Gods of 40K
Tzeentch
The Eye watches, all of fate and destiny writ before it. It cackles as it pulls apart the tapestry, laughs as the end is made.
There is no life in this void, only death.
Liar, Liar
The serpent spoke, and so I listened. It told me of ancient lands and bitter shores, it told of battles vast and romances forgotten. It spoke of truth, and told only lies, no fangs but rather deceit, no venom, only the history it tried to repeat.
The Warp is a place of magic and madness, of truth perverted into falsehood and reality depraved in its indifference to the order of things. It is chaos, and Chaos, ruled over by flux and enigma.
Chief amongst these is Tzeentch, once Paragon of Impermenance, now the Lunatic Prince of Discord and Arcanum. Master of the eldritch arts, the font of knowledge both profane and profound, the Grey Sage exists to understand the truth... And in doing so, redefine it.
Thus are the servants of Tzeentch so redefined as well. Mutants of body and mind, possessed of prescience that they forever avoid, bound by a thirst for change that can never fade. The one immutable fact of service to the Mad God is that tomorrow must be different, no matter the
cost.
This is the Path of Chaos, to seek and never find, to
plan but never achieve. The goals obtained but another
step forwards along the road that never ends, death the only outcome that can last.
So do we begin this attempt to document what does not exist, to bind in certainty with ink and parchment the very essence of doubt. The crow calls, the raven answers in kind...
The future relents before this madness of mine.
A Vision in Flux
Where to start with the Master Misconstrue, for the origins of the gods are lost in the mist, and his are hidden further by the lies we tell. Some speak of a war in the cosmos between empires that had devoured the stars, whose weapons were so dark they birthed hell into the Warp.
Others tell of a brief moment in existence before the storm, the very act of creation creating in turn that spirit which would spin progress as its only truth. A few even make mention of Terra, the Age of Information and Knowledge so long ago lost but whose rampant incline towards the future lit the spark and gave thought to a concept beloved.
Regardless, were Tzeentch himself to tell us the answer, there is no way to be sure. So much has myth cloaked the secrets, so much has lie distorted the very fabric of what occurred, that we could never know for certain.
This, in of itself, helps us understand what Tzeentch truly is. He is the knowledge that we thought we knew, the discovery only partly understood that leads to dark and dire mistake. He is the web we see and duck to avoid, without noticing the spiders all around.
The Master of Magic, the Lord of Chaos and Guile, such would perhaps befit the title of most powerful amongst the gods, as they are elements both fundamental and anathema to the Warp. For a while this was true, but so potent was his strength, so unpredictable were his desires, that the others would later cast him down and steal from him that which gave dominion.
Such forms the mind of the Many Masques but what then defines his form? A plume of coloured mists from which voices echo eternal, a vast bird with bitter eyes, a sorcerer, thin and lanky. All visions and more make up that being which cannot be affixed.
Most common is a creature of screaming mouths however, tortured faces shifting across a hide of
countless colours. All these, like everything about
the Liar, is true only for a moment. Once
recognised, they die, for no pattern nor
cage can bind this God, bar those he
bound himself.
An Homage Inconsistent
In stark contrast to those deities who bear upon open sleeve their desires and objectives, does Tzeentch lure and trick his followers into mistake and disaster. He demands prayer through plot, dedication through intrigue and arcane art, but will just as happily visit ruin upon such endeavours as he will bless them with great reward.
The number nine holds a special place within the hearts of those who pledges themselves to the Lord of Misrule, for nine legions hold host to his forces, nine gates lead into his realm. Whether inclusion of such a symbol will aid one, however, is a matter of uncertain doubt. Ever would it be Tzeentch's way to provide truth only to later reveal his trick.
Those who wish to rise in Tzeentch's service are expected to learn all that they can and succeed through twisted wit and perverted guile. Sinister irony is most appreciated by the Lord of Change, and corruption of philosophy and ideal a sacrifice most savoured by his capricious mind.
In converse are those that solve matters through simple means shunned and punished. Mutations and crippling alterations are not uncommon amongst his favoured, but those that earn his ire face collapse in its purest form.
This expectation of change, regardless of whether it be positive or negative, then puts him in direct opposition with Nurgle. The Lord of Decay stagnates and remains unchanging, even as his brother burns through a thousand forms in boredom and disbelief.
In truth however, despite the seeming complexity, Tzeenth asks only for one thing, and one
thing only.
Never stay the
same.
Madness Mortalis
Tzeentch is both a God rarely stumbled upon, and yet one sought after by many who do not know his true nature. Easily does it start with a simple mistake, a piece of lore forgotten for good reason, or a lowly soul desperate to break from their shackles through any means necessary.
These fires, both curious and inspiring, often burn fuel far darker than they realise. Harmless interest soon becomes dire obsession, and bright hope twisted into ambition without limit. The change often goes unnoticed, both by themselves and by those who know them, for the line between lucid and lunatic is a fine one in the grim future, with little to distinguish between the two.
Soon will their luck run out however, their actions caught by those with little sympathy, their addiction unsatisifed for longer periods as their desire becomes harder to find. So do the servants of Tzeentch find themselves bound without knowing, their steps leading them straight into damnation without pause nor complaint.
Many throughout history have walked this same path, most feared of which are the Thousand Sons. These suits of empty armour, known as the Rubric Marines, are bound by eldritch seal and led by sorcerous master.
