A Grand Gesture (Open, FT)

[Chronosia]

Let it be known to all the great powers of the galaxy who have had occasion and privilege to call the Chronosian Imperium friend and ally, that they are invited forthwith to Chronosia Prime. There the True Lord of Mankind shall make an announcement, a grand gesture regarding the first moves of resurgence and the plans to come. All who would have a place in the blueprints of a new galaxy, a new sense of co-sanguinity with the blessed of the True Gods, need but arrive and be clasped to the bosom of the Scion of Chaos, Master of the Human Race and shepherd of it's one true destiny amidst the stars.

False prophets and coalitions of heathens grace our galaxy with their pernicious taint and inhuman influence; so we invite you to gather and hear the pronouncements of Remiel De Drakan, the true Voice of Chaos upon this plane- the only one who truly speaks for the Gods and serves them with victory eternal, not insipid failure or surrender.

The message echoed across space and time, cast into the void by means of archaic technology and the minds of countless astropaths, each struggling to convey the sheer majesty of the message, the scale of the undertaking rooted in their mind with each and every syllable. The images of a galaxy in flames, of the false prophets and failures cast down. The Terran Degeneracy a smoked and blasted ruin, it's population cleansed of their manifold failings by flame and fury. Rome in ashes and agony; broken not by barbarian hordes but by the enlightened power of the Chronosian Imperium, stoic and glorious, the eventual Albia to the failed empire of what would later be Terra's Tali. These and many other foes lurked in the galaxy, watching and plotting, their petty vendettas against the Imperium serving as no real threat.

But one could never be too careful when the path to Godhood was considered, when all had to be in place; the rites perfected, the trials undertaken and the stars so very right for the eventual, the inevitable. Thus it was that the Imperium called, and those who called it friend and ally- those who had interest in establishing dominion alongside the powers of Chaos Ascendant- would come.

And they would see what the future held.

-

Life in the orbital docks was a hard life. There was the sheer scale of the industry to consider; of constant deliveries of arms and armour from the forge-moon of Chronosia Secundus, as well as the vast shipments that poured in from the Hydran forgesystems. Gaius Navilus had been fortunate to survive this long amidst the fires, the cultists, the constant threat of hull-breach and the ire of brutal taskmasters, to become a works foreman. Watching his human charges- many of them reduced to servitor constructs, or being slave-labour governed by shock-collars- move the heavy cases of materiel brought something approaching pride to his chest. He ran a tight ship, resorting to violence only when it was necessary. He was a veteran of many clashes with rival work-gangs, with below deck scum who thought they could rob his men and live, and with the many rival creeds of the orbital rings and stations. He had lost an eye to a Khornate madman a year ago, and still cursed the cruel fortune which had delivered him a crude augmetic lens, glimmering red against his sallow skin.

He heard the message that day, watching through a great observation window as Chronosia Prime turned in all it's cruel and terrible glory, a blighted orb, a cursed world- home. A smile broke over his face, and he turned to survey the progress- his hand patting his shock maul with almost loving care.

“Storm's coming, boys. Best work harder, cause it's coming. And I guarantee you, before the weeks end we'll be offloading more than our own stock- oh yes. We'll be seeing something of the galaxy”

[Orthodox Gnosticism]

tag, post coming as soon as I am done with Sithy's

[WarCloud]

tag, if im allowed to particpate

[Chronosia]

OOC: Sure; no problem. Just; could people actually start posting instead of just tagging; would really help .

[Balrogga]

The Ta’Nar Arrive.

That was the only warning Chronosia Prime received before alarms went off everywhere. A massive vessel faded into existence mere moments after the message broadcast directly into the minds of those present in the orbital range of the capital. The sudden presence of an alien mind speaking into the very core essence of those in charge caused much concern. The message was specifically targeted to the command staff and to those who should know of their arrival. Moments later The Serendipity arrived.

The massive ten thousand meter vessel was the flagship of the Ta’Nar, the personal vessel of Nhur-Galladu, the Warlord of the Ta’Nar, the Childer, and the dreaded Kythons. It was rumored many things about the Ta’Nar, most did not want to stick around to find out which were true or false. One of the rumors was Nhur-Galladu did not possess the ability to fear a foe. His free interaction with Minagoroshi the All Consuming, Remiel De Drakon, and the Immortal Pathogen certainly leant credit toward proving that one. Few would consider going within light years of those beings, Nhur-Galladu did what he pleased.

Right now it pleased him to heed the call of his old friend and be one of the first to arrive.

The meditation chamber aboard The Serendipity was empty except for a solitary being dressed in the white and gold of the Warlord. He hovered within the ebon room, lit by hidden light sources. A door opened and a servant entered. Proceeding to the silent being, the servant approached the floating being and assumed the required Position of Servitude, waiting to be addressed so he could deliver his message. Once receiving the indication he could approach the aide delivered his message.

Warlord, we have arrived.

Yes, I am aware.

Shall I prepare a shuttle for you?

No, I will not need one. Leave me

Ye Sire.

The servant quickly retreated following the correct protocol and exited the chamber. A few moments later the entity sent a Grand Thought toward the planet. Grasping the Thought, he vanished.





Chronosia Prime:


I AM HERE.

Nhur-Galladu arrived without any visual show, he was just there standing outside the main entry into Remiel’s Palace. The telepathic message would have alerted the staff of his arrival and he would be taken to meet his host within a couple minutes. Remiel has never treated Nhur-Galladu badly, which was good. While the Ta’Nar was powerful, it was not known if it came to a fight who would win in the heart of Remiel’s stronghold. The Ta’Nar believed he would but that was the way Ta’Nar thought, they were the superior beings in the universe and nobody compared to them. So far it was not disproven for they had yet to find any being even close to them. A lone Ta’Nar on a world of one of the most powerful Imperiums in the known universe would indeed provide a decent challenge but there was no reason to push it.

[Orthodox Gnosticism]

The Temple of Aphrodite
Geminion, Twelve Colonies of Kobol
United Colonies of Kobol

Suppression. That was the mark of the President of the United Colonies of Kobol, when the message was first brought to his desk. He wanted to bury his head in the sand, and pretend that the hordes of Chaos still slumbered in the darkness of space, no longer a concern for the thirteenth colony of Earth, or for their twelve sisters amongst the stars.

But the human soul could never be suppressed. Chaos lived in the hearts of all men, the need for violence, the desire for power, the desire to be part of one that was greater than oneself. Chaos could not be stopped, nor could it be jammed, for it lived in the very beating heart of the beast called man.

Incense rose to the heavens, as half nude priestesses rejoiced to the heavens. It had been a long time, so long since the son of Aphrodite herself Remiel had graced Geminion with his presence. Years since he drank from the cup with those devoted to her, the goddess of fertility and love. Years since he spilled his holy seed amongst the virgin prostitutes, gracing them with his presence.

Even with so few knowing of the truth of Remiel’s return, the priestesses rejoiced, as the blood of bulls laid burnt on the alter of the fair goddess. His name chanted to the heavens, singing praise of he who came before, and whom they wished would come again. Remiel....Remiel....Remiel

Caprica City
Caprica, United Colonies of Kobol

Andrea Hester looked down to her suit case, and gently packed the last of her bags. She had no love for Remiel, only a lust for power, the power that came from sitting atop of the Quorum, second only to the President officially, however nothing could cross his desk without her permission. It was the best place in the government, one with all of the power, and none of the blame.

Officially she only answered to her home planet, the beacon of religious freedom across the United Colonies, the holy land itself, Geminion.

She had no love for Remiel, but she knew that the election was upcoming, and she would have to prove, as she always did, that she was not the patsy of Mac, of Earth. She never was, but when the call came out, and Mac tried to suppress the message, she knew this would be a two fold message. Geminion could care less what Earth wanted, that their spiritual course was set with the gods themselves, not with the monotheist light years apart.

A simple message came from her office on Geminion. “Geminion has heard your return, and many wish to come. I, Andrea Hester wish to meet with Remiel, and with me, many pilgrams wish to come as well.”

[Chronosia]

Oh come all ye faithful...

It is the most glorious pleasure of the Imperium to welcome to the bosom those devotees as come from Geminon. All from the Colonies who wish to come forth and behold that most blessed son of the Gods, Remiel De Drakan, need but ask and permission shall be granted. There shall be set aside settlements within the greater Hive Cities of the throneworld, that those pilgrims to his Holy Word may live and learn and proliferate beneath the gaze of the Gods.

