Sempri Eternum

[Ilairon]

“We, the Space Marines of the Thousand Sons Legion are reviled throughout the galaxy by those who know of us, but their numbers are few; the greater majority view us as normal agents of the Adeptus Astartes.

You that know us call us traitors. Traitors to humanity or traitors to a False Emperor, you make no distinction although there is an immense difference. It is, however, ironic that you would call us traitors to either.

I was at the Council of Nikaea, listening to the words of wise men in powerful offices deliberate on our sorcery. The Emperor, your pathetic god, he sat in judgment, but his mind was made before the Council began. The Council of Nikaea was a formality. The master orations of my Primarch and many made by those like myself could not stem the False Emperor’s decision. In the end we were seen, not as the loyal warriors who had crusaded on countless worlds in his name, bringing countless billions back under his shadow, but as a danger – a threat to be culled. Your False Emperor’s vision was small and limited.

When my Primarch told him of Horus’ treachery, the Emperor sent a psychic shockwave which closed the connection, and sent a torrent of malice towards Prospero, literally and figuratively. The sons of Russ, forever damned traitors that they are, assaulted our world.

Many histories abound as to what happened there. Some recount a short struggle heralding the Exodus of the Thousand Sons; others record a long protracted war; neither point of view is completely accurate. Nevertheless, the Emperor’s treachery led to the destruction of our homeworld, and countless centuries of information were lost in the blink of time’s lidless eye.

And yet you dare stand judgment over us! You dare call us traitors! You insolent, ignorant fools – you sit there worshipping a false god to earn nothing more than a spot in his psychic meal. You betrayed us! You betrayed humanity by siding with its greatest enemy: the False Emperor of the Golden Throne on Terra. You deceive yourselves with false divinity. My God is real, yours is a corpse, and I shall see his treachery repaid ten-fold.

~The Jackal Lord – Commander of the Lidless Eye

[Ilairon]

"Deception is merely another tool of statecraft." ~ Sorcerous Sermons

"Tzeentch sees all!"
Bolters rose in unison.

"Tzeentch knows all!"
Ancient gauntlets loaded a new magazine of ammunition into every weapon.

"Tzeentch plans all!"
Weapons fell into parade rest in one fluid motion, held in a solid line of stately silver.

"Tzeentch guides all!"
Mindless prisoners for almost ten millennia remained motionless as their ancient sarcophagi of Dreadclaw Assault Pods and Pre-Heresy Thunderhawks descended towards the world of Sempri Secundus, desecrating the setting sky with trails of gray ash as the passed.

"For Tzeentch! For Magnus! For Prospero!"
The assault pods sank like the dread-claws of a jackal into the planet's surface, crushing anything they landed on with an apathetic malice and scattering debris. While the Dreadclaws crashed into Sempri's surface like meteorites, thunderhawks landed smoothly, engines and thrusters slowing their descent, scouring their surroundings with clouds of grit and dust. The descent craft were scathed only in appearance whereas their occupants were regal in appearance but scathed in body, mind, and soul – both had seen countless wars and thousands of years. Doors slid open, and ramps slammed down, revealing blue and gold power armor.

Catechism complete, the voice began giving orders to the azure armored marines.

"Take the Cathedral." The voice belonged to a sorcerer in the same regal blue and gold armor as the automatons: Anubis Prospin of Prospero.

Automatons rushed out of descent craft and began trudging along - full of purpose - through the landing zone. Sororitas wearing power armor marshaled around a nine-meter tall statue of the Emperor made from adamantium, marble, and ebony, which stood in front of the Cathedral. Bolters bellowed forth a loud percussive sound as the two forces collided. The sheer volume of fire radiating from around the statue highlighted even the smallest details on its immobile frame, and the burning fires that slowed the Thousand Sons descent were eclipsed by the brilliant display of ammunition.

Terminators followed their predecessors, exiting the now visible thunderhawks, most aiming assault cannons in the general direction of the statue. The Sororitas continued to rally around their idol as if it was a holy relic, even as their numbers thinned. Lascannon fire from nearby Thunderhawks cut the statue in half, drawing a line across the medial plane. The top half of the statue fell to the ground, and as it hit the ground and broke into small shards and large pieces, the Sororitas discipline broke, and they began falling back towards the front gate of the Cathedral.

