Gods of 40K
The Ruinous Powers AIO
What then do you serve, oh slave to ash and ruin? Do you kneel before the altar of war, perhaps spill wine to decadence and collapse? Do you praise entropy or cling wild to hope without reason?
Or are you of the most dangerous kind, serving nothing except yourself?
Chapter One
Khorne
The tides of rage begin once more, the legions without dream march again. Come to me, oh children of war, come to me and weep.
For I am the Ire of I.
And ye shall claim Nought by my name.
Ad Anguis
Never have I claimed to cling to faith. No words could be said, no future foreseen, that could make me step further than I wished to go, for before me stand demons of flame and blade. Proof, if ever I needed, that our rage was divine alone.
What can be said of anger, that has not been said a thousand times before by poets and those of faith. It burns like acid through the veins, lingers like ash upon the tongue. It is both pure and sick, tainted by its very need to cleanse until nothing remains.
So is Khorne, the Flame that Burns, the Patron of Red Rage and Ruin. His is the call of war, the clarion cry of slaughter and insensate wroth. He exemplifies anger in its purest form, taken to its most extreme end. Self-destructive, violent, and most of all... pointless.
Those that serve him do so invariably without choice, for as the blood flows, sense and reason are burned on the pyre of hate and death. Sanity, compassion, reason and thought, all these and more are but kindling for the fires burning within as you step upon the brazen path.
This is the Crimson Path, to sacrifice all else but destruction. Honour, nobility and perfection of craft, each but the dull facade covering the true colours beneath. Pretty lies hiding the truth that all of us wish to burn, everything and then ourselves.
Here shall we begin, beneath red stars of blinding white. Here do we start, with the Doom of Existence, calling out the same song every time. Blood for the Blood God...
Skulls for the Skull Throne.
The Face
of Murder
The origins of Khorne
are a murky affair, contained within
tomes now blind with viscera and ash.
Some say his first breath was the last
of another, a spark of consciousness born as rock split twain kins blood.
Others claim that his birth was due to the chaos spilling across Terra during the Middle Ages, that era of knights and chivalry perverted by the dark souls underneath. They claim that as strife split the world apart, so too did his roar sunder the Warp in recoiled shock.
A rare few even claim that his birth was from a time so long past, humanity still lingered as cells throughout the ocean water. The War in Heaven they call it, and so terrible was the destruction that the very heavens turned fell with rage, decay and madness.
The truth however... Well the truth may never be known, possibly cannot be known. His darkness eternal from the moment it was born, his shadow cast across existence as laughter drives forth the engines bleak.
Such legacy befits his stature, for Khorne is the most powerful of the gods, unsurprising in the face of such horrors that now exist within the galaxy, each moment a battle against the end that feeds the fires of extinction. He is a beast of fog and flame, a towering fiend of brazen muscle and ironbound hide whose very breath ignites the blood and air around him.
All this coiled and chained like a dog rabid with hunger. From atop his Throne of Skulls, formed from the head of every creature taken in his name, does he watch collapse and direct its path towards the most glorious ruin.
Those foolish enough to stand before him, mad enough to somehow survive, speak of his bated breath that reeks of spilt blood. They speak of wings so vast that whole suns are devoured by their shade. They speak of death...
In Service to
Collapse
Khorne is a simple God by any standard, requiring little in the way of service or prayer. He does not ask for temple in way to pay homage, for the battlefield serves as his shrine, battle in all its violent totality the grace which he bestows.
The number eight is sacred, for reasons unknown. The eight towers of his citadel, the eight lords of his legions, and eight wars said to pass before his thirst for ruin is complete. Those who court him do well to remember this, for simple he may be, but merciful he is not.
Magick is forbidden, the dark arts of the sorcerer cowardly in his eyes, and those who flee struggle nor chase the tail of destruction are spited by the King in Brass. Most loathsome of all, however, are the servants of the Dark Prince. Those sworn to Slaanesh, depraved and dilettante, are weak and pathetic, slaves to obsession and ill-focussed upon the true beauty in battle.
In return, the Lord of Skulls asks only for death. Whether you bear titles and codes of honour, or fall sick with bloodlust, it does not matter. Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows.
The Mortals Malign
The fall to Khorne is often swift and carelessly done. A knight eager to protect his land, a student desperate to master the blade, a warrior competing with his fellows before the eve of battle.
It does not take much, a spark to start the flame. Soon the knight decides to hunt that which would threaten him, the student throws himself into more dangerous training, and the warrior ups the stakes through the hunting of deadlier game.
This is it how it begins, step by step, reaching towards crescendo as the beat builds faster. By the end, there is little left of those who once were. The knight now monstrous, preying upon those who looked to him for protection, too weak to guard themselves. The student, battling to the death for the greatest test of skill. The warrior, killing comrade and ally, their blood the greatest conquest in their game.
These are the servants of Khorne, and though many find themselves at different points in their path, madness and annihilation are all that await. Most famous amongst these are the World Eaters, once noble Astartes in the Emperor's service, now twisted parodies of the angels they once were.
Led by Angron, a Daemon-Primarch bound to Khorne, the World Eaters are a monstrous band of lunatic killers, lost entirely to anger and rage. Fuelled on by neural-implants known as the Butcher's Nails, their legacy is one of suicidal dread, and vagrant carnage.
Though legendary, they do not stand alone. From the disciplined ranks of the Blood Pact, to the Butcherhorde who follow in the wake of Khârn the Betrayer, the forces of Khorne are endless. Though many die each day that passes, his madness catches countless into his ranks.
It is not even just humans who find themselves serving the Master of Ruin. From the scarecrow-like Nekulli to the bloodthirsty Rak'Gol, all races find themselves called by the lure of strife. Khorne cares not for what you are, only that battle is served.
The Revenants of Ruin
Behind the fist clenched across reality, are those dark spirits formed in life with their master. The Daemons of Khorne are brutal creatures, unimaginative but effective, forming vast legions of brazen blades and dark strength.
The bulk of these forces are comprised of Bloodletters, lithe creatures wielding swords forged in the fires of hell. Clad in thick scales of crimson hide, they are a formidable opponent, incredibly skill in battle and brutally strong.
Behind them come the Heralds, chosen from amongst their lesser kin for their particular ability in the arts of strategy and murder. Atop mighty Juggernauts, great bulls of iron and brass, do they ride, their quake speaking loud the end to come.
Finally are the Bloodthirsters, towering beings of flame and smoke, borne aloft by wings of shadow cast. None equal these fiends in battle, for they are whirlwinds of destruction, true perfection of slaughter.
Only the Daemon Princes stand separate, caught halfway between reality and not. These are the most cursed creatures, for they were once free, and chose instead slavery rather than a life fulfilled. They are the voice of Khorne, his fist upon existence... For they have not other choice.
The Chosen of Strife
Though the brazen might of Khorne stands endless in number, there are champions infamous and feared for their skill in carnage.
Khârn the Betrayer, broken blade of the World Eaters, once amongst the most fearsome warriors in the Legions Astartes, now stands as a turncoat servant to none. Slave to the screaming blood, he kills all those in his path, be they friend or foe.
Angron, the Red Angel, once Primarch of the World Eaters, now ashen servant of the Blood God. Mindless, savage and brutal, he is the purest example of the fate that awaits all those who tread the murderers path.
Skarbrand, exile of Brass Throne, a Bloodthirster so pure in his hatred that he turned even upon Khorne himself, set wild with the notion that no fight was beyond their skill and madness.
Doombreed, amongst the most ancient Daemon Princes, and the single-handed usher of armageddon. His works of bloodshed and misery span millenia, and no champion stands great enough to match him.
And lastly, Karanak, three-headed hound of Khorne. This beast waits and hungers, set loose only upon its masters command. With its bark comes the tides of blood, the baying hounds of apocalypse bare of skin and made of muscle and blood.
The Realms of Blood
Such servants however, need forges to fuel their advance, keeps from which to plan and prepare, lands from which to sally forth into the breach. This is Khorne's realm, an endless series of blasted hellscapes, torn apart by eldritch storm and impossible sights.
In constant flux do they twist and turn, each scream from the heavens matched by a roar from the earth as mountains form and the skies erupt. Rivers of blood spring eternal from its depths, marking new boundaries over which to battle, as each nation wars with the other under the constant view of the Lord of Skulls.
To enter here is to enter madness and strife, every rock, every drop of liquid fatal in its own way. Such is the way of Khorne, for what use does anything have if its use is not to kill.
But entry is not for the weak, the borders of this
land without limit guarded by vast volcanoes that
reach hundreds of miles into the sky, polluting
the air with black smoke as their innards rumble
with the thunder of their Juggernaut inhabitants.
Red lightning crashes down with seeming malice, illuminating the nightmarish shroud with fell flame
and cruelty. Those who seek shelter within the depths
are met with greater foes however, for Daemons of
liquid metal haunt the tunnels, eager to devour and
dissolve those foolish enough to flee.
This tectonic wrath makes it perfect for the forges that toil endlessly underneath the ground. The souls of mortals captured here are bound within the forges, illuminating the way forwards even as their anguished screams add fear and flame to the weapons they forge.
Next come the Blood Pits, spawned at random from which crawl the legions of Khorne's armies. Then the Lake of Slaughter, to which all blood flows, deeper than the depth between stars. These are the wilds of Khorne's realm, the verdant grief that spawns vile hate and loathing.
The Brass Fortress
Should you manage to cross the mountains of Khorne's Teeth, bargain past the forges beneath their grasp, sail the Rivers of Blood and cross the Lake of Slaughter, would you then find the most imposing obstacle.
Eight towers form this citadel, forged of brass and skulls. Each wall host to a horde of Daemons, bloodied and veteran from a thousand wars, the very skies home to beasts of fang and ash.
No mere keep is this, but the seat of Khorne's power. This demesne is where he struggles and screams, rages against the cosmos and goads his servants forwards. To court here is to court death, for only those truly barren of their humanity could set forth here without collapse, only the most artistic of psychopaths could survive its challenges.
Should you make it within however, then you will find
in its heart the symbol of all woe and hate. Towering high into the sky, endless and replete, the Skull Throne atop which sits the Black Rage.
Here rests Khorne until the time of sword and axe. He waits, biding his time, pushing against destiny as fate crumbles before his wrath. Soon it comes, as his servants pant with hunger. Soon, and then his time shall come...
The Universe Shall Bleed.
The End of All Things
Known by many names, the Woebringer and Warmaker amongst many, this sword is Khorne's most potent artefact. Forged of black steel, covered in the darkest runes, it is said that when he swings it, existence itself is split in twain. A mad few wonder if the end of days shall be heralded by the crack of ruin's storm, the patience of Khorne finally shattered.
The First Host
Formed of the Eight most powerful Bloodthirsters in Khorne's employ, these beasts are the trust masters of rage and death. Each one is an army unto themselves, each one a divine instrument of murder and malice. These are the harbingers of the extinction, their presence no omen, but a certainty of defeat.
Chapter Two
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.
Chapter Three
Nurgle
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us out to play,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us dance today.
Oh Papa Nurgle please, give us broth and bone,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, hear me shriek and moan.
The Lord Entropic
Woe he who enters both mighty and great, for I am Ozymandias, Guardian of this gate.
All must come to ruin who enter this land, even ruin itself, by ruin's own hand.
Plague and pestilence, rot and ruin, so does the Warp reflect collapse even as it creates. Ennervation some call it, Entropy to others, it is the fate of all things to die. As such it should be of little surprise that the Warp, in all its perverted nature, would defy this.
So stands tall the Lord of Decay, Master of the Ripe and Ruin. Nurgle is his name, Sisyphus by those who know true, for his will is to endure eternal, never changing and never moving. It is by his decree that rot binds tight, by his order that sickness run free, death ever out of reach.
Such then is the fate of those who pledge allegiance to the Grandfather, forced to exist in repetition and toil, enjoy the madness out of choice left barren. It is love of the most absurd kind, for it chokes as it claims, smothers as it
seeks to protect. Vile obsession perhaps, or just the
death of soul and song...
This is the Path of Decay, as rotten without as it is within, poisoned by depraved consent. What dreams possessed are abandoned to sorrow, what hopes unravelled by a gift without equal. There can be no change upon this road, for that is the price you pay.
From dust to dust, from ashes to ashes, this way does existence lie barren, empty of life, empty of death.
Only Silence, forever at the end.
A Bad Apple
All things have a
beginning, even that
which cannot start nor end.
Caught eternal in existence, Nurgle's
moment of birth would define the
universe's path towards cessation without stop.
The dark lore and ancient pages describing those beings within the Warp speak of many things, and of birth do they speak freely but without much proof. From battles long past between empires that devoured stars do some state the beginning occured. The War in Heaven that split asunder reality and tore the veil so deep that madness was born.
Other legends persist of a time during humanity's ruin, as plague swept through the Middle Ages and devoured all in its path. The fade into nothing was a feast before the nascent thought, and upon each life taken, each land abandoned, did he glut himself into existence.
Last speak those of a time without time, for when life was born, so to was death. The Reaper exists and always has, for the day that he doesn't is the day that no one would be able to tell.
This confusion and doubt feeds only into his desire however, for ignorance is but the rot of the mind. Progress is inimical to the Lord of All, and so truth must be destroyed. That death comes is the only fact of importance, that all hope is lost, the only words to have meaning.
From this description would you then imagine a gallows figure, a haunting spectre of devastation and sorrow. Such a belief could not be further from the truth, for he is a corpulent creature of jolly smile and booming laughter.
A dichotomy then, that proves more horrifying than any revenant being of ruin. Surrounded by diseases given thought and malice, scarred by rot and infested organ spilling from his infected wounds, the sight of Nurgle is enough to kill... The smell enough to drive one into the abyss.
Nurture and
Nourish
While the other Gods may show inconsistent apathy to their followers, or take sadistic joy in their suffering, Nurgle instead offers love. Love, because little else has the power to disguise what horror lies in his service.
Those seeking to return his compassion do so through ritual long held dear to the Lord of All. The number seven, for instance, holds a special place in his heart, and such numbers his legions and most perfect of plagues.
In ruins do they pray, natural and machined, relics of a time long passed and a haunting reminder of the fate of all. Here do they raise high their decline, plot their goals of nought, and devise life from decay and death.
Those who wish to prove themselves to the Grandfather must do but the simplest thing... Endure. Survive, and you shall find plague and pestilence as gifts, bring low the enemies most glorious moments, and you shall find anonymity amidst the eternal hordes that follow you.
Reap then, and you shall find the harvest most prosperous...
The bounty of the grave, resplendent.
Servants of Sickness
Insidious then, is the lure of the void. Once your path starts down the road to ruin, your choice matters not, your damnation already fait accompli. Often does it start from the most benign of seeds, or rooted in a terror that has driven mortals into darkness since the first soul asked, "What happens next?"
The doctor seeks answers to diseases that cannot be cured, hunts for salvation as those they loves die. The noble looks upon their legacy and despairs, for it is incomplete and ragged. The mortals fears change, and so seeks to make it stop.
So then does the doctor begin to understand, wisdom given as soon his curiosity becomes love. The diseases more important than the host, intricate and divine in their perfection. Restoration becomes malady, the need to cure but another vector of decay as their humanity grows infected.
The noble, desperate, offers sacrifice for just another year, promises payment for but one last chance to finish what they began. Death releases them but the cost is great, and so their legend turns to rust even as they scramble for more coin to pay the keeper.