We have but one simple request; a Dornalian should accompany your pilgrimage; that they might behold the pure intentions of the Chronosian people and the fair treatment of all who flock beneath our august banners

For a moment the daemonic forces and dark magics bound into the very fabric of the Palace seemed to tremble. It was always the same when the Ta'Nar were involved: that momentary wrongness, the race memory of hunters in the abyssal depths of the warp, the questing thoroughness of those most voracious and unique of minds.

The Emperor does not falter. He shows no fear.

Remiel De Drakan had seen many things; seen the Ta'nar as friend and foe, as puppet and puppeteer; ultimately they were as all others in existence, mere tokens for the amusement of the Gods. However, they were not without their use and they were not unworthy of admiration. A warp-touched race of psionic geniuses; a force to be reckoned with, certainly- better always to keep such beings as friends. It was not fear that motivated such a decision, merely common sense- powerful allies were needed for the coming campaigns; for the wars that would carve out a greater place in the galaxy. And set a seat at the right hand of the Gods themselves.

Remiel lets a smile settle upon skin that seems carved from marble, beautiful and white as fresh snowfall, his lips creasing with what seems to be a genuine sense of amusement. He strides forth from the shadows of a vast and grand entrance hall, practically wrapped in finery. A cloak of finest fabric drapes down his back, while the pelts of great beasts lay across his shoulders- surely the prize in some great hunt. His armour is gilded and studded with countless precious stones, each flowing into the master-crafted artwork that adorns every plate and seems to shift and dance as the eyes drift over it.

“Old friend.” He breathes. “First of many as you are first ever in our affections. Welcome to my home; my world, my palace. Welcome” Sauntering forward, he surveys the Ta'nar as one would regard any honoured guest, “Is there anything I can get for you? Perhaps an essence I can distill from finest slave-stock or bound Daemon?

We have much to discuss; and there are surprises waiting for you- I wouldn't want you to have your strength fail you in the process” A flash of a flawless grin. “These are great and terrible days, Warlord; great and terrible days”

[Fulma]

Tag to, maybe, post, if not watch.

[WarCloud]

Unknown Sector

Emepror Famfrit vas Corwen was meditating aboard the Angel of Death, his personal warship, while listening to the stars as they danced through out the heavens. He had changed ever since his flagship and half the royal warcloudian fleet had passed through that wormhole at the battle of Ceaser Prime. The ships that were plunged though the wormhole had been scattered to the four winds, some ceasing to exist, some destroyed as they entered real-space within objects or stars. When the Angel of Death had reentered real-space they had 20 other ships with them, mainly frigates, over the last two years, the fleet had managed to pick up a further thirty ships, but the rest were still unnaccounted for. All of them where battle scarred and some where in serious need of repairs.

Famfrit was brought out of his meditaions as his neural implants picked up on a psychic wave. He pondered the message, never having any contact with this Chronosian Imperium before. However it might be a chance to be part of something greater, to become something greater. Famfrit issued orders to the rest of his fleet, he wanted to go to the origin point of that message. The fleet all gathered into a wolf-pack formation and all dissappeared in a whirl of blue energy.

Chronosia Prime

Famfrit ordered the rest of his fleet to remain in warp-space, the Angel of Death would re-enter real-space alone. When the AoD materialisedm, Famfrit ordered a scan and was a bit put off by the size of another ship that was orbiting a space station. However he wished to know what was going on and thus had a com. message sent towards the space station.

"I am Famfrit vas Corwen, the Gale Emperor, i have come in responce to the message and request a docking bay for a shuttle"

[Chronosia]

To focus simply upon the station and it's attendant ship was to miss the sheer scale of Chronosian endeavour. Hundreds, if not thousands, of platforms, stations and docks hung about the blighted world of Chronosia Prime, it's surface writhing with the touch of the Warp and the combined pollution of the toil of millions. A polluted pall hung over every facet of the world that the foreign vessel could behold. Hive-cities scratched at the heavens while the immense bulk of the Imperial Palace sprawled across entire continents, drowning them in a relentless tide of fortification and veneration.

It was a world condemned, a world destroyed by mortal hands and immortal influence; a place of broken, corroded dreams and the schizming of the human spirit. It was a place of Chaos.

Gale Emperor; you have transgressed into the very heart of the Chronosian Imperium, but doubtless do so at the divine message of the Emperor, the Scion of Chaos, Master of Mankind by the will of the Ruinous Powers and Speaker of the Primordial Truth. You come forth at a day of glorious intent and grand undertaking, a day that will forever reshape the Imperium and the galaxy at large.

Apotheosis beckons and the Emperor Most Beloved shall be the one to embrace it. We have provided coordinates whereby your shuttle might dock within the greater whole of the Palace. Come forth in due deference and be in awe, for the stars are right and the Warp speaks truly.

These are the days of Ending and the Times of Rebirth. Ave Imperator!

[WarCloud]

Famfrit listened to the message as it was relayed to his neural implant. With the coordinates that had been provided, he boarded a shuttle which left the Angel of Death and ordered it to cruise towards the docking point. He considered what he had gleaned from the small exchanges so far, obviously whatever these beings were, they had plans for the galaxy which would change it. However he himself did not care what they had planned as long as it would lead greater power.

Whatever they had planned, he decided that he would be a first hand witness to it. From the sounds of things, they talked about Chaos as if it was a living force, instead of just random acts. This sounded intriguing. Looking out over the planet and all the surround constructions made him feel small and insignificant. He did not like that, it reminded him of the days when her was forced to ally with the pathetic tyrants on the former NOVIA council.

Famfrit was pulled from his thoughts as the shuttle informed him that they wwould be docking with the station momentarily.

[Balrogga]

Nhur-Galladu smiles as one of his oldest friends greeted him upon his arrival. Neither was fooled, they have been using each other and being used by the other for centuries. While in some races this would generate enmity, between the two beings it created a bond of respect. One knew what the other was up to and over the years it has become a kind of contest to see who could come out on top.

Clasping forearms in the old gesture of comradeship the two greeted each other as equals. Actually, only the Fates would know if they were truly equal but neither was determined to test them this day.

“Old friend.” He breathes. “First of many as you are first ever in our affections. Welcome to my home; my world, my palace. Welcome” Sauntering forward, he surveys the Ta'nar as one would regard any honoured guest, “Is there anything I can get for you? Perhaps an essence I can distill from finest slave-stock or bound Daemon? ”

“As always, the perfect host. I am sure you remember my usual selections and already had them prepared. I am usually one of the first to arrive for your little get-togethers, they are so entertaining.”

The Ta’Nar helped himself to the offered “refreshments” as Lord Remiel continued to speak.

We have much to discuss; and there are surprises waiting for you- I wouldn't want you to have your strength fail you in the process” A flash of a flawless grin. “These are great and terrible days, Warlord; great and terrible days”

“In my great age sometimes it feels as if I have experienced it all, or at least seen it. A surprise every now and then is quite refreshing. Don’t worry about my strength, as a Ta’Nar gets older, they become stronger.” Nhur-Galladu smiled, always the same cat and mouse small talk. Each tried to get a feel of what the other was up to, an eternal game of Chaos Chess.

“It seems you are about to have another guest arrive, I can feel their vessel approaching this system.”

[Abruzi]

The tides of the Immatrium bring forth countless messages, ideas, eventualities, and lies. The tides of the Immatrium bring forth countless civilizations, Empires, nations, only to wipe them away. Daemon worlds change, Warriors rise and fall, whole galaxies die by the whim of the gods daily, mortals vie for the ever shifting favor of the Gods and yet there was one in the Galaxy who was the eternal chosen of the gods. The Scion of Chaos. The Master of Mankind.

Dark visions vied for the attention of Azoth but the message from his Master was more than strong enough to capture his attentions for a moment. Yet even as he struggled to re-enter real space he felt the words of his master slipping away, back to the Immatrium where Azoth could fly free of his mortal frame. When the transition was complete and he was trapped in his body again, he could hardly feel the words of his lord and was almost sure that it had been a momentary madness brought on by one of the Daemons of the Changer of Ways.

