This short sees Horus lament his choice of allies. While I am personally a fan of Chaos, it would be difficult to deny that a list chronicling Primarchs from most to least competent would likely show a pretty bimodal distribution - and not one that favors the traitor Primarchs. Specifically, the fallen primarchs were largely only possible to turn due to their being broken people by and large. Even the ones who resisted turning, like enthralled (pre-ascended) Fulgrim and sharded Magnus turned once sufficiently broken. This passage sees Horus complaining about his choice of allies in an extremely honest fashion.
>‘Isstvan was supposed to burn in silence so that our war could be won before it ever truly began. The Angel’s wings were to be broken at my feet. And still failures come tumbling one over the other. And on, and on.’
>‘Calth burned, yet our brother lives. Roboute. Wise Roboute. Roboute with his scratching quills, his plans and his hope. Too understanding, too strong. Too damned perfect.’ Horus let out a long breath, and turned back to his empty throne. ‘I wish he was with us.’
>With a flick of his bladed fingers, the throng of images vanished and silence flowed back with the returning shadows. Horus shook his head, his eyes still fixed upon the throne.
>‘You would say that I listened too much to Alpharius and Lorgar – that a war fought with deceit is doomed to fail. Perhaps you would be right. The Hydra does not see all, and now his blindness places a knife at his own back. Corax would not have made such an error.’
>He gave a mirthless laugh.
> 'Strange is it not, that so many I wish beside me stand against me, while at my back are only the flawed and damaged. I am a master of broken monsters.’
> ‘I cannot control them or their sons, and they know it. Mortarion and Perturabo and the rest, they can all feel it. They all know that this war is no longer something that can be guided, only ridden out. But they never understood me, not truly, and they understand less with each passing second. They doubt. They think that I have lost my way. I can see it in their hearts – the pettiness, the pride, the seeds of ruin driving them on, feeding the tempest. With such creatures must I remake the future!’
>He looked down at the throne again, shaking his head sadly. His arm relaxed and Worldbreaker rested at his side. His gaze shifted, as though he were looking at something beyond what lay in front of him.... keep reading on reddit ➡
Reposting it because it was deleted and it's quite unfortunate that it is not accessible anymore.
Context: A group of Sons of Horus is using an assault drill for an attack under the Saturnine Gate. Thankfully, our man Rogal Dorn foresaw this and buried them alive with the help of Arkhan Land.
> The Plutona drivers had advised Lev Goshen that they were two minutes from the target point, but those two minutes seemed to have stretched. The craft was floundering. It felt as if they were in the belly of a dying fish that was too weak to swim against a current. Everything swayed and pitched. The screeched roar of the drill heads had become a muffled splutter. The motivators were straining, finding nothing to bite. It sounded as though they were gurgling uselessly through mud instead of rock. > > ‘We’re moving backwards,’ said Goshen. ‘How can we be moving backwards?’ > > ‘My lord-‘ said a tech-priest. > > ‘Tell me!’ Goshen snapped. > > ‘The indicator systems, lord, they show we are submerged,’ the magos said. > > ‘In what?’ > > ‘A flow of viscous fluid,’ said one of the drivers. > > ‘Like what?’ Goshen demanded. ‘Magma? Mud?’ > > ‘Sensors read an artificial substance,’ the magos said. He had come to the prow to work at a cramped technical station beside the helm positions. His dentritic fingers had conjoined with the stations ports, and he was reading data off the inside of eyelids that had been sutured shut. ‘Analysing structure, composition, properties…’ > > ‘I don’t need a scholam thesis, you turd,’ said Goshen. ‘I require immediate delivery to the target vector.’ > > ‘That is not possible,’ said the magos. ‘We are immobilised.’ > > ‘Don’t tell me what’s possible,’ warned the captain of the 25th Company. > > ‘We are immobilised,’ replied the Mechanicum adept. ‘We are suspended in a body of composite material similar to liquid-form rockcrete. Our motivators and drill heads cannot gain traction. It is fast-setting.’ > > ‘Get us free!’ > > ‘That is no longer possible, my lord.’ > > ‘Then open the damn hatches-‘ > > ‘We will flood. We are submerged. I refer you to my earlier answer.’ > > Goshen tried to think of another question, another demand he could m... keep reading on reddit ➡
I was pretty amazed, when I found out that nobody had ever been posting these badass excerpts.
> ‘Khârn!’ came the shout again.
The centurion swore in Nagrakali. ‘Who is shouting that?’ he added in Gothic.
It was Argel Tal who answered. He aimed his golden blade deeper into the melee, where a cloaked and crested Ultramarines officer was carving his way towards them. He didn’t need his warriors to part the sea of enemies. He came in an unpretentious stride, crested helm bowed, a power sword in one hand, a gladius in the other. Khârn watched him disembowel one of Skane’s Destroyers with a sweep of his sword, while ramming the gladius home in another World Eater’s throat. Both blades slashed back from the dying warriors’ bodies in perfect order, only to catch an incoming axe strike, deflecting it rather than block it. The World Eater pulled back for another swing, only to be parried a second time. He jerked back as the captain’s gladius sheathed itself in his belly, struggling free just in time for the sword to ram through his chest.
Even amidst the storm, Khârn breathed in slow awe. Perfect grace. Perfect fluidity. Perfect economy of movement and balance and application of strength.
He had to kill him. What a trophy that helm would make.
‘He’s mine,’ Khârn said. ‘He is mine.’
The captain couldn’t have heard, but he levelled his stabbing sword at Khârn all the same, marking his foe. ‘Khârn!’ he shouted again, vox-amplified by the muzzled Mark IV helm.
‘I think you might be his.’ Argel Tal was grinning, teeth white in his dusky face.
> They met blade to blade, long enough for him to see the faint impression of eyes behind the captain’s coloured lenses.
‘Orfeo,’ the Ultramarine breathed. ‘Legatus of Armatura. Now you know the name of the warrior who will end your pathetic legend.’
‘Horus,’ Khârn replied. ‘Warmaster of the Imperium. Now you know the name of the next Emperor.’
And the duel itself:
>Distraction was a warrior’s worst enemy. More than once, Khârn’s gaze snapped to the wealth of inscriptions on Orfeo’s armour, unintentionally reading a detail or two. The captain had fought in more campaigns across the Eastern Fringe than Khârn was even aware had taken place. No wonder the XIII claimed five hundred planets as their kingdom.
