Nurglings that have hatched, and the souls claimed via the Lord of Decay’s putrid advantages.

This hum drowns out the creaking of the rotten floor and the scrape of ladle on cauldron, so everlasting in its monotony that to hear it’s far to ask insanity.

When Nurgle’s sicknesses wax robust in the mortal realm, his garden blooms with demise’s heads and clean grime, encroaching upon the lands of the alternative Chaos Gods within the Realm of Chaos. War follows, as Nurgle’s everlasting adversaries inside the Great Game fight lower back and the Plaguebearers take up hands to guard the morbid wooded area.

From such warfare springs more of the richness of existence and dying, of overcome adversity. Though Nurgle’s realm will finally recede once more, it’s going to have fed deeply on the fallen, and will lie in gestate peace till it is ready to swell for the duration of time and space yet again.

Uninvited Guests

The daemonic inhabitants of the Garden of Nurgle.

Very few mortal eyes have ever beheld the Garden of Nurgle. Its swamplands continuously wheeze a fog of supernatural sicknesses, and living beings can’t endure so much as a single breath of its repugnance.

Only Nurgle himself can spare traffic from his garden’s poisonous affections; when he is watching for business enterprise, he’ll open a course through the gurgling fungus-fronds with a unmarried magnanimous gesture.

Trespassers are viewed poorly in Nurgle’s domain, as the Seers of Lugganath determined to their fee. The Asuryani of that far-flung craftworld have lengthy advised the story of the Caged Maiden, wherein Isha, the Aeldari goddess of fertility and restoration, become imprisoned in Nurgle’s mansion at the mercy of her gruesome admirer following the destruction of the other Aeldari gods by using Slaanesh, as Nurgle sought to “shop” her from the destiny of her divine fellows.

The Aeldari believe that their mythology is an absolute fact or even aspire to someday loose their liked goddess from Nurgle’s unctuous hold close. So it turned into that when Lugganath was ravaged by using the foul sickness known as the Brittle Coma, an military of its most gifted psykers forged their minds into the world of Nurgle in pursuit of Isha’s fantasy, hoping to find their misplaced goddess and put a halt to their craftworld’s deadly malaise.

They knew that they could nearly virtually die in the attempt, but believed that their souls could in the end be drawn back into the glittering Spirit Stones in their comatose our bodies. Once secure of their crystal afterlife, they might impart Isha’s commands for a therapy to the Spiritseers and lift Nurgle’s curse from their domestic.

At first, their astrally-projected paperwork appeared so that it will bypass through the grasping foliage of Nurgle’s lawn conveniently. Their Ghosthelms saved them as insubstantial as spirits and their rune-shielded minds cut through the dismal flora, for they had been sharper than any corporeal blade. The Rot Flies of that realm buzzed loud in alarm, but, and whispered of the intruders into Nurgle’s ear.

Just as the Seers of Lugganath sighted Grandfather Nurgle’s manse inside the distance, a fantastic host of Plaguebearers rose up from the mud and started out to chant in a droning monotone as they got here forward.

The Seers channelled their psychic power into top notch blasts of cleaning blue hearth, boiling away huge chunks of Nurgle’s army and darting out of the clumsy reach in their foes, however ever more Plaguebearers emerged from the stinking slurry to dam their course.

The psychic battle raged for solar days of subjective time, and swathes of Nurgle’s lawn were blasted to smash within the system. However, inside the fabric size, the physical kinds of the trespassing Seers started to convulse and shake, succumbing to the very plague they had hoped to conquer.

Slowly, as their our bodies shrivelled and their Spirit Stones turned to rotting mulch, the souls of the Seers that were trapped in Nurgle’s realm started out to pass completely into the Immaterium.

The soupy air of the garden seeped into their lungs, bug-riddled dust spattered up their legs, and white-bodied daemonflies clambered into their mouths. Claimed at final, the Seers’ feet took root as their faces hardened into bark. Their arms break up and twisted into gnarled branches, every finger hung with ripening Nurgling-fruit.

The Seers of Lugganath remain there nevertheless, a copse of wailing trees that brighten Nurgle’s leisurely walks and strike a notice of melancholy into the heart of Isha, who’s in truth his immortal captive. Such is the fate of folks who input uninvited into the heartlands of Nurgle, for even the generosity of Grandfather Plague has its limits.

Pleasure Palace of Slaanesh

A willing petitioner procedures Slaanesh’s looming Palace of Pleasure

Slaanesh is the Lord of Pleasure, the Dark God dedicated to the pursuit of earthly gratification and the overthrow of all respectable behaviour. He is the god of obsession, the Master of Excess in All Things, from gluttony to lust to megalomania.

Wherever mortals are dominated by using their personal unquenchable desires, the Dark Prince of Chaos is there inside the shadows, whispering, tempting, and feasting on a ceremonial dinner of souls.