Long had the Tears of Darkness been discreet vassals to the Imperium of Chaos, long had Azroth waited for his lord to call upon him in name of the gods. Now that a summons had been received by the Chosen of the Gospodar Lubanja himself, it was right and proper for Azoth to answer his Sovereign's call personally. Rising from his throne, Arcadius slowly ran a gauntleted hand across his face. Ancient scars shifted beneath his touch as the Daemons within the gauntlets communed with the Daemons in his flesh. Azoth in his day had knelt to some impressive leaders. The Emperor of Man, Dorn, Horus and yet the very thought of his current ruler put those others in the dark abyss reserved for fallen civilizations and used up heroes.

The boom of his adamantine and Enslaver bone clad feet was mirror by the thunder that raged above Atrum Terra (his capital Daemon World). The rich gold doors of his Palace melted before his gaze as the Imperator of the Chaotic Roman Imperium strode though his halls. Triarii (Space Mahreens) he passed slowly pressed their fists against their chest in salute, the reverence they held for him soothing his tortured mind, the Daemons feeding off of their emotions. The Imperator was silent, his servants knowing that they were not blessed with hearing his unholy voice unless there was some matter of dire importance and then they would hear his voice only within the confines of their own minds.

Wordlessly, the command to ready the Flagship, the Abomination was spread to the necessary individuals. Quickly, the mechanical preparations were made and the sacrifices to the Gods carried out. Within hours of receiving the message, the Abomination lurched free of dock lines that held it tethered to the planet. The massively bloated construct that once held the designation of Emperor Class Battleship rose up from Garius IX, it's hull twisting out in impossible arches and swirls.

The Abomination was exactly what it was called, an Abomination.


The silent scream of Daemons foreshadowed the arrival of the Abomination above Chronosia Prime. The wail of reality heralded the arrival of a messenger from the Scion of Chaos and the Master of Mankind aboard the ship. It worried the Imperator that none of his servants or Battle Brothers could see the Daemons as only those gifted with Possession were allowed onto the bridge where the warp raged. Yet the whispers of the Daemon were soothing to the Chosen.

As per command he ordered twelve cultists gathered and a sacrifice prepared. Representatives of the Dark Mechanicus also were summoned to prepare the ancient teleported which was to be the site of the sacrifice. Following several minutes of ritual and repair, he alone was teleported from the Abomination to the Palace of his lord and master.

Kneeling reverently, Azoth silently waited for his master to take notice of him. The gibbering of his Daemons plaguing his mind.

[Chronosia]

Reality seemed to twist, rending as the gibbering tide of the unreal pulsed through the very fabric of reality behind the Emperor and the Warlord. A dozen deathscreams melded into one ululating sound, an echoing resonance of sacrifice and pain. The very fabric of the Palace seemed to shudder, warping under the influence of the malefic energies unleashed by the summoning rites. Twisted Tzeentchian forms uncoiled in timeless dance about the aperture in the Materium, as the Imperator's form began to bled back into being. Remiel turned with a bemused smirk to watch the ritual teleportation unfold, savouring the fell scent as it grazed his senses.

“Warlord; might I behold the Imperator of Rome, Arcadius Azoth. A true son of the Gods and devotee of the Primordial Truth, he has cast off the false shackles of Rome and Byzantine. Let them cower and bleat to their martyred false godhead, while we embrace true Gods. It is the folly of the Old Ways, to reject the Truth and drown it in Imperial lies, is it not, my Imperator?” Laughter dances from the Emperor's lips, halfway between true amusement and mockery. His eyes flicker upwards for a moment, tracing the movement of a shuttle down through the skies, just as the warp miasma about the gathered figures begins to fade.

“And then there four; as good a start as any, I think. Wouldn't you agree?” He gestures to his guests as a servitor totters over. The lobotomised human has had many aspects of it replaced; regarding the world with cold augmetic eyes, trundling along on tracks instead of legs and bearing a tray on mechanised arms. Various spikes and barbs adorn it's form, pinning small banners and scraps of paper, each overflowing with insane chaotic script; praising both gods and Emperor. There are a variety of drinks; wines and spirits of many strange scents and colours; lain upon the tray.

“A toast; gentlemen. To the future. To my future. To our future”

[Fulma]

A single shuttle came out of slip-space with the barest of whispers. Nothing announced this forty meter long ship, quad forked wings, two coil guns for quick defense, and an over-sized engine for speed. A white dragon was painted on both sides of the ship, displaying Mala's domination as High Lord Imperial over the True Empire of Fulma. Inside the shuttle was John Lok, the former diplomat to the JSA, then NOVIA, and finally for Fulma. The Empire had heard the call of chaos.

At the back of the shuttle, standing tall, was the last Two SPARATNS. Relics of an age gone by. Giants of green armor, personal shielding and a strength beyond any Fulman. They stood nearly eight feet tall, two tons of pure flesh integrated with metal. No weapons where on them as a sign of trust. But still they could kill with their hands, like any good soldier.

"Okay SPARTANS, nothing to spark anything. There are to many here, I don't want to diffuse a war." The SPARATN's looked at each other and shock their head. The taller of the two reached up and took of his helmet. Pale white skin seemed to glow out at John. Eyes with white on white looked into his soul and tore him apart. No hair hung on his head.

"Sir..if I" John interrupted the SPARTAN to ask him a question.

"Name SPARTAN?" He got another cold look and he felt his mind convulse in fear. Here was a god of the military, but one who had fallen into myth.

"John-199...the first SPARTAN sir, I was the forerunner for the rest of the program." John the diplomat instantly felt great pride of this man.

"Continue sir..wait..your rank please?" The SPARTAN looked around and then sighed.

"Grand General sir. I technikly out rank you. But Mala told me to defer to you." A small lisp escaped his mouth then with out even seeming to move the helmet was back in place.

"Sir, I am here to protect you until the death. They move against you, I kill them pure and simple." The diplomat nodded. Then the shuttles console beeped. Turning in his seat, he saw thousand of orbital space stations, platfoms and shipyards. Damn...Fulmas largest shipyard is only a third of this mes. John leaned forward and sent a message to the planet below.

TO:Chronosian Imperium
FROM: The True Empire of Fulma
I come bearing well intentions. I wish to meet with you.
Head diplomat John Lok.

[Kaldari]

A galaxy twirls in its endless motion amongst the cacophony of the existence, made up of clusters of stars that form its body. Within these clusters are the systems of planets, asteroid belts, and other trash that a star's birth creates and binds to itself, and one special star shone brightly amongst all the others. This star...was Kaldath, the center of the Theocratic Empire of Kaldari. A central world formed the capital of this nation, its sky rent by constant storms of sheer wind and blinding rain, a blood-red sky greeting those arriving with a hint of what was to come.

The planet was a morass of change and evolution, the forests a tangled mess as the flora constantly mutated and vied with one another for living space, food, and the blood-red light they received. Entire species of animals, insects and more were born and destroyed in a matter of seconds, only the strongest and most favored enduring to survive the Lord of Change's gift and make it part of them. Amidst this primordial chaos stood the cities, where the humans of Kaldari resided; once bastions of civilization and the glory of democracy, they had fallen to become something greater. Bastions of Tzeentech's glory and might, tall structures that bent at odd angles and had some purpose that no sane engineer could fathom; shapes of non-Euclidean geometry that hastened the descent into madness and brought one further to Tzeentch's will.

In the capital city of Tzaron, in the Palace of the Prince, there stood a bastion of solidarity, a place where nothing changed unless He willed it. The Prophet, the Changeling Prince, the High Priest, Zukren Hamar. Chosen of Tzeentch, Sorceror of Chaos, and ruler of the Empire. He sat upon his ebony throne, a wicked thing that depicted a mob of faces, the chained souls of heretics consumed to form the seat of his power and show his power over the spirit. He wore a large set of armor, etched with runes of power and signs of the Chaos Gods, though Tzeentch was shown most of all, with his sigils covering the pauldrons and gauntlets. Over this he wore a large hooded robed, black with the design of the Eye upon it, and flowing down the fabric. This hid his face and body, so as to keep his possible enemies guessing as to what form he had under their, for deceit and secrecy were ever his weapon. It was a disturbing sight to see this man calmly sit on a throne which ceaselessly screamed out the torment of its prisoners and the face's constantly changed, gibbering and groaning. The hall was lined with eight pillars, each set of two devoted to a Chaos God and depicting their heraldry down the pillar. At each pillar stood a Chaos Space Marine Terminator, one of their very own chapter, the Scions of Change; their green and black armor shining in the torch light of the room.