You couldn’t parry a power blade with a chainsword; doing it once was pushing your luck, doing it twice was asking to be disarmed. The energy corona around the former would break the latter apa
>He turned, raising his arms, and took a god-machine’s weight on his shoulders.
>Every muscle in his body locked tighter than the iron trying to crush him. Drool stringed through his metal teeth, skinned knuckles white as he defied the will of a Titan. He gave a bear’s roar as the foot lowered another half-metre. Sinews crackled in his shoulders. His broken boots skidded back on the patch of unglassed rock; something cracked in his spine, something else cracked in his left knee. The compression of his bones sounded like twigs breaking underfoot, which was a vivid burst of imagination he didn’t appreciate.
>Every muscle in his body locked tighter than the iron trying to crush him. Drool stringed through his metal teeth, skinned knuckles white as he defied the will of a Titan. He gave a bear’s roar as the foot lowered another half-metre. Sinews crackled in his shoulders. His broken boots skidded back on the patch of unglassed rock; something cracked in his spine, something else cracked in his left knee. The compression of his bones sounded like twigs breaking underfoot, which was a vivid burst of imagination he didn’t appreciate.
>Metal squealed as he upended a stack of containers hundreds of tonnes in weight as if they were empty card boxes.- The Lost and the Damned
>A single portal led out of a... keep reading on reddit ➡
Context: Corax is visiting Macragge and meets with Guilliman in his rooms.
Guilliman’s tastes reflected those of sober Macragge. To Corax’s sensibilities the murals and the pilasters framing them were garish. Anything beautiful had to be small enough to hide on Lycaeus. Corax saw art in small things. Self-expression was a private affair, and only reluctantly shared. The prisoners of Lycaeus had taken what little time they had to themselves chipping rock into beautiful, flowing forms. Guilliman’s alcoves and his straight-lined geometric decorations, all slaved to the tyranny of the golden mean, appeared simultaneously ostentatious and rigid.
Corax recognised that his perceptions were dictated by the austerity of prison life. Objectively, Guilliman could only be accused of vanity when it came to displaying how sensible he was. He put a lot of effort into that, sometimes comically so, Corax thought; he was so desperate to show off how unshowy he was. He suspected Guilliman hid a large ego and a terrible temper under his rational exterior, although on that score Corax had no right to judge him. He had both himself.
Still, there it was. Corax was engineered to hide, but he did not hide what he was. Not like his brother.
[Cut-they talk for a bit, next quote is when they're discussing flaws in the Raven Guard geneseed. Guilliman is speaking.]
[Guilliman:]‘You should not blame yourself. Not one Legion has a perfect success rate. There are always problems, sometimes years after implantation.’
[Corax:] ‘I have not come across a similar issue in the others. This problem is peculiar to my warriors. Your Legion, for example, is mostly free of difficulties.’
‘Mostly, not entirely.’
Corax experienced a flash of annoyance. He liked this brother, but Guilliman had an innate high-handedness he could not disguise. Especially when it came to his Legion or his realm, he could be a little smug.
Honestly I just find this very amusing. That bastard Guilliman! Showing off how SENSIBLE he is, what a vain showoff! Corax adding that he isn't judging him and then immediately going straight back to judging him for being such a hypocrite showoff afterwards! The fact that Guilliman...pointing out that he does in fact have geneseed flaws makes Corax call him smug! SLAVED TO THE TYRANNY OF THE GOLDEN MEAN.
I posted this to show what Malcador is capable of. We know he's (after Magnus and the Emperor) the strongest psyker, but except the time he nearly chocked Horus to death we don't really see his power. This fight from "The Buried Dagger" is probably the best about his combat capabilities.
Context: Shortly before the Siege of Terra, a chaos army and a daemon prince managed to sneak on to Terra to assassinate Malcador and his Knights Errant. Garro and his friends were fighting for their lives when they realised they were outnumbered and after big efforts to kill the daemon prince, he just revives and is ready to fight again. Then Malcador joins the battle:
The legionary drew back, casting about the battle zone, catching sight of Helig Gallor in the far distance, engaged in a fierce firefight against high odds. All around, the sky was smoky with the swarms of carrion flies, and their worm-like kindred were quickly overrunning everything on the ground. The remaining traitors, ragged and bloody in their corrupted war-plate, moved in hectic, frenzied surges. So far, none of them had been able to reach the gates at the foot of the White Mountain, but it would only need one to make it through the gauntlet.
Vox communications were useless, smothered by unknown jamming, thwarting any call for reinforcements. The same blanket of nullification prevented Garro from signalling Rubio and the Sigillite.
This will end on the enemy’s terms, Garro thought sourly. They have the numbers, and thi sfortress was built for concealment, not strength.
But the horror here had only just begun. Where the dead had fallen, Garro saw the maggots boring into the still-warm corpses and his lip curled in disgust. At first, he thought the vile creatures were making a meal of the dead, but then one of the bodies shook like a victim of palsy and began to move again. The head of a fallen Guardsman lolled forward as he dragged himself up. His jaw wide open, a thick maggot-head emerged through his mouth and probed at the air.
Others of the fallen twitched and reanimated. Sickened, Garro turned, hoping he would not see what he knew had to come next. ‘It’s forming again,’ he shouted, fatigue and disgust warring with his resignation and his anger.
‘I won’t have that,’ said Malcador.
The Sigillite emerged through the smoke and haze to stand beside Garro, walking awkwardly with his staff in motion, as if it were pulling him forward.
Behind him, Garro saw Gallor and... keep reading on reddit ➡
Almost close enough to touch, Reda smelled the ozone bleeding off the Traitor Marine’s armour, and heard the barely perceptible sibilance of strange voices in the air around it. She lashed out with the power maul, a tongue of crackling energy smearing off the mace head… A swipe of the Traitor Marine’s axe and the armsmen were scattered, the breacher shield shorn, useless and discarded. It had saved their lives at least, though Reda considered as she lay on her back, unarmed and bleeding, skull throbbing like a madman’s drum, that the Traitor Marine might have wanted to spare them a quick death.
Gerrant stirred nearby, but then collapsed. Keltzer was screaming, an ugly scorch mark running from crown to groin where the axe’s power field had touched him. Staring up at the ancient warrior bearing down on her, the noise of the warzone appeared to ebb for Reda, its bright fury dimming and the life-or-death desperation of other small battles slowing to an incomprehensible crawl.
Surrounded by this tapestry of violence and madness, she felt utterly alone, just her and it, face-to-face, hopelessly, laughably outmatched. Reda pulled her knife, wincing as her fractured ribs ground against each other. The blood running down her arm reached the haft and made it slick.