The question is asked, the answer replies... "Nothing."
Countless have sought the cure to finality, and the legions of Nurgle are thick with those too foolish to turn away from the hand black with rust. Astartes and angels, mortal and monster, l'appel du vide sings and they act without thought.
The most notable amongst these servants are the Death Guard, once bright stars in humanity's future, now pox-ridden and hollow. Beneath the wings of the Agent Apocrypha do they stride, relentless and eternal, scarring the very earth as they pass.
Before them walk mortals, eager in service to groups such as the Sevenfold Conjunction and the Plaguechildren, preaching of Nurgle's loving word even as they gather themselves to unleash a tide of ruin, their lives easy sacrifices for the glory of the Grandfather.
The Plagues have Eyes
Those servants born of the mortal coil may be legion,
but the darkness numbers endless in its desire to
destroy. The Daemons of Nurgle are creatures of
horror and fear, laughing fiends of joyous decay
who spread sickness by their very name.
The very least of these are the Nurglings and Plaguebearers, hordes of chittering diseases and
corpulent humanoids wielding blades of rust. Weak
and slow, only fury and the deadliest of blows can
stop their advance.
Then there are the mutants, those crude creatures of bountiful pestilence. The Molluscoid, thick with slime and shell, the Bloat Flies and their rotten kin. The Feculent Gnarlmaws, the swarms of Eyestinger bugs and the Bests of Nurgle themselves. Each is a glorious celebration of sickness and decline, devolution of the finest order.
Above the desolate hordes then ride the Heralds, masters of the Legions in Sickness and wise to the ways of disease. These are but the lieutenants however, servants to the Great Unclean Ones whose forms is made in magnificent homage to the Grandfather. Towering over all else, bolsters by the darkest magic, they are the true harbingers of extinction.
The Masters Malaise
From such a loving figure, it should be of little surprise that some of his children stand out in his favour more than others. These entropic champions are formidable beings, nigh inviolable and rife with pestilential power.
Mortarion, Lord of the Death Guard and Reaper of a thousand worlds. Upon wings of tattered flesh does he soar high, cleaving through with magic and dark might.
Typhus the Traveller, architect of truth to the Death Guard. His passage is foul with plague, the dead crawling forth to serve him.
Ku'Gath the Dour, pessimistic and quiet, he was once the most favoured in Nurgle's court of Daemons. Wise and cunning beyond his peers, he sows malaise and doubt in equal measure to disease.
Epidemius, the chronicler of catastrophe. He is the Grandfather's Tallyman, and is tasked with wandering the cosmos in his efforts to record all acts pestilential.
And finally, Horticulous Slimux, the Gardener of Nurgle and tamer of the wild beasts within his realm. Never smiling and never laughing, he takes his duties seriously as all should in praise of Father Fly.
The Gardens Putrescent
As foul as the servants of Ruin are, no more foul are they than the realm they call home. The Gardens of Nurgle are an endless swamp, thick with poisonous plant beast.
Macabre in fashion, every plague and pestilence, sickness and viral strain, can be found within its depths. Bacteria without name but holy in purpose, fungi whose spores inflict the most cursed of afflictions, all these exist in celebration of life without change.
Though one would be forgiven for thinking this wilderness to be a product of chance, nature given free reign to devour as it likes, they would be wrong. The chaos apparent to the untrained eye is instead cultivated with care, each plant nourished, each island within the virulent waters given purpose by careful hands.
Through this must one delve to find any proof of a creator however, and few will do so gladly. Past the buzzards however, and the trees that feed on blood, one will eventually find the ramshackle abode of the Lord of Decay.
The Blighted Mansions of Misery and Mirth, decrepit and ancient, stand tall amidst the jungle shroud. Within these crumbling walls does Nurgle work away upon his creations, the mad scientist lost in joy as he works his wonders upon the world.
Alone he is not however, for not only do his plagues burble happily within their flasks, but so too does another live within these halls. Isha, Goddess of Life, trapped and caged by chain and Nurgle's toxic love without restraint.
As he works, so does she, spilling secrets of hope and healing to those who need it most, learning from her captor even as she foils his every move.
So would it remain, a paradise of stasis and regression... But others planned different. A trap gone awry, Guilliman lured into the Forests Contaigon and escaped by the power of the Emperor, whose last act was to set aflame even as Nurgle's brothers sought vengeance for his recent success.
Such petty violence achieves nought however, for in the end...
It changes nothing.
The Cauldron of Nurgle
Hewn from his own body, warped like metal into a vast basin, the Cauldron of Nurgle is the pinnacle of the Plaguemeister's craft. It is within this bubbling pot that death is given form, life sprung eternal to claim its due. Such is the way of the alchemist, equal exchange for an equal price.
Chapter Four
Slaanesh
I sought oblivion and calm respite, my path forged through sensation and blinding excess. I explored depravity, ventured into the darkness never mapped, until I swept past Experience, witnessed only by the gods.
Thus became I a voyager upon delights unknown, my ship named only, "Sweet Departure".
The Sin Serpentia
For you see, Sin, and its more extreme counterpart, Addiction, are inherently lazy concepts. Many people talk about the temptations of Vice, the lure of decadent bliss, but mostly that is just an easy excuse. Sin doesn't try to tempt... It just does.
We all know what it is to thirst, to hunger for more. We have all stared upon our work and sought perfection even as its image fled our grasp. We have all needed... And so there we begin our story. Not where we'd like to, but where we must.
This is Slaanesh, She Who Thirsts, He Who Craves, the Mad Prince of Obsession and Perfection. It is her will to ever experience what cannot be defined, and by his word are boundaries broken, for to be denied is poison to the Serpent's Chalice, venom upon her racing mind.
Thus are his followers expected to act always, with plan or without, she cares not. The rush of battle, the thrill of art forbidden and acts obscene, one must not pause to ponder. Onwards and forwards forever until at last cessation
brings that final sensation that can only ever be felt once.
This is the Path of Excess, to live without limit, to
reach without constraint. All must be abandoned, for to
love with anything less than obsession is a crime, to care with more than the briefest glance but a waste of time divinely spent.
So then calls upon you those darkest desires and most bitter of pains. Abandon thine morality, steer clear of philosophies left restrained. Slaanesh has only one lesson to teach you, oh believers of perfection...
It does not believe in you.
Cry Havoc
To start in the
beginning... Even here
does Slaanesh strive to
differ from his kin, for though their pasts
are locked in mystery, hers are known
well by those who fear her most.
Raised upon the embers of decadence, kept warm amidst the flames of hedonistic collapse, Slaanesh first saw light as the vast empire of the Aeldari cannibalised itself in jaded apathy. So depraved had these scions of the Old Ones become, that their excess took upon form divine... And malice most dark and foul.
The winds within the Warp howled, let loose shriek and moan. Some fled, some waited, some watched, nascent thought glut upon the fell crimes of immortal sin. A crack then, a splinter, and out forth came incarnate vice wrought by tragedy and denial.
The Aeldari were devoured, their gods but candle flames before the tempest darkness that stormed into reality. Cegorach the Trickster would vanish, Kaela Mensha Khaine would be shattered and scattered throughout the void, and a legacy more ancient than near any other would meet the most terrible of fates... Extinction.
Left behind were only those refugees outrunning the storm and mad heirs to a crime without forgiveness. Where once a kingdom had started, risen high in majesty, hung now only a tear into the Abyss, a violent abomination against rational and reason.
So was born Slaanesh, the Eye of Terror his cry for attention, the flame of countless souls her nourishment. Impossible to contain within a single form, in repose upon the tides of madness does he rest, appearing ever as she wants dependent on whim and mercurial humour.
Favoured by the Mirror Darkly however, is to appear as a little of everything at once. One half a man, the other a woman, two horns of gold adorned by hair of palest silk. This is the Prince of Pleasure, manifest within us all.
Valiant Vice
Thus are Slaanesh's followers encouraged
to try all things that they can, even as their patron dances with damnation. Obeisance through obsession, praise through pursuits of perfection, service in sin, these are the hallmarks of the Dark Prince. Many claim he just wishes for your happiness, but in truth she savours only the flames of your self-destruction.
The number six is of specific significance to her, and those who wish answers find joy in the occult complexity of his devising. This is but a trifle however, for the Sin Serpentia demands offering not to his self, but to you.
One must experience something new, create something wonderful, devise upon the world that which has never before been witnessed. An art mastered, a weapon of fell design, anything will suffice, provided it suffice only once.
Then offered are these sacrifices, within dens of iniquity and vice. Brothels and studios, drug dens and opera houses, Slaanesh does not discriminate on your choice of poison.
So serve those slaves to sensation. The match lit, the spark set free, the flame roars into life as desire forms fuel for it to burn. Watch it roar, they are told, feed it higher... Never realising that the flame will inevitably feed on them.
Devotees of Discordia
You might then wonder, and rightfully so, how one would choose to walk this path so clearly marked with danger. Alas, like addiction, the dark touch of Slaanesh festers and pulls upon the soul.
The artist, barren of muse, facing ridicule and self-loathing, the dilettante bored now with their life of ill-repute. The craftsman surrounded by competition and superior talent. All these souls, driven not by rage or pride, but by desire...
The artist paints a picture, delving into styles esoteric and forgotten. The dilettante ventures deeper into the shadows, abandoning now his mundane pleasures for something else. The craftsman abandons family and food, focussed now only on furthering their work.
So is the first step taken, selfish in their selfless harm upon themselves.
The artist finishes their masterpiece, blood dripping from the easel as alien eyes of unearthly beauty stare back. The dilettante tastes human flesh and delights, before once more growing grey with sorrow. The craftsman, alone and poor, completes his task, its quality unequalled even as the last embers of a life forgotten fade away.
This is how so many fall into the Dark Prince's clutches, and so many do so without ever knowing. Rare is it to find a cause more alluring than ones own gratification, rarer still is it to find those who can turn such worship down.
From this simple message do a thousand cults across a thousand worlds thrive, insidious and sinister in their sly corruption, effecting debased change in a universe so tightly repressed. Numbered amongst these are some of the most foul mortals to ever draw breath, the likes of the Pirate Princes of the Spiral Helix, and the Hollow Cult whose enlightened deceptions destroyed an entire Grey Knight Company.
The most fearsome of her living servants however, are the Emperor's Children. Once the brightest of the Angels Astartes, now they are sick parodies of honour and virtue. Wielding weapons of shrieking sonic and discordant doom, they destroy only to taste death in its cruellest form.
Spawned of Sensation
With such darkness amongst the mortal mind, it is scarce possible to believe that those figments of his own desire could be any worse. Alas, even the supple Daemonette, capricious and beautiful in equal measure, is a creature wrought of the most profane and wanton acts.
Besides these succubi both intriguing and repulsive come the Fiends and Steeds of Slaanesh, a horrific mirror to the fae charm of their lesser kin. They are monstrous in totality, an honest view at the heart that beats only jealousy and greed.
Above them from palanquins of skinned flesh and enchanted incense ride the Heralds, their siren song calling once more for the thrill of battle to commence. Masters of magic that twists the mind and plays with illusion, their mere presence can stop a heart in delight.
Only the Keeper of Secrets rule higher, and they are truly magnificent. Depraved like none other, reeking of sin and delicate ruin, they move like shattered glass and give battle like music upon the page. These are the servants of She who Thirsts, as dangerous in dream as they are on the fields of war.
The Princes Perfidious
Though mighty is the force that swears fealty to his dark name, Slaanesh values competence and mastery above near all else. As such, competition is rife, violence an art form in her fell realm. Those who succeed then, become beloved in the Prince's eyes, gifted further by his overwhelming passion.
Fulgrim, the Phoenician, once Primarch of the Emperor's Children, now father to a Legion of shattered oaths and mercurial loyalty. Obsessed with himself and only himself, he sips upon the chalice of war, like a noble upon their wine.
Lucius the Eternal, arrogant "master" of the blade, scarred warning against the sins of hubris and denial. A wanderer without loyalty to any but his own ego, searching forever to prove his skill against all others.
Shalaxi Helbane, Blade of the Dark Prince, Serpent Queen of the Sable Sword. She is a hunter, a killer and a warrior without equal amongst the Daemonic Legions. None can stay her blade, not even those blessed by gods more ancient than she.
Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair and most beloved of Slaanesh's servants. Her delight is corruption, her poison of choice those souls of the Eldar who still live in fear and dread of his shadow.
And lastly, the Masque, banished from the court of She Who Thirsts, doomed to dance through existence bringing misery and woe to whomever hears her tune. Even the Harlequins cannot match her grace, nor stand for existence so similar to theirs.
The Realms of Repose
Unlike his kin, whose homes stand as vast bastions protected both by nature and artificial design, Slaanesh's realm is open for all to wander. Guarded only by tests to ensure the worth of those who set forth, it is shade cast bitter upon the soul, harrowing and empty in its riot of life.
Of these tests there are six, each one a realm in their own right. The first is of Avarice, the Excess of Riches, and here lies a dragons horde in gemstone and gilt. The sun burns bright a ruby light, the trees covered in gold leaf, the bones of those who took more than they could carry crunching below.
The second, Gluttony, the Excess of Sustenance.
Here amidst the oceans of delicate wine lie
islands scattered far and wide. Should one
survive the delicious seas without drowning
themselves, they will find a bounty of food cooked
to perfection, intoxicating in their aroma. Alas
do many surrender here, eating their fill and then
eating some more, never realising just how familiar
a form such food takes.
Third is Lust, the Excess of Bodily Delights, and no mortal brothel nor den of iniquity could match this shrine to physical gratification. The air hangs thick with enraptured musk, and those that succumb find every sense heightened, every pain inflicted by the waiting Daemons magnified a thousand-fold.
Then comes Envy, the Excess of Adoration, and to follow this path is to walk upon dreams held in the darkness. Each experience within these halls is unique, portraying the adoring crowds and loving family that could be yours were you to only reach past loyalty and oath and into damnation. Suffice to say, few awaken from this dream.
The Palace of Pleasure
What comes next then, past the outer realms that catch upon the weaker soul, are those torments and challenges devised to bind those whose arrogance is too great for mortal pleasure.
Pride, the Excess of Achievement, and here does the lonely soul reflect upon their deeds, heightened through the lens of what if and possibly. Think too long however, drink too much of such bittersweet dreams, and you will find yourself devoured by the failures that await you coming forth.
Finally however, is that most dangerous of things. Peace, the Excess of Repose, the very air calming the fires of ambition and desire. In truth, it is the most toxic of traps, for in the grim darkness of our world, what more could one ever crave than an escape from the constant horror.
Should one successfully navigate there way through all six realms, prove themselves so self-obsessed that no trinket nor divine gift could lead them astray, then at last may they enter upon Slaanesh's own abode.
No warriors guard these halls, only statues of coloured marble and impossible design. No traps, only art and music so lovely as to draw passion from even metal and rock. No soul save one in this shrine to dark deplore...
The Prince of Darkness themself.
The Fifth Cronesword
Said to be legendary swords hewn from the fingers of the Eldar Goddess Morai-Heg, they are relics of a dying empire and the last embers of hope for a race already dead. Though four of these have already been found, the last lingers now within the halls of Slaanesh, seemingly forever out of reach.
The Eye of Terror
Though by no means the sole domain of Slaanesh, it is a ruptured hole in reality formed by the screaming birth of She who Thirsts. A land where gods meet mortal in kind, it is the seat of damnation within the galaxy, the gate through which hell makes rampant abandon upon those still clinging to false hope.