They never reached it.

The assault cannon fire from the terminators punctured through the power armor of the fleeing sisters, and they fell to the ground, dying a slow, painful death.

Sisters inside the Cathedral made the sign of the aquilla or a silent prayer for their dead even as they reached overhanging balustrades and balconies, which housed heavy weapon emplacements. Heavy bolter fire erupted from the balconies, but the stalwart marines continued their advance. The bodiless do not fear of death because every day is as death – the mindless do not fear death because they are ignorant of their own mortality.

The automatons fired quick salvoes into the balustrades of the Cathedral as they slowly progressed towards the front gates of the Ecclesiarchal headquarters on Sempri Secundus; without the Cathedral, the Sororitas forces would quickly fall in disarray and could be slowly hunted down.

"Icarus how far is the armor?" Anubis psychically asked his lieutenant

"One kilometer and closing,” came the reply “We landed at the spaceport because there wasn't enough room at the Cathedral."

"I didn't need the explanation, just the distance and ETA." The Thousand Sons Lord had planned the attack and knew why the tanks had deployed separately.

"Distance would be about three hundred meters," replied Icarus, ending the psychic commune.

Anubis looked to his right and saw the impressive form of the Prescient Mortum following a wide road that ran in front of the Cathedral. The ancient Land Raider turned its gaze to the main entrance of the Cathedral: a two-story archway with adamantium gates and a depiction of some sacred saint.

The tank was a relic from before the Heresy. Massive lascannon stared at the world from the side-sponsons of the tank. A twin-linked multi-melta manically grinned from atop the Prescient Mortum. The ancient armor looked new, held in a timeless state by runes running across it, free from the decay the Thousand Sons despised. Deep blue in color, similar to navy blue, the armor glistened in the afternoon light of the Sempri sun. A lidless eye was emblazoned on the front, left, and right sides of the tank, burning with burnished fire – gold filigree surrounded the eye and formed the pupil. The sorcerer lord merely thought the word fire and the Mortum's lascannons complied.

The lascannon fire ceased. Clouds of smoke and dust settled around the high-set walls and the impressive gate, and the saint’s visage was clear. Made of adamantium and ceramite, the saint was tall – just below eight meters in height. Embossed onto the door, the saint stared, one diamond eye at the Prescient Mortum and the other at Anubis Prospin, as if challenging them to a battle of wills.

Anubis smiled back at the saint, his helm keeping the intent of his facial expression masked. His malevolently glaring chestnut eyes were hidden behind ice blue eyepieces; his lightly tanned skin was hidden by his black jackal helm.

“Icarus, 'dignify' the saint if you would.”

A few seconds after the command was given, the lascannons came back to life. They fell silent once again after decapitating and castrating the visage of the saint. The mark of Tzeentch inscribed across what remained of his body. The mark burned red-hot, inscribed for eternity for all to see. Smoking craters marked where the saint’s head and groin used to be.

The Futur Impendum and the Omni Voirum arrived on either side of the Prescient Mortum. The Futur Impendum had the standard armament of twin-linked lascannons and heavy bolter, while the Omni Voirum was armed with two twin-linked lascannons and a twin-linked assault cannon. The Omni Voirum was a dark regal blue, and the Futur Impendum was azure with golden edges.

All three tanks opened fire at the hinges of the gates. The supports gave way and the gates fell backwards, crashing on top of a few unfortunate defenders, crushing bone and sinew with ease.

The automatons walked over the fallen gate. Anubis followed close behind. There was an odd silence, only broken by the sound of bones breaking as automatons walked over the bodies of the dead and the wounded. Anubis armed his bolt pistol and activated his powersword.

Anubis wore a cape made from reptile scales. Grayish-blue in color, the scales were set in around more fleshy areas of midnight blue, which appeared dark green under appropriate lighting. The Thousand Sons Lord had found it on the corpse of a Salamanders Space Marine. Since acquiring the cape, Anubis had grafted blades, all taken from his dead opponents on various battlefields, onto the scales. Only a few blades decorated the cape, those of the greatest quality. Some were previous possessions of Fallen Angels; others were Xenos in origin. Nevertheless, it was, for the most part, as Anubis had found it. As he moved, the cape moved with him, and as he whirled around, the cape followed, slashing into an unarmored defender’s flesh even as he tried to stab at Anubis.