‘I’m just wearing you down…’ she snarled through clenched teeth.
The Traitor Marine reached up to its helm, not deigning to acknowledge her. The left eyepiece was cracked, nearly entirely shattered. With a slight jerk, the helm came loose, turning fractionally as it pulled away from the neck brace. The Traitor Marine lifted it off, the helm ringing loudly against the deck as he let it fall from his grasp. Because it was a he, not a creature nor a monster. A man, only one elevated or degenerated to the point of something other.
Reda had been expecting a horror, a denizen of the warp. Instead she saw scars, not ritualistic marks but battle scars, no different to any son of Guilliman on board the Emperor’s Will. The Traitor Marine touched a gash above his left eye. Gauntleted fingers came away shiny in the light. Reda had no memory of hitting him. He almost looked impressed as he regarded her and raised his axe, framing an executioner’s blow. Up-close, the haft was as long as Reda’s body, the actual blade twice as broad. Gods and monsters died to weapons like that, mortal man would only sully it. And then he did something Reda did not expect.
‘I’ll make it quick,’ he murmured in Gothic... keep reading on reddit ➡
Context: During the Siege of Terra, Kharn notices that Khorne is interested in Kroeger, the Warsmith of the Iron Warriors. Kharn decides to show Kroeger, what a warrior of the Blood God is capable of.
I posted this to show how easy it is for Khornes warriors to get new servants for their god. With Nurgle you have a quite difficult time, you have to convince people that being a zombie is better than their current life. But Khornes power is very practical and easily understandable.
"The Emperor has already made me stronger than any mortal man,' said Kroeger. 'What other gifts do I need?'
A wreck of a Rhino transport potruded from the blood-slicked earth a few metres away. Kharn turned to it, the teeth of Gorechild spinning faster until the weapon howled in his grip.
The champion of Khorne took two long strides and launched himself into the air, leaping higher than any normal Space Marine was able, axe in both hands. He brought the weapon sweeping down as he landed,next to the wreck, its shining teeth slashing through armoured hull and track housing with a single mighty blow. Shattered ceramite and scattered tracklinks exploded around him. Khorne's power flowed through him, energising, setting his mind aflame through his Butcher's Nails so that the growl of his axe was a soothing purr.
Kharn balled a fist and drove it into the flank of the armoured transport. His gauntlet split under the impact but his bone did not, punching through the armoured plate to the elbow. He tore the panel away, hurling it far out across the wasteland.
'Nothing stand before the chosen of the Blood God and lives!' he roared and looked at Kroeger. 'No blade will pierce my skin. No bolt can scarr my flesh. Swear yourself to Khorne and you will become his bloodied killer. Every life you take shall be offered up to his glory, and every moment you will know the joy of slaying.' Kharn said. Kroeger laughed, long and deep. 'All I need to do is kill in his name? No oaths? No rituals? No sacrifices?'
Kharn nodded and walked towards the Iron Warrior, letting Gorechild fall to his side, ignoring the smell of his own blood from the ruin of his hand. 'Yes...As long as the blood flows, Khorne cares not for words. Be his servant, and you shall receive power like mine'
I'm finally reading through Pariah and Penitent after re-reading their predecessor trilogies so expect a spam of excerpts for bits I find interesting,
Posting this excerpt because it's a great tiny titbit that helps flesh out the universe. The gradual loss of knowledge is fascinating and the reverence with which such a mundane item is held in is fantastic.
Context: A girl goes hunting for relics from a collector.
>‘Let me show you this,’ he insisted, before I left. A trio of small, beige items came out of a cabinet and were laid out on a cloth. They had been white once, but age had darkened them like bone. Their surfaces were worn, but I could still make out the trace of silver on the engine bells, and the red markings along the fuselage.
>‘Toys?’ I said.
>‘Playthings. Models made for a child’s amusement.’
>‘They are of weapon rockets? Missiles?’
>‘Rockets,’ he said. ‘For spaceflight. Don’t look so surprised, Mamzel Raeside. The first steps from Terra were said to have been taken using chemical rockets.’
>‘I am aware of history, sir, even though the detail of the oldest eras is lost in the mists. But really? Vehicles this crude?’
>He smiled again.
>‘I do not think they ever flew,’ he said. ‘I think these are simplified models of possible machines. A primitive idea of flight. But I show them to you because of their age. Your employer is very fond of the oldest things.’
>‘How old?’ I asked.
>‘It can only be estimated,’ he said. ‘They pre-date the ages of Strife and Technology. I think they come from the Pre-System Age, from the first millennium of the Age of Terra.’
>‘What? Thirty-eight or thirty-nine thousand years ago?’
>‘Perhaps. Vessels like this first took our species into the unknown,’ he said. ‘They first took us Blackwards. The family name behind this business comes from that outward urge.’
>‘I think my employer will appreciate these,’ I said. ‘What price do you ask?’
>‘I will write it down,’ he said.
>‘And the markings on the side of the rocket ships,’ I asked. ‘The letters in red? What does C.C.C.P. mean?’
>‘No one knows that,’ he said. ‘No one remembers any more.’
I posted this to show why the Emperor is called the great enemy of chaos - it's not just his plans or his endless armies of guard soldiers and Space Marines. The Emperor himself is unlike any other creature and an absolute nightmare for daemons.
Context: The secret Imperial Webway Project, by which the Emperor wanted to unite all of human space without recourse to the Warp, is destroyed. For five years war has raged within the Webway, pitting the Custodes, Mechanicus and Silent Sisterhood against countless daemons. With the last Imperial reserves, under the command of Custodes Ra Endymion, at the edge of defeat, the Emperor activates the Unspoken Sanction, sacrificing thousands of psykers so that he may leave the Golden Throne for a few hours and rescue his troops.
>And in a sunless realm, the sun rose at last.
The light of dawn was palpable on Ra’s armour as well as his skin. It was a pressure, a presence with searing physicality. The enemy hordes felt it as acid on their skin. The creatures – daemons no matter what secular truths held strong – lost what little order they had ever possessed.
>The Anathema! Ra heard their frantic agony as a sick scraping on the edges of his mind. The Anathema comes! The sun rises!
>Of the Neverborn, some broke ranks and fled. These cowardly shards of their vile masters knew that destruction had come. Some tore into each other, cannibalising their kindred for strength in the face of destruction. Some lost what little grasp they had on corporeality, their forms melting and dissolving before the sword-wielding monarch even reached the front lines. The strongest raged at the sin of His existence. With a gestalt bellow loud enough to shake the windless air of this alternate reality, they fought to reach their archenemy.