Art
1: Unknown
2: Eye of Terror Codex (3rd Edition)
3: Khorne: Soulbound by Max FitzGerald
4: Blood for the Blood God by BMacSmith
5: The Silver Light by Tze Kun Chin
6: Unknown
7: Chaos Daemons Codex Cover
8: Unknown
9: Mark of Khorne by Anton Babitskiy Demont
10: Tzeentch, The Eye of Changes by Gwiom
11: Unknown
12: Unknown
13: Unknown
14: Servants of Tzeentch by Harry Osborn
15: Unknown
16: Unknown
17: Plaguebearers and Nurglings by helgecbalzer
18: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
19: Nurgle's Blessing by Jacob Atienza
20: The Lords of Silence Cover
21: Grandfather Nurgle by Oleg Leshiy Shekhovtsov
22: Unknown
23: Tome of Corruption by RalphHorsley
24: Broken Realms Art
25: Slaanesh Marine by Adrian Smith
26: Unknown
27: Wrath and Rapture Box Art
28: Slaanesh Symbol2 by SlaaneshG
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.
Khorne
The tides of rage begin once more, the legions without dream march again. Come to me, oh children of war, come to me and weep.
For I am the Ire of I.
And ye shall claim Nought by my name.
Ad Anguis
Never have I claimed to cling to faith. No words could be said, no future foreseen, that could make me step further than I wished to go, for before me stand demons of flame and blade. Proof, if ever I needed, that our rage was divine alone.
What can be said of anger, that has not been said a thousand times before by poets and those of faith. It burns like acid through the veins, lingers like ash upon the tongue. It is both pure and sick, tainted by its very need to cleanse until nothing remains.
So is Khorne, the Flame that Burns, the Patron of Red Rage and Ruin. His is the call of war, the clarion cry of slaughter and insensate wroth. He exemplifies anger in its purest form, taken to its most extreme end. Self-destructive, violent, and most of all... pointless.
Those that serve him do so invariably without choice, for as the blood flows, sense and reason are burned on the pyre of hate and death. Sanity, compassion, reason and thought, all these and more are but kindling for the fires burning within as you step upon the brazen path.
This is the Crimson Path, to sacrifice all else but destruction. Honour, nobility and perfection of craft, each but the dull facade covering the true colours beneath. Pretty lies hiding the truth that all of us wish to burn, everything and then ourselves.
Here shall we begin, beneath red stars of blinding white. Here do we start, with the Doom of Existence, calling out the same song every time. Blood for the Blood God...
Skulls for the Skull Throne.
The Face
of Murder
The origins of Khorne
are a murky affair, contained within
tomes now blind with viscera and ash.
Some say his first breath was the last
of another, a spark of consciousness born as rock split twain kins blood.
Others claim that his birth was due to the chaos spilling across Terra during the Middle Ages, that era of knights and chivalry perverted by the dark souls underneath. They claim that as strife split the world apart, so too did his roar sunder the Warp in recoiled shock.
A rare few even claim that his birth was from a time so long past, humanity still lingered as cells throughout the ocean water. The War in Heaven they call it, and so terrible was the destruction that the very heavens turned fell with rage, decay and madness.
The truth however... Well the truth may never be known, possibly cannot be known. His darkness eternal from the moment it was born, his shadow cast across existence as laughter drives forth the engines bleak.
Such legacy befits his stature, for Khorne is the most powerful of the gods, unsurprising in the face of such horrors that now exist within the galaxy, each moment a battle against the end that feeds the fires of extinction. He is a beast of fog and flame, a towering fiend of brazen muscle and ironbound hide whose very breath ignites the blood and air around him.
All this coiled and chained like a dog rabid with hunger. From atop his Throne of Skulls, formed from the head of every creature taken in his name, does he watch collapse and direct its path towards the most glorious ruin.
Those foolish enough to stand before him, mad enough to somehow survive, speak of his bated breath that reeks of spilt blood. They speak of wings so vast that whole suns are devoured by their shade. They speak of death...
In Service to
Collapse
Khorne is a simple God by any standard, requiring little in the way of service or prayer. He does not ask for temple in way to pay homage, for the battlefield serves as his shrine, battle in all its violent totality the grace which he bestows.
The number eight is sacred, for reasons unknown. The eight towers of his citadel, the eight lords of his legions, and eight wars said to pass before his thirst for ruin is complete. Those who court him do well to remember this, for simple he may be, but merciful he is not.
Magick is forbidden, the dark arts of the sorcerer cowardly in his eyes, and those who flee struggle nor chase the tail of destruction are spited by the King in Brass. Most loathsome of all, however, are the servants of the Dark Prince. Those sworn to Slaanesh, depraved and dilettante, are weak and pathetic, slaves to obsession and ill-focussed upon the true beauty in battle.
In return, the Lord of Skulls asks only for death. Whether you bear titles and codes of honour, or fall sick with bloodlust, it does not matter. Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows.
The Mortals Malign
The fall to Khorne is often swift and carelessly done. A knight eager to protect his land, a student desperate to master the blade, a warrior competing with his fellows before the eve of battle.
It does not take much, a spark to start the flame. Soon the knight decides to hunt that which would threaten him, the student throws himself into more dangerous training, and the warrior ups the stakes through the hunting of deadlier game.
This is it how it begins, step by step, reaching towards crescendo as the beat builds faster. By the end, there is little left of those who once were. The knight now monstrous, preying upon those who looked to him for protection, too weak to guard themselves. The student, battling to the death for the greatest test of skill. The warrior, killing comrade and ally, their blood the greatest conquest in their game.
These are the servants of Khorne, and though many find themselves at different points in their path, madness and annihilation are all that await. Most famous amongst these are the World Eaters, once noble Astartes in the Emperor's service, now twisted parodies of the angels they once were.
Led by Angron, a Daemon-Primarch bound to Khorne, the World Eaters are a monstrous band of lunatic killers, lost entirely to anger and rage. Fuelled on by neural-implants known as the Butcher's Nails, their legacy is one of suicidal dread, and vagrant carnage.
Though legendary, they do not stand alone. From the disciplined ranks of the Blood Pact, to the Butcherhorde who follow in the wake of Khârn the Betrayer, the forces of Khorne are endless. Though many die each day that passes, his madness catches countless into his ranks.
It is not even just humans who find themselves serving the Master of Ruin. From the scarecrow-like Nekulli to the bloodthirsty Rak'Gol, all races find themselves called by the lure of strife. Khorne cares not for what you are, only that battle is served.
The Revenants of Ruin
Behind the fist clenched across reality, are those dark spirits formed in life with their master. The Daemons of Khorne are brutal creatures, unimaginative but effective, forming vast legions of brazen blades and dark strength.
The bulk of these forces are comprised of Bloodletters, lithe creatures wielding swords forged in the fires of hell. Clad in thick scales of crimson hide, they are a formidable opponent, incredibly skill in battle and brutally strong.
Behind them come the Heralds, chosen from amongst their lesser kin for their particular ability in the arts of strategy and murder. Atop mighty Juggernauts, great bulls of iron and brass, do they ride, their quake speaking loud the end to come.
Finally are the Bloodthirsters, towering beings of flame and smoke, borne aloft by wings of shadow cast. None equal these fiends in battle, for they are whirlwinds of destruction, true perfection of slaughter.
Only the Daemon Princes stand separate, caught halfway between reality and not. These are the most cursed creatures, for they were once free, and chose instead slavery rather than a life fulfilled. They are the voice of Khorne, his fist upon existence... For they have not other choice.
The Chosen of Strife
Though the brazen might of Khorne stands endless in number, there are champions infamous and feared for their skill in carnage.
Khârn the Betrayer, broken blade of the World Eaters, once amongst the most fearsome warriors in the Legions Astartes, now stands as a turncoat servant to none. Slave to the screaming blood, he kills all those in his path, be they friend or foe.
Angron, the Red Angel, once Primarch of the World Eaters, now ashen servant of the Blood God. Mindless, savage and brutal, he is the purest example of the fate that awaits all those who tread the murderers path.
Skarbrand, exile of Brass Throne, a Bloodthirster so pure in his hatred that he turned even upon Khorne himself, set wild with the notion that no fight was beyond their skill and madness.
Doombreed, amongst the most ancient Daemon Princes, and the single-handed usher of armageddon. His works of bloodshed and misery span millenia, and no champion stands great enough to match him.
And lastly, Karanak, three-headed hound of Khorne. This beast waits and hungers, set loose only upon its masters command. With its bark comes the tides of blood, the baying hounds of apocalypse bare of skin and made of muscle and blood.
The Realms of Blood
Such servants however, need forges to fuel their advance, keeps from which to plan and prepare, lands from which to sally forth into the breach. This is Khorne's realm, an endless series of blasted hellscapes, torn apart by eldritch storm and impossible sights.
In constant flux do they twist and turn, each scream from the heavens matched by a roar from the earth as mountains form and the skies erupt. Rivers of blood spring eternal from its depths, marking new boundaries over which to battle, as each nation wars with the other under the constant view of the Lord of Skulls.
To enter here is to enter madness and strife, every rock, every drop of liquid fatal in its own way. Such is the way of Khorne, for what use does anything have if its use is not to kill.
But entry is not for the weak, the borders of this
land without limit guarded by vast volcanoes that
reach hundreds of miles into the sky, polluting
the air with black smoke as their innards rumble
with the thunder of their Juggernaut inhabitants.
Red lightning crashes down with seeming malice, illuminating the nightmarish shroud with fell flame
and cruelty. Those who seek shelter within the depths
are met with greater foes however, for Daemons of
liquid metal haunt the tunnels, eager to devour and
dissolve those foolish enough to flee.
This tectonic wrath makes it perfect for the forges that toil endlessly underneath the ground. The souls of mortals captured here are bound within the forges, illuminating the way forwards even as their anguished screams add fear and flame to the weapons they forge.
Next come the Blood Pits, spawned at random from which crawl the legions of Khorne's armies. Then the Lake of Slaughter, to which all blood flows, deeper than the depth between stars. These are the wilds of Khorne's realm, the verdant grief that spawns vile hate and loathing.
The Brass Fortress
Should you manage to cross the mountains of Khorne's Teeth, bargain past the forges beneath their grasp, sail the Rivers of Blood and cross the Lake of Slaughter, would you then find the most imposing obstacle.
Eight towers form this citadel, forged of brass and skulls. Each wall host to a horde of Daemons, bloodied and veteran from a thousand wars, the very skies home to beasts of fang and ash.
No mere keep is this, but the seat of Khorne's power. This demesne is where he struggles and screams, rages against the cosmos and goads his servants forwards. To court here is to court death, for only those truly barren of their humanity could set forth here without collapse, only the most artistic of psychopaths could survive its challenges.
Should you make it within however, then you will find
in its heart the symbol of all woe and hate. Towering high into the sky, endless and replete, the Skull Throne atop which sits the Black Rage.
Here rests Khorne until the time of sword and axe. He waits, biding his time, pushing against destiny as fate crumbles before his wrath. Soon it comes, as his servants pant with hunger. Soon, and then his time shall come...
The Universe Shall Bleed.
The End of All Things
Known by many names, the Woebringer and Warmaker amongst many, this sword is Khorne's most potent artefact. Forged of black steel, covered in the darkest runes, it is said that when he swings it, existence itself is split in twain. A mad few wonder if the end of days shall be heralded by the crack of ruin's storm, the patience of Khorne finally shattered.
The First Host
Formed of the Eight most powerful Bloodthirsters in Khorne's employ, these beasts are the trust masters of rage and death. Each one is an army unto themselves, each one a divine instrument of murder and malice. These are the harbingers of the extinction, their presence no omen, but a certainty of defeat.
Chapter Two
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.
Chapter Three
Nurgle
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us out to play,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us dance today.
Oh Papa Nurgle please, give us broth and bone,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, hear me shriek and moan.
The Lord Entropic
Woe he who enters both mighty and great, for I am Ozymandias, Guardian of this gate.
All must come to ruin who enter this land, even ruin itself, by ruin's own hand.
Plague and pestilence, rot and ruin, so does the Warp reflect collapse even as it creates. Ennervation some call it, Entropy to others, it is the fate of all things to die. As such it should be of little surprise that the Warp, in all its perverted nature, would defy this.
So stands tall the Lord of Decay, Master of the Ripe and Ruin. Nurgle is his name, Sisyphus by those who know true, for his will is to endure eternal, never changing and never moving. It is by his decree that rot binds tight, by his order that sickness run free, death ever out of reach.
Such then is the fate of those who pledge allegiance to the Grandfather, forced to exist in repetition and toil, enjoy the madness out of choice left barren. It is love of the most absurd kind, for it chokes as it claims, smothers as it
seeks to protect. Vile obsession perhaps, or just the
death of soul and song...
This is the Path of Decay, as rotten without as it is within, poisoned by depraved consent. What dreams possessed are abandoned to sorrow, what hopes unravelled by a gift without equal. There can be no change upon this road, for that is the price you pay.
From dust to dust, from ashes to ashes, this way does existence lie barren, empty of life, empty of death.
Only Silence, forever at the end.
A Bad Apple
All things have a
beginning, even that
which cannot start nor end.
Caught eternal in existence, Nurgle's
moment of birth would define the
universe's path towards cessation without stop.
The dark lore and ancient pages describing those beings within the Warp speak of many things, and of birth do they speak freely but without much proof. From battles long past between empires that devoured stars do some state the beginning occured. The War in Heaven that split asunder reality and tore the veil so deep that madness was born.
Other legends persist of a time during humanity's ruin, as plague swept through the Middle Ages and devoured all in its path. The fade into nothing was a feast before the nascent thought, and upon each life taken, each land abandoned, did he glut himself into existence.
Last speak those of a time without time, for when life was born, so to was death. The Reaper exists and always has, for the day that he doesn't is the day that no one would be able to tell.
This confusion and doubt feeds only into his desire however, for ignorance is but the rot of the mind. Progress is inimical to the Lord of All, and so truth must be destroyed. That death comes is the only fact of importance, that all hope is lost, the only words to have meaning.
From this description would you then imagine a gallows figure, a haunting spectre of devastation and sorrow. Such a belief could not be further from the truth, for he is a corpulent creature of jolly smile and booming laughter.
A dichotomy then, that proves more horrifying than any revenant being of ruin. Surrounded by diseases given thought and malice, scarred by rot and infested organ spilling from his infected wounds, the sight of Nurgle is enough to kill... The smell enough to drive one into the abyss.
Nurture and
Nourish
While the other Gods may show inconsistent apathy to their followers, or take sadistic joy in their suffering, Nurgle instead offers love. Love, because little else has the power to disguise what horror lies in his service.
Those seeking to return his compassion do so through ritual long held dear to the Lord of All. The number seven, for instance, holds a special place in his heart, and such numbers his legions and most perfect of plagues.
In ruins do they pray, natural and machined, relics of a time long passed and a haunting reminder of the fate of all. Here do they raise high their decline, plot their goals of nought, and devise life from decay and death.
Those who wish to prove themselves to the Grandfather must do but the simplest thing... Endure. Survive, and you shall find plague and pestilence as gifts, bring low the enemies most glorious moments, and you shall find anonymity amidst the eternal hordes that follow you.
Reap then, and you shall find the harvest most prosperous...