Kneeling in front of the throne was a robed man, the mark of a Great Eye burned into his forehead; a priest of the Ever-Changing Eye, the cult the Prophet formed during the war. This man was also a psyker and served as part of the communication network used by the Empire. At the moment, he was shivering as he struggled to interpret the message coming forth from the void of space, his teeth grind and his muscles rippling with effort. At last a cry of pain ripped itself from his throat and he thrashed on the ground. His body seized up and glazed eyes stared upward, as a strong and powerful voice issued from his throat.

"Let it be known to all the great powers of the galaxy who have had occasion and privilege to call the Chronosian Imperium friend and ally, that they are invited forthwith to Chronosia Prime. There the True Lord of Mankind shall make an announcement, a grand gesture regarding the first moves of resurgence and the plans to come. All who would have a place in the blueprints of a new galaxy, a new sense of co-sanguinity with the blessed of the True Gods, need but arrive and be clasped to the bosom of the Scion of Chaos, Master of the Human Race and shepherd of it's one true destiny amidst the stars.

False prophets and coalitions of heathens grace our galaxy with their pernicious taint and inhuman influence; so we invite you to gather and hear the pronouncements of Remiel De Drakan, the true Voice of Chaos upon this plane- the only one who truly speaks for the Gods and serves them with victory eternal, not insipid failure or surrender."

Images of their enemies ruined, the broken remains of Rome, the Coalition set aflame, the various powers all bowing to Chaos flickered and flashed about the room before a final whisper of power ended the message. The man slumped onto the floor, chest heaving and drool pooling onto the floor. The figure on the throne twitched and the figure shuddered getting to his knees and resuming his former kneeling position. A smooth and quiet voice issued from the enthroned being.

"And that is all the message contained? There is no more?"

The man shuddered at the thought of having to endure more of the agony of relaying communication. "N-No, your Holiness. That is all that was said."

Zukren nodded. "Very well. Send word to my children; that all our preparations were not in vain and our patience has rewarded us. We shall soon begin our Proving and prove to all that our loyalty, that our faith is unshakable. The Empire mobilizes for war." The cultist bowed and hurried from the room, seeking to escape the sheer insanity this room contained. The High Priest stood up from his throne and made his way down the steps and began to walk towards the door. As he passed each set of pillars, the Terminators left their post to take up position around him. When he reached the doors, a marine stepped out, wielding an immense hammer and wearing a set of power armor, pure black, with the symbol of Tzeentch on the helmet. He bowed his head and spoke, his voice a spidery hiss.

"What is your will, Holy Prophet?"

Zukren extended a hand and placed it on the much taller man's arm. Chapter Master Tobias Erus, it is good to see you my friend. The Chronosians call for us; a mighty crusade to burn the heretics and cleanse it of nonbelievers is coming. I must go to this meeting personally. Anything less would be an insult."

Erus clapped a fist to his chest and bowed. "As you will. These soldiers of 1st Company shall be your escort."

The High Priest smiled. "Of course, I would have it no other way."

**********************

As the meeting began, space rumbled and churned before tearing in a silent scream as a Dragon-class Battlecruiser, shot out of the Warp and into the system. A channel was soon opened to Chronosia Prime Orbital Control, where it declared itself the Visage of Deceit and was carrying the High Priest aboard for the meeting. They were cleared to enter an geosynchronous orbit and welcomed to the planet. Once the ship was in place, a shuttle was sent down, carrying four Terminators and the Prophet himself, which was received at the star port and was escorted to the palace entrance where Remiel, Nhur-Galladu, and the Imperator Azoth stood. When nearing the meeting and gained the attention of Remiel, the Prophet lowered his hood to reveal a handsome face with blue eyes and long black hair, a bemused smile on his face.

As his presence met that of the others, the air crackled with Chaos energy and the whisperings rose to a pitch before dimming down the usual level that was the norm for Remiel's palace. He bowed, an action mirrored by his four guards and spoke. "You called, and we have come. It has been too long, Remiel."

[Jagada]

The baleful green and yellow light rose slowly across the planet of Jagada, its rays slow and staggering as the effects of the Warp ever tugged at the sickening orb that passed as a sun to this world. It was unnatural, they had said so many years ago when their sun began to change. Those were dark days, days of great calamity and dread as it seemed the Universe was destined to be ride of them. The humans of Jagada had wept in those days as news from their leading scientists and technologists had confirmed the worst; that their sun was changing for the worst. It had not been green in those days, it had been red in those bleak days, as it always had to the people of Jagada, the only difference was that it was about to implode. Weather it was simply bad luck or a grand design by higher beings has never been determined but the humans of Jagada had been born upon a world which took its heat from a sun on it way out the door. The people of Jagada had always revolved around the belief of ancient prophets that their sun was a great star that could never be put out, that its size clearly indicated immortality over the smaller stars in the surronding systems. Of coarse such lies were questioned throughout time but each time such persons would disappear or mysteriously change their tune. Why, they would be asked, do you wish to give people a sense of dread? Their world was but scants decades from being utterly destroyed, best to let them never be aware until it was far too late. The Jagites were not especially adept at technology and had failed to achieve the knowledge to colonize other worlds. It was no surprise went the unthinkable happened and the governments of the world shamefully gave their subjects the word that they were essientally doomed.

Despair from that day on was a constant companion, ever feeding upon the immending doom of an entire civilization. People wailed in the streets and great and tragic wars raged across the surface, it was not long before conventional means were exhausted that chemical and biological warfare errupted, sending the planet into a downward spiral into madness. Demogagues, cults, and tyrants were born, rose to power, and snuffed out completely in the span of weeks. The very essence of reality seemed to have been lost upon Jagada as their people cried out to their deaf gods for salvation that would never come. For all intents and purposes the Jagites should have died in those days were it not for a being of immense and terrifying power that glanced their way, their screams tickled his ears, their despair filled him with the utmost joy and their will to live mildly entertained him. The Great Grandfather Nurgle, within the Immaterium heard their pleas, their cries for salvation, he laughed at their prayers to long dead gods and in those days he took pity upon them. No one knows when the Children of the Pox arose, nor how they came about, all that is known is that they rose in those bleak days as a world tore itself apart and faith was a resource rapidly being exhausted. They preached of the glory of life, of the joy of despair, of the warmth of a being they called Papa Nurgle, a great god that had heard their pleas and had sent his messengers to them so that they may be given the chance to live.

So it was that tens of thousands joined the Children and bowed their knees to Papa Nurgle, for his only commandment was that they be merry in their loyalty to him and spread his great and wonderful pathogens. This they did as the point of a rusted sword, as they burned one city after another, killed one great hero of their people after another -- all was brought to ruin. The great Huskarin Empire in the west was brought down in less than a month, the Church of the Vermillion Sun collapsed soon after their false prophets and blasphemous priests were cruificed upon disease ridden stone and their bodies were given over to a thousand different viruses so that they would be blessed in their final moments by Papa Nurgle who would hear their screams of agony and know of their desire for his loving forgiveness. Despite all that they brought to ruin, all the diseases that they spread or created in the laboratories, the knowledge of their impending doom was forever with them. Though as they killed and killed again, as each city they brought to a burning, blistered ruin, they cared less and less about their own lives for the blessing of Nurgle was with them. Great boils covered their bodies, sores that eternally oozed pus, wounds that became severely infected yet did not kill them, the palor of their skin either a dead white or a rotten green, soon their eyes crusted over from pus their fingers began savage claws and they were filled eternally with the blessed agony of disease and rot. They were death incarnate! As they stood within the burning remains of Keslin, the last bastion of civilization to fall upon Jagada, they cared not for their own fate for their lives were meaningless in the great scheme of things. They gave chants and praises to Papa Nurgle and sacrificed a great number of their own upon alters erected across the world to him, and praised those amongst their number who willingly sacrificed themselves so that blessed Plaguebearers could be brought forth into the Materium. Their fate no longer mattered to them and they were content to accept damnation for their souls had long been given to Nurgle so that their suffering may be increased for his pleasure.