“Scour the grounds and leave no one left alive, excepting the Ecclesiarchy itself.” The Sorcerer Lord’s command was a simple task for the simple-minded. Anubis was after another quarry: the Eparch of Sempri. Anubis intended to capture the religious man if at all possible.

Anubis turned left and found a wide clearing. Open white brick floors surrounded a garden, which sat in the middle of the clearing. Anubis began walking through the garden, smashing the plants beneath his power armor. As Anubis reached the opposite side of the clearing, several automatons entered the clearing and began walking through the garden as well.

"Don't walk on the flowers." The automatons walked off the flowerbed, but all the flowers had already been trampled by Anubis and would likely wither and die.

Such a shame, thought Anubis – he despised decay.

Entering what was – on the outside – a brickwork building, Anubis found little opposition. A Seraphim guard looked at him, aimed her bolter, and moved to fire as a bolt fired by Anubis reached her heart and exploded. The Sororitas standing next to the dead Seraphim (whose body had fallen to the floor), let loose the righteous flames of vengeance. Bolts rushed at Anubis’ head even as he side-stepped, moved in beside the sister, and bisected her with his glowing powersword.

Moving past the light defense, Anubis entered a spiral staircase and began walking upwards. He stopped at a door near the top of the Cathedral. On the other side he heard whispers and the noise of a bolter being reloaded. He smiled.

The door opened, and Anubis instinctively grabbed a grenade from his belt.

Anubis' psychic essence sunk into the Sister's mind like the tendrils of a weed, planting false thoughts and false commands with an indistinct voice, "Wait!"

The Sister who ran out of the room turned to look back inside, and Anubis heard a feminine voice whisper into a vox-link, "What?" The action gave the sorcerer all the time he needed. His right hand rapidly fired his bolt pistol at the False-Emperor's whore before his left hand threw the fragmentation grenade into the room. The resounding explosion was pleasing. Anubis smiled at the handiwork of his minor psychic intrusion.

His power-armored legs lifted him up the remaining stairs, on the dead bitch's corpse, and into the narrow entryway to a spacious room. Brown eyes looked at the carnage and brightened. Several Sororitas lay dead or dying, and a few members of the pompous priesthood were en mortem.

The floor was uneven, and blood was pooling at one side, following the narrow canal-ways in the baroque, tile floor. The moaning of the barely living gave way to the reek of decay, a smell Anubis did not like. He shot the survivors in quick succession and swiftly walked away, steps taking him towards the opposite side of the room and another spiral staircase.

The higher the sorcerer went, the more ornate the walls and rooms became; it was as if a little portion of some god's heaven was being shared with mortal men.

Most of the rooms were empty, defenders having steadily scrambled to deal with the automaton assault that had already destroyed the automated defenses. Anubis encountered a few pockets of resistance, usually from foolish fops who thought he was some daemon. They will come to know daemons on a personal level later. Anubis merely knocked them unconscious.

Rising up a final golden staircase, Anubis heard the voice of a man yelling at the top of his lungs. It was a voice accustomed to control, a deep booming voice, stirring up in a short, diminutive figure, "We need aid and reinforcements at the Cathedral Governor! We need men! As an Imperial Governor it is your duty to protect this planet. It is your duty to see that the forces stationed here defend us from attack. What part of that holy mission, appointed to you by Him, have you been fulfilling? What are you doing to repulse these attacks?!"

Anubis walked towards the priest. He saw that the Eparch had been talking to a vid-screen. As expected. A man in deep blue and dark black robes of office was displayed on the vid-screen. Anubis continued walking forward. The Eparch seemed to be too caught up in his own voice to notice the noise of power-armored steps.

Finding himself in the shadow of the Eparch and casting a shadow over the religious man, Anubis smiled and spoke in a loud, smooth voice.

"Ahhh, Governor Phraxxus, it is good to see you. We have much to discuss..."

