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While human still battles across the wastes of its own cradle, the galaxy does not sit quiet, these are those stories

While human still battles across the wastes of its own cradle, the galaxy does not sit quiet, these are those stories

Among the howling peaks of Hymalazia the air had almost remained pure. The heavy corruption that scoured the planet, unable to rise to the pristine height of the great mountains, the pinnacle of the world.

Here three figures remained, stoic against the howling winds which could rip a mortal man from the mountain and cast them into oblivion. One stood, surveying both his companions and the world beyond. From these peaks, the world stretched out below, an unending view of dust and smog wreathed landscapes, many of which had once been the great oceans, now retracted to what the world that had been could only consider poisonous saline lakes. The world that was, would be his, and by extension, all of humanity. The true sons and daughters of mankind who would rule the stars.

The standing figure was a being of cosmic proportions, a towering giant wreathed in supernatural power, howling as loudly in the mind as the wind did in the air, clad simply in the dark armour of his people, and nothing more, against the biting mountain cold.

The kneeling figures were barely less impressive, humanity writ large, albeit in a starkly different manner. One had stoic features, at odds with the savagery of the armour he bore, the other embraced it, a warlord of epic proportions, ready to strike at those who would risk his master’s ire. Both were wrought from the same genetic perfection, but they embodied different aspects of the forces beneath the command of the towering godly giant. One would lead the belicose legions of the Thunder Warriors, the other would command the noble forces of the Custodians, even if both were ultimately drawn from the latter’s number.

“Aristagorus, we have received the response from the warlords of Gyptus, from the self-proclaimed Dynasts of their ancient cities.”

“What tell the wordsmiths, Oh Emperor?”

“They have seen the fealty of the Achmaenid Empire, and described it was weakness. Many of our servants were slain for the peace and unity they offered in good faith.”

“Unleash us, Sire, let us show them the folly of their arrogance.”

“Your request is my will, you shall take the Imperial Army, take my Thunder Warriors. Cast down the dynasts, take their riches as your spoils, yet those who bend their knees may keep their lives. That is the will of your Emperor.”

“So shall it be, in your name.” As he spoke, the wilder figure, Aristagorus, rose from his kneeling posture, bowing his head to the Emperor once more, before noding in familiarity to the other figure, still upon his knees. The dark tan of his skin casting back the gleaming of the mountain Sun. “When next we meet, it shall be in our shared glory.” Then he strode down the mountain, a bulwark against the raging storm.

The remaining figure, Valdor, remained in silence, as immune to the bluster of the departing figure as the mountain itself was from the storm, no matter how it raged.

“I have another duty for you, Constantin Valdor.”

“Speak it and it shall be so, My Emperor.”

“A matter of greater finesse. The Terrawatt Clans of the North have sought my aid, the barbarians of Ursch threaten them, and so they may yet be brought into the fold. We are not yet positioned to wrest the North from the hated-Patriarch, yet we may aid and appraise. Select those you trust with such duty, and find your measure of these Clans.” The Emperor, a corona of ligth from the storm about it, spoke with as much force as the wind. “It is a matter of less honour, but its execution is as important.”

“The only honour I seek is your own, the only glory I seek is humanity’s birthright.”

“Then be about your duty.”


[The Delta Nilus] [Siege of the City of Memphos]

“Turn back! His Divine Majesty Commands You!”

The battle cry, or prayer, it matter not, was fiercly meant, screamed from the lips of a true believer, as one of the robed warriors of the enemy crashed down upon their target.

“Your gods are not here, little man, just me.” Aristagorus’ fist met the warrior as he lunged through the air, catching him before he could land, let alone land a blow. The gene-enhanced armoured fist of the Emperor’s Champion caving through rudimentary armour, blood, and bone with ease. Where once there was man, there was suddenly red mist, the baseline human bisected by the force of the punch alone.

The tribune fought bare faced, his helmet clamped to his side, as he and his warriors pushed through the outskirts of the ancient city. He relished the taste of war, the adrenaline of perceiving the war with his true sense. His features were handsome but harsh, bronzed skin bare of any hair, with eye nearly golden in their vibrance.