Greatest among the Children was a Nekromancer whom called himself Nekros. He had been but a simple factory worker in the slums of Keslin many, many years ago when the Children first proclaimed the love of the Lord of Decay. He had even fought against them for quite some time, hoping to bring life and purity to Jagada so that even in her final days she would be cleansed of the rot of the Children. Long ago despair had gripped him in its iron fist as he stood in the middle of bloodied battlefield, bathed in the red light of his dying sun and knew that all would inevitably come to ruin. No matter how many victories they won over the Children, however many died, that they would never stop coming. Even if they could be cleansed from the world, the red sun, the damn red sun, would implode and bring all their efforts to not. It was here that he cried out to Grandfather Nurgle to damn his soul and take his prize. He ended his life that day with a bullet to the head, only to find no place for him within the Garden of Nurgle. The Pestilent Lord spoke to him, by means of puppets, that he was to lead the Children, if he was strong enough, and to give his life some purpose. The Lord of Decay desired to see Jagada worship him in its fullest before its sun imploded and vaporized them, he told Nekros that there was not salvation for him in the Warp and that he was forever damned. Thus when he awoke amongst the dead and the dying, Nekros was born and vowed that his civilization would be brought to ruin. That day in the ruin of Kislen he screamed into the heavens and proclaimed his world a dead, rotten husk and begged Papa Nurgle for release from this curse of life to be embraced within his loving, corrupt bossom for all time. He begged the Lord of Decay to bless him with death and an eternity of pain and torment while he screamed the praises of the the Rotted Lord within the Warp.

It was then as the sacrifices to Nurgle were at their peak, as the cultists chanted as one for more blessings, more plagues, more viruses, more rot -- that Papa Nurgle changed his mind. A Great Unclean One was summoned forth upon the altar at Kislen and spoke to Nekros, the Unclean God had decided to bless the people of Jagite for their astounding loyalty and worship, their willingness to die for the amusment of the Great Grandfather. It was there that the daemon told Nekros of a spell, forged by Nurgle himself, that would save his people so that they might go on missions across the galaxy in the service of their god. Ten million cultists were sacrificed upon a series of carefully erected altars across Jagada, as their infected blood covered blasphemous runes, the harsh chanting of billions of cultist, and the praising of Plaguebeaers and Nurglings, Nekros cast the spell of corruption upon the very thing that sought to end them, that had brought them to this point -- their sun. The red giant convulsed and imploded, only to slowly grow once more casting a baleful green-yellow light upon Nekros and his damned followers. The daemons of Nurgle gave praise only for their voices to be overpowered by the screaming of blessings and thankfulness of the billions of cultists. From their new, blighted sun, an endless swarm of plague flies descended upon Jagada creating vast hives within the cultists there as daemon vermin scuttled out of the ground. The planet was irreversbly changed into a Daemon World. The populace willingly accepted this fait and promised Papa Nurgle that all would one day bow before him. Nekros, most of all, gave his guarantee of eternal service and loyalty. The Universe would be brought to ruin and the myriad of races which inhabited the galaxy would praise the Lord of Decay one day, however many aeons it took to bring about.

Not long after Jagada was changed did the Chronosian Imperium get word for the blessings of Papa Nurgle upon this world sent convulsions throughout the Immaterium. Emissaires from the Envomved Fang, the legion of the Daemon Primarch Lucien, came forth from the wretched Warp in the Jagite system to find a region of space blessed by Nurgle. The very essence of space was corrupted, filled with diseases and pathogens that had no right to be there, each world they passed on their way to Jagada was blighted all the same as a screaming torrent of daemons cheered them as they plowed threw the corrupted space to take orbit upon the wretched world of Jagada. The fleet commander, Lord Halcion made his way upon the world of Jagada only to find a landscape of madness. The oceans were oily and black and still, for the planet's currents had been ceased by warp-magik, the creatures that lurked below were beyond description, the forests that once dominated the north, made burnt husks during the war, were now infested with the madness of daemons who gibbered from their branches that once broken oozed infested blood, not sap. The land itself was soft and spoungy, the ground writhing with countless billions of bacteria and pathogens. The creatures that appoarched them could only be given Halcion's respect, their bodies were dried husks that were homes to plague flies who swarmed around them constantly, a pact had been made by the Jagites that the flies would protect and bless them in exchange for slowly eating away their sanity, and their minds. Once a host was used up, another would be taken by the flies and the process would be continued for all time. Dominating their ruinous landscape was the great fortress of Kislen, now an infected monestary to the Great Grandfather. It walls oozed green with slime and old mucus, its defenders did not contain the plague flies but were called the 'The Host'. for they willing nutured the various plagues created by their Plague Lord Nekros, who forever worked to gain the arcane secrets of Papa Nurgle's plagues. Halicon met with the Life-Taker that day upon his bloated fortress and a pact was made, for Halcion in his travels had never seen a system so utterly blessed by the Pestilent Lord. Jagada would serve the Chronosian Imperium and in exchange technology, knowledge, and arcane lore would be provided. Nekros looked upon Halcion and knew that Nurgle had blessed him, for he too had the Mark of the Plague Lord upon him, and accepted.

Those days were long since passed, Nekros thought, has he sat upon his Altar-Throne. It was a sickening thing to behold, for it was little more than mound of corpses that were not entirely dead, they moaned and grabbed at him, begging him to free them from their torment. These were random souls brought before him across Jagada, they were merely heaped upon one another, their bodies filled with more blessings than they could truly fathom. Great ribbed tubes made of plastek, erroded to the point that it was surprising that they even functioned, rose at random places throughout the mound and seemed connected to various gaping holes in Nekros' body. Once they had been great boils they had burst some time ago so that the pipes could be pressed into them by his servants and nekromancers over time his body accepted them, eagerly, for the contents they contained were the life fluids, the dying blood, of the corpse mound beneath him. His eyes were gone, each socket had been allowed to remain while great gouges were taken out under each on both sides, allowing the blessed sign of Nurgle to cover his face. He mouth ceased to exist as well just another orfiace which he commanded be given over to his research. For as the corpse mound's life-blood flowed threw him he grew new and more deadly diseases and watched as the bacteria and plagues he spawned within each of his corpse-slaves fought one another for their lords entertainment. For Nekros' Altar-Throne was both its own world, a laboratory, and an arena of the damned, no was could leave, not even Nekros -- he had, decades ago, surrendered his mobility so that he may torment he subject eternally, for he found it pleasing to Papa Nurgle. Those unlucky enough to be heaped upon and connected into his mound were given an equal chance as others -- a chance to become one with their bloated lord. It was survival of the fittest upon a celluar-level. His subjects must best one another and best himself, all upon the promise that they were be blessed more than they could imagine by the Lord of Pestilence. They soon found these lies lethal as once they bested their lord, he would merely ingest their very essence: life-blood, mind, and soul. Their dried husk of a corpse would be disconnected by his ever present servants and used in the Flesh Temples that covered the world of Jagada. Nekros would, however, grow only stronger has he incorporated the plagues and blights that they had created to best him, into his own personage -- his bulk would only expand and his servants would praise Papa Nurgle for their lord's growth in prestige and power.

Those that thought Nekros blind to the dealings of his world would be wrong upon a lethal level. The Life-Taker was eternally connected into the very essence of Jagada -- every corrupted tree was his to travel within, the ever spoungy ground permitted his psychic essence leave to travel wherever it desired. Every soul upon the world was never out of the sight of their beloved and kind lord who would smite and slay any who doubted him or sought to bring his reign to an end. Within his throne-room the Bloated Lord toiled with but a fraction of his mind upon his experiments within the Corpse Altar, while part of him, perhaps the smallest of fragments would forever gaze into the green-yellow sun of Jagada, knowing that it had not always been like that and wondering when everything had gone so wrong ... when his soul had been damned for eternity. Such disloyalty was not pleasing to Papa Nurgle, such treacherous thoughts, but the despair and pain he brought Nekros was, and thus the Lord of Decay had never reprimanded him for it.

The doors to his throne room, long crusted shut for nothing happened quickly upon Jagada, nothing changed overnight but rather over the coarse of days, perhaps even months. This day, however, things moved very quickly despite the blasphemy of it all for the Altar of Nekromancers had howled across Jagada as their blighted sun rose and the message of Remiel boomed within their rotting minds. Many died instantly, the sheer shock and blessed majesty of recieveing a message from the Lord of Chronosia, the True Master of Mankind, was simply too much for mere mortal minds to handle. Yet some, by the blessing of the Great Grandfather, survived and could just barley contain the magnitude of the message they had recieved. Ruin was everywhere in their vision and a promise of death and damantion. Thus a Nekromancer was taken forth by the Children to the Rotting Temple in Kislen.