Peerless in the arcane arts, their curse came from their own curiosity, a desire to dig deep into shadows until only shadow remained. Blind in the dark, outcast by their peers, they clutched at the only light they could find. So did Tzeentch welcome them with open arms, his guidance from the start leaving him as the only choice to escape.
But Astartes are not his only servants... Though rare do they come so vast as to form armies. Countless cults across countless worlds listen to his song, repeat only his lies. The Menagerie and the Followers of the Red Monarch are huge conspiracies that devour whole sectors, but rare is it to find a world where curiosity does not pull upon the heart strings of ancient faiths.
Further deformed from even those who would stare unblinking into madness are the beasts however, for it should be of little surprise that Tzeentch would take many a mutant under his wing. The Tzaangors form the foundation of these monsters, and their twisted, bestial forms inspire fear even as they provide adequate cover and chaff for those more enlightened than they.
The Endless Eyes
So rank the mortal servants of the Madling God, but those Daemonic in nature are near endless in number. At the very base of this demented hierarchy stand the Horrors, globules of flesh with too many teeth, bearing arms of witch-fire and the disturbing ability to split as they are slain.
Then there are the Flamers, engines of pyromantic destruction that delight even as they destroy, alongside the Screamers who ride the winds of fate as vast manta rays formed of gnashing teeth and flowing flesh.
Above these stand the Heralds, those learned creatures found often atop the backs of their Discs. These beasts of flesh-metal and arcanum soar high above the battlefields, casting their sorcerous might below.
Lastly are the Lords of Change, whose feathered and withered form bely a terrible strength. These practitioners of the dark arts know no equal, for they are mad with knowledge and glut with eldritch power. They know much, and can never be trusted...
The Lords Mercurial
However, even one such as Tzeentch can have favourites. Those champions who have endured number amongst the most deadly foes the galaxy could never imagine.
Ahzek Ahriman, scion of the Thousand Sons, architect of the Rubricae and Exile for his crimes. He is sorcerer of sublime talent and terrible knowledge, possessed of a single minded drive that puts little beyond his reach.
Magnus the Red, Half-Soul and Daemon-Primarch of the Thousand Sons. An arcane master benefitting from gene-wrought prowess and divine tutelage, only his madness and self-loathing binds him from reaching his true potential.
Kairos Fateweaver, the Oracle of Tzeentch and keeper of secrets even from the Mad Prince. He has stared into the darkest abyss and it stares back forever through his eyes.
The Blue Scribes, the Seekers of the Revenant Eye who search forever for every known spell, recording all that they find in the vain hope that doing so will return unto Tzeentch what was stolen from him so long ago.
And finally the Changeling, a creature that perhaps more than any other best exemplifies its masters quixotic nature. Capable of taking on any form, any memory and any soul, it is lost amidst a thousand lives it can never truly own.
The Labyrinth Lost
Unsurprisingly for one who claims dominion over such lunatic children, Tzeentch makes his lair in a place that cannot truly be described. Those few who venture into its halls find themselves lost amidst sensation without description, sentenced to madness before even their minds can discover how truly damned they are.
Despite this, a few fragments of truth remain, though perhaps they serve only as an anchor for the mortal mind to follow. A vast labyrinth of endless tunnel and impossible passage guides one through this realm of crystal. Each reflection follows you on, screaming as you pass, warning of dangers both real and imagined, providing assurance when doubt would serve you best.
Forging ones path through such a domain is formidable, but the challenge has just begun. At the heart of this maze lies the Impossible Fortress, through which no mortal could ever pass. The corridors lie even as they lure into the abyss, the halls guarded by Daemons and mist.
Ever growing and ever changing, no single route
could ever lead to success. Only blind and
impossible chance could see one pass, for its
ways follow the whims of Tzeentch even as he
ponders upon the most inane of topics.
Should one succeed however, they would find
themselves in the Hidden Library, and here will they witness the true glory of Tzeentch. It will be the last
thing they see however, for death is preferable to the
true sight of the Lord of Chaos, quiet to his fell smile.
It is said that a secret path lies through his realm however. One that promises knowledge of all things and times. In the shadows of this myth lie nine gates, each one marked with promise and foul deceit.
Here must you answer one of the nine-hundred and ninety-nine riddles of Tzaratxoth at each gate in turn until all lie open. Success will grant you that which many have sought... Failure will find but death repeated and eternal.
Only one is said to have succeeded this task, a young girl and her black dog... An enigma befitting the Master of Misrule.
The Crystal Staff
Less a relic and now a concept bound within the fabric of existence, the Crystal Staff was once the source of Tzeentch's power. Fearing for its loss as he battled the other gods, Tzeentch shattered it. Each piece became in part a spell known by the mortal races and ever since then has he sought out those shards, eager to reclaim the power that was once his.
Art
1: Tzeentch, The Eye of Changes by Gwiom
2: Unknown
3: Unknown
4: Unknown
5: Servants of Tzeentch by Harry Osborn
6: Unknown
Afterword
I hope you all enjoyed this installment of the 40K Lore by Jackeyblob. If you have any feedback or criticism, please don't hesitate to let me know. The next chapter will be taken from the suggestion most interesting to me, so I look forward to hearing from you then.