>The Emperor raised His sword in a two-handed grip. As His knuckles tightened, the geography of circuitry ignited along the blade’s length, spitting electrical fire and wreathing the sword’s length in flame. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at any of His warriors. The sword came down. The webway caught fire.
>Shapes raged in the flames – shadows and suggestions doing battle with the daemons, their fiery forms indistinct and ever-changing. The fire-born avatars of fallen Ten Thousand, knee-deep in psychic fire and thrusting with lances of flame. The silhouettes of Space Marines, the betrayed dead of Isstvan bearing axes and
So far I thought Titans would be equipped to deal with flying threats like Sanguinius in some way, but as it seems he is either too slow to trigger the void shields, or can fly through it because of warp powers. What I want to say is: Our glorious hawk boy is even stronger than I would have imagined. Titans are used to destroy entire cities, but he destroys THEM without any problems.
Context: A warlord titan is attacking, but Sanguinius is not afraid and immediately starts his attack. Warlords are only behind Emperor Titans and are able to kill entire armies + artillery. Sanguinius doesn't care.
“He crested the Warlord, forty metres off the ground, hung for a moment, and dropped onto its shoulders, straight onto the armoured nape behind the skull-head. The Spear of Telesto slid into the back of its head. Ugly, choking snorts echoed from the engine’s war-horns. The huge Warlord shook and swayed. Both eyes blew out, flames and fragments of cockpit glass bursting from the skull sockets. Sanguinius tightened his grip. The spear, harpooned deep into the base of the engine’s skull, glowed briefly, and pulsed energy into Solemnis Bellus. Sub-detonations went off in its waist assemblies, its hips, and out through the back of its drive compartment. Sanguinius plucked the spear, raced forward and took off, lofting clear of the machine’s prow as the death blast claimed it. Bright fire, an internal blast of devastating force, burst through its torso and sheared off one of its weapon limbs. It fell sideways, legs locked, and hit the ground so hard it slapped up waves of mud and soil. The earth shook. The wall shook. Halen reached out to steady himself. As it came down, the giant’s head connected with the outspur of a stone revetment, and was twisted backwards so it ended neck-broken, gaping at the dead sky.”
Context: Lorgar wants Ingethel the Ascended, a Chaos daemon, to accompany the Word Bearer's ship Orfeo's Lament on an expedition in the Eye of Terror. This is before the official beginning of the Horus Heresy, and this is the first daemon that all of the humans aboard have ever seen.
It shows just how horrifying daemons are, as you can see from the consequences of its mere proximity. But it's also so fucking hilariously grimdark, I can't help but laugh. 40K needs more of this kind of comedic relief.
>‘There will be one last vessel docking soon. Ensure all of your crew are removed from the bay once it arrives.’
>Her raised eyebrow conveyed just what she thought of this unorthodox demand. And in case it didn’t, she added her own spice to it. ‘Very well. Now tell me why.’
>‘No,’ said one of the other Astartes. He’d named himself as Malnor, a sergeant. ‘Just obey the order.’
>The captain, Argel Tal, gestured for his brother to remain silent.
>‘The last gunship will be bringing a creature on board. The fewer of your crew that are exposed to it, the better it will be for all of us.’
>The first officer pointedly cleared his throat. Crew members turned in their seats. Sylamor blinked twice. ‘I will suffer no xenos presence on board the Lament,’ she stated.
>‘I did not say it was an alien,’ said Argel Tal. ‘I said it was a creature. My warriors will escort it to the bridge. Do not look at it once we are underway. Focus on your duties, all of you. I have my men in the starboard docking bay, and will inform you when the gunship reaches us.’
>‘Incoming hail from De Profundis,’ called an officer from the vox-console.
>The Word Bearers went to their knees, heads lowered.
>‘Accept the hail,’ Sylamor said. Without realising, she lifted a hand to check her hair was in neat order, and straightened her uniform. Around her, officers did the same, brushing epaulettes and standing straighter.
>The occulus tuned into a view of De Profundis’s command deck, where the primarch and Fleetmaster Torvus stood in pride of place.
>‘This is the flagship,’ Torvus said, ‘Good hunting, Lament.’
>‘Thank you, sir,’ Sylamor replied.
>An awkward silence reached between both bridge crews, broken by Argel Tal.
>‘Yes, my son?’ Lorgar’s smile was sincere, though vox-crackle ruined his smooth voice.
>‘We will return with the answers the Legion needs. You have my word,’ he gestured to the parchment bound to... keep reading on reddit ➡
I posted this to show how horrible the changes are that Nurgle caused in Mortarion. Many excerpts focus on Angron or Fulgrim, but especially with the news of Siege book 6 (Khan vs Mortarion) I think it's interesting to remember that Nurgles Champion is a terrifying monster too.
Context: After Horus expended countless legions of abhumans and chaos worshippers for the first attack on the Imperial Palace, phase 2 of the siege is about to begin. Angron, Fulgrim, Perturabo and Horus have a meeting aboard the "Vengeful Spirit". Angron and Fulgrim are present via Hololith (40ks Skype), while Perturabo is personally in the room. The topic is simple: which traitor legion shall have the honor of setting foot upon Terra first?
Abaddon, Tormageddon, Falkus Kibre and Horus Aximand are also there (along with Zardu Layak and a few others of the Justaerin) and feel increasingly nervous. Fulgrim, Angron and Perturabo start the discussion, and at some point Angron gets collectively muted because everyone is tired of his rage. Horus appears a while later, unmutes Angron and starts explaining his plans. Then Mortarion appears:
‘Then I shall land first!’ said Angron enthusiastically. ‘I shall come at them, and cleave their bodies!’
‘You will not,’ said another. A familiar voice, a quiet, rasping, sullen growl, but changed, thickened with phlegm.
‘I claimed the task. My Legion will be first to attack the walls, as I pledged to the Warmaster months ago.’ Mortarion, primarch of the Death Guard, entered through the grand doors of Lupercal’s court.