'You ... have come a long ... way,' breathed Nekros, who spoke from a mouth that did not exist, 'Nekromancer ...'

The blister-covered form of the Nekromancer who stood before him, plagued by leprosy and small pox, remained kneeling before his lord, his mind still sizzling from the message, 'Yes my lord, this is a message of great importance ... Emperor Remiel, True Master of Mankind, has spoken ...'

A low rumbled filled the room and shook the pathetic Nekromancer, it was Nekros chuckling, 'What does ... our lord ... command of us?'

The Nekromancer kept his eyes down, for to look upon his Bloated Lord was to willing accept damnation and disgrace -- he was a Champion of Nurgle, far beyond the creature that he himself was, despite that he was forced to look upon Nekros and his mind was instantly flayed by the sight of his lord but even has his brain boiled within his skull the message was extracted from him, for it came forth in a scream of agony and repentance:

Let it be known to all the great powers of the galaxy who have had occasion and privilege to call the Chronosian Imperium friend and ally, that they are invited forthwith to Chronosia Prime. There the True Lord of Mankind shall make an announcement, a grand gesture regarding the first moves of resurgence and the plans to come. All who would have a place in the blueprints of a new galaxy, a new sense of co-sanguinity with the blessed of the True Gods, need but arrive and be clasped to the bosom of the Scion of Chaos, Master of the Human Race and shepherd of it's one true destiny amidst the stars.

False prophets and coalitions of heathens grace our galaxy with their pernicious taint and inhuman influence; so we invite you to gather and hear the pronouncements of Remiel De Drakan, the true Voice of Chaos upon this plane- the only one who truly speaks for the Gods and serves them with victory eternal, not insipid failure or surrender ...

The Champion of Nurgle took the words in, even as he bested yet another of the corpses upon his Altar and cast his pathogens back into his body where they would savagely tare him apart for weeks before he could reign in control of them again. His mind looked forth from the eyes of the corpse he had just conquored, no doubt placed in that exact position by the blessings of Nurlge so that he might see the doors to his throne room. They were doors of stone and obisidian but bled from weeping sores that covered them, as mouths full of vicious teeth slithered their tongues out to drink the vile fluids which oozed down the doors. The doors themselves bled more this day for they had been opened, the scab which he sealed them had been ripped open by Nekros' mind to allow the broken husk of a Nekromancer to enter his domain. He moved eyes that were not his own to gaze once upon one and then upon the other, the two warriors who stood eternal guard over their lord. They were encrusted and fused in the living-organic walls of Kislen their bodies and life fluid dancing within the walls, courting the souls of daemons and revealing in the excess that was Nurgle's teachings. The message from Remiel was serious and had been the first that Jagada had recieved since Halcion's arrival some decades ago, and he would have to make an apperance. His obvious form has long since been sacrificed to Papa Nurgle to further his own acrane knowledge of the Rot, therefore a host would be needed.

'Come forth my ... chosen,' he breathed through one of the corpses mouths. With a great riping sound one of his blessed guardians broke free of the wall, from the great sore came a thousand thousand screams as the daemons and viruses which feasted upon his corrupted form wailed in dismay to have their life essence taken from them. The rotting corpse that passed as his warriors staggered forward as if his mind had forgottten the feeling of actually walking, after righting himself more than once he more collapsed than fell to one kneel and gave praise to his lord. This honor of being the Life-Takers host would cost him his life and soul, but both were something he lost long ago. Nekros' essence, one of coagulated blood, infected flesh, and rotten warp-magik spilled forth from the orifice of every corpse that composed of his Altar-Throne and smashed his guardian to the spongy floor of his throne room as his essence ate heartily of the flesh and soul of his guardian.

Nekros rose forth from the ground within his new frame, that of his broken guardian. He felt his servant soul being cast into the warp where the very daemons he onced mindlessly tortured within the walls of this very palace awaited his arrival to exact their revenge upon him with fervor not seen or capable of in the mortal realms. The Life-Taker turned from his corpse-altar and began to leave, his mind already sending impulses threw the palace to ready his newly constructed vessl, which he had lovingly named Nurgle's Might. Just as he began to leave the room, a hand glapsed his ankle -- he slowly turned around to see the gibbering nekromancer looking up at him with eyes of defiance. He refused deaths embrace and had been granted blessed life by Grandfather Nurgle. Nekros smiled, 'You are blessed with a second chance, oh messenger, and I will give it to you.' He lovingly bent down and picked up the nekromancer, and with a thought summoned his throne-rooms servants out of the festering hives that they had built for themselves in corners of his throne-room. They wildly crawled over, pathetic creatures all, and kneeled before their lord. He walked over to the corpse-altar and carefully placed the nekromancer upon the mound, his eyes now weeping blood as they begged not for this fait.

The Bloated Lord placed his hand upon the nekromancer's blistered cheek and smiled, 'My son ... oh my gifted son ... this is your fait. The fait laid out for you by Papa Nurgle. Embrace it, for should you succeed in besting me, you will be eternally blessed by the Great Grandfather himself and elevated to heights unknown.' Without allowing for more defiance he turned from his nekromancer as his throne servants connected him to the corpse mound and he felt a great wailing in the warp as the nekromancer cried out in agony and pain.

He exited the ever oozing doors to his throne room into the Great Rotting Hall that laid just beyond. The room was vast beyond, far larger than his own throne room and stinking from a potent cocktail of rotting flesh, sickness, and stale sweat. Swamps covered this blighted landscape as upon islands of rotting marshland rose Great Unclean Ones, who were warlords in their own right, as they instructed armies of Nurglings and Palace Slaves into eternal war with other Great Unclean Ones each veying for a mound of marshland here, a pile of corpses there, all the while they drank of the swamp waters and bellowed vicious, yet friendly insults at one another. This eternal petty war stopped as soon as Nekros' avatar entered the room -- for even though the daemons and slaves had rarely seen Nekros, and even though his form had changed, they could feel his aura within the Immaterium and bowed their bloated, leathry heads in difference to the mortal that made their existance upon this plane possible. The slaves bowed out of love rather than hate, for this eternal damnation was their birthright and only those slaves who had no died after years of service within the Dark Mechanicum's rotting factories upon Jagada's moons, or upon the surface of Jagada itself, were permitted to be palace slaves -- to be toys for the amusment of their big-brothers, the Great Unclean Ones.

He crossed this vast landscape within a matter of hours, at the end of his long journey he was greeted by mighty form of Chapter Master Satoloc, leader of Jagada's own Chaos Marines, the Blightbringers. He smiled for even Satoloc could sense his lord in this fake frame and kneeled before him. The Blightbringers were truly his favored children for they had recently returned from the wars upon Atkinson's World. Satoloc's armored was a dirty white, with weeping sores beginning to form, his face looked twisted beyond regonition, covered in the blessings of the Pestilent Lord.

'Lord Satoloc, I am truly blessed by Grandfather Nurgle for your timely arrival,' spoke the leader of Jagada.

'Diviine lord ... we are returned,' said Satoloc as he raised his head and looked Nekros in the eyes, 'Victorious'

'Clearly my son for you are my Blightbringer and you shall never fail,' he said warmly, 'For now, we have far greater matters to attend.'

(To save myself the horrid part of having to spawn in-system. Let your next post merely ackowledge my ships have warped in system and request docking permission.)

[The Steppe Empire]

Fear Gripped the Republic whne a Cimmarian Seer had a vision of The Galaxy in flames. Many knew what that ment: The Chronosians were prepareing something. The Message the Seer heard confirmed that it came from The Chronosian Leader, Remiel De Drakan. Word of this went the The Supreme Chancellor and The Celestial Senate.

With The Republic on the very edge of Panic, Many looked to The Cimmarian Samurais for help, hoping The Chronosians would not attack The Republic and go against Rome or even The Terran Alliance. To say the Republic was in Crisis was a overstatement: This was Full Disaster in the making.

[Abruzi]

To behold his Lord personally was a surprisingly sublime pleasure for the Imperator. To feel the power of the Gods so focused allowed his ever competing Daemons to remain silent for a moment. They were so tiring, eternally acting out the Great Game that raged in the Warp within Azoth’s body, they made existing in this plane of reality almost impossible. As he slowly consumed a glass of the richest and finest red wine imaginable, wine sure to be a product of a Slanneshi Cult, images began to fill his head of the coming days. Despite this summons being as of yet, unknown in purpose, the Imperator could feel that this unity of the Chaotic Imperium’s vassals and allies would see entire sectors of Space ravaged.