The bounty of the grave, resplendent.
Servants of Sickness
Insidious then, is the lure of the void. Once your path starts down the road to ruin, your choice matters not, your damnation already fait accompli. Often does it start from the most benign of seeds, or rooted in a terror that has driven mortals into darkness since the first soul asked, "What happens next?"
The doctor seeks answers to diseases that cannot be cured, hunts for salvation as those they loves die. The noble looks upon their legacy and despairs, for it is incomplete and ragged. The mortals fears change, and so seeks to make it stop.
So then does the doctor begin to understand, wisdom given as soon his curiosity becomes love. The diseases more important than the host, intricate and divine in their perfection. Restoration becomes malady, the need to cure but another vector of decay as their humanity grows infected.
The noble, desperate, offers sacrifice for just another year, promises payment for but one last chance to finish what they began. Death releases them but the cost is great, and so their legend turns to rust even as they scramble for more coin to pay the keeper.
The question is asked, the answer replies... "Nothing."
Countless have sought the cure to finality, and the legions of Nurgle are thick with those too foolish to turn away from the hand black with rust. Astartes and angels, mortal and monster, l'appel du vide sings and they act without thought.
The most notable amongst these servants are the Death Guard, once bright stars in humanity's future, now pox-ridden and hollow. Beneath the wings of the Agent Apocrypha do they stride, relentless and eternal, scarring the very earth as they pass.
Before them walk mortals, eager in service to groups such as the Sevenfold Conjunction and the Plaguechildren, preaching of Nurgle's loving word even as they gather themselves to unleash a tide of ruin, their lives easy sacrifices for the glory of the Grandfather.
The Plagues have Eyes
Those servants born of the mortal coil may be legion,
but the darkness numbers endless in its desire to
destroy. The Daemons of Nurgle are creatures of
horror and fear, laughing fiends of joyous decay
who spread sickness by their very name.
The very least of these are the Nurglings and Plaguebearers, hordes of chittering diseases and
corpulent humanoids wielding blades of rust. Weak
and slow, only fury and the deadliest of blows can
stop their advance.
Then there are the mutants, those crude creatures of bountiful pestilence. The Molluscoid, thick with slime and shell, the Bloat Flies and their rotten kin. The Feculent Gnarlmaws, the swarms of Eyestinger bugs and the Bests of Nurgle themselves. Each is a glorious celebration of sickness and decline, devolution of the finest order.
Above the desolate hordes then ride the Heralds, masters of the Legions in Sickness and wise to the ways of disease. These are but the lieutenants however, servants to the Great Unclean Ones whose forms is made in magnificent homage to the Grandfather. Towering over all else, bolsters by the darkest magic, they are the true harbingers of extinction.
The Masters Malaise
From such a loving figure, it should be of little surprise that some of his children stand out in his favour more than others. These entropic champions are formidable beings, nigh inviolable and rife with pestilential power.
Mortarion, Lord of the Death Guard and Reaper of a thousand worlds. Upon wings of tattered flesh does he soar high, cleaving through with magic and dark might.
Typhus the Traveller, architect of truth to the Death Guard. His passage is foul with plague, the dead crawling forth to serve him.
Ku'Gath the Dour, pessimistic and quiet, he was once the most favoured in Nurgle's court of Daemons. Wise and cunning beyond his peers, he sows malaise and doubt in equal measure to disease.
Epidemius, the chronicler of catastrophe. He is the Grandfather's Tallyman, and is tasked with wandering the cosmos in his efforts to record all acts pestilential.
And finally, Horticulous Slimux, the Gardener of Nurgle and tamer of the wild beasts within his realm. Never smiling and never laughing, he takes his duties seriously as all should in praise of Father Fly.
The Gardens Putrescent
As foul as the servants of Ruin are, no more foul are they than the realm they call home. The Gardens of Nurgle are an endless swamp, thick with poisonous plant beast.
Macabre in fashion, every plague and pestilence, sickness and viral strain, can be found within its depths. Bacteria without name but holy in purpose, fungi whose spores inflict the most cursed of afflictions, all these exist in celebration of life without change.
Though one would be forgiven for thinking this wilderness to be a product of chance, nature given free reign to devour as it likes, they would be wrong. The chaos apparent to the untrained eye is instead cultivated with care, each plant nourished, each island within the virulent waters given purpose by careful hands.
Through this must one delve to find any proof of a creator however, and few will do so gladly. Past the buzzards however, and the trees that feed on blood, one will eventually find the ramshackle abode of the Lord of Decay.
The Blighted Mansions of Misery and Mirth, decrepit and ancient, stand tall amidst the jungle shroud. Within these crumbling walls does Nurgle work away upon his creations, the mad scientist lost in joy as he works his wonders upon the world.
Alone he is not however, for not only do his plagues burble happily within their flasks, but so too does another live within these halls. Isha, Goddess of Life, trapped and caged by chain and Nurgle's toxic love without restraint.
As he works, so does she, spilling secrets of hope and healing to those who need it most, learning from her captor even as she foils his every move.
So would it remain, a paradise of stasis and regression... But others planned different. A trap gone awry, Guilliman lured into the Forests Contaigon and escaped by the power of the Emperor, whose last act was to set aflame even as Nurgle's brothers sought vengeance for his recent success.
Such petty violence achieves nought however, for in the end...
It changes nothing.
The Cauldron of Nurgle
Hewn from his own body, warped like metal into a vast basin, the Cauldron of Nurgle is the pinnacle of the Plaguemeister's craft. It is within this bubbling pot that death is given form, life sprung eternal to claim its due. Such is the way of the alchemist, equal exchange for an equal price.
Chapter Four
Slaanesh
I sought oblivion and calm respite, my path forged through sensation and blinding excess. I explored depravity, ventured into the darkness never mapped, until I swept past Experience, witnessed only by the gods.
Thus became I a voyager upon delights unknown, my ship named only, "Sweet Departure".
The Sin Serpentia
For you see, Sin, and its more extreme counterpart, Addiction, are inherently lazy concepts. Many people talk about the temptations of Vice, the lure of decadent bliss, but mostly that is just an easy excuse. Sin doesn't try to tempt... It just does.
We all know what it is to thirst, to hunger for more. We have all stared upon our work and sought perfection even as its image fled our grasp. We have all needed... And so there we begin our story. Not where we'd like to, but where we must.
This is Slaanesh, She Who Thirsts, He Who Craves, the Mad Prince of Obsession and Perfection. It is her will to ever experience what cannot be defined, and by his word are boundaries broken, for to be denied is poison to the Serpent's Chalice, venom upon her racing mind.
Thus are his followers expected to act always, with plan or without, she cares not. The rush of battle, the thrill of art forbidden and acts obscene, one must not pause to ponder. Onwards and forwards forever until at last cessation
brings that final sensation that can only ever be felt once.
This is the Path of Excess, to live without limit, to
reach without constraint. All must be abandoned, for to
love with anything less than obsession is a crime, to care with more than the briefest glance but a waste of time divinely spent.
So then calls upon you those darkest desires and most bitter of pains. Abandon thine morality, steer clear of philosophies left restrained. Slaanesh has only one lesson to teach you, oh believers of perfection...
It does not believe in you.
Cry Havoc
To start in the
beginning... Even here
does Slaanesh strive to
differ from his kin, for though their pasts
are locked in mystery, hers are known
well by those who fear her most.
Raised upon the embers of decadence, kept warm amidst the flames of hedonistic collapse, Slaanesh first saw light as the vast empire of the Aeldari cannibalised itself in jaded apathy. So depraved had these scions of the Old Ones become, that their excess took upon form divine... And malice most dark and foul.
The winds within the Warp howled, let loose shriek and moan. Some fled, some waited, some watched, nascent thought glut upon the fell crimes of immortal sin. A crack then, a splinter, and out forth came incarnate vice wrought by tragedy and denial.
The Aeldari were devoured, their gods but candle flames before the tempest darkness that stormed into reality. Cegorach the Trickster would vanish, Kaela Mensha Khaine would be shattered and scattered throughout the void, and a legacy more ancient than near any other would meet the most terrible of fates... Extinction.
Left behind were only those refugees outrunning the storm and mad heirs to a crime without forgiveness. Where once a kingdom had started, risen high in majesty, hung now only a tear into the Abyss, a violent abomination against rational and reason.
So was born Slaanesh, the Eye of Terror his cry for attention, the flame of countless souls her nourishment. Impossible to contain within a single form, in repose upon the tides of madness does he rest, appearing ever as she wants dependent on whim and mercurial humour.
Favoured by the Mirror Darkly however, is to appear as a little of everything at once. One half a man, the other a woman, two horns of gold adorned by hair of palest silk. This is the Prince of Pleasure, manifest within us all.
Valiant Vice
Thus are Slaanesh's followers encouraged
to try all things that they can, even as their patron dances with damnation. Obeisance through obsession, praise through pursuits of perfection, service in sin, these are the hallmarks of the Dark Prince. Many claim he just wishes for your happiness, but in truth she savours only the flames of your self-destruction.
The number six is of specific significance to her, and those who wish answers find joy in the occult complexity of his devising. This is but a trifle however, for the Sin Serpentia demands offering not to his self, but to you.
One must experience something new, create something wonderful, devise upon the world that which has never before been witnessed. An art mastered, a weapon of fell design, anything will suffice, provided it suffice only once.
Then offered are these sacrifices, within dens of iniquity and vice. Brothels and studios, drug dens and opera houses, Slaanesh does not discriminate on your choice of poison.
So serve those slaves to sensation. The match lit, the spark set free, the flame roars into life as desire forms fuel for it to burn. Watch it roar, they are told, feed it higher... Never realising that the flame will inevitably feed on them.
Devotees of Discordia
You might then wonder, and rightfully so, how one would choose to walk this path so clearly marked with danger. Alas, like addiction, the dark touch of Slaanesh festers and pulls upon the soul.
The artist, barren of muse, facing ridicule and self-loathing, the dilettante bored now with their life of ill-repute. The craftsman surrounded by competition and superior talent. All these souls, driven not by rage or pride, but by desire...
The artist paints a picture, delving into styles esoteric and forgotten. The dilettante ventures deeper into the shadows, abandoning now his mundane pleasures for something else. The craftsman abandons family and food, focussed now only on furthering their work.
So is the first step taken, selfish in their selfless harm upon themselves.
The artist finishes their masterpiece, blood dripping from the easel as alien eyes of unearthly beauty stare back. The dilettante tastes human flesh and delights, before once more growing grey with sorrow. The craftsman, alone and poor, completes his task, its quality unequalled even as the last embers of a life forgotten fade away.
This is how so many fall into the Dark Prince's clutches, and so many do so without ever knowing. Rare is it to find a cause more alluring than ones own gratification, rarer still is it to find those who can turn such worship down.
From this simple message do a thousand cults across a thousand worlds thrive, insidious and sinister in their sly corruption, effecting debased change in a universe so tightly repressed. Numbered amongst these are some of the most foul mortals to ever draw breath, the likes of the Pirate Princes of the Spiral Helix, and the Hollow Cult whose enlightened deceptions destroyed an entire Grey Knight Company.
The most fearsome of her living servants however, are the Emperor's Children. Once the brightest of the Angels Astartes, now they are sick parodies of honour and virtue. Wielding weapons of shrieking sonic and discordant doom, they destroy only to taste death in its cruellest form.
Spawned of Sensation
With such darkness amongst the mortal mind, it is scarce possible to believe that those figments of his own desire could be any worse. Alas, even the supple Daemonette, capricious and beautiful in equal measure, is a creature wrought of the most profane and wanton acts.
Besides these succubi both intriguing and repulsive come the Fiends and Steeds of Slaanesh, a horrific mirror to the fae charm of their lesser kin. They are monstrous in totality, an honest view at the heart that beats only jealousy and greed.
Above them from palanquins of skinned flesh and enchanted incense ride the Heralds, their siren song calling once more for the thrill of battle to commence. Masters of magic that twists the mind and plays with illusion, their mere presence can stop a heart in delight.
Only the Keeper of Secrets rule higher, and they are truly magnificent. Depraved like none other, reeking of sin and delicate ruin, they move like shattered glass and give battle like music upon the page. These are the servants of She who Thirsts, as dangerous in dream as they are on the fields of war.
The Princes Perfidious
Though mighty is the force that swears fealty to his dark name, Slaanesh values competence and mastery above near all else. As such, competition is rife, violence an art form in her fell realm. Those who succeed then, become beloved in the Prince's eyes, gifted further by his overwhelming passion.
Fulgrim, the Phoenician, once Primarch of the Emperor's Children, now father to a Legion of shattered oaths and mercurial loyalty. Obsessed with himself and only himself, he sips upon the chalice of war, like a noble upon their wine.
Lucius the Eternal, arrogant "master" of the blade, scarred warning against the sins of hubris and denial. A wanderer without loyalty to any but his own ego, searching forever to prove his skill against all others.
Shalaxi Helbane, Blade of the Dark Prince, Serpent Queen of the Sable Sword. She is a hunter, a killer and a warrior without equal amongst the Daemonic Legions. None can stay her blade, not even those blessed by gods more ancient than she.
Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair and most beloved of Slaanesh's servants. Her delight is corruption, her poison of choice those souls of the Eldar who still live in fear and dread of his shadow.
And lastly, the Masque, banished from the court of She Who Thirsts, doomed to dance through existence bringing misery and woe to whomever hears her tune. Even the Harlequins cannot match her grace, nor stand for existence so similar to theirs.
The Realms of Repose
Unlike his kin, whose homes stand as vast bastions protected both by nature and artificial design, Slaanesh's realm is open for all to wander. Guarded only by tests to ensure the worth of those who set forth, it is shade cast bitter upon the soul, harrowing and empty in its riot of life.
Of these tests there are six, each one a realm in their own right. The first is of Avarice, the Excess of Riches, and here lies a dragons horde in gemstone and gilt. The sun burns bright a ruby light, the trees covered in gold leaf, the bones of those who took more than they could carry crunching below.
The second, Gluttony, the Excess of Sustenance.
Here amidst the oceans of delicate wine lie
islands scattered far and wide. Should one
survive the delicious seas without drowning
themselves, they will find a bounty of food cooked
to perfection, intoxicating in their aroma. Alas
do many surrender here, eating their fill and then
eating some more, never realising just how familiar
a form such food takes.
Third is Lust, the Excess of Bodily Delights, and no mortal brothel nor den of iniquity could match this shrine to physical gratification. The air hangs thick with enraptured musk, and those that succumb find every sense heightened, every pain inflicted by the waiting Daemons magnified a thousand-fold.
Then comes Envy, the Excess of Adoration, and to follow this path is to walk upon dreams held in the darkness. Each experience within these halls is unique, portraying the adoring crowds and loving family that could be yours were you to only reach past loyalty and oath and into damnation. Suffice to say, few awaken from this dream.
The Palace of Pleasure
What comes next then, past the outer realms that catch upon the weaker soul, are those torments and challenges devised to bind those whose arrogance is too great for mortal pleasure.
Pride, the Excess of Achievement, and here does the lonely soul reflect upon their deeds, heightened through the lens of what if and possibly. Think too long however, drink too much of such bittersweet dreams, and you will find yourself devoured by the failures that await you coming forth.
Finally however, is that most dangerous of things. Peace, the Excess of Repose, the very air calming the fires of ambition and desire. In truth, it is the most toxic of traps, for in the grim darkness of our world, what more could one ever crave than an escape from the constant horror.