"Ahh, Lord Anubis," came the Governor's baritone voice.

"Governor I am afraid I do not understand. Who is this man? What is he doing here in the Cathedral?"

"Eparch I would think you amongst all people would recognize this honorable lord. He is Lord Anubis Prospin, a commander in His most-blessed Adeptus Astartes. He is our savior."

Anubis did not change his facial expressions, but inwardly he smiled. He had not been referred to as a savior in a very long time.

"But we are being attacked by them."

Anubis interceded, "Pardon, Eparch, but you are mistaken. My brothers and I have driven the traitors away from the city." At that very moment his forces under the command of his two lieutenants were attacking the Adeptus Arbites Precinct House and the Inquisition Headquarters, both located far from the Cathedral. Anubis was pleased; communications between the Arbites, the Cathedral, and the Inquisition were being blocked. The governor seemed to be pulling his end of the bargain.

Anubis continued, "We were unable to secure the Cathedral until the Enemy had pillaged it." So far the sorcerer lord had not spoken a single lie, albeit what he said was not the exact truth. "My brothers are securing the Inquisition's Headquarters and the Arbites Fortress but reports suggest the Enemy killed all within. I thought it most important that I personally see to your security. It will be up to you to instill the people with hope and show them the True Way: the Golden Path." Not a lie was spoken, although only half-truths could be heard.

"Eparch, I will escort you to the Governor's Palace, it is safe there." Anubis began guiding the Eparch down the same series of steps and spiral staircases that he had taken to find the fool. Everything is going to plan.

[Ilairon]

The Arbites were being most resistant, and Phaerun Isbin found it most annoying. Wearing his customary terminator armor of blue and gold and holding his chosen weapons for the attack: two storm bolters, the sorcerer had been doing well, going room-to-room and clearing each of all sentient life.


The kill counter inside his helmet told him that he was the highest scoring among the three leaders of the attack with two-hundred and thirty-seven kills; Icarus followed with one-hundred and forty-three, and Anubis was lagging behind with an unimpressive forty kills. It was a shame none of the Space Marines who worshipped the False-Emperor had the kill counter feature fitted into their armor; if they did, the Chaos Space Marines could have shown them the folly of their ways with a simple comparison.

Nevertheless, Phaerun was not bloodthirsty, just competitive. He did not enjoy the killing, it was an unimpassioned act. He did not possess the savagery of those devoted to the Blood God. He did not savor the death and decay like the servants of the Plague God. He did not relish the pain like servants of the Prince of Pleasure. He accepted the change as part of Tzeentch's plan just as one of the disciples of the Lord of Change should.

Phaerun entered another room and continued the cycle of change.

[Ilairon]

Icarus Hathor smiled as he led his forces through the Inquisition's headquarters on Sempri Secundus. The building looked like an impressive fortress from outside ... before Icarus bombed it; now all that remained was a smoldering wreck of searing flesh and fallen steel.

After leaving a small contingent of marines to ensure there were no survivors, Icarus led the rest of his forces to an underground access hatch into the Inquisition's base. They easily overpowered the diminished defenses at the door. Confrontations were common and concise from that point on.

The Inquisition either didn't have many defenders, which Icarus thought odd for a group that supposedly defended humanity from forces of the void and denizens of the warp, or most had been killed by the bombardment. Either way, their defenses were pitiful.

Icarus continued smiling as he entered a large library. The battle was going well. Anubis was surely in a good mood.

[Ilairon]

Anubis frowned in annoyance. His eyes wandered about in a random order, never landing on the small man beside him, never staring at anything in particular; they merely meant to preoccupy his mind from the pointless prattle pouring from the priest.

After reaching the ground floor of the Cathedral, the irritating Eparch assaulted Anubis with annoying questions and comments; the answers were clear and concise. Rage built up in the tall marine as he listened to the Eparch who – when not yelling – had a nasal voice. His mind stayed his hands and controlled his actions. Soon he would take his frustration out on the cause but not yet.

The two stepped inside a rhino waiting outside; the sorcerer lord captured it in an earlier raid on another planet. The rhino was devoid of the taint of chaos; runes and sigils painstakingly removed before the invasion. Anubis was equally devoid of ties to his faith. Barring the armor’s color, nothing hinted at his Legion or his God. The armor did bear one symbol: a jackal motif. The motif was found on his right shoulder pad and his helmet resembled a jackal’s head. It was his personal symbol.