All along the Delta Nilus, so named for the ancient river which had once fed this ancient land, now simply a spider’s web of barely fertile channels in the desiccated desert, battles were raging as the forces of the Emperor, along with his new Imperial allies, pushed against the cities of the Gyptus. The enemy were not strongly united, the towering cities of the Gyptian Dynasts each wielding armies and wealth in their own right, but they were dug in, and to turn them out of each city was a battle of fierce intensity. Memphos was the largest of the Northern Gyptian cities, boasting the grandest of the great Temple monuments in the region. To cast it down would be a great victory, a triumph of the Imperial Truth over this heathen religion.

Aristagorous cared little for the complexities of his creator’s vision or beliefs, but he did for the opportunity for conquest, to lead his warriors in glory and to hear the lamentation of his enemy.

With brutal efficiency, he lead the Thunder Warriors with him through the building, they were warriors unto his nature, ethused by the slughter yet not entirely lost in it like the savages to the North. Mortal men fell before them in such close confines with ease, no amount of desperate prayer or begs for mercy would save them. Their overlords had refused to kneel even when the armies of the legions massed beyond their city, now the fools would pay the price for following the wrong lord.

A victorious roar of triumph left his lips as he bursed through the final doorway onto the roof. The heavy side arm he wield in one hand barking with great force, the stub rounds boring clean through the first two assailants. The target of the strike, the automated artillery defence gun which continued, even as its defenders fell, to pound away into the night, was finally silenced with the throw of his spear, the weapon crushing into the firing mechanism and finally ceasing the attack. As he did so, a resounding crackled chorus of vox reports in his ear informed him that similar strike groups had cleared their targets, the army could continue its adance.

“Move into the city, let them know the folly of defyin us, men of the Emperor!” The order was simplistic, but the plan had been constructed to greater detail before the strike. Now they would simply claim what was their right.
Collab with @Ruby

Questions, Answers, Dreams

The Day Of The Tourney

The tournament ground was abuzz. In the bright light of mid-morning, the very day that the tournament was set to begin, the Blackfyres had arrived.

The call had carried through the assembled throng, passing from servant to servant, knight to knight, lord to lord. With fanfare to match the Targaryens from which their line drew, the sons and daughters of Daemon Blackfyre had arrived in force. His eldest twins had lead the way, garbed in the red plate that they had styled for some time, accomplished knights as they were in their own right, receiving no small share of the glory of adulation in their arrival.

Even that paled next to what was to come, a wave of anticipation that rippled through the throng of already gathering small-folk and attendants that suddenly crashed into life at the figure many had travelled great distance to see. The armour that clad his body was black, darker than night, contrasting with the flowing red of the tabard atop it. His features were concealed behind a helm, but it was instantly recognisable, the temples flaring into the wings of a dragon, which trailed into the rim of the visor, ending in two draconic mouths. The third head was formed in engravings on the crest of the helm, catching the light such that even with the darker colour, the visage was clear. The cheering begun before he was even in sight to most, the first cry of his name drifting to him as he spurred his steed into motion, from trot to canter, leaving behind the wheelhouses which brought the non-riders of his assembled retinue.


It was a greeting the rivalled any of the house of the dragon, and to many, he was. A true blooded Valyrian Prince, born of a Princess and Prince-to-be-King. A monarch, if not for chance.


The cries continued as he moved into the first clearing within the tent-city of the tourney grounds, riders, his sons among them, fanning out to create a cordone around their sire, Blackfyre banners unfurling in the morning glaze, the soft wind enough to stir them into life above the thunder of hooves. The cheering reached crescendo when the Blackfyre sire halted his steed and pulled his helm free, held under one arm. The same wind that caught the banners threw back the silver-gold hair which framed his royal features, violet eyes as deep as any Targaryen’s had been for generations sparkling with mirth at the well wishes of the crowd. Each individual those eyes passed over felt a momentary, personal, connection to Daemon. He had that ability, an easy, effortless, charisma which burned as brightly for the commoner as it did the high lord. In those moments, the strain of life faded away. The endless struggle for vindication. The love of the crowd didn’t discriminate between Targaryen and Blackfyre. But it was a fleeting love.

Then that gaze fell instead to the view of Summerhall, rising majestically over the camp and tournament grounds.