Slaanesh become given lifestyles by means of the immorality and hubris of the historic Aeldari Empire. As their empire reached its zenith, the Aeldari have become misplaced in their own decadence, for they revel in sensation and emotion to a much greater diploma than another smart species of the galaxy.

The abilties in their surprisingly advanced technology meant that the Aeldari did now not need to labour or wage struggle. Instead, they have been able to commit their lives to some thing idle interests took their fancy.

Over several generations, this indolence got here to rule and pervert their spirits. In the Immaterium, the collective psychic reflections in their indolence and hedonism caused a brand new Chaos God to stir, beginning inside the 25th Millennium of the Terran calendar.

Created by way of one species’ natural dedication to indulgence, the first motes of what could become Slaanesh commenced to coalesce.

The dormant Slaanesh fed upon the unchecked collective psyche of the Aeldari, drawing on their lusts and aims, their artistry and pursuit of excellence in all matters. In turn, as Slaanesh grew, its nascent goals trickled into the minds of the Aeldari and fuelled their desires, pushing them ever onwards towards their eventual doom.

Eventually, the Aeldari civilisation devolved into little greater than pleasure cults committed to every act of bodily, mental and spiritual success. Blood stained the statuary of their plazas as crowds of drug-addled maniacs sated their violent desires within the streets of the Aeldari homeworlds.

On one especially wicked night, the debauchery reached a horrible crescendo that tore out the coronary heart of the Aeldari Empire and left it ravaged beyond recovery. The Fall of the Aeldari within the early 30th Millennium turned into signalled via the psychic start-scream of Slaanesh, a tsunami of emotion that heralded the Prince of Pleasure’s arrival inside the Realm of Chaos.

The psychic implosion because of Slaanesh’s start swallowed loads of worlds on the coronary heart of the Aeldari Empire in what’s now the Imperium of Man’s Segmentum Obscurus, killing billions of Aeldari in a single instant and devouring a first rate section of the galaxy in the process.

Such was its ferocity that it crushed the barrier between the fabric and the immaterial, forming the huge, everlasting Warp rift later named via Humanity because the Eye of Terror.

Rampant and hungry, Slaanesh wolfed the minds and souls of the Aeldari, and throughout the galaxy, that ancient race turned into almost worn out. Only a relative few Aeldari survived Slaanesh’s beginning-banquet.

Most of the survivors that stay have grow to be sworn enemies of the Dark Prince, and yet a few of them have shaped isolated cabals that also behave as their ancestors did, perversely following the downward spiral of excess.

That is how occasions are considered from the chronology of the cloth universe. In the Warp, matters are exceptional, for the Immaterium isn’t always sure with the aid of linear 4-dimensional time, and occasions do no longer occur in a strict series of reason and effect. As his rival gods reckon it, Slaanesh has usually existed in the Warp, and but has in no way existed at all.

Some say that is it not possible for mortals to look upon the divine face of Slaanesh without dropping their soul to him, for all who see it emerge as inclined slaves to the whims of the Dark Prince, embracing his ways with wild abandon. The mere knowledge of Slaanesh’s life can purpose a international to topple into corruption and hidden depravity.

Not even the sellers of the Inquisition know for positive how a long way his impact spreads, for anyplace the lust for energy and temporal advantage exists, the talons of Slaanesh dig deep. Despite their nice efforts, it’s miles almost sure that the Imperium is rotten to the center, simply because the Aeldari Empire become earlier than it. How long earlier than it succumbs to a comparable destiny?

A Knight’s Tale

Few gods welcome intruders to their empire, however there may be one who likes to tempt traffic to his unnatural domain. This is Slaanesh, the Dark Prince of Chaos and the Lord of Pleasure. Those that dare input his territory hazard becoming trapped in its warped delights for eternity. The Dark Prince’s realm is split into six domains, arranged in concentric rings round his important Palace of Pleasure.

While they might be improper for paradises, not anything here is as it seems. Each area isn’t always only a party of Slaanesh’s desires, but additionally his leader defence. An intruder can handiest reach the Palace of Pleasure, in the very coronary heart of Slaanesh’s territory, with the aid of passing thru all six of the circles — an act of will past maximum souls, each mortal and daemonic.

One amongst the mortal traffic to his realm nonetheless looms massive in the reminiscence of Slaanesh but — a wandering knight of the Adeptus Astartes whose will turned into as robust as silvered adamantium.

The first circle the Astartes driven although become richly appointed past the dream of kings. Mountains of stacked gold reached in the direction of the rainbow mosaics of gem stones within the marble vaults high above, glittering ingots and diamonds past counting littered the floor.

The knight marched past many a starveling wretch trying to count the innumerable gold coins. Their sallow faces twisted with mounting greed till their piles toppled and, weeping, they had to begin all all over again.

At each corner and crossroads stood gilded statues, a number of beautiful Slaanesh, others of daemons and mortals trapped in joyful ecstasy. The trails within the diamond dust underfoot betrayed the reality that the statues had been as soon as flesh and blood. The knight had left notions of fabric wealth lengthy behind, and he strode on with out Poster touching so much as a single coin.