The Eparch’s short frame dwarfed the large transport in grandeur if not size. He wore silk robes – white with gold embroidery – with countless litanies of the False-Emperor stenciled in cloth. He was an embodiment of form over function; his prayers would not save the world of Sempri from the Thousand Sons…but they might condemn it.

Anubis stepped inside the rhino and sat down. The engines powered up, the wheels began to rotate, and the treads began to move the transport forward. The noise began to drown out some of what the Eparch was saying, and Anubis feigned not hearing; the Eparch stopped talking, and Anubis smiled.

[Ilairon]

The room was immense, dwarfing the large space marine as if he were no more than a small grain of sand, or the tiniest dust particle. His companions, following close behind him, nearly matched the description: warriors of dust held in their eternal coffins of regal armor.

The sorcerer lord motioned to the automatons with him. Terminator armor of royal blue slowly progressed towards the other side of the room. The terminators were halfway through the room, when the floor suddenly moved. It shifted in its own unique landscape and Phaerun recognized the room for what it was: training grounds. Automated turrets emerged from the ground and fired at the automatons. Autocannon returned the fire, blasting away at the turrets, destroying them after a small firefight that failed to fell the terminators.

Arbites rushed out of a concealed position on the other side of the room. Riot shields rose to defend the Arbites, and shotguns aimed through firing slots in the shields. A burst of fire rose but failed to do more than knick the armor of the lumbering giants. The terminators continued their steady march towards the Arbites. An officer emerged from a hidden position near the rear, aiming a small pistol at the same time. Phaerun’s eyes locked on the pistol as it fired a burst of super-heated plasma at one of the terminators. Ancient armor melted away, and the marine’s twisted soul left its broken tomb. A second burst of plasma hit another marine. The regal armor fell to the floor. The dust entombed inside the armor escaped, covering its old home in a veil of thousands of years wasted away in a half-death, half-life.

Phaerun sent a psychic command and the rest of the marines, automatons and sorcerers alike, began the long march to join the battle between the remaining terminators and the Arbites. Phaerun heard mechanical motion and looked left and right; two bunkers were emerging on either side of the advancing marines. As the bunkers emerged, Phaerun saw several Adeptus holding heavy weapons. He sent a psychic signal to spread out as the first missile soared towards his position.

[Ilairon]

Icarus walked through the library, scanning the vault of knowledge with a smile. It was not impressive, nothing could compare with the glory of Prospero, but it was expansive when compared with other such buildings. Thousands of tomes were stacked on shelves. Ordinary manuscripts were ordered by date. Books ranging from relative thought to the thoughts of proclaimed heretics filled the library; there were over one hundred thousand tomes in total.

Bolters blanketed the shadows, searching for some unseen threat. They found a few librarians-made-soldiers. Quickly conscripted to the Inquisition’s defense, the librarians swiftly succumbed to the scourge of animated armor. A group of defecting defenders turned towards their doom, trying to treat with the automatons; bolters blasted bloody bits of brittle bone and slimy sinew, which landed by their broken bodies and below the benevolent bookcases.

An impenetrable column of adamantium and ceramite formed, forging a bond from one side of the library to the other. The fortified wall had a regal façade of blue and gold. Bearing bolters in gauntleted hands, the bricks of the wall replaced individual identity with standardized symmetry. They held a common course; the wall took a step forward.

In solitude and in shadow, Icarus stood still. He saw the solid stance of the solemn column. It advanced in unison, slowly stepping forward. The line marched with a powerful pace in lock step, perfectly placing each movement, safeguarding the solidarity from a stutter. Bolters were brought to bear against those that lived.

Icarus heard footsteps behind him, unsteady footsteps. The image began to blur before blinking out of existence and leaving a bland blank in the back of Icarus’ brain. He opened his eyes, noting the absence of the automatons before turning around. A man of medium height and medium build faced him, a plasma pistol in one hand and a talisman of some sort in the other; both were held at him. I’d say the pistol is his better bet.