Reality came crashing back.
“I will go to the palace, announce us to our hosts.” Daemon spoke as the eldest of his son’s drew near, handing the lance he bore in his other hand to him as he did so. “Behave yourselves, the first lists are not long hence.” The comment was made with mirth and it brought a laugh from Aegon.

“As you say, Father.”

The mood was far quieter close to the palace, set back as it was from the nearest open space where the tournament could be struck. Still, the sound and smell of so much human activity reached here, passing over pristine gardens, bouncing from perfect artistic stone. There was nothing quite like Summerhall in the Seven Kingdoms. To many it represented everything that the Targaryen lineage had fallen to, that they wished Daemon to replace and rebuild, but he did not think so.

It was a dream of what could be, the kind that had taken Targaryens from lords in the sea to Kings of a continent.

He swung himself out of the saddle of his horse, handing the reigns to a particularly attentive page boy.

“Good, hard work builds strong knights, you’ll be a ser yet.” Daemon smiled to the lad, pressing a coin from his saddlebag to his palm. “Make sure you don’t lose her.” He jested, although the young man hadn’t quite recovered from registering just who’s steed he had collected. He was still standing in place when Daemon began his walk through the last of the gardens to reach the entryway to the pristine palace. He did not rush, drawing in the beauty of the gardens. Once could get lost for a lifetime here, and spent it all in idyll beauty. A thought for another lifetime, perhaps.

He stepped through the open doors, the atrium was cool, the palace built first to deal with the heat of Summer, as would suit a structure raised in the heart of the Reach. He imagined in winter’s a cold mist would settle on the land, great fires would have to be lit, but it would never be a harsh cold, not here.

Already he could hear the frantic muttering and scrabbling feet of servants, scurrying from him to inform someone important enough that the head of the black dragon had arrived. He did not mind the pause, it gave him some time to inspect the majestic atrium, with the roar of human activity a long way off.

“Quiet.” He breathed to himself, enjoying the moment.

The page that found her was white, and out of breath. She didn’t let him finish, the moment he got the name and location out she had turned and was walking, but the pace wasn’t unusual. Casual, her face a pleasant thing of secret smile and beauty. There was no surprise, there was no stress. In a way, it was the strangest happy feeling she had ever felt. Like some relief that’s unimaginable, until it was here.
And it was here: it was time to begin. Finally.

A gown of pale purple sandsilk that draped over her shoulders in wide straps, dragon fire embroidered around the sleeves and bodice in gold thread. Golden dyed sandals were on her feet, strapping up her leg, disappearing under the bottom hem of the dress. Her Valyrian hair fell behind her shoulders, artful tumbles with no hard curl, shining like she was a princess afforded the ability to take great care of her appearance.
The scent of her would’ve hit him before her voice came up from behind him as he looked about the atrium: like lavender, but sweeter, and fainter. “Hello, Daemon.”

The tone of voice behind the greeting was soft, but not out of sweetness or the dictums of manners. This was a deeper softness, the profound nostalgia of a heart greeting something it had been sadly waiting for. The affectionate melancholy was there in her eyes and on her eyes, behind a small wisp of a smile and purple eyes that had seen Daemon before.

“Princess,” It was a more formal greeting than her own, but it held no less warmth, spoken a little too quickly after her own to be a reaction to her words, but instead to the felt presence of her, both the air of the scent that dance from her, and the motion of her approach. He turned his head, but made no effort to address the direction of his form, no need to address the proximity of her unless he should turn to do so. He allowed that state to linger for some time, before he did act, turning to face her, and dipping his head in a proper, courtly, greeting. Still, he stood close, closer than the dictats of royal respect should allow.

She was very much like the breeze that danced about these halls, drifting in and out of the life others lived. His life, a fleeting glimpse of her. He wondered, in a moment of artistic indulgence, if she lived as others did when not observed, or was she some fae creature to ever skirt the mortal world? If that could be true, it would be in her.

“I am sorry to have arrived unannounced, but there were delays on the journey, I thought it best to make myself known sooner, given the time of the tourney draws close. I cannot say I am too dismayed, however, that it is you here to greet me, and not your uncle.” It would be a stretch to say Daemon hated any of the Targaryens in truth, for all that his cause set him against them, but of all of them, the least complicated of feelings was with Maekar. There was little warmth there. “It has been a long while, and this cooling sun shines a little brighter for your company.”