Should one successfully navigate there way through all six realms, prove themselves so self-obsessed that no trinket nor divine gift could lead them astray, then at last may they enter upon Slaanesh's own abode.
No warriors guard these halls, only statues of coloured marble and impossible design. No traps, only art and music so lovely as to draw passion from even metal and rock. No soul save one in this shrine to dark deplore...
The Prince of Darkness themself.
The Fifth Cronesword
Said to be legendary swords hewn from the fingers of the Eldar Goddess Morai-Heg, they are relics of a dying empire and the last embers of hope for a race already dead. Though four of these have already been found, the last lingers now within the halls of Slaanesh, seemingly forever out of reach.
The Eye of Terror
Though by no means the sole domain of Slaanesh, it is a ruptured hole in reality formed by the screaming birth of She who Thirsts. A land where gods meet mortal in kind, it is the seat of damnation within the galaxy, the gate through which hell makes rampant abandon upon those still clinging to false hope.
Art
1: Unknown
2: Eye of Terror Codex (3rd Edition)
3: Khorne: Soulbound by Max FitzGerald
4: Blood for the Blood God by BMacSmith
5: The Silver Light by Tze Kun Chin
6: Unknown
7: Chaos Daemons Codex Cover
8: Unknown
9: Mark of Khorne by Anton Babitskiy Demont
10: Tzeentch, The Eye of Changes by Gwiom
11: Unknown
12: Unknown
13: Unknown
14: Servants of Tzeentch by Harry Osborn
15: Unknown
16: Unknown
17: Plaguebearers and Nurglings by helgecbalzer
18: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
19: Nurgle's Blessing by Jacob Atienza
20: The Lords of Silence Cover
21: Grandfather Nurgle by Oleg Leshiy Shekhovtsov
22: Unknown
23: Tome of Corruption by RalphHorsley
24: Broken Realms Art
25: Slaanesh Marine by Adrian Smith
26: Unknown
27: Wrath and Rapture Box Art
28: Slaanesh Symbol2 by SlaaneshG
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.
The tides of rage begin once more, the legions without dream march again. Come to me, oh children of war, come to me and weep.
For I am the Ire of I.
And ye shall claim Nought by my name.
For I am the Ire of I.
And ye shall claim Nought by my name.
Ad Anguis
Never have I claimed to cling to faith. No words could be said, no future foreseen, that could make me step further than I wished to go, for before me stand demons of flame and blade. Proof, if ever I needed, that our rage was divine alone.
What can be said of anger, that has not been said a thousand times before by poets and those of faith. It burns like acid through the veins, lingers like ash upon the tongue. It is both pure and sick, tainted by its very need to cleanse until nothing remains.
So is Khorne, the Flame that Burns, the Patron of Red Rage and Ruin. His is the call of war, the clarion cry of slaughter and insensate wroth. He exemplifies anger in its purest form, taken to its most extreme end. Self-destructive, violent, and most of all... pointless.
Those that serve him do so invariably without choice, for as the blood flows, sense and reason are burned on the pyre of hate and death. Sanity, compassion, reason and thought, all these and more are but kindling for the fires burning within as you step upon the brazen path.
This is the Crimson Path, to sacrifice all else but destruction. Honour, nobility and perfection of craft, each but the dull facade covering the true colours beneath. Pretty lies hiding the truth that all of us wish to burn, everything and then ourselves.
Here shall we begin, beneath red stars of blinding white. Here do we start, with the Doom of Existence, calling out the same song every time. Blood for the Blood God...
Skulls for the Skull Throne.
The Face
of Murder
The origins of Khorne
are a murky affair, contained within
tomes now blind with viscera and ash.
Some say his first breath was the last
of another, a spark of consciousness born as rock split twain kins blood.
Others claim that his birth was due to the chaos spilling across Terra during the Middle Ages, that era of knights and chivalry perverted by the dark souls underneath. They claim that as strife split the world apart, so too did his roar sunder the Warp in recoiled shock.
A rare few even claim that his birth was from a time so long past, humanity still lingered as cells throughout the ocean water. The War in Heaven they call it, and so terrible was the destruction that the very heavens turned fell with rage, decay and madness.
The truth however... Well the truth may never be known, possibly cannot be known. His darkness eternal from the moment it was born, his shadow cast across existence as laughter drives forth the engines bleak.
Such legacy befits his stature, for Khorne is the most powerful of the gods, unsurprising in the face of such horrors that now exist within the galaxy, each moment a battle against the end that feeds the fires of extinction. He is a beast of fog and flame, a towering fiend of brazen muscle and ironbound hide whose very breath ignites the blood and air around him.
All this coiled and chained like a dog rabid with hunger. From atop his Throne of Skulls, formed from the head of every creature taken in his name, does he watch collapse and direct its path towards the most glorious ruin.
Those foolish enough to stand before him, mad enough to somehow survive, speak of his bated breath that reeks of spilt blood. They speak of wings so vast that whole suns are devoured by their shade. They speak of death...
In Service to
Collapse
Khorne is a simple God by any standard, requiring little in the way of service or prayer. He does not ask for temple in way to pay homage, for the battlefield serves as his shrine, battle in all its violent totality the grace which he bestows.
The number eight is sacred, for reasons unknown. The eight towers of his citadel, the eight lords of his legions, and eight wars said to pass before his thirst for ruin is complete. Those who court him do well to remember this, for simple he may be, but merciful he is not.
Magick is forbidden, the dark arts of the sorcerer cowardly in his eyes, and those who flee struggle nor chase the tail of destruction are spited by the King in Brass. Most loathsome of all, however, are the servants of the Dark Prince. Those sworn to Slaanesh, depraved and dilettante, are weak and pathetic, slaves to obsession and ill-focussed upon the true beauty in battle.
In return, the Lord of Skulls asks only for death. Whether you bear titles and codes of honour, or fall sick with bloodlust, it does not matter. Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows.
The Mortals Malign
The fall to Khorne is often swift and carelessly done. A knight eager to protect his land, a student desperate to master the blade, a warrior competing with his fellows before the eve of battle.
It does not take much, a spark to start the flame. Soon the knight decides to hunt that which would threaten him, the student throws himself into more dangerous training, and the warrior ups the stakes through the hunting of deadlier game.
This is it how it begins, step by step, reaching towards crescendo as the beat builds faster. By the end, there is little left of those who once were. The knight now monstrous, preying upon those who looked to him for protection, too weak to guard themselves. The student, battling to the death for the greatest test of skill. The warrior, killing comrade and ally, their blood the greatest conquest in their game.
These are the servants of Khorne, and though many find themselves at different points in their path, madness and annihilation are all that await. Most famous amongst these are the World Eaters, once noble Astartes in the Emperor's service, now twisted parodies of the angels they once were.
Led by Angron, a Daemon-Primarch bound to Khorne, the World Eaters are a monstrous band of lunatic killers, lost entirely to anger and rage. Fuelled on by neural-implants known as the Butcher's Nails, their legacy is one of suicidal dread, and vagrant carnage.
Though legendary, they do not stand alone. From the disciplined ranks of the Blood Pact, to the Butcherhorde who follow in the wake of Khârn the Betrayer, the forces of Khorne are endless. Though many die each day that passes, his madness catches countless into his ranks.
It is not even just humans who find themselves serving the Master of Ruin. From the scarecrow-like Nekulli to the bloodthirsty Rak'Gol, all races find themselves called by the lure of strife. Khorne cares not for what you are, only that battle is served.
The Revenants of Ruin
Behind the fist clenched across reality, are those dark spirits formed in life with their master. The Daemons of Khorne are brutal creatures, unimaginative but effective, forming vast legions of brazen blades and dark strength.
The bulk of these forces are comprised of Bloodletters, lithe creatures wielding swords forged in the fires of hell. Clad in thick scales of crimson hide, they are a formidable opponent, incredibly skill in battle and brutally strong.
Behind them come the Heralds, chosen from amongst their lesser kin for their particular ability in the arts of strategy and murder. Atop mighty Juggernauts, great bulls of iron and brass, do they ride, their quake speaking loud the end to come.
Finally are the Bloodthirsters, towering beings of flame and smoke, borne aloft by wings of shadow cast. None equal these fiends in battle, for they are whirlwinds of destruction, true perfection of slaughter.
Only the Daemon Princes stand separate, caught halfway between reality and not. These are the most cursed creatures, for they were once free, and chose instead slavery rather than a life fulfilled. They are the voice of Khorne, his fist upon existence... For they have not other choice.
The Chosen of Strife
Though the brazen might of Khorne stands endless in number, there are champions infamous and feared for their skill in carnage.
Khârn the Betrayer, broken blade of the World Eaters, once amongst the most fearsome warriors in the Legions Astartes, now stands as a turncoat servant to none. Slave to the screaming blood, he kills all those in his path, be they friend or foe.
Angron, the Red Angel, once Primarch of the World Eaters, now ashen servant of the Blood God. Mindless, savage and brutal, he is the purest example of the fate that awaits all those who tread the murderers path.
Skarbrand, exile of Brass Throne, a Bloodthirster so pure in his hatred that he turned even upon Khorne himself, set wild with the notion that no fight was beyond their skill and madness.
Doombreed, amongst the most ancient Daemon Princes, and the single-handed usher of armageddon. His works of bloodshed and misery span millenia, and no champion stands great enough to match him.
And lastly, Karanak, three-headed hound of Khorne. This beast waits and hungers, set loose only upon its masters command. With its bark comes the tides of blood, the baying hounds of apocalypse bare of skin and made of muscle and blood.
The Realms of Blood
Such servants however, need forges to fuel their advance, keeps from which to plan and prepare, lands from which to sally forth into the breach. This is Khorne's realm, an endless series of blasted hellscapes, torn apart by eldritch storm and impossible sights.
In constant flux do they twist and turn, each scream from the heavens matched by a roar from the earth as mountains form and the skies erupt. Rivers of blood spring eternal from its depths, marking new boundaries over which to battle, as each nation wars with the other under the constant view of the Lord of Skulls.
To enter here is to enter madness and strife, every rock, every drop of liquid fatal in its own way. Such is the way of Khorne, for what use does anything have if its use is not to kill.
But entry is not for the weak, the borders of this
land without limit guarded by vast volcanoes that
reach hundreds of miles into the sky, polluting
the air with black smoke as their innards rumble
with the thunder of their Juggernaut inhabitants.
Red lightning crashes down with seeming malice, illuminating the nightmarish shroud with fell flame
and cruelty. Those who seek shelter within the depths
are met with greater foes however, for Daemons of
liquid metal haunt the tunnels, eager to devour and
dissolve those foolish enough to flee.
This tectonic wrath makes it perfect for the forges that toil endlessly underneath the ground. The souls of mortals captured here are bound within the forges, illuminating the way forwards even as their anguished screams add fear and flame to the weapons they forge.
Next come the Blood Pits, spawned at random from which crawl the legions of Khorne's armies. Then the Lake of Slaughter, to which all blood flows, deeper than the depth between stars. These are the wilds of Khorne's realm, the verdant grief that spawns vile hate and loathing.
The Brass Fortress
Should you manage to cross the mountains of Khorne's Teeth, bargain past the forges beneath their grasp, sail the Rivers of Blood and cross the Lake of Slaughter, would you then find the most imposing obstacle.
Eight towers form this citadel, forged of brass and skulls. Each wall host to a horde of Daemons, bloodied and veteran from a thousand wars, the very skies home to beasts of fang and ash.
No mere keep is this, but the seat of Khorne's power. This demesne is where he struggles and screams, rages against the cosmos and goads his servants forwards. To court here is to court death, for only those truly barren of their humanity could set forth here without collapse, only the most artistic of psychopaths could survive its challenges.
Should you make it within however, then you will find
in its heart the symbol of all woe and hate. Towering high into the sky, endless and replete, the Skull Throne atop which sits the Black Rage.
Here rests Khorne until the time of sword and axe. He waits, biding his time, pushing against destiny as fate crumbles before his wrath. Soon it comes, as his servants pant with hunger. Soon, and then his time shall come...
The Universe Shall Bleed.
The End of All Things
Known by many names, the Woebringer and Warmaker amongst many, this sword is Khorne's most potent artefact. Forged of black steel, covered in the darkest runes, it is said that when he swings it, existence itself is split in twain. A mad few wonder if the end of days shall be heralded by the crack of ruin's storm, the patience of Khorne finally shattered.
The First Host
Formed of the Eight most powerful Bloodthirsters in Khorne's employ, these beasts are the trust masters of rage and death. Each one is an army unto themselves, each one a divine instrument of murder and malice. These are the harbingers of the extinction, their presence no omen, but a certainty of defeat.
Chapter Two
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.
Chapter Three
Nurgle
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us out to play,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us dance today.
Oh Papa Nurgle please, give us broth and bone,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, hear me shriek and moan.
The Lord Entropic
Woe he who enters both mighty and great, for I am Ozymandias, Guardian of this gate.
All must come to ruin who enter this land, even ruin itself, by ruin's own hand.
Plague and pestilence, rot and ruin, so does the Warp reflect collapse even as it creates. Ennervation some call it, Entropy to others, it is the fate of all things to die. As such it should be of little surprise that the Warp, in all its perverted nature, would defy this.
So stands tall the Lord of Decay, Master of the Ripe and Ruin. Nurgle is his name, Sisyphus by those who know true, for his will is to endure eternal, never changing and never moving. It is by his decree that rot binds tight, by his order that sickness run free, death ever out of reach.
Such then is the fate of those who pledge allegiance to the Grandfather, forced to exist in repetition and toil, enjoy the madness out of choice left barren. It is love of the most absurd kind, for it chokes as it claims, smothers as it
seeks to protect. Vile obsession perhaps, or just the
death of soul and song...
This is the Path of Decay, as rotten without as it is within, poisoned by depraved consent. What dreams possessed are abandoned to sorrow, what hopes unravelled by a gift without equal. There can be no change upon this road, for that is the price you pay.
From dust to dust, from ashes to ashes, this way does existence lie barren, empty of life, empty of death.
Only Silence, forever at the end.
A Bad Apple
All things have a
beginning, even that
which cannot start nor end.
Caught eternal in existence, Nurgle's
moment of birth would define the
universe's path towards cessation without stop.
The dark lore and ancient pages describing those beings within the Warp speak of many things, and of birth do they speak freely but without much proof. From battles long past between empires that devoured stars do some state the beginning occured. The War in Heaven that split asunder reality and tore the veil so deep that madness was born.
Other legends persist of a time during humanity's ruin, as plague swept through the Middle Ages and devoured all in its path. The fade into nothing was a feast before the nascent thought, and upon each life taken, each land abandoned, did he glut himself into existence.
Last speak those of a time without time, for when life was born, so to was death. The Reaper exists and always has, for the day that he doesn't is the day that no one would be able to tell.
This confusion and doubt feeds only into his desire however, for ignorance is but the rot of the mind. Progress is inimical to the Lord of All, and so truth must be destroyed. That death comes is the only fact of importance, that all hope is lost, the only words to have meaning.
From this description would you then imagine a gallows figure, a haunting spectre of devastation and sorrow. Such a belief could not be further from the truth, for he is a corpulent creature of jolly smile and booming laughter.