An over-zealous voice spoke with a grating hatred, “I am Inquisitor Fortem and by the power of the Emperor, you shall die heretic!” Icarus darted to his right as Fortem’s finger pulled the trigger.

[Ilairon]

The rhino rumbled through the silent streets. The bitter battle brought a different dynamic to daily life; commonly congested roads resembled empty dessert expanse; once-bright buildings stood dark and dreary; careless crowds became careless corpses. Battle begets change.

Anubis sat in contemplation, planning his next move. The puppet governor had been pulling his end of the bargain; the Imperial Navy ignored the enemy in orbit; the Sempri Defense Forces stayed safe at home. The governor even acquiesced to allowing an orbital bombardment against the Inquisition’s headquarters: a necessity really.

The rhino went past a desecrated statue of the Emperor; the head was lying atop a pile of corpses; the mark of Tzeentch was etched into stone. A smile slid across the sorcerer’s face, hidden behind the black-blue jackal helm. The Eparch’s expression was far more overt; distaste, disgust, and disdain framed his features.

“Stop here,” shouted the small man, but his words only landed on the sorcerer.

“What?”

“Order the driver to stop; he needs to fix that statue.”

“Eparch we do not have time to wait. We must continue on to the Governor’s Palace. From there I can dispatch men to fix the statue.” Anubis could dispatch some of the PDF to fix the work on the statue; the desecration of the Emperor’s visage was incomplete, and Anubis intended to remedy that; he also intended to replace the statue with something befitting the ‘Savior of Sempri Secundus.’

The Eparch fumbled for words to form a protest, but a piercing glare from the commander across from him stayed that idea. Anubis smiled and the rhino continued on its way. A few minutes later it arrived at the front gates of Castle Cairo.

[Ilairon]

Observation towers sprang from the surface of Castle Cairo like crystal thorns on an adamantium flail. The thorns were Sempri crystal-plaz interior with ebony exterior, and the adamantium walls were a deep black, a dreadfully dull facet.

The flail was surrounded by desolate desert. Its tail extended three hundred meters north before breaking into five different directions at a central base, an irregular hexagon. Two heads broke off in opposite directions from the body; one went one hundred and fifty meters east, and the other went one hundred fifty meters west; both broke from the tail at a perfect ninety degrees. The remaining three heads stretched in three different directions: northwest, north, and northeast. Forty-five degrees separated each head from the next.

Each of the five heads ended with an unfriendly maw that rose like a serpent’s snout. The five snouts climbed through the air at a sharp angle. Cannon collected dust in dimples situated near the rear of each snout; they were the eyes of the five-headed Sempri serpent.

A pyramid of ornate crystal-plaz, obsidian rock, ebon metal, and shining steel, Palace Phraxxus was set atop the irregular hexagon that was the body of Castle Cairo. Stretching thirty meters above the forty meters-high walls of the castle body, the pyramid was an impressive sight to see. A tower of obsidian and Sempri sapphire ascended another forty meters into the air like a hand reaching for some unseen god hidden in the clouds high above. Weather satellites in orbit controlled those clouds, shifting weather to meet the Governor’s slightest whim. The palace edges were sharp and graceful, refined yet exuding an aura of hidden strength.

Balconies with sandstone floors, ebon latticework, and blue crystal rails studded the outer edge of the ascending spire. Some hosted hydra gun emplacements; others hosted silent observers.

Prophen Cairo was one of those observers standing on one of those balconies, silently staring through almond eyes at the fading sky. The setting sun signaled that night was soon to descend, and Alas and Tyndras, Sempri Secundus’ two moons, were already hovering in the darkening sky.

An evening gust of wind met his face. It was cool to the touch, sending an icy chill through the pores of his skin, running up his spine, registering in his brain, and returning as a slight response through his metabolism; his eyes glimmered with an inner fire, and a few seconds later the chill wind faded into nothing; the inner fire remained.