“…no, you’re not,” she said it in a whisper; a secret between just them that she, beyond all his natural doubt, knew. “Although that answer’s the question of if you’d like me to fetch the Prince of Summerhall for you.”

No. No he would not. It didn’t matter. She knew it didn’t matter. She waited, waited for the surprise, waited for the bits of it all that she couldn’t see. Like words on a book’s page that were ink-blotted or blurred by stain. Or as she described it to Aelor: like trying to see when a drop of rain has hit your eye. Squint, and you’d see enough, but some of the details were all but impossible to make out.

What did he want? Why was he here? Why was it important that she was?...what did he want from her?
The realisation cut without pain, a shock, but not one that disarmed, instead confirming some of what he came to seek. A recognition between them that cut away, rather than add to, the barriers between two souls.

“I am told you still dream, that you study our past as you always have.” It wasn’t so much a surprise he would still have knowledge of what occurred within Summerhall and the Red Keep, not least from his mother, who despite her want to roam freely, was still a fixture at one royal court or another. In the years of his half brother’s reign he had seen less and less of the twins, fleeting glimpses. The familiarity should not have been there, but it wafted freely from her, as gently as the folds of the silks she was clad in, bringing yet further truth to the validity of his suspicions.

“Our house has been shackled by a fear of what we were, or a lack of understanding. Magic, dragons, dreams, those were the true three heads.” His voice was low, not so much as to be conspiratorial, but quiet enough to be clear they were for her, and not the benefit of wider listeners who were no doubt about at all times in such places. “Show me.” He spoke those final words without demand or desperation, an understanding that they were matters of her understanding, and not his own, no matter the stock he already placed in them.

“Some nights I dream only of a door in snow. Then it grows dark, I feel a cold that has cruel intent, and all I see is falling snow…but I belong there. I’ve been there before; I will be there again. In the dark, with that cold, in that snow.”

Lavender eyes had faded from his as her words dove into the depths of dreams, seeing what she had only dreamed as if it was just over there beyond him. When her words ran out, she went silent, though her eyes stayed there for moments longer. Watching that snow fall. It broke when her eyes fluttered under full lashes and darted down, to the stone floor, before sweeping right, then left, head turning to even peek behind her, before she found the tips of her toes in those leather sandals, bringing her mouth closer to his ear before she revealed a whisper more hushed and quieter than most desperate secrets.

“The water wizards and the dragon lords, the longest shadow the world has ever seen looming in the east…wait.”
She was gone with impressive speed, all but running out of the space and through an arched doorway, disappearing like a silk wraith around a corner. For the near run, the soft sound of her footsteps against the stone floor would have announced her return as she slowed to walk around the corner and back out the arched doorway. Her skin touched with a little flushness, a little color, as her scent was twice as strong after the sudden, quick, quest.

She drew close and slowed even more, holding the item in her hands: a precious thing, a personal treasure without any doubt from the way she held it so tightly with both hands, looking at it, at him, back to it, and finally back to him. A small book bound in light brown leather. If he were to flip through it, he’d find a book of mostly filled pages. Scribbles, sketches, and a collection of her own private notes, from dreams to obsessions to mysteries in between the two. The writing was in elegant, thin, strokes of ink.

She held it out the foot or so between them, and nodded a reassurance, more to herself than to him. Show me, he had said to her. “A taste.”

He had not followed her, the pace at which she had flown from the room, that might have been concerning, seeming natural to him in the moment, an inkling, as if passively drawn from her, of the ability she had to see beyond what was freely offered.

His hands pressed gently around what was offered, not being so undiscerning as to open it before her, with an unspoken knowledge of what it would contain. His touch was as cautious as if she had handed him the crown itself, if not more so.

“Thank you, Princess, it will be returned to you.” He gave a smile of reassurance, that in contrast, very much was meant for her, and lacked no honesty. No matter what his ends or means, he would do so. The the smile became more courtly, and his words took on the volume that those royal conversations, made for everyone else in the room, seemed to have.