A dichotomy then, that proves more horrifying than any revenant being of ruin. Surrounded by diseases given thought and malice, scarred by rot and infested organ spilling from his infected wounds, the sight of Nurgle is enough to kill... The smell enough to drive one into the abyss.
Nurture and
Nourish
While the other Gods may show inconsistent apathy to their followers, or take sadistic joy in their suffering, Nurgle instead offers love. Love, because little else has the power to disguise what horror lies in his service.
Those seeking to return his compassion do so through ritual long held dear to the Lord of All. The number seven, for instance, holds a special place in his heart, and such numbers his legions and most perfect of plagues.
In ruins do they pray, natural and machined, relics of a time long passed and a haunting reminder of the fate of all. Here do they raise high their decline, plot their goals of nought, and devise life from decay and death.
Those who wish to prove themselves to the Grandfather must do but the simplest thing... Endure. Survive, and you shall find plague and pestilence as gifts, bring low the enemies most glorious moments, and you shall find anonymity amidst the eternal hordes that follow you.
Reap then, and you shall find the harvest most prosperous...
The bounty of the grave, resplendent.
Servants of Sickness
Insidious then, is the lure of the void. Once your path starts down the road to ruin, your choice matters not, your damnation already fait accompli. Often does it start from the most benign of seeds, or rooted in a terror that has driven mortals into darkness since the first soul asked, "What happens next?"
The doctor seeks answers to diseases that cannot be cured, hunts for salvation as those they loves die. The noble looks upon their legacy and despairs, for it is incomplete and ragged. The mortals fears change, and so seeks to make it stop.
So then does the doctor begin to understand, wisdom given as soon his curiosity becomes love. The diseases more important than the host, intricate and divine in their perfection. Restoration becomes malady, the need to cure but another vector of decay as their humanity grows infected.
The noble, desperate, offers sacrifice for just another year, promises payment for but one last chance to finish what they began. Death releases them but the cost is great, and so their legend turns to rust even as they scramble for more coin to pay the keeper.
The question is asked, the answer replies... "Nothing."
Countless have sought the cure to finality, and the legions of Nurgle are thick with those too foolish to turn away from the hand black with rust. Astartes and angels, mortal and monster, l'appel du vide sings and they act without thought.
The most notable amongst these servants are the Death Guard, once bright stars in humanity's future, now pox-ridden and hollow. Beneath the wings of the Agent Apocrypha do they stride, relentless and eternal, scarring the very earth as they pass.
Before them walk mortals, eager in service to groups such as the Sevenfold Conjunction and the Plaguechildren, preaching of Nurgle's loving word even as they gather themselves to unleash a tide of ruin, their lives easy sacrifices for the glory of the Grandfather.
The Plagues have Eyes
Those servants born of the mortal coil may be legion,
but the darkness numbers endless in its desire to
destroy. The Daemons of Nurgle are creatures of
horror and fear, laughing fiends of joyous decay
who spread sickness by their very name.
The very least of these are the Nurglings and Plaguebearers, hordes of chittering diseases and
corpulent humanoids wielding blades of rust. Weak
and slow, only fury and the deadliest of blows can
stop their advance.
Then there are the mutants, those crude creatures of bountiful pestilence. The Molluscoid, thick with slime and shell, the Bloat Flies and their rotten kin. The Feculent Gnarlmaws, the swarms of Eyestinger bugs and the Bests of Nurgle themselves. Each is a glorious celebration of sickness and decline, devolution of the finest order.
Above the desolate hordes then ride the Heralds, masters of the Legions in Sickness and wise to the ways of disease. These are but the lieutenants however, servants to the Great Unclean Ones whose forms is made in magnificent homage to the Grandfather. Towering over all else, bolsters by the darkest magic, they are the true harbingers of extinction.
The Masters Malaise
From such a loving figure, it should be of little surprise that some of his children stand out in his favour more than others. These entropic champions are formidable beings, nigh inviolable and rife with pestilential power.
Mortarion, Lord of the Death Guard and Reaper of a thousand worlds. Upon wings of tattered flesh does he soar high, cleaving through with magic and dark might.
Typhus the Traveller, architect of truth to the Death Guard. His passage is foul with plague, the dead crawling forth to serve him.
Ku'Gath the Dour, pessimistic and quiet, he was once the most favoured in Nurgle's court of Daemons. Wise and cunning beyond his peers, he sows malaise and doubt in equal measure to disease.
Epidemius, the chronicler of catastrophe. He is the Grandfather's Tallyman, and is tasked with wandering the cosmos in his efforts to record all acts pestilential.
And finally, Horticulous Slimux, the Gardener of Nurgle and tamer of the wild beasts within his realm. Never smiling and never laughing, he takes his duties seriously as all should in praise of Father Fly.
The Gardens Putrescent
As foul as the servants of Ruin are, no more foul are they than the realm they call home. The Gardens of Nurgle are an endless swamp, thick with poisonous plant beast.
Macabre in fashion, every plague and pestilence, sickness and viral strain, can be found within its depths. Bacteria without name but holy in purpose, fungi whose spores inflict the most cursed of afflictions, all these exist in celebration of life without change.
Though one would be forgiven for thinking this wilderness to be a product of chance, nature given free reign to devour as it likes, they would be wrong. The chaos apparent to the untrained eye is instead cultivated with care, each plant nourished, each island within the virulent waters given purpose by careful hands.
Through this must one delve to find any proof of a creator however, and few will do so gladly. Past the buzzards however, and the trees that feed on blood, one will eventually find the ramshackle abode of the Lord of Decay.
The Blighted Mansions of Misery and Mirth, decrepit and ancient, stand tall amidst the jungle shroud. Within these crumbling walls does Nurgle work away upon his creations, the mad scientist lost in joy as he works his wonders upon the world.
Alone he is not however, for not only do his plagues burble happily within their flasks, but so too does another live within these halls. Isha, Goddess of Life, trapped and caged by chain and Nurgle's toxic love without restraint.
As he works, so does she, spilling secrets of hope and healing to those who need it most, learning from her captor even as she foils his every move.
So would it remain, a paradise of stasis and regression... But others planned different. A trap gone awry, Guilliman lured into the Forests Contaigon and escaped by the power of the Emperor, whose last act was to set aflame even as Nurgle's brothers sought vengeance for his recent success.
Such petty violence achieves nought however, for in the end...
It changes nothing.
The Cauldron of Nurgle
Hewn from his own body, warped like metal into a vast basin, the Cauldron of Nurgle is the pinnacle of the Plaguemeister's craft. It is within this bubbling pot that death is given form, life sprung eternal to claim its due. Such is the way of the alchemist, equal exchange for an equal price.
Chapter Four
Slaanesh
I sought oblivion and calm respite, my path forged through sensation and blinding excess. I explored depravity, ventured into the darkness never mapped, until I swept past Experience, witnessed only by the gods.
Thus became I a voyager upon delights unknown, my ship named only, "Sweet Departure".
The Sin Serpentia
For you see, Sin, and its more extreme counterpart, Addiction, are inherently lazy concepts. Many people talk about the temptations of Vice, the lure of decadent bliss, but mostly that is just an easy excuse. Sin doesn't try to tempt... It just does.
We all know what it is to thirst, to hunger for more. We have all stared upon our work and sought perfection even as its image fled our grasp. We have all needed... And so there we begin our story. Not where we'd like to, but where we must.
This is Slaanesh, She Who Thirsts, He Who Craves, the Mad Prince of Obsession and Perfection. It is her will to ever experience what cannot be defined, and by his word are boundaries broken, for to be denied is poison to the Serpent's Chalice, venom upon her racing mind.
Thus are his followers expected to act always, with plan or without, she cares not. The rush of battle, the thrill of art forbidden and acts obscene, one must not pause to ponder. Onwards and forwards forever until at last cessation
brings that final sensation that can only ever be felt once.
This is the Path of Excess, to live without limit, to
reach without constraint. All must be abandoned, for to
love with anything less than obsession is a crime, to care with more than the briefest glance but a waste of time divinely spent.
So then calls upon you those darkest desires and most bitter of pains. Abandon thine morality, steer clear of philosophies left restrained. Slaanesh has only one lesson to teach you, oh believers of perfection...
It does not believe in you.
Cry Havoc
To start in the
beginning... Even here
does Slaanesh strive to
differ from his kin, for though their pasts
are locked in mystery, hers are known
well by those who fear her most.
Raised upon the embers of decadence, kept warm amidst the flames of hedonistic collapse, Slaanesh first saw light as the vast empire of the Aeldari cannibalised itself in jaded apathy. So depraved had these scions of the Old Ones become, that their excess took upon form divine... And malice most dark and foul.
The winds within the Warp howled, let loose shriek and moan. Some fled, some waited, some watched, nascent thought glut upon the fell crimes of immortal sin. A crack then, a splinter, and out forth came incarnate vice wrought by tragedy and denial.
The Aeldari were devoured, their gods but candle flames before the tempest darkness that stormed into reality. Cegorach the Trickster would vanish, Kaela Mensha Khaine would be shattered and scattered throughout the void, and a legacy more ancient than near any other would meet the most terrible of fates... Extinction.
Left behind were only those refugees outrunning the storm and mad heirs to a crime without forgiveness. Where once a kingdom had started, risen high in majesty, hung now only a tear into the Abyss, a violent abomination against rational and reason.
So was born Slaanesh, the Eye of Terror his cry for attention, the flame of countless souls her nourishment. Impossible to contain within a single form, in repose upon the tides of madness does he rest, appearing ever as she wants dependent on whim and mercurial humour.
Favoured by the Mirror Darkly however, is to appear as a little of everything at once. One half a man, the other a woman, two horns of gold adorned by hair of palest silk. This is the Prince of Pleasure, manifest within us all.
Valiant Vice
Thus are Slaanesh's followers encouraged
to try all things that they can, even as their patron dances with damnation. Obeisance through obsession, praise through pursuits of perfection, service in sin, these are the hallmarks of the Dark Prince. Many claim he just wishes for your happiness, but in truth she savours only the flames of your self-destruction.
The number six is of specific significance to her, and those who wish answers find joy in the occult complexity of his devising. This is but a trifle however, for the Sin Serpentia demands offering not to his self, but to you.
One must experience something new, create something wonderful, devise upon the world that which has never before been witnessed. An art mastered, a weapon of fell design, anything will suffice, provided it suffice only once.
Then offered are these sacrifices, within dens of iniquity and vice. Brothels and studios, drug dens and opera houses, Slaanesh does not discriminate on your choice of poison.
So serve those slaves to sensation. The match lit, the spark set free, the flame roars into life as desire forms fuel for it to burn. Watch it roar, they are told, feed it higher... Never realising that the flame will inevitably feed on them.
Devotees of Discordia
You might then wonder, and rightfully so, how one would choose to walk this path so clearly marked with danger. Alas, like addiction, the dark touch of Slaanesh festers and pulls upon the soul.
The artist, barren of muse, facing ridicule and self-loathing, the dilettante bored now with their life of ill-repute. The craftsman surrounded by competition and superior talent. All these souls, driven not by rage or pride, but by desire...
The artist paints a picture, delving into styles esoteric and forgotten. The dilettante ventures deeper into the shadows, abandoning now his mundane pleasures for something else. The craftsman abandons family and food, focussed now only on furthering their work.
So is the first step taken, selfish in their selfless harm upon themselves.
The artist finishes their masterpiece, blood dripping from the easel as alien eyes of unearthly beauty stare back. The dilettante tastes human flesh and delights, before once more growing grey with sorrow. The craftsman, alone and poor, completes his task, its quality unequalled even as the last embers of a life forgotten fade away.
This is how so many fall into the Dark Prince's clutches, and so many do so without ever knowing. Rare is it to find a cause more alluring than ones own gratification, rarer still is it to find those who can turn such worship down.
From this simple message do a thousand cults across a thousand worlds thrive, insidious and sinister in their sly corruption, effecting debased change in a universe so tightly repressed. Numbered amongst these are some of the most foul mortals to ever draw breath, the likes of the Pirate Princes of the Spiral Helix, and the Hollow Cult whose enlightened deceptions destroyed an entire Grey Knight Company.
The most fearsome of her living servants however, are the Emperor's Children. Once the brightest of the Angels Astartes, now they are sick parodies of honour and virtue. Wielding weapons of shrieking sonic and discordant doom, they destroy only to taste death in its cruellest form.
Spawned of Sensation
With such darkness amongst the mortal mind, it is scarce possible to believe that those figments of his own desire could be any worse. Alas, even the supple Daemonette, capricious and beautiful in equal measure, is a creature wrought of the most profane and wanton acts.
Besides these succubi both intriguing and repulsive come the Fiends and Steeds of Slaanesh, a horrific mirror to the fae charm of their lesser kin. They are monstrous in totality, an honest view at the heart that beats only jealousy and greed.
Above them from palanquins of skinned flesh and enchanted incense ride the Heralds, their siren song calling once more for the thrill of battle to commence. Masters of magic that twists the mind and plays with illusion, their mere presence can stop a heart in delight.
Only the Keeper of Secrets rule higher, and they are truly magnificent. Depraved like none other, reeking of sin and delicate ruin, they move like shattered glass and give battle like music upon the page. These are the servants of She who Thirsts, as dangerous in dream as they are on the fields of war.
The Princes Perfidious
Though mighty is the force that swears fealty to his dark name, Slaanesh values competence and mastery above near all else. As such, competition is rife, violence an art form in her fell realm. Those who succeed then, become beloved in the Prince's eyes, gifted further by his overwhelming passion.
Fulgrim, the Phoenician, once Primarch of the Emperor's Children, now father to a Legion of shattered oaths and mercurial loyalty. Obsessed with himself and only himself, he sips upon the chalice of war, like a noble upon their wine.
Lucius the Eternal, arrogant "master" of the blade, scarred warning against the sins of hubris and denial. A wanderer without loyalty to any but his own ego, searching forever to prove his skill against all others.
Shalaxi Helbane, Blade of the Dark Prince, Serpent Queen of the Sable Sword. She is a hunter, a killer and a warrior without equal amongst the Daemonic Legions. None can stay her blade, not even those blessed by gods more ancient than she.
Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair and most beloved of Slaanesh's servants. Her delight is corruption, her poison of choice those souls of the Eldar who still live in fear and dread of his shadow.
And lastly, the Masque, banished from the court of She Who Thirsts, doomed to dance through existence bringing misery and woe to whomever hears her tune. Even the Harlequins cannot match her grace, nor stand for existence so similar to theirs.
The Realms of Repose
Unlike his kin, whose homes stand as vast bastions protected both by nature and artificial design, Slaanesh's realm is open for all to wander. Guarded only by tests to ensure the worth of those who set forth, it is shade cast bitter upon the soul, harrowing and empty in its riot of life.
Of these tests there are six, each one a realm in their own right. The first is of Avarice, the Excess of Riches, and here lies a dragons horde in gemstone and gilt. The sun burns bright a ruby light, the trees covered in gold leaf, the bones of those who took more than they could carry crunching below.
The second, Gluttony, the Excess of Sustenance.
Here amidst the oceans of delicate wine lie
islands scattered far and wide. Should one
survive the delicious seas without drowning
themselves, they will find a bounty of food cooked
to perfection, intoxicating in their aroma. Alas
do many surrender here, eating their fill and then
eating some more, never realising just how familiar
a form such food takes.
Third is Lust, the Excess of Bodily Delights, and no mortal brothel nor den of iniquity could match this shrine to physical gratification. The air hangs thick with enraptured musk, and those that succumb find every sense heightened, every pain inflicted by the waiting Daemons magnified a thousand-fold.