This was not Mortarion as his brothers remembered him. He was changed, like Angron, Fulgrim and Magnus, lifted by the Pantheon and given new form. Always among the tallest of the primarchs, he had grown further, his famine-spare frame pushed to great height. Tattered moth’s wings furled on his back. The scythe Silence had grown with its master, become as long as a vox-transmission pole. Mortarion appeared sickly, his face scarred by disease and his eyes milky with cataracts. Fluid wept from craters in his dirty armour, while all around him swirled a dense, stinking fog. Where he passed the door guard, Abaddon’s Justaerin fell heavily. Black fluid leaked from perished seals and bloody phlegm coughed from their breathing grilles. The sounds of armour closing itself against the environment filled the room, but it did no good. The Terminators suffered in the grip of sickness. Mortarion continued forwards, felling... keep reading on reddit ➡
This excerpt was posted 2019 by u/Vapurastin, and after reading it I thought I would share it again, I think many people might not have seen it. It shows perfectly why Guilliman, altough he is not really known among his brothers for his combat powers, is the leader of the Imperium: He is still a nearly unstoppable force.
Context: Abaddon, having recently learned what Cawl and Yvraine are planning, sends some of his forces that he could spare to Macgragge to try and stop their plan of awaking the primarch. They came close to succeeding - but then they had to face Guilliman.
Everywhere the massed Chaos worshippers pressed forward, engulfing the shrinking islands of Imperial resistance, while sorcerous energies continued to tear at the shrine itself. Not a single defender took a step backward, but it was clear that their lives could now be measured in minutes at most.
The foremost Black Legionnaires were mere yards away from the foot of Guilliman’s throne when the rune-panels on Cawl’s auto-reliquary flickered from red to green. A single chime sounded, a clear, pure note that cut through the clangour like a knife. The Archmagos himself, fighting back to back with the Ynnari and Chief Librarian Tigurius, emitted an uncharacteristic blurt of binharic triumph. The next moment, the outstretched armatures of the auto-reliquary folded back with a gaseous hiss to reveal a sight of breathtaking splendour.
Where before Roboute Guilliman had sat, a pale, stasis-locked revenant, now the Primarch stood awake, alert and very much alive. His presence was immense, dominant as a thunderhead suddenly filling the shrine with its crushing pressure. Guilliman was clad in a magnificent new suit of armour, an ornate masterwork that had travelled all the way from the forges of Mars within Cawl’s auto-reliquary. In one hand the Ultramarines Primarch held the blade of the Emperor, lit now from hilt to tip with leaping flames, and in his eyes was a look of such murderous intensity that even the loyalists within the shrine quailed to see it.
It was as though a spell had settled over the shrine. Though outside the din of war thundered on, within that echoing chamber friend and foe alike stared awestruck at the legendary figure reborn in their midst. An incoherent scream of rage shattered the silence, a single Khorne Berzerker charging headlong through the stunned combatants to launch himself in a flying leap at the Primarch. Guilliman moved with su... keep reading on reddit ➡
It is good to remind oneself now and then that suffering in the Imperium comes in many flavours. The only thing they all have in common is that you, as an individual, do not matter. You will be dehumanised, one way or the other:
>It was hard to tell beyond that black wall of smog whether the actual daylight had gone or not. Still, another day was over. Billions of lights sparkled into life across the great, black city: from the highest points of the inner spires to the skirts of the suburbs. Out of the city's heart, the Administratum clerks flowed in a monotonous grey tide. Along walkways and pavements, across pedestrian bridges and stack-level galleries, ten hundred thousand pale men and women in sombre rain-coats of emerald and black made their routine way homeward in slow procession. Many had shaven heads, or the scalp or neck punctures of neuro-link sockets. Most wore tinted goggles. None wore any kind of expression at all.
>Eustis Majoris was capital-world of the Angelus subsector. Its heavy manufacturing industries may have begun to slump, and its fabricatory districts fall into decay, but it had one ancient craft that still thrived. It was the bureaucratic hub of two-dozen Imperial worlds. Here, in the massive ouslite towers of Formal A and Formal C, the minutiae of Imperial life was recorded, processed, evaluated, stored, examined, compared, scrutinised for levy and, ultimately, filed. There were more clerks and scribes, and more processing codifiers, in this ten kilometre square slab of city than in all the other subsector worlds combined. In gilt letters above the hallway doors of the administry towers were the proud rubrics of their function: "Knowledge is power", "Data equals assessment, assessment equals insight, insight equals control", "Know your codes", "Information is truth". All workers were encouraged to repeat such adages as mantras during work shifts. Locally, there were other phrases that had come into coin, phrases the administry did not encourage at all. "If something's worth doing, it's worth doing in triplicate", "Those who shred history are doomed to repeat it" and "I file everything, therefore I know nothing" were three of the most popular.
>*Anonymous in a hooded rain-cloak, Harlon Nayl still stood out. This was because he was moving against the flow. Tugging the boy along by the sleeve, he was heading into the central districts against the night's outpouring of scribes and administry functionari
> ‘Da shokkjump,’ he growled at Nizkwik, who was staring over his shoulder at the squig in terror. ‘How does it work?’
> ‘Well,’ the grot said, tearing its eyes off the squig for long enough to point at a large red button in the middle of the dragsta’s dash. ‘Dat’s da shokka, right? When yoo’z goin’ fast enuff, you hit da shokka, and den da shokkjump happens. Or sometimes it don’t happen,’
>It added with as much of a shrug as it could manage with Ufthak’s hand around its neck. ‘Why don’t it happen?’ Ufthak asked.
>‘Dat would be a teknical matter, wot I don’t know,’ Nizkwik admitted. ‘An’ how fast is “fast enuff”?’ ‘Well… pretty zoggin’ fast, boss,’ Nizkwik said with the sickly smile of a grot who reckons it’s about to get clobbered. ‘But if yoo’z askin’ for an egg-zact figure…’
> ‘Never mind,’ Ufthak muttered. He elbowed Mogrot in the shoulder as the dragsta screeched around a bend and began to climb, following the road upwards. ‘Take dat turn comin’ up, da one on da right!’
> ‘Da one dat’s gonna take us towards da gargants, boss?’ Mogrot asked, obediently swerving onto a different concourse.
> ‘Dat’s it,’ Ufthak told him. Ahead of them, the road rose up a little more and then flattened out into what had, at one point, been a high-rise highway that would have gone on to join up with other similar ones in a huge junction. Now, however, the routes that had stretched through there were abruptly truncated into jagged edges of rockcrete above a significant drop, certainly one that could splat an ork flat. Beyond, Ufthak could make out the head and shoulders of the largest humie gargant, currently battering at the MekaGargant with some sort of rapid-fire kannon the length of a battlewagon.
>‘Fast as yer can!’ Ufthak ordered, and Mogrot floored it again. The dragsta leaped forwards, its engine howling and its tyres greedily eating up the road. ‘You shot dis, right?’ Ufthak demanded of Nizkwik, jerking his head at the large, shiny-looking gun fixed in front of where he was sitting.