“Look for me in the lists, without your father present, I will have want for a challenge.” Even with the pretence of royal personality adopted, it was not arrogance. The two men were matched in their prime, and even still, that victory had been so shocking as to earn the man his nomer. Without the other to test skill against, one could crown the other the victor at the start and be done with it. He did not bow his head low, and his vision lingered upon her, but there was no disrespect. Only the promise of the future.

<Snipped quote by Ezekiel>

Alright, I amended their descriptions to state only their skin is fluid, should be tolerable now?

I was hoping to go through Salkor's backstory in posts on the principle "show don't tell" on the assumption I wouldn't be competing for the role, but regardless I amended it to go through most of his history until the start of the RP.

<Snipped quote by Ezekiel>

Thanks for the review.

When it comes to the fluidity of the form, is the problem absolute? I.e., if it was reduced to simply them being able to remold their face and their skin to be ports, sockets, etc. to interface with technology? If perhaps it was only their skin that was fluid like mercury, rather than them in entirety. If that isn't feasible either they can simply be reworked to just stick the machinery into their meat like normal techpriests.

As for their separation, I'd be happy to rework that to make it fit into the broader narrative too. If the second one also fell on a forgeworld that contacted Mars, but a warp storm would separate them from reuniting? I'm suggesting this mostly because I want their separation to be somewhat of a plot point for them: they would tragically be aware they have a missing half that completes them somewhere in the stars, so close but never quite within reach, which would be made all the more sad when (at least, I would like) one of them stays loyal, whilst another falls to chaos when the heresy does happen.

Aside from the Primarchs, is the sheet for the Legion and the Fabricator fine?

Sorry for the delay in getting back to you! Hectic week

I'd be willing to accept a remolding of the skin, that seems reasonable enough for me. The Legion is fine!

There's been another sheet applying for the fabricator General which I think develops the role of the character a bit more. I'm happy to give you a chance go expand on the Fabricator sheet or otherwise redefine them as one of the still very powerful (especially in this fractious era) Forge Masters or perhaps expand the sheet a little, either works for me.

I quite like the origin and I think the idea of a primarch being augmented to the point it's not obvious that they are even a primarch has some interesting plot points to raise.

The transformation psychic is just a bit much for me, that's a very high end form of psychic power and I'm doubtful given the Emperor's push for the primarch's to be 'human but better' he would willingly design something so non-human as to be entirely fluid in form.

Personally I think it would be more interesting if the second half of the twin was scattered further away, like with Omegon, rather than be a known twin at the start, but that's a preference rather than something preventing me from accepting.

'Possession of this galaxy is Mankind's birth right. The stars are ours for the taking.'

In a time that is but a memory, humanity ruled the stars. With the power of technology they remade worlds, and even themselves, becoming unto gods of creation and building a stellar empire that rivalled the greatest alien civilisations of the time. This time of ascendancy was short lived, however, spanning mere centuries of dominance, before a collapse that would last millennia. Horrific stellar events known as warp storms burst into life across the galaxy, fed by the blazing souls of human psykers that were born in ever greater numbers. Vast and horrific wars were fought among humanity's fraying civilisation, as well as with the unrelenting Men of Iron, an enemy of mankind's own creation. Mankind was cut off from its cradle, the beating heart of its empire, and all fell into darkness. For over two thousand years since this great collapse, humanity has been isolated from itself, at the mercy of warlords, aliens and worse, in the great dark beyond.

The homeworld, Terra (Earth as it was once known) has not remained unscathed by this. Wars among the other Stellar bodies of our home system have burned as hotly as anywhere else, the Saturnye Ordo, the Tech-claves of Mars, the Selenar Gene-Cults of Luna and many more each vied for dominance while interplanetary travel became increasingly difficult as humanity stagnated. Upon Terra itself, great warlords vied for dominance, unleashing the worst technologies of Mankind's ascendancy upon each other, lands were irradiated and oceans boiled away, leaving those still alive to wage further wars over the dirt. Countless nations and empires have risen and fallen in the span of these long horrific years, haunted by their ghosts and worse, some cling to a forgotten idea of civilisation, while others revel in the atrocity of what they have become.