Yet even as these thoughts and images filled his head they began to twist, the whispers of the Changer of Ways filling his head with eventualities and possibilities that were ridiculous and sure to happen at the same time. He saw great shifts in the web of powers within the Galaxy, great and nameless empires cast down. The Byzantine Foe risen to amazing heights and the Xeno glorified atop city spires. Yet as quickly as it had come, the vision was gone. The room and his Lord shifted back into focus and he beheld the Warlord of Nhur-Galladu.

The love of the gods must be great to allow the Imperator to be in the company of two such ancient and powerful beings. He suddenly felt his weakness, he was an Adeptus Astartes, blessed with no less than four Daemonic Entities within him and yet he knew that in a fight he would last less than an instant against the fury of those before him. Servitude had been a relic of his days within the Imperium but at long last it reared it’s head again. This revelation was accompanied by another visions, this one dark a mysterious.

He sat in a dark room, the far off wail of tortured souls and the silence of his Daemons meaning that it must be within the Warp. Ash rained from the heavens, eternally raining because he willed it to be so. Mounds of bones surrounded his ancient stone throne and yet they were writhing as if alive. Gradually the bones took shape and around him rose his Legions, his Triarii and Princeps numbering unknown millions saluted as one, the wails louder now. After his legions rose his cities, and mountains, and his Daemon World of Atrum Terra firmly took shape. Yet something was different, the unending wails were silent and the gibbering of his Daemons were gone.

This vision ended as abruptly as the previous one and the chamber again slid back into focus. Nodding slowly, Azoth felt the tearing of reality a moment before another being joined them. The man rose and lowered his hood, to reveal a handsome face. He bowed as the Imperator expected but then had the audacity to call the Master of Mankind by his name! Anticipating his Lord to strike down this disrespectful wretch, the Imperator could only watch wit baited breath.

[Chronosia]

The divine one simply smiles at the familiarity of brothers and allies; turning from them so as to lead them deeper into the Palace proper. Now each of them is gathered, ferried from orbit or transported by ineffable teleportation mechanisms. The Emperor makes conversation as they take the long walk through the bowels of the palace, past serried ranks of kneeling Astartes. A legion is on it's knees in obeisance and praise to Remiel, a testament of power as strong as the immense Titans that guard the main gate, or the ever burning forge-moon of Chronosia Secundus, spewing it's molten gains from the immense volcano-foundries. Those who have not beheld the vast fastnesses of the Hydran forge systems think it a mechanical nightmare, a garden of artificed delights and devilry; it is but the tip of the iceberg that constitutes Chronosian power.

By contrast his words are small and idle things; he asks of the affairs of their states and the happenings of their homeworlds; he talks of those he has visited with something like wry nostalgia and pries for details of those he has yet to see. Such things pass the time as they navigate the immensity of the Palace; Remiel knows his way unerringly. “Just a little farther”, he says; a smile on his lips; “Just a little farther.”

They emerge into heat and red sunlight, a balcony overlooking a vast and open space. The breath catches in the throat of every gathered guest to see the sight before them, just as the breath of all contained before them catches at the sight of the Emperor.

The arena is immense. Arena Primus; the Emperor's personal arena; is a yawning wound in the centre of the palace, it's edges hung with tapestries and banners. Old glories, coming attractions; testament of hundreds of years of combat and service. In the midst of it fight two warriors; each squaring off against lesser foes- slaves and prisoners, filth and degenerates. One is a whirling dervish, a hurricane of fluttering silks, shimmering metal and keen blade-edge; he wields a swordin each hand, cleaving off limbs and heads with wild abandon; laughter spills from his lips like music from a lyre.

The other is a hulking brute; all savagery and gene-forged muscle, slabs of it gleaming in the hot sun. A chainaxe is held in his hands, rendering even the sturdiest of foes to unrecognisable offal. He spits blood and lets loose a ululating cry to the heavens; blood and thunder, vengeance and war, all for the Lord Khorne.

Remiel smiles to see it, seating himself on a great throne even as servitors attend with liquors and sweet-meats. He sips from a glass and gestures to his fellows to join him, to be seated and enjoy;

“I thought some entertainment was in order, friends.”

[Balrogga]

Nhur-Galladu walked along with the group, listening to the small talk between the Chaos Lords and their Host. When he arrived upon the large balcony overlooking the arena, he did have to admit it was impressive. The fighters on the floor were equally impressive, one was skilled and the other seemed to be the equivalent of an elemental of battle.

“Very interesting. The slaves appear to be just the warm up, what is the main attraction?

The Lord of the Abyss leaned on the railing to get a better look at the two main fighters. They seemed to be pretty good but in the Abyss they would not last long. They were still human after all. When Remiel offered the seats, The Ta’Nar took the one offered to him.

[Orthodox Gnosticism]

Like times of old, the Geminese finally approached Chronosia Prime. Incense burned from the fevor of the followers of Chaos, chants rose to the heavens within the ship. This was a holy day, a day of glory and of aspiration. The Holy one, the incarnation of Chaos had Returned. Remiel….

Andrea Hester was stowed away in her own room. She didn’t believe in Chaos, not like the others. She instead was simply in this for the most basic and primal of reasons. Political points with the great council of Geminion. With the Cult of Aphrodite under her belt, it would re-solidify her position, as Anti-MacIntryre, and pro Geminese.

Soon the shuttle landed, and the pilgrams departed, onto the holy of holies, Chronisa prime.

(Chrono, sorry for the crappy post but I hate landing posts)

[Fulma]

John Lok, felt his body phase and shift to the planet below. And as soon as he stood there he saw perhaps the worst thing he could see. A Ta'Nar...but insted of giving himself away he let himself go with the conversations. But yet he gave nothing of his people. beside him the two spartans kept quite. But the whole time they kept one eye on the Ta'Nar.

As soon as they enterd the arena Johns breath escaped him. It was just like home. The smell of death, people screaming for their man and the gladiators dancing for whos better. And the one with all the baldes, the force of nature was the best. But Behind the diplomate, the younger spartan stepped forward.

"Can any one enter the ring my lord?"

[Solar Communes]

Travelling

Everything changed. It was a long time ago when Solar Gemeinden was called Solar Communes and they used a latin alphabet instead of runes, a time when the experiments still haven't brought their full consequence. This allowed for much more effective bridges after a long age of isolation, but the new people to come from this event would have little reasons to call them out, and their memories, their identities. Everything changed, but old enemies and threats remained the same in spite of their reclusion and isolationism.

And then, from Himmel, once called Eden, a transmission was heard, and it was known. They were the shadows calling for the dishonorable to join their feast of savagery. And there it was: Chronosia! A name that was part of their history, a part of a great battle, of the loss of a poor soul of a psychic who dared to explore the vortex. Annika Beckenbauer listened to the voice, the twisted voice by a million worms wiggling inside a single mouth, a voice of a shadow, of an enemy of man, gods and outer gods alike. She was in a comfy reclining seat decorated with sculptures of ravens in obsidian, her enjoyment of an ear-deafening song interrupted by the sudden call and the torments and horrors implicit in such voice.

"Let it be known to all the great powers of the galaxy who have had occasion and privilege to call the Chronosian Imperium friend and ally, that they are invited forthwith to Chronosia Prime. There the True Lord of Mankind shall make an announcement, a grand gesture regarding the first moves of resurgence and the plans to come. All who would have a place in the blueprints of a new galaxy, a new sense of co-sanguinity with the blessed of the True Gods, need but arrive and be clasped to the bosom of the Scion of Chaos, Master of the Human Race and shepherd of it's one true destiny amidst the stars.

False prophets and coalitions of heathens grace our galaxy with their pernicious taint and inhuman influence; so we invite you to gather and hear the pronouncements of Remiel De Drakan, the true Voice of Chaos upon this plane- the only one who truly speaks for the Gods and serves them with victory eternal, not insipid failure or surrender."