> ‘Yes, boss!’ Nizkwik said, happy to have found a question it could answer satisfactorily. ‘Dat’s da shokk rifle! It’s well shooty, it–’
>‘It’ll do,’ Ufthak grunted, grabbing it with the hand that wasn’t holding the grot and wrenching the shokk rifle loose with a few sparks and the ping of overstressed bolts. Nizkwik gasped in horror, but nothing exploded, so Uftha
I was numb as I sat in the empty dorm room. Sitting on the bed, I leaned against the dark wooden headboard and closed my eyes. I wanted to feel something, anything. But I couldn't.
This is crazy! I thought. What is wrong with me?
None of this made any sense. I thought back to Sunday night, to the butterflies I'd felt when I saw Jeremy's car pull into the conference campground on the edge of campus. The conversation flowed easily, and I was as drawn to him as ever. We spent most of Monday together, and Mom and Dad even took us out for chicken tacos at a Mexican-Italian fusion restaurant called Stinky Fat Boys. It wasn't a romantic name for a restaurant, but we had the best time. I practically floated to my dorm on a cloud after saying goodnight to him.
Then, for reasons I couldn't understand, something shifted. As I talked to Mom and Dad that night, I suddenly knew I couldn't do it. I couldn't start a relationship with Jeremy. Something was weighing on me. There were so many conflicting opinions, and I felt like I would divide my family and friends if I moved forward. If I said yes to Jeremy, I would open the floodgates to other people's opinions and criticism. My heart was hardened. It felt like I wasn't myself and something beyond my control was happening.
Now, as I knew Dad was telling Jeremy the bad news, I couldn't even bring myself to feel empathy for him. The room seemed dark, even though it was morning.
Why can't I like him now? I thought. I've wanted this for so long. All this time, I've looked forward to this moment. Why can't I go through with it?
"Jinge, what is going on?" Mom and Jessa had asked me. They knew how much I cared for Jeremy, how excited I'd been to see him at the conference. It was no secret in our house that I'd fallen hard for him, and everybody expected us to start our relationship this week. "What is it exactly that's changed?" All I could do was shake my head. "I don't know," I said with no emotion. "I don't know why. It doesn't make sense. I have no reason for it, I just can't do it."
*I practically floored the gas pedal as I drove down the Texas highway. I didn't know where I was going. All I knew was I had to get out of there, away from the dorm room where Mr. Duggar had delivered the crushing news, away from the campus where I thought... keep reading on reddit ➡
This passage has been one of my favorites of the book and it's quite memorable. It's a very challenging passage to anyone who has been trying to "work" to be loved, which I think is a theme on menslib and it seems to more or less be taken as a given for men in dating, or for anyone who is told to "work on themselves". I got the quote from goodreads but it's from somewhere near the end of Book I.
>“Let us say in passing, to be blind and to be loved, is in fact--on this earth where nothing is complete--one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness. To have continually at your side a woman, a girl, a sister, a charming being, who is there because you need her, and because she cannot do without you, to know you are indispensable to someone necessary to you, to be able at all times to measure her affection by the degree of the presence that she gives you, and to say to yourself: She dedicates all her time to me, because I possess her whole love; to see the thought if not the face; to be sure of the fidelity of one being in a total eclipse of the world; to imagine the rustling of her dress as the rustling of wings; to hear her moving to and fro, going out, coming in, talking, singing, to think that you are the cause of those steps, those words, that song; to show your personal attraction at every moment; to feel even more powerful as your infirmity increases; to become in darkness, and by reason of darkness, the star around which this angel gravitates; few joys can equal that. The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves--say rather, loved in spite of ourselves; the conviction the blind have. In their calamity, to be served is to be caressed. Are they deprived of anything? No. Light is not lost where love enters. And what a love! A love wholly founded in purity. There is no blindness where there is certainty.”
This is about the bishop and his sister who becomes caretaker. I think he's a character Victor Hugo put a lot of work into developing. He's just on the cusp of being realistic versus an ideal, and Hugo deliberately wrote him as a scathing criticism of the Church by showing how far the Catholic priests had fallen from the kindness and grace of the bishop. (Citation for this claim: The Novel of the Century, a book about how Les M... keep reading on reddit ➡
Context: In the Psychic Awakening story "Gone Dark", a squad of Guardsman are sent to venture into an abandonned yet undammaged Imperial ship and discover what has happened to the crew. Among the squad are two siblings, squad leader Gerrikan and his younger sister Izzren.
Eventually the squad has to split up into two groups to further explore the ship, with the siblings having to join one seperate group. Izzren and her squadmate make it to the ship's medbay when they are suddenly attacked by the now revealed intruders of the ship.
>Izzren was about to say something, but the words caught in her throat as Tsararel groaned behind her.
>She whirled around, instincts kicking in instantly as she aimed her lasgun. Cruel silver claws protruded from her comrade’s stomach. Before Izzren could react any further, Tsararel was violently lifted and hurled across the room, crashing into a row of gurneys.
>That was not the reason why she started screaming. Izzren squeezed the trigger of her lasgun, aiming it towards Tsararel’s killer as it sprung into sudden motion and rushed towards her.
In the end of the story, the squad is butchered by the necrons in the ship, with Gerrikan being the only survivor of his group. He manages to mae it back to their ship and almost manages to escape, only to be met with a gruesome discovery.
> ‘Get the engines running!’ Gerrikan voxed as he ran towards the waiting craft.
>The hatch of the dropship’s crew compartment opened, and a hunched silhouette stepped outside, unrecognisable in the darkness of the hangar.
>‘What are you doing? Get the engines running!’ Gerrikan repeated, hurrying closer.
>‘Gerrikan, I’m so glad you made it,’ his sister answered. Gerrikan stopped in his tracks, and his heart seemed to skip a beat.
>‘Izzren?’ he whispered. She made it after all! She actually survived! They would escape this nightmare together.
>‘Yes, brother,’ the figure said and came closer. As it stepped into the light of Gerrikan’s lumen, the sergeant felt his strength sapping out of his body, and he sank to his knees.
>‘No… Izzren, no.’
>The skin of his sister was draped around the metal frame of the thing that prowled towards him. Beneath the empty holes where her blue eyes once sat, callous green lenses watched him, observing his every reaction with cold intent. With each step, blood dripped from the nightmarish appari
Poland, 17 September 1939. The basic message - the defence of the fraternal peoples, Ukrainian and Belorussian, from the calamities associated with "Disintegration of Polish state" after the invasion of German troops. And also with the necessity to shift the border - for "safety", of course.