In the waning years of the 29th Millennium, a secret hope has begun to spark. A mysterious being calling himself the Emperor of Mankind has risen to power among the technocratic clans of Hymalazia, aligned with the mysterious custodian of the Sigillite Order. Through pacts made with the Gene-Cults of Luna he has created gene-crafted warriors of unrivalled ability, the noble Custodes and the brutal Thunder Warriors, as well as enhancing the abilities of many others. Beneath the mountains, the Emperor's hidden laboratories continue to work away, at projects secret to all but his most trusted allies and advisers. The Emperor's aim is a feat that has not been achieved for millennia, to unite the warring people of Terra and for humanity to once more stride forth from its cradle, unto the stars.

OOC Information

This RP is an alternate reality based on the setting of Warhammer 40,000 and it's origin stories, the Great Crusade and the Horus Heresy. It takes great inspiration from a previous RP, the Grim Crusade, hosted originally by @BCTheEntity . Unlike the Grim Crusade, however, this RP starts right at the beginning of the Imperium's story, with the Unification Wars for Terra. The Space Marine legions have yet to see the light of day, and the long brutal years of war that will be required for the Unification are just about to begin.

Meanwhile, on far flung planets, the Primarchs, the Emperor's first secret geneproject, find themselves cast across the galaxy. Unaware of their birthright, these beings, utterly superior to the humanity from which they were created, will define the future of their worlds and many more, should they survive to once again meet their father and his growing empire.

There are two main options for characters in this RP. Players can take on the act of creating an Astartes Legion and their Primarch, playing the former when they are unleashed during the later stages of the Unification and the latter upon their isolated homeworld, and then during the Great Crusade should the rp progress to this point. The second option, and the primary focus of the rp, is to play as a character on Terra, be they a technobarbarian warlord, member of a gene-cult, officer in the new Imperial army or more beside. As time passed in the RP it is likely mortal characters will change, for this is a dangerous era and life is never guarenteed. Thus, instead of players taking on individual characters, you may opt to play a household of characters, represent a sub-faction of the world, or a role within the new Imperial society which will grow and change as the rp carries on. The scope for who or what you want to write is pretty vast.

The only major change at the onset of the game is that the Emperor's gene warriors, be they Custodes, Thunder Warriors, Astartes or Primarchs, are not gender locked. This is not a comment on the canon situation, but just something that myself and the previous writers of Grim Crusade prefer as an exploration of an alternate setting.

Our discord can be found here:


1: The Era which the RP starts in is the Unification Wars, a series of conflicts which in canon began during the late 29th milennium and lasted the best part of four centuries. The aim of the rp is to carry on into the Great Crusade itself but this is not to a set length of time IC or OOC. Characters will be born, live and die over the course of events and so I'd recommend the best way to engage with the rp is to expect to play a flexible suite of characters that will change over time.

2. Participation in the RP requires an acceptance that I as the GM will provide 'encounter' scenarios to your characters and/or factions. How these are dealt with is still a collaborative storytelling process but they cannot simply be ignored or hand waved. These will not always take the form of collabs and may be more of a prompt for you to run with, but the commitment to fulfilling them is still the same.

3. Players in this RP have a mixture of familiarity with the setting, don't neccesarily presume people are as informed as you. Feel free to be helpful, but not condescending, and ultimately my call on any lore matters is final.

4. Other than interactions with GM NPCs and GM provided events/encounters the scope of the RP is quite vast, players are encouraged to forge their own narratives within the remit provided, be they solo or (ideally) collaborations with other players. This isn't an RP with a regimented structure beyond the overall narrative, be prepared to take your own plots in hand.

5. Being in the game discord is not require for participation. It can be helpful for the community aspect of the game, but do not feel pressured to do so if you would rather not.

6. Activity: A bit of a dirty word around the guild these days. This is an advanced game but especially at the onset I wish to set an expectation of engagment. Ideally players will be able to post once a week, with a two week period being what I would consider the minimum commitment. Exceptions do apply both ways, someone playing a relatively minor, isolated plotline can anticipate a more relaxed schedule expectation, while those who take on key characters in the narrative will be expected to do more than the minimum in order to not have the rp flounder. IRL matters are of course more important, extended absences should simply be discussed with the GM.

7. The usual rules of be nice, don't take IC conflict as an OOC issue and listen/abide by the GM.

Thread for the Wider Galaxy IC Posts:

Map Credit:
Here we go.

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