Sempri falcons soared through the sky, racing through the sunset-lit air with ease and scanning the city with curiosity. Prophen’s arms slept on the sapphire railing as his eyes stared out, following the falcons as they circled his appraising perch from overhead. They reminded him of kindred spirits, free to scan the earth from afar, living in simple isolation and humble contemplation with few needs other than water and food. Free to fold their wings and fall to resignation, observing the world from their lofty nest. Yet, unlike him, the falcons were free to flap their wings and fly away, to move along where their heart desired, to leave the palace that was his prison. And so they flew away, down to the city, leaving him to his suffering through solitude.

Prophen’s eyes followed the falcons until they disappeared in the early dusk – the late dawn – the second dawn, one that brought darkness not light. He grabbed a set of fiber optics, adjusting them to fit his needs. Pressing a power stud with his thumb, Prophen placed the optic-enhancers to his eyes, seeing through them something he could never experience: the abysmal city with all its people, their accumulated wealth of emotions and conversations in hand. He had spent days of his life, wasting away, staring at the city; it was just out of reach, always mocking the Governor’s son.

Prophen’s life fell far short of normality. Born the son of the Governor, Prophen was expected to fall nothing short of greatness. From an early age he felt the weight of responsibility. Of course his mother died a few minutes after his birth so he lacked the maternal care that she might have leant.

His ‘talent’ was discovered at the age of five. While in the course of his studies, his tutors had grown boring. The boy had fallen asleep, innocently enough. One of his tutors woke him by beating him in the arm with a sapphire staff. A few seconds later, the woman (he thought her name had been Alexa; it wasn’t really important) was pinned against the wall gasping for breath as her windpipe slowly closed. The boy had been smiling with an inner-fire shining in his eyes when another tutor came and grabbed his beaten arm…a mistake; the man grabbing onto his arm was thrown against the wall, followed soon after by the remaining six tutors. Pinning eight adults to the wall without even the flick of a wrist or the whisper of a word would have made him impressive; smiling as he crushed their skulls and sent bits of brain about the room made him a natural-born psychic virtuoso.

Of course his father had not seen it that way; following the incident, Prophen had been isolated to a relatively small wing of the palace. Without human interaction or attention, the youth spent most of his time reading books. Food was delivered to the estate hall that marked the entrance to his domain by the Governor’s disliked attendants. Those that learned of his ‘talent’ were killed afterward; the Governor saw to that; several others who never had the slightest hint of Prophen’s powers were dispatched by order of the Governor, merely because they were more irritating than others. Prophen found it ironic, even as he stood leaning against the sapphire railing, that his attendants feared him more than his father (a term Prophen used less than endearingly except to maintain pretenses) given his father was their judge, jury, and executioner.

Prophen’s eyes waged a never-ending war against the books in his personal library, constantly scouring them for all the useful information they contained, before closing them with a force of will and putting them on whatever bookshelf met his chaotic whim. Eventually – after Prophen read all one thousand three-hundred and forty-seven books in the library – the attendants began to bring more, until the estate room turned into a second personal library.

When he reached his teenage years, Prophen gained a desire for women; if Prophen’s eye fell on a woman – unless she was married or of high stature – she was brought to his bed. He would have sex with her, body, mind and soul. Occasionally he would have running affairs for months at a time.

They tried not to get attached, to be nothing more than two separate individuals joining to give each other some comfort, then leaving as nothing more than strangers; his attempts at a cold detached nature seldom worked. His heart went cold each time, knowing when each of his many lover’s left his chamber they would be killed by the Governor’s command, a garrote slipping around their neck, firm, passionless hands holding it tightly until they suffocated to death; sometimes it was messier, a knife through the neck, left in place to keep any sound from escaping the victim’s lips as she slowly died, more often than not, from choking on her own blood as it filled her lungs. He felt their screams, their cries for help, their mental protest, the pain, the anguish, the slow emptiness, and the cold nothingness course through his head like he felt their pleasure in nights previous; it was impossible to stop their psychic echoes once he opened himself to them. His father did all of it to ‘protect’ him, to keep his ‘talent’ hidden. All of it augmented his curse.