Crunching his manner throughout a seashore of golden teeth, the knight came to the shorelines of a full-size lake of dark wine. The lake turned into dotted with pallid islands fashioned from the backs of giants, each connected by way of criss-crossing bridges. The backward fingers of every massive held up a desk that groaned under the load of a lavish ceremonial dinner.

There, he noticed mortal men gorging themselves on the ceremonial dinner, wide-eyed and desperate in their starvation as others frantically attempted to gulp down the lake itself. The bloated and the obese moaned in ache as they stuffed ever greater food into their wine-stained mouths.

The knight pressed on, distaste twisting his features as he surpassed the grisly remains of people who had ate up so much that they had physically torn aside.

The Astartes wanderer made his manner through fields of golden mild and soft hay, were lissom maidens and exquisite youths flocked near-bare within the hallucinogenic musk of the lithe beasts that cavorted with them.

The faces and fertile sorts of the dancers were impossibly sensual, moulded to the precise choice of the observer’s heart. The knight held his breath and closed his eyes, for even though mortal pleasures had been forbidden to the Astartes of his order as they had been to all Space Marines, a part of him became still a man.

The crooning nymphs collected across the knight, stroking his silvered Power Armour and whispering of the candy, carnal pleasures they might deliver him, but he yielded not to his dreams. The severed limbs and heads that lay underfoot noted the fact at the back of the honeyed lies. Eyes shut, he reduce down the Daemonette seductresses round him one after any other, letting revulsion manual his shining blade.

After combating his manner via the female contours of the foothills in advance, the knight emerged onto a balcony wherein he became greeted by way of roars of adulation and approval.

An navy of Space Marines so considerable its range changed into beyond counting awaited before him on an countless plain, listening in fevered anticipation for his commands for conquest. Planetary Governors nodded in obsequious anticipation, and the High Lords of Terra themselves smiled up at him from smaller balconies of their very own, motioning him to speak.

The knight recognised one of the Imperial rulers earlier than him from his very own mortal existence, and stood earlier than him, looking deep into the logician-king’s eyes.

Behind the mask of energy and self-warranty, he saw eternal, nagging paranoia; gnawing suspicion and hidden doubts approximately his persevered grip on rule that had been acid to the soul. The knight shook his head lamentably and walked away, untempted via the lure of temporal strength.

Wearied by his ordeals, the wanderer strode on through a mesmerising forest paradise, its maze of pathways thick with plant life and heavy with thorns. The gentle, fragrant breeze whispered to the knight of his beyond glories, reminding him of the executions he had completed within the Emperor’s call.

Mirrored swimming pools meditated the knight as a shining saint of the Imperial Creed, his face serene however his sword bloodied as he artfully carved aside rank after rank of crimson-skinned daemons.

The superhuman warrior became away, . In the distance, he could make out tortured figures staring closely into reflect-swimming pools in their personal, each held motionless by way of the undergrowth as whispering thorns insinuated themselves into their flesh, held frozen with the aid of their personal satisfaction.

The wanderer grew to become his thoughts to the humility of the simple cell he once called home in his order’s castle-monastery. As he did so, the direction through the maze writhed and straightened out earlier than him. So the knight trudged on.

A by no means-finishing seaside stretched away from the knight, heavenly choirs sung soothing lullabies because the perfumed sea lapped on the citadel partitions of his mind.

The wanderer’s bones cried out for rest, although only for a moment. The warm temperature of the golden sun above calmed his soul and the lapping tide started out to erode his will.

His worn-out eyes ought to slightly live open, but his vision was nevertheless clean enough to look the horrible truth. The bone-white sand became made from the remains of folks that had rested there and fallen right into a coma of completely happy indolence and sloth. His resolve hardened, the knight strode on in the direction of the shimmering pink palace within the distance.

It became there, under the stylish spires, that the wanderer finally got here earlier than almighty Slaanesh himself. Statuesque and divinely glamourous, the deity visited him in the shape of a younger guy possessed of an androgynous beauty — smooth-limbed and clean with the energy of teenagers.

The knight unsheathed his rune-etched sword and made to strike the Dark God down as the embodiment of corruption that he turned into.

To his horror, he located that he couldn’t, for the god-prince become disarming in his innocence and fully beguiling in his way. For, in the long run, even the purest flame may be extinguished by way of the tide.

In that unmarried moment of doubt, the Astartes knight turned into for all time misplaced. He knelt, bowing his head at final, and a single contact of the being’s glowing sceptre on each shoulder sealed his fate for eternity, another soul claimed by using the Dark Prince of Chaos.

Sources

Codex: Chaos Daemons (8th Edition), pg. 9

Codex: Chaos Daemons (sixth Edition), pp. 6-17

Codex: Chaos Daemons (4th Edition), pp. four-13

Codex: Orks (4th Edition), pg. 26

Warhammer Fantasy Chaos Daemons Army Book (eighth Edition), pg. thirteen (Map)

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