Finland, 30 November 1939. The main claim to Finland was that the Finnish border was too close to Lenigrad. Since the Finnish did not agree with such an "argument", the Shelling of Mainila https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shelling_of_Mainila was staged: the Soviet territory was allegedly bombarded and the "brutal" response had to be made.
Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania. In case with these states, the scheme of "accession" was the same. Under the threat of a real invasion (such as in Finland), USSR entered the troops allegedly for the "common security". After that, requests from the local residents about "voluntary" entering the Soviet Union were initiated.
Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina, 28 June 1940. Explaining the occupation of Eastern Romania was a difficult task. There were not any "fraternal people" and those territories were not strategically important. The authors of the textbooks had to vaguely explain that the King of Romania himself, not after the ultimatum, decided to hand over Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina.
For those who is interested, I recommend to take a look at the detailed map of territorial changes: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Molotov%E2%80%93Ribbentrop_Pact
> Zardu Layak, better known by his epithet as the "Crimson Apostle," was a Dark Apostle and the ambitious commander of the Chapter of the Unspeaking of the Word Bearers Legion during the latter years of the Great Crusade and Horus Heresy [....] Layak eventually went on to become one of the Primarch Lorgar's closest confidantes during the Horus Heresy [...] and it was Layak who commanded the contingent of Word Bearers who fought by Horus' side during the final Chaos assault on Humanity's homeworld.
> SPOILERS https://warhammer40k.fandom.com/wiki/Zardu_Layak
Layak has been hanging around on the Vengeful Spirit, hogging Horus' presence and being a general pain in the ass for Abaddon, who is very much concerned about the increasing deterioration of Horus as he becomes consumed by Chaos more and more while Layak continouusly taunts him, follows him around and won't stop speaking in cryptic phrophecies and general snobby chaos preaching. Abaddon has threatened to and barely kept himself from killing him several times but can't do so due to the importance and influence Layak has.
Now Abaddon, fighting through the Starport of Terra, as usually with Layak (and Layak's two "Blade Slave" bodyguards) close on his heels unexpectedly comes across Warsmith Kroeger who has planned the assault on the Starport for Perturabo and is leading from the front, much like Abaddon.
‘Warsmith Kroeger,’ said Layak. ‘Come to welcome the right and left hands of Horus.’
A knot of several dozen Imperial Fists tried to break out, turning from the newly arrived legionaries to seek escape through the Sons of Horus. Abaddon despatched his Justaerin with a word and gesture, his focus turned to the Iron Warriors commander.
Kroeger used a crackling fist in great sweeps, breaking open helms and plastrons without any thought of defence. He advanced without pause, treading over the slain of both sides, rivet-studded boots cracking ceramite beneath his weight.
Abaddon sheathed his blade and took up his bolter once more, turning to fire the rest of the loaded magazine into the withdrawing Imperial Fists. He passed the weapon to one of his companions to reload as he came face to face with Kroeger. The Iron Warrior’s shoulders heaved as though he were panting, something primal in his hunched stance. His blood-specked mask looked up at Abaddon, eyes hidden behind red lenses.
‘Captain Abaddon,’ Kroeger grunted, raising his fist in salute.
*‘Warsmith Kroeger.’ Abaddon... keep reading on reddit ➡
I posted this to show what a fight Primarch vs Bloodthirster looks like. Sanguinius did it too, but this is a different situation: Lorgar has no wings like his fabulous brother AND has to fight against the mightiest Bloodthirster of them all.
Context: Lorgar travels together with the demon Ingethel to the Eye of Terror to discover its secrets. After several strange events happen, Lorgar (who is called "weakest" primarch even by his own brothers) has to fight against the strongest demon in Khornes army and probably the (at least at this moment) strongest of all.
The sound began as the promise of thunder. Lorgar raised his head just as the tortured sky went black. A gargoyle shape cast darkness across the clouded heavens, blasting wind downward from its beating wings. He saw it descending in a graceless spiral but, despite his eye lenses tinting to reduce the greasy glare of warp space, he could make out little detail in the figure’s form. It struck the ground a hundred metres distant, sending up a vast spray of powdery sand.
The ground shuddered beneath Lorgar’s feet; stabilisers in his armour’s knee joints clicked and thrummed harder to compensate for the quake. Its wings rose first – huge, bestial black wings, the membranes between the muscles and bones as tough as old leather, cobwebbed by thick, pulsing veins. Scarred fur coated much of its body, while the rest of its bunched musculature was encased in great brass armour plating.
Its horned head defied easy description – to Lorgar it resembled nothing but the malicious features of Old Terran’s greatest devil-spirit, the Seytan, as seen in some of the oldest scrolls. It did more than tower over any mortal man – it stood above them as a colossus. Its fists, each the size of a legionary, gripped two weapons: the first, a lashing whip that thrashed of its own accord, sidewinding across the sands; and the second, an immense axe of beaten brass, its surfaces encrusted with dense metal runic scripture. It stalked from the crater it had made, each fall of its armoured hooves sending tremors through the world’s surface.
The targeting reticules and streams of biological data across Lorgar’s retinal displays offered no insight at all. One moment they listed details in a runic language the primarch had never learned. The next they told him nothing was there. When he spoke, his voice was a breathless exhalation, crackling through the lowest frequency of his helm’s vox-grille. ‘What, in my father’s... keep reading on reddit ➡
Lore context 1: the Emperor’s Spears are a Chapter of the 25th Founding (The Bastion Founding)
Lore context 2: they are part of the Elara Veil garrison force alongside the Celestial Lions and the Star Scorpions (the former 888th Chapter, Adeptus Astartes, not to be confused with the new 888th Chapter, the Mentor Legion)
Lore context 3: they are descended from the Ultramarines
Lore context 4: they have a sense of humour
Meta context: people ask questions like do space marines get along with their metaphorical parents/relations etc
> THE EUKARI INSURRECTION [330.M41]
> Many Successor Chapters hold little affinity with their genetic forebears, but the Emperor's Spears are a key example in the rare cases of a Chapter detesting one of its kindred bloodlines to the point of coming to blows. In this instance, it was over a matter of honour.
> During the Eukari Insurrection, a strike force of Emperor's Spears came into conflict with a vanguard of warriors from the Aurora Chapter, a close-bound descendant of the noble Ultramarines.