Then comes Envy, the Excess of Adoration, and to follow this path is to walk upon dreams held in the darkness. Each experience within these halls is unique, portraying the adoring crowds and loving family that could be yours were you to only reach past loyalty and oath and into damnation. Suffice to say, few awaken from this dream.
The Palace of Pleasure
What comes next then, past the outer realms that catch upon the weaker soul, are those torments and challenges devised to bind those whose arrogance is too great for mortal pleasure.
Pride, the Excess of Achievement, and here does the lonely soul reflect upon their deeds, heightened through the lens of what if and possibly. Think too long however, drink too much of such bittersweet dreams, and you will find yourself devoured by the failures that await you coming forth.
Finally however, is that most dangerous of things. Peace, the Excess of Repose, the very air calming the fires of ambition and desire. In truth, it is the most toxic of traps, for in the grim darkness of our world, what more could one ever crave than an escape from the constant horror.
Should one successfully navigate there way through all six realms, prove themselves so self-obsessed that no trinket nor divine gift could lead them astray, then at last may they enter upon Slaanesh's own abode.
No warriors guard these halls, only statues of coloured marble and impossible design. No traps, only art and music so lovely as to draw passion from even metal and rock. No soul save one in this shrine to dark deplore...
The Prince of Darkness themself.
The Fifth Cronesword
Said to be legendary swords hewn from the fingers of the Eldar Goddess Morai-Heg, they are relics of a dying empire and the last embers of hope for a race already dead. Though four of these have already been found, the last lingers now within the halls of Slaanesh, seemingly forever out of reach.
The Eye of Terror
Though by no means the sole domain of Slaanesh, it is a ruptured hole in reality formed by the screaming birth of She who Thirsts. A land where gods meet mortal in kind, it is the seat of damnation within the galaxy, the gate through which hell makes rampant abandon upon those still clinging to false hope.
Art
1: Unknown
2: Eye of Terror Codex (3rd Edition)
3: Khorne: Soulbound by Max FitzGerald
4: Blood for the Blood God by BMacSmith
5: The Silver Light by Tze Kun Chin
6: Unknown
7: Chaos Daemons Codex Cover
8: Unknown
9: Mark of Khorne by Anton Babitskiy Demont
10: Tzeentch, The Eye of Changes by Gwiom
11: Unknown
12: Unknown
13: Unknown
14: Servants of Tzeentch by Harry Osborn
15: Unknown
16: Unknown
17: Plaguebearers and Nurglings by helgecbalzer
18: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
19: Nurgle's Blessing by Jacob Atienza
20: The Lords of Silence Cover
21: Grandfather Nurgle by Oleg Leshiy Shekhovtsov
22: Unknown
23: Tome of Corruption by RalphHorsley
24: Broken Realms Art
25: Slaanesh Marine by Adrian Smith
26: Unknown
27: Wrath and Rapture Box Art
28: Slaanesh Symbol2 by SlaaneshG
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.
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.
Chapter Three
Nurgle
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us out to play,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us dance today.
Oh Papa Nurgle please, give us broth and bone,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, hear me shriek and moan.
The Lord Entropic
Woe he who enters both mighty and great, for I am Ozymandias, Guardian of this gate.
All must come to ruin who enter this land, even ruin itself, by ruin's own hand.
Plague and pestilence, rot and ruin, so does the Warp reflect collapse even as it creates. Ennervation some call it, Entropy to others, it is the fate of all things to die. As such it should be of little surprise that the Warp, in all its perverted nature, would defy this.
So stands tall the Lord of Decay, Master of the Ripe and Ruin. Nurgle is his name, Sisyphus by those who know true, for his will is to endure eternal, never changing and never moving. It is by his decree that rot binds tight, by his order that sickness run free, death ever out of reach.
Such then is the fate of those who pledge allegiance to the Grandfather, forced to exist in repetition and toil, enjoy the madness out of choice left barren. It is love of the most absurd kind, for it chokes as it claims, smothers as it
seeks to protect. Vile obsession perhaps, or just the
death of soul and song...
This is the Path of Decay, as rotten without as it is within, poisoned by depraved consent. What dreams possessed are abandoned to sorrow, what hopes unravelled by a gift without equal. There can be no change upon this road, for that is the price you pay.
From dust to dust, from ashes to ashes, this way does existence lie barren, empty of life, empty of death.
Only Silence, forever at the end.
A Bad Apple
All things have a
beginning, even that
which cannot start nor end.
Caught eternal in existence, Nurgle's
moment of birth would define the
universe's path towards cessation without stop.
The dark lore and ancient pages describing those beings within the Warp speak of many things, and of birth do they speak freely but without much proof. From battles long past between empires that devoured stars do some state the beginning occured. The War in Heaven that split asunder reality and tore the veil so deep that madness was born.
Other legends persist of a time during humanity's ruin, as plague swept through the Middle Ages and devoured all in its path. The fade into nothing was a feast before the nascent thought, and upon each life taken, each land abandoned, did he glut himself into existence.
Last speak those of a time without time, for when life was born, so to was death. The Reaper exists and always has, for the day that he doesn't is the day that no one would be able to tell.
This confusion and doubt feeds only into his desire however, for ignorance is but the rot of the mind. Progress is inimical to the Lord of All, and so truth must be destroyed. That death comes is the only fact of importance, that all hope is lost, the only words to have meaning.
From this description would you then imagine a gallows figure, a haunting spectre of devastation and sorrow. Such a belief could not be further from the truth, for he is a corpulent creature of jolly smile and booming laughter.
A dichotomy then, that proves more horrifying than any revenant being of ruin. Surrounded by diseases given thought and malice, scarred by rot and infested organ spilling from his infected wounds, the sight of Nurgle is enough to kill... The smell enough to drive one into the abyss.
Nurture and
Nourish
While the other Gods may show inconsistent apathy to their followers, or take sadistic joy in their suffering, Nurgle instead offers love. Love, because little else has the power to disguise what horror lies in his service.
Those seeking to return his compassion do so through ritual long held dear to the Lord of All. The number seven, for instance, holds a special place in his heart, and such numbers his legions and most perfect of plagues.
In ruins do they pray, natural and machined, relics of a time long passed and a haunting reminder of the fate of all. Here do they raise high their decline, plot their goals of nought, and devise life from decay and death.
Those who wish to prove themselves to the Grandfather must do but the simplest thing... Endure. Survive, and you shall find plague and pestilence as gifts, bring low the enemies most glorious moments, and you shall find anonymity amidst the eternal hordes that follow you.
Reap then, and you shall find the harvest most prosperous...
The bounty of the grave, resplendent.
Servants of Sickness
Insidious then, is the lure of the void. Once your path starts down the road to ruin, your choice matters not, your damnation already fait accompli. Often does it start from the most benign of seeds, or rooted in a terror that has driven mortals into darkness since the first soul asked, "What happens next?"
The doctor seeks answers to diseases that cannot be cured, hunts for salvation as those they loves die. The noble looks upon their legacy and despairs, for it is incomplete and ragged. The mortals fears change, and so seeks to make it stop.
So then does the doctor begin to understand, wisdom given as soon his curiosity becomes love. The diseases more important than the host, intricate and divine in their perfection. Restoration becomes malady, the need to cure but another vector of decay as their humanity grows infected.
The noble, desperate, offers sacrifice for just another year, promises payment for but one last chance to finish what they began. Death releases them but the cost is great, and so their legend turns to rust even as they scramble for more coin to pay the keeper.
The question is asked, the answer replies... "Nothing."
Countless have sought the cure to finality, and the legions of Nurgle are thick with those too foolish to turn away from the hand black with rust. Astartes and angels, mortal and monster, l'appel du vide sings and they act without thought.
The most notable amongst these servants are the Death Guard, once bright stars in humanity's future, now pox-ridden and hollow. Beneath the wings of the Agent Apocrypha do they stride, relentless and eternal, scarring the very earth as they pass.
Before them walk mortals, eager in service to groups such as the Sevenfold Conjunction and the Plaguechildren, preaching of Nurgle's loving word even as they gather themselves to unleash a tide of ruin, their lives easy sacrifices for the glory of the Grandfather.
The Plagues have Eyes
Those servants born of the mortal coil may be legion,
but the darkness numbers endless in its desire to
destroy. The Daemons of Nurgle are creatures of
horror and fear, laughing fiends of joyous decay
who spread sickness by their very name.
The very least of these are the Nurglings and Plaguebearers, hordes of chittering diseases and
corpulent humanoids wielding blades of rust. Weak
and slow, only fury and the deadliest of blows can
stop their advance.
Then there are the mutants, those crude creatures of bountiful pestilence. The Molluscoid, thick with slime and shell, the Bloat Flies and their rotten kin. The Feculent Gnarlmaws, the swarms of Eyestinger bugs and the Bests of Nurgle themselves. Each is a glorious celebration of sickness and decline, devolution of the finest order.
Above the desolate hordes then ride the Heralds, masters of the Legions in Sickness and wise to the ways of disease. These are but the lieutenants however, servants to the Great Unclean Ones whose forms is made in magnificent homage to the Grandfather. Towering over all else, bolsters by the darkest magic, they are the true harbingers of extinction.
The Masters Malaise
From such a loving figure, it should be of little surprise that some of his children stand out in his favour more than others. These entropic champions are formidable beings, nigh inviolable and rife with pestilential power.
Mortarion, Lord of the Death Guard and Reaper of a thousand worlds. Upon wings of tattered flesh does he soar high, cleaving through with magic and dark might.
Typhus the Traveller, architect of truth to the Death Guard. His passage is foul with plague, the dead crawling forth to serve him.
Ku'Gath the Dour, pessimistic and quiet, he was once the most favoured in Nurgle's court of Daemons. Wise and cunning beyond his peers, he sows malaise and doubt in equal measure to disease.
Epidemius, the chronicler of catastrophe. He is the Grandfather's Tallyman, and is tasked with wandering the cosmos in his efforts to record all acts pestilential.
And finally, Horticulous Slimux, the Gardener of Nurgle and tamer of the wild beasts within his realm. Never smiling and never laughing, he takes his duties seriously as all should in praise of Father Fly.
The Gardens Putrescent
As foul as the servants of Ruin are, no more foul are they than the realm they call home. The Gardens of Nurgle are an endless swamp, thick with poisonous plant beast.
Macabre in fashion, every plague and pestilence, sickness and viral strain, can be found within its depths. Bacteria without name but holy in purpose, fungi whose spores inflict the most cursed of afflictions, all these exist in celebration of life without change.
Though one would be forgiven for thinking this wilderness to be a product of chance, nature given free reign to devour as it likes, they would be wrong. The chaos apparent to the untrained eye is instead cultivated with care, each plant nourished, each island within the virulent waters given purpose by careful hands.
Through this must one delve to find any proof of a creator however, and few will do so gladly. Past the buzzards however, and the trees that feed on blood, one will eventually find the ramshackle abode of the Lord of Decay.
The Blighted Mansions of Misery and Mirth, decrepit and ancient, stand tall amidst the jungle shroud. Within these crumbling walls does Nurgle work away upon his creations, the mad scientist lost in joy as he works his wonders upon the world.
Alone he is not however, for not only do his plagues burble happily within their flasks, but so too does another live within these halls. Isha, Goddess of Life, trapped and caged by chain and Nurgle's toxic love without restraint.
As he works, so does she, spilling secrets of hope and healing to those who need it most, learning from her captor even as she foils his every move.
So would it remain, a paradise of stasis and regression... But others planned different. A trap gone awry, Guilliman lured into the Forests Contaigon and escaped by the power of the Emperor, whose last act was to set aflame even as Nurgle's brothers sought vengeance for his recent success.
Such petty violence achieves nought however, for in the end...
It changes nothing.
The Cauldron of Nurgle
Hewn from his own body, warped like metal into a vast basin, the Cauldron of Nurgle is the pinnacle of the Plaguemeister's craft. It is within this bubbling pot that death is given form, life sprung eternal to claim its due. Such is the way of the alchemist, equal exchange for an equal price.
Chapter Four
Slaanesh
I sought oblivion and calm respite, my path forged through sensation and blinding excess. I explored depravity, ventured into the darkness never mapped, until I swept past Experience, witnessed only by the gods.
Thus became I a voyager upon delights unknown, my ship named only, "Sweet Departure".
The Sin Serpentia
For you see, Sin, and its more extreme counterpart, Addiction, are inherently lazy concepts. Many people talk about the temptations of Vice, the lure of decadent bliss, but mostly that is just an easy excuse. Sin doesn't try to tempt... It just does.
We all know what it is to thirst, to hunger for more. We have all stared upon our work and sought perfection even as its image fled our grasp. We have all needed... And so there we begin our story. Not where we'd like to, but where we must.
This is Slaanesh, She Who Thirsts, He Who Craves, the Mad Prince of Obsession and Perfection. It is her will to ever experience what cannot be defined, and by his word are boundaries broken, for to be denied is poison to the Serpent's Chalice, venom upon her racing mind.
Thus are his followers expected to act always, with plan or without, she cares not. The rush of battle, the thrill of art forbidden and acts obscene, one must not pause to ponder. Onwards and forwards forever until at last cessation
brings that final sensation that can only ever be felt once.
This is the Path of Excess, to live without limit, to
reach without constraint. All must be abandoned, for to
love with anything less than obsession is a crime, to care with more than the briefest glance but a waste of time divinely spent.
So then calls upon you those darkest desires and most bitter of pains. Abandon thine morality, steer clear of philosophies left restrained. Slaanesh has only one lesson to teach you, oh believers of perfection...
It does not believe in you.
Cry Havoc
To start in the
beginning... Even here
does Slaanesh strive to
differ from his kin, for though their pasts
are locked in mystery, hers are known
well by those who fear her most.
Raised upon the embers of decadence, kept warm amidst the flames of hedonistic collapse, Slaanesh first saw light as the vast empire of the Aeldari cannibalised itself in jaded apathy. So depraved had these scions of the Old Ones become, that their excess took upon form divine... And malice most dark and foul.
The winds within the Warp howled, let loose shriek and moan. Some fled, some waited, some watched, nascent thought glut upon the fell crimes of immortal sin. A crack then, a splinter, and out forth came incarnate vice wrought by tragedy and denial.
The Aeldari were devoured, their gods but candle flames before the tempest darkness that stormed into reality. Cegorach the Trickster would vanish, Kaela Mensha Khaine would be shattered and scattered throughout the void, and a legacy more ancient than near any other would meet the most terrible of fates... Extinction.
Left behind were only those refugees outrunning the storm and mad heirs to a crime without forgiveness. Where once a kingdom had started, risen high in majesty, hung now only a tear into the Abyss, a violent abomination against rational and reason.
So was born Slaanesh, the Eye of Terror his cry for attention, the flame of countless souls her nourishment. Impossible to contain within a single form, in repose upon the tides of madness does he rest, appearing ever as she wants dependent on whim and mercurial humour.
Favoured by the Mirror Darkly however, is to appear as a little of everything at once. One half a man, the other a woman, two horns of gold adorned by hair of palest silk. This is the Prince of Pleasure, manifest within us all.
Valiant Vice
Thus are Slaanesh's followers encouraged
to try all things that they can, even as their patron dances with damnation. Obeisance through obsession, praise through pursuits of perfection, service in sin, these are the hallmarks of the Dark Prince. Many claim he just wishes for your happiness, but in truth she savours only the flames of your self-destruction.