As he danced on the edge of insanity and back again, Prophen Cairo met his savior – his patron – his salvation: Tzeentch. The Lord of Change opened Prophen's eyes to a world of freedom. In turn, the prodigal son turned miserable disappointment showed his father the path to Tzeentch. His father had accepted the new faith with unsettling ease, but Prophen realized his father was not fit to lead; he lacked personal ambition. Phraxxus Cairo’s only intent was to use the Sempri PDF in a civil war against the Church of the Emperor and the Inquisition’s base on Sempri Secundus with no plans for the future past then. Prophen was the one who ordered the marshalling of the Sempri Regiments; Prophen was the one who managed to subtly shift faith from the Emperor to faith in Tzeentch in the military and some of the citizenry; Prophen was the one who found Anubis Prospin, Sorcerer Lord of the Lidless Eye, a powerful detachment of the Thousand Sons Traitor Marine Legion; Prophen was the one who had developed the plan with Anubis; Prophen was the one who had manipulated events this far in order to rid the Sempri solar system of the Emperor’s faith, a faith of death and decay. Prophen hated both with equal passion, viewing them as trademarks of weakness; weakness brought destruction; the cure for weakness was change.

Prophen left his silent reverie at the sound of tank treads on the sand. His gaze drifted away from the city; his eyes fell on a cloud of dust in the open desert expanse surrounding the castle, which was dimly lit by the still passing sunset and the light of the twin moons overhead. Adjusting his optics, Prophen saw an unmarked rhino speeding towards the front gates of Castle Cairo like a snake swiftly slithering through the soft sand.

Prophen smiled, turned around, and walked inside the palace in one fluid motion. Another chill hit him, and his stately robes whipped in the wind even after he closed the door to the balcony. Everything is about to change.

Anubis’ voice calmly entered his head, “Nothing is forever the same.”

[Ilairon]

Icarus dodged another burst of super-heated plasma, which jetted past, burning halfway through a marble column one meter in diameter. Icarus stood tall, shifting his center of gravity up; he wanted to remain mobile; he needed to be agile. He was not worried about losing his footing. Super-heated plasma did not intend to push him back; instead, it intended to melt through his armor, skin, and bone like a corrosive acid.

Icarus was running a circuit around a series of columns that centered around Inquisitor Fortem. Fortem followed his movements, turning in a circle, his pistol sculpting minor deformities in the marble columns. The deformities in marble traced Icarus’ path, just behind the swift sorcerer lieutenant.

The bursts stopped, and Icarus assumed the pistol had overheated. He turned his head to look back at where the Inquisitor had been standing…he was gone. Turning swiftly, Icarus saw no sign of his adversary. He attempted to psychically sense where his opponent was, but his attempts failed. He turned around once more and had just enough time to dodge a downward swing of a power maul aimed for his head

He did not have enough time to dodge the swing altogether. The maul hit his left shoulder-pad, power field burning the paint on his armor, but did not burn through the actual armor. Sigils of chaos shined scarlet, and an aura of power glowed across his shoulder-pad, holding the power-field at bay…but not protecting him from the force of the blow, which resulted in a burning pain in his shoulder. The pain quickly receded, and Icarus his power sword firmly held in both hands before Fortem could make another swing.

When Fortem swung at him – aiming a sideways blow that overextended himself – Icarus was ready. The Chaos Lieutenant turned in a half circle, moving inside Fortem’s swing, dodging the long hafted weapon, and getting out of its effective range whilst attempting to stab at the Inquisitor. The haft of Fortem’s weapon began to glow, surprising Icarus who took it as a new sign of danger; Fortem was psychically charging the weapon; Fortem was a psyker. Icarus turned his blade to block the onrushing haft, holding it in a downward arc.

The haft hit the blade, and their power-fields – one psychic and one mechanical – collided, forming a rift of energy where they met. Fortem’s left arm was exposed, but Icarus could not exploit that without getting hit by the psychic field surrounding the power maul; instead, the Chaos Lieutenant raised his left arm, using it to leverage additional weight into his sword whilst elbowing Fortem’s face.

Fortem pulled the power maul back, turned the head to the left, and hit Icarus with a hard blow against his chest plate, using the hilt of the power maul as a blunt weapon. Icarus backed up, keeping his sword in a guard position. The automatons would not return to his position for some time, and the Inquisitor showed no signs of relenting, even when the Chaos lieutenant so obviously outclassed him. This could take a while, but at least it’s surprising. That’s a change.