> However, the Spears’ Fourth Warhost arrived to find the insurrection was already being fought by the Aurora Chapter — technically a cousin bloodline to the Spears.
> Rather than greet the Spears as brethren, the commander of the Aurora Chapter berated the Spears for requiring other warriors to fight their wars inside Elara’s Veil. With typical hot blood, the Spears replied with a planetary deployment right into the heart of the enemy capital, sustaining heavier loss than the Aurora Chapter's meticulously fought counter-offensive, but stealing all glory of the victory for themselves through three days and nights of brutal urban warfare.
> With the Archenemy warlord’s still-bloody skull chained to his pauldron, the Lord of the Fourth War- host - Trystane of the Arakanii — voxed the Aurora Commander and informed him that his men had no right to mark the battle on their war banners as a victory, since the Spears had ‘done all the hard work.’
> The exact events that led to continued destabilisations in relations are unclear, though it seems both commanders eventually agreed to an honour duel to end the unrest. **Even this engagement is the source of yet more conflict, as both Chapters claim their champion was victorious, and in the skirmish that followed, both Chapters claim the other side fired the first shot that led to several warships sustaining significant damage in th... keep reading on reddit ➡
>Achallor paused. ‘General?’
>Dvorgin blinked, seeming to come back into himself. The mask of Mordian discipline slipped easily back over his face, but his eyes exhibited such pain. ‘I am sorry, my lord. I would say it is simply tiredness, but…’ Dvorgin tailed off. He took a sharp breath, and forced himself to look into Achallor’s eyes. ‘With the greatest respect, Lord Achallor, you ask the impossible.’
>Achallor looked down at the man in growing surprise. The general stared back, his eyes dark-rimmed with exhaustion. Achallor could see it had cost him a lot to speak up, but now that he had forced the words out, he would say his piece. ‘Your warriors may be suited to such unrelenting operations, my lord, but mine are not. Nor are the Phyroxians. Nor, I suspect, are the Battle Sisters. Mordian discipline is a wonderful resource but we are not indefatigable. My soldiers have seen weeks of constant battle. We have lost more in the few days since your arrival than in the month before. You spend our lives as though they have no other meaning and Throne knows that is your right, but what do we have to show for it? Stretched supply lines, exhausted reserves, and a half-ruined bastion. Now you ask us to march at once upon the enemy’s greatest stronghold without food, or rest, or a chance to mourn our fallen, and to send others into certain death below the ground. I condemn my soldiers to a pointless end. To do so would be an inexcusable waste in the sight of the Emperor. Strike me down for my insubordination if you must, my lord, but I speak only the truth as I see it.’
>Dvorgin delivered his speech with quiet dignity and, when he had finished, he removed his cap and set it under one arm, revealing the thinning hair of his scalp. Somehow that made him look a decade older, and immeasurably more vulnerable. The silence that settled around the hall was thick and heavy as the prelude to a thunderstorm. All eyes turned to Achallor.
>'Are you telling me you will not do it? Do you know who you are speaking to? Do you not think we risk our own lives as well?’ Vychellan hissed, taking a step forward. Achallor put out his arm, stopping his comrade. Dvorgin shrank a little, yet stood firm.
>‘I am not saying that, my lord,’ said Dvorgin defiantly. ‘You ask the impossible, but I tell you that we will do it. We are Mordians, loyal soldiers of the Emperor, each and every one. We will march while our throats are parch
Context:The Primarchs are sitting together on Ullanor after Horus has been declared Warmaster.
>‘He wants to be left alone,’ said Fulgrim. ‘To shoot off into the stars and hunt down xenos on those delightful jetbikes. They’re devilishly fast.I heard from a contact on Mars, Jaghatai, that you do strange things to your ships.’ >The Khan shot him a heavy-lidded stare. ‘I heard you do strange things to your warriors.’
Fulgrim then offered to come and fight him on Chogoris. Jaghatai's reply: >‘You would lose,’ said the Khan. >Fulgrim grinned, but there was something fragile in it. ‘Oh?’
>‘You would lose because you would treat it like a game, like you treat everything, and I would not.You would lose because you know nothing of me, and I know everything of you because you shout it from the turrets of your battle cruisers. My prowess remains unknown. You have some reputation as a swordsman, brother, but I make no boast when I tell you I would leave you choking on it.’
>Fulgrim’s cheeks flushed. For a moment, he looked like he would go for his blade. As ever, Sanguinius’s calm smile soothed the moment.
Truly,Jaghatai is savage in his retorts.
This is gonna be a long one buckle in.
Spoilers warning for the Ravenor series and from The Emperor's Gift.
Posting this because I think it's an awesome connection that not everyone is aware of. It's rare enough to see original characters cross from one author's series to another's. It also gives a really humanising insight into the Grey Knights who had some infamously edgy lore in years past.
We first encounter Hyperion in his youth while he still bore his original name of Zael Effernetti. His background is grim, even for the grimdark of the far future. It's a sickeningly tragic insight into the life and poverty stricken upbringing of a child in the underhive. His family is a broken wreck of what it once was. His parents died in a hivepox outbreak that decimated the his home in Petropolis. One of his only memories of them is their bodies being carted away. His Grandmother is his only adult caretaker. She regularly abuses substances and cries herself to sleep, choked with grief. Hardly a suitable guardian, as you might imagine. She died from an overdose when Zael was eleven.
The only light of Zael's life was his older sister Nove who does her best to keep them afloat financially.
>He used his first flect the summer he turned eleven, but he’d seen them before. Seen the users too. Scrap-heads, burn outs, wasters. Then he found out just how crap life in the sink-stacks could get.
>Four months before his eleventh birthday, the Departimento Munitorum shut down two fabricatories in the district. Nineteen thousand indentured workers were, in the Munitorum’s words, ‘decruited’. No reason was ever offered for the closures. But it was common knowledge that there was a trade slump right across the sub. Stories went round that new, automated plants had been opened in the northern-most zone: plants where a single servitor could perform the work of twenty indents without the need for sleep shifts. Other rumours said the fabs had lost a navy contract to manufactories on Caxton. Whatever, the work was gone. The fabs were shuttered up and boarded. Nineteen thousand able indents were hung out to rot.
>Zael’s parents had both died in a hivepox outbreak years before. He lived in the stacks with his granna and his sister, Nove. She was eighteen, a flat-frame rigger, and the family’s only wage earner. Nove was one of those decruited
School was never a real option and Zael was quickly forced to turn to crime to survive.
>It got ha... keep reading on reddit ➡