Annika shivered from mereley hearing such frightening and familiar voice, and got up from the seat and began to wave her finger around the air as people suddenly appeared all around her, and sometimes their bodies overlapped each other but soon the room began to unnaturally expand towards all directions, finally growing large enough to encompass everybody interested in listening: a significant minority of the entire population within the planet. For Himmel was a planet relatively close to Sheol, a system that was completely wiped out through their own hands due to the incurable taint of Chaos within it. Any rise in the activities of this force was a very significant threat, specially now that the connection with their home universe has been stabilized. They spoke no words. They thoughts were slowly converging into one major thought and they temporarily gave away their individualities.

"There is a large chance of anybody here not being welcome for this meeting. These so called "gods" of Chaos are major enemies of our gods, for they are forces of decadence, and they tried to subjugate us once. But never again shall them. Let me entertain them with an acceptance of this invitation. Together I will stand strong and not allow them to deceive or corrupt my self. And thus the body of Annika shall serve as my emmissary, as I have decided," Annika spoke in an uncommon voice, which resembled an attempt of a single individual trying to immitate a chorus. She was no longer herself, and thus, in all the anachronistic leather clothing seemingly come straight out of Hugo Boss during the 1940s she could wear at the same time, she woke up from the other world, and was already conveniently sitting inside the bridge of the Speer des Ymdahl. It was already far enough from orbit to get through the business. The always present eldar psychic tried to see the many what ifs as he aligned and prepared everything for jumping through the webway.

The Speer then vanished, travelling through the maze universe as "Annika" pondered on whether or not just turn back while it was possible. The navigator and historian finally broke the silence, asking:

"Hello everyone, what do you really hope to achieve by coming to a conference of the shadow gods?"

"They are not gods, Elan Fiennes, they are only weak shadows tied to a very strict cluster of multiverses, and besides, I believe they are not really related to our shadows elsewhere. They are a characteristic of this cluster, not of our real cluster. And well, we have some very, very," she emphasized with her now chorus-like voice, "superficial similarities among us. For one, we also shed blood for a god, just not as often and only the blood of tyrants and invaders who attempted to subjugate our people, but their god is a bit less selective about what kind of blood he wants, and won't curse those who shed blood of innocents in his name like ours. And well, we are instruments of change, I am change for I am never the same. No species might have changed as much as ours. And so I hope that by merely being there, we can convince the Changer of Ways, as they call it, that we are more useful for his delusions of grandeur as a master schemer of all the multiverse if kept undisturbed."

"You still didn't answer my question, people." Elan commented as he realized how difficult was to talk with a constructed formed by millions of minds.

"Simple: we want to make this Remiel realize for once an all they have no good reasons to try another failed invasion against our territories."

Elan nodded, but he then questioned, before focusing all his attention to navigation:

"Can't you speak like a normal person for a change?"

"Of course I can," Annika answered with her usual voice, "but that would be less impressive and besides I need to represent the fact I am everyone and not only Annika Beckenbauer right here, because all who joined influence equally into the behavior and nature of my self. But for you, I will speak like a normal person."

"Rhetoric," Elan shrugged, "I see. Very well, this shouldn't take much longer."

Arrival

There was no fanfarre. Nothing at all. The tainted, twisted and depraved world of Chronosia Prime would only know there was a single soul there, protected by a soulstone, and the spheroid spacecraft covered in ice that suddenly came from the webway. It was only a few dozens of meters long and further few meters wide, definitively not as imposing or overcompensating as some of the more unecessarily massive vessels that seemed to be there.

"It seems we have arrived late, for a change, ehm, I suggest you get over with this quickly," Elan answered as a small cracking sound was heard and a minor fissure appeared in the soulstone amulet he wore.

"All right, I will get on with this. I came with Annika for a reason, after all."

"Yes, keep away from me, her presence alone was already unnerving and now I can almost see the one who destroyed my people trying to get me. I am sorry, Anni... I mean, everyone, but I will have to go and get you back once you are finished. I can't risk my soul for this! You must go now!"

"No problem, nothing is going to happen with me. Just let me go." Annika pointed to a trash ejection pod inside the small shuttle and began to walk towards it. It was large enough to fit her inside. The chute closed then with her inside, and Elan then issued a mental command, to which the Speer answered by maneuvering carefully, and then ejecting Annika's body through space, to reach right into orbit at a very high speed, and close to the Palace, but not close enough for the impact to provoke any damage to it. Immediately the Speer returned to the webway, as the forces of Chaos and the psychically active slowly perceived this strange person had no presence within the warp.

Her skin was set on fire and burned completely upon atmospheric entry, as the outer shell gave place to a strange combination of obviously dead flesh with metal that seemed to slowly regenerate while the fall continued.

"Guys, don't even try to separate yourselves or something is going to have your souls for dinner, now pay attention. I just resurfaced my individuality to tell you this: no matter what happens now, I am happy to see that you had the balls to stop playing those MMOs and watching sterile sitcoms created by AIs and face a reality like this. I congratulate you all. I am afraid you won't remember me saying this once we return to individuality, but I am really proud of you, now," Annika sighed, even if only in thoughts, "Here goes down my consciousness again. Hopefully I won't wake up in hell." and thus she joined the Many again as the skies could be seen rapidly through her fall.

Then the other "Annika" remembered that they weren't particularly clear about their intentions, and hoping it was not too late to announce, broadcasted through a simple radio that was inside her body, this time, using Annika's real voice rather than any fancy chorus as certain thoughts led to certain conclusions:

"My name is Annika Beckenbauer and I am here on behalf of the Solar Communes", she spoke like an Austrian that just learned how to speak in a more common language. "Don't worry, we have changed a lot since the last time we have met, Chaosführer".[/i]

And then a loud bang came as her body was wrecked against the ground, opening a deep gap. "Annika" felt no pain although her body was completely wrecked by it and was completely devoid of skin by now. Slowly, she crawled out of the hole, grabbing a stasis container with a large syringe. After plunging it into her heart, Annika's body began to recover very fastly, and soon h out of her own skin after it regenerated fully. She ended looking like a tall, blonde woman with a visible mean attitude in her expression. Her skin was grown back and even her two legs that were amputated by the crash have grown anew, while a black leather attire began to grow. It was obvious she was not alive, in a biological sense.

"I know I am late and unexpected," staring at the large Tzeentch minion that was the closest of all the reviled creatures to her, and showing no visible fear, "but having schedules isn't really something respectful to Chaos, unless I missed the memo about the nature of It. By then, it became blatantly obvious she was a blank, as she began to head towards the Palace, hoping to catch up, and asked to one of the servitors attending as doormen at the entrance:

"May I speak with Chaosführer Remiel? If yes, could you or somebody else escort me to him?"

"By Instroher! What a waste of brainpower." "She" thought when realizing the servitor wasn't just a brainless human body controlled by an AI. This would definitively become an interesting meeting. Hopefully they would be able to hold their shock and desire to order an extermination once they get past the tip of the iceberg and witnessed the true horrors of the place.

[Vetega]

The Emperor heard the message and knew that he had to go himself. He also felt a presence that he ahd felt before. Ta'Nar. He gathered 3 ships. The Seraphia was his flagship. It had served him well, and it was enormously large. Larger than the ship he based it's design off of. It was so big that it could not land on a planet or re-enter the atmosphere without crashing. It was the most advanced ship in the Federation. It had a crew of nearly 40,000 during peacetime and even more in war.

Also, 2 Morning Star Class warships were on escort duty with the Seraphia. The Aziel and the Hezion were also quite large, but they were not as big as the Seraphia.

They were not far away when they intercepted it, so they made a course change and jumped. They appeared on the other side of the planet, and away form all the other ships that were already here.
"Shields up. Weapons on standby. Have the Hezion and the Aziel prepare to launch on the command." Captain Tallas ordered.
The Emperor stared at the planet in wonder. What would the Ta'Nar be doing here. He would have to find out.
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Hnagar Bay 3

"All hands, set status to Condition 1. Prepare to launch fighters."
"Great now what has the Red King gotten us into?" Jeryn asked his maintenance chief.
"Don't know. Hey by the way, why do you keep calling him the Red King?" he replied.
"You haven't heard about the Massacre at Selexis? The rebel fleet were gathering there for a final attack on Vetega Prime. So he sent in his most powerful ship. It was the size of a planet, and it completely wiped out everything in that system. He watched as it happened. They started calling him the Red King after that because of the eerie red light that the weapons used on Selexis did to it's atmospere." he explained as he continued working on his Stargazer.