The number six is of specific significance to her, and those who wish answers find joy in the occult complexity of his devising. This is but a trifle however, for the Sin Serpentia demands offering not to his self, but to you.
One must experience something new, create something wonderful, devise upon the world that which has never before been witnessed. An art mastered, a weapon of fell design, anything will suffice, provided it suffice only once.
Then offered are these sacrifices, within dens of iniquity and vice. Brothels and studios, drug dens and opera houses, Slaanesh does not discriminate on your choice of poison.
So serve those slaves to sensation. The match lit, the spark set free, the flame roars into life as desire forms fuel for it to burn. Watch it roar, they are told, feed it higher... Never realising that the flame will inevitably feed on them.
Devotees of Discordia
You might then wonder, and rightfully so, how one would choose to walk this path so clearly marked with danger. Alas, like addiction, the dark touch of Slaanesh festers and pulls upon the soul.
The artist, barren of muse, facing ridicule and self-loathing, the dilettante bored now with their life of ill-repute. The craftsman surrounded by competition and superior talent. All these souls, driven not by rage or pride, but by desire...
The artist paints a picture, delving into styles esoteric and forgotten. The dilettante ventures deeper into the shadows, abandoning now his mundane pleasures for something else. The craftsman abandons family and food, focussed now only on furthering their work.
So is the first step taken, selfish in their selfless harm upon themselves.
The artist finishes their masterpiece, blood dripping from the easel as alien eyes of unearthly beauty stare back. The dilettante tastes human flesh and delights, before once more growing grey with sorrow. The craftsman, alone and poor, completes his task, its quality unequalled even as the last embers of a life forgotten fade away.
This is how so many fall into the Dark Prince's clutches, and so many do so without ever knowing. Rare is it to find a cause more alluring than ones own gratification, rarer still is it to find those who can turn such worship down.
From this simple message do a thousand cults across a thousand worlds thrive, insidious and sinister in their sly corruption, effecting debased change in a universe so tightly repressed. Numbered amongst these are some of the most foul mortals to ever draw breath, the likes of the Pirate Princes of the Spiral Helix, and the Hollow Cult whose enlightened deceptions destroyed an entire Grey Knight Company.
The most fearsome of her living servants however, are the Emperor's Children. Once the brightest of the Angels Astartes, now they are sick parodies of honour and virtue. Wielding weapons of shrieking sonic and discordant doom, they destroy only to taste death in its cruellest form.
Spawned of Sensation
With such darkness amongst the mortal mind, it is scarce possible to believe that those figments of his own desire could be any worse. Alas, even the supple Daemonette, capricious and beautiful in equal measure, is a creature wrought of the most profane and wanton acts.
Besides these succubi both intriguing and repulsive come the Fiends and Steeds of Slaanesh, a horrific mirror to the fae charm of their lesser kin. They are monstrous in totality, an honest view at the heart that beats only jealousy and greed.
Above them from palanquins of skinned flesh and enchanted incense ride the Heralds, their siren song calling once more for the thrill of battle to commence. Masters of magic that twists the mind and plays with illusion, their mere presence can stop a heart in delight.
Only the Keeper of Secrets rule higher, and they are truly magnificent. Depraved like none other, reeking of sin and delicate ruin, they move like shattered glass and give battle like music upon the page. These are the servants of She who Thirsts, as dangerous in dream as they are on the fields of war.
The Princes Perfidious
Though mighty is the force that swears fealty to his dark name, Slaanesh values competence and mastery above near all else. As such, competition is rife, violence an art form in her fell realm. Those who succeed then, become beloved in the Prince's eyes, gifted further by his overwhelming passion.
Fulgrim, the Phoenician, once Primarch of the Emperor's Children, now father to a Legion of shattered oaths and mercurial loyalty. Obsessed with himself and only himself, he sips upon the chalice of war, like a noble upon their wine.
Lucius the Eternal, arrogant "master" of the blade, scarred warning against the sins of hubris and denial. A wanderer without loyalty to any but his own ego, searching forever to prove his skill against all others.
Shalaxi Helbane, Blade of the Dark Prince, Serpent Queen of the Sable Sword. She is a hunter, a killer and a warrior without equal amongst the Daemonic Legions. None can stay her blade, not even those blessed by gods more ancient than she.
Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair and most beloved of Slaanesh's servants. Her delight is corruption, her poison of choice those souls of the Eldar who still live in fear and dread of his shadow.
And lastly, the Masque, banished from the court of She Who Thirsts, doomed to dance through existence bringing misery and woe to whomever hears her tune. Even the Harlequins cannot match her grace, nor stand for existence so similar to theirs.
The Realms of Repose
Unlike his kin, whose homes stand as vast bastions protected both by nature and artificial design, Slaanesh's realm is open for all to wander. Guarded only by tests to ensure the worth of those who set forth, it is shade cast bitter upon the soul, harrowing and empty in its riot of life.
Of these tests there are six, each one a realm in their own right. The first is of Avarice, the Excess of Riches, and here lies a dragons horde in gemstone and gilt. The sun burns bright a ruby light, the trees covered in gold leaf, the bones of those who took more than they could carry crunching below.
The second, Gluttony, the Excess of Sustenance.
Here amidst the oceans of delicate wine lie
islands scattered far and wide. Should one
survive the delicious seas without drowning
themselves, they will find a bounty of food cooked
to perfection, intoxicating in their aroma. Alas
do many surrender here, eating their fill and then
eating some more, never realising just how familiar
a form such food takes.
Third is Lust, the Excess of Bodily Delights, and no mortal brothel nor den of iniquity could match this shrine to physical gratification. The air hangs thick with enraptured musk, and those that succumb find every sense heightened, every pain inflicted by the waiting Daemons magnified a thousand-fold.
Then comes Envy, the Excess of Adoration, and to follow this path is to walk upon dreams held in the darkness. Each experience within these halls is unique, portraying the adoring crowds and loving family that could be yours were you to only reach past loyalty and oath and into damnation. Suffice to say, few awaken from this dream.
The Palace of Pleasure
What comes next then, past the outer realms that catch upon the weaker soul, are those torments and challenges devised to bind those whose arrogance is too great for mortal pleasure.
Pride, the Excess of Achievement, and here does the lonely soul reflect upon their deeds, heightened through the lens of what if and possibly. Think too long however, drink too much of such bittersweet dreams, and you will find yourself devoured by the failures that await you coming forth.
Finally however, is that most dangerous of things. Peace, the Excess of Repose, the very air calming the fires of ambition and desire. In truth, it is the most toxic of traps, for in the grim darkness of our world, what more could one ever crave than an escape from the constant horror.
Should one successfully navigate there way through all six realms, prove themselves so self-obsessed that no trinket nor divine gift could lead them astray, then at last may they enter upon Slaanesh's own abode.
No warriors guard these halls, only statues of coloured marble and impossible design. No traps, only art and music so lovely as to draw passion from even metal and rock. No soul save one in this shrine to dark deplore...
The Prince of Darkness themself.
The Fifth Cronesword
Said to be legendary swords hewn from the fingers of the Eldar Goddess Morai-Heg, they are relics of a dying empire and the last embers of hope for a race already dead. Though four of these have already been found, the last lingers now within the halls of Slaanesh, seemingly forever out of reach.
The Eye of Terror
Though by no means the sole domain of Slaanesh, it is a ruptured hole in reality formed by the screaming birth of She who Thirsts. A land where gods meet mortal in kind, it is the seat of damnation within the galaxy, the gate through which hell makes rampant abandon upon those still clinging to false hope.
Art
1: Unknown
2: Eye of Terror Codex (3rd Edition)
3: Khorne: Soulbound by Max FitzGerald
4: Blood for the Blood God by BMacSmith
5: The Silver Light by Tze Kun Chin
6: Unknown
7: Chaos Daemons Codex Cover
8: Unknown
9: Mark of Khorne by Anton Babitskiy Demont
10: Tzeentch, The Eye of Changes by Gwiom
11: Unknown
12: Unknown
13: Unknown
14: Servants of Tzeentch by Harry Osborn
15: Unknown
16: Unknown
17: Plaguebearers and Nurglings by helgecbalzer
18: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
19: Nurgle's Blessing by Jacob Atienza
20: The Lords of Silence Cover
21: Grandfather Nurgle by Oleg Leshiy Shekhovtsov
22: Unknown
23: Tome of Corruption by RalphHorsley
24: Broken Realms Art
25: Slaanesh Marine by Adrian Smith
26: Unknown
27: Wrath and Rapture Box Art
28: Slaanesh Symbol2 by SlaaneshG
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.
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.
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.
Chapter Three
Nurgle
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us out to play,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us dance today.
Oh Papa Nurgle please, give us broth and bone,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, hear me shriek and moan.
The Lord Entropic
Woe he who enters both mighty and great, for I am Ozymandias, Guardian of this gate.
All must come to ruin who enter this land, even ruin itself, by ruin's own hand.
Plague and pestilence, rot and ruin, so does the Warp reflect collapse even as it creates. Ennervation some call it, Entropy to others, it is the fate of all things to die. As such it should be of little surprise that the Warp, in all its perverted nature, would defy this.
So stands tall the Lord of Decay, Master of the Ripe and Ruin. Nurgle is his name, Sisyphus by those who know true, for his will is to endure eternal, never changing and never moving. It is by his decree that rot binds tight, by his order that sickness run free, death ever out of reach.
Such then is the fate of those who pledge allegiance to the Grandfather, forced to exist in repetition and toil, enjoy the madness out of choice left barren. It is love of the most absurd kind, for it chokes as it claims, smothers as it
seeks to protect. Vile obsession perhaps, or just the
death of soul and song...
This is the Path of Decay, as rotten without as it is within, poisoned by depraved consent. What dreams possessed are abandoned to sorrow, what hopes unravelled by a gift without equal. There can be no change upon this road, for that is the price you pay.
From dust to dust, from ashes to ashes, this way does existence lie barren, empty of life, empty of death.
Only Silence, forever at the end.
A Bad Apple
All things have a
beginning, even that
which cannot start nor end.
Caught eternal in existence, Nurgle's
moment of birth would define the
universe's path towards cessation without stop.
The dark lore and ancient pages describing those beings within the Warp speak of many things, and of birth do they speak freely but without much proof. From battles long past between empires that devoured stars do some state the beginning occured. The War in Heaven that split asunder reality and tore the veil so deep that madness was born.
Other legends persist of a time during humanity's ruin, as plague swept through the Middle Ages and devoured all in its path. The fade into nothing was a feast before the nascent thought, and upon each life taken, each land abandoned, did he glut himself into existence.
Last speak those of a time without time, for when life was born, so to was death. The Reaper exists and always has, for the day that he doesn't is the day that no one would be able to tell.
This confusion and doubt feeds only into his desire however, for ignorance is but the rot of the mind. Progress is inimical to the Lord of All, and so truth must be destroyed. That death comes is the only fact of importance, that all hope is lost, the only words to have meaning.
From this description would you then imagine a gallows figure, a haunting spectre of devastation and sorrow. Such a belief could not be further from the truth, for he is a corpulent creature of jolly smile and booming laughter.
A dichotomy then, that proves more horrifying than any revenant being of ruin. Surrounded by diseases given thought and malice, scarred by rot and infested organ spilling from his infected wounds, the sight of Nurgle is enough to kill... The smell enough to drive one into the abyss.
Nurture and
Nourish
While the other Gods may show inconsistent apathy to their followers, or take sadistic joy in their suffering, Nurgle instead offers love. Love, because little else has the power to disguise what horror lies in his service.
Those seeking to return his compassion do so through ritual long held dear to the Lord of All. The number seven, for instance, holds a special place in his heart, and such numbers his legions and most perfect of plagues.
In ruins do they pray, natural and machined, relics of a time long passed and a haunting reminder of the fate of all. Here do they raise high their decline, plot their goals of nought, and devise life from decay and death.
Those who wish to prove themselves to the Grandfather must do but the simplest thing... Endure. Survive, and you shall find plague and pestilence as gifts, bring low the enemies most glorious moments, and you shall find anonymity amidst the eternal hordes that follow you.
Reap then, and you shall find the harvest most prosperous...
The bounty of the grave, resplendent.
Servants of Sickness
Insidious then, is the lure of the void. Once your path starts down the road to ruin, your choice matters not, your damnation already fait accompli. Often does it start from the most benign of seeds, or rooted in a terror that has driven mortals into darkness since the first soul asked, "What happens next?"
The doctor seeks answers to diseases that cannot be cured, hunts for salvation as those they loves die. The noble looks upon their legacy and despairs, for it is incomplete and ragged. The mortals fears change, and so seeks to make it stop.
So then does the doctor begin to understand, wisdom given as soon his curiosity becomes love. The diseases more important than the host, intricate and divine in their perfection. Restoration becomes malady, the need to cure but another vector of decay as their humanity grows infected.
The noble, desperate, offers sacrifice for just another year, promises payment for but one last chance to finish what they began. Death releases them but the cost is great, and so their legend turns to rust even as they scramble for more coin to pay the keeper.
The question is asked, the answer replies... "Nothing."
Countless have sought the cure to finality, and the legions of Nurgle are thick with those too foolish to turn away from the hand black with rust. Astartes and angels, mortal and monster, l'appel du vide sings and they act without thought.
The most notable amongst these servants are the Death Guard, once bright stars in humanity's future, now pox-ridden and hollow. Beneath the wings of the Agent Apocrypha do they stride, relentless and eternal, scarring the very earth as they pass.
Before them walk mortals, eager in service to groups such as the Sevenfold Conjunction and the Plaguechildren, preaching of Nurgle's loving word even as they gather themselves to unleash a tide of ruin, their lives easy sacrifices for the glory of the Grandfather.
The Plagues have Eyes
Those servants born of the mortal coil may be legion,
but the darkness numbers endless in its desire to
destroy. The Daemons of Nurgle are creatures of
horror and fear, laughing fiends of joyous decay
who spread sickness by their very name.
The very least of these are the Nurglings and Plaguebearers, hordes of chittering diseases and
corpulent humanoids wielding blades of rust. Weak
and slow, only fury and the deadliest of blows can
stop their advance.
Then there are the mutants, those crude creatures of bountiful pestilence. The Molluscoid, thick with slime and shell, the Bloat Flies and their rotten kin. The Feculent Gnarlmaws, the swarms of Eyestinger bugs and the Bests of Nurgle themselves. Each is a glorious celebration of sickness and decline, devolution of the finest order.
Above the desolate hordes then ride the Heralds, masters of the Legions in Sickness and wise to the ways of disease. These are but the lieutenants however, servants to the Great Unclean Ones whose forms is made in magnificent homage to the Grandfather. Towering over all else, bolsters by the darkest magic, they are the true harbingers of extinction.
The Masters Malaise
From such a loving figure, it should be of little surprise that some of his children stand out in his favour more than others. These entropic champions are formidable beings, nigh inviolable and rife with pestilential power.
Mortarion, Lord of the Death Guard and Reaper of a thousand worlds. Upon wings of tattered flesh does he soar high, cleaving through with magic and dark might.
Typhus the Traveller, architect of truth to the Death Guard. His passage is foul with plague, the dead crawling forth to serve him.
Ku'Gath the Dour, pessimistic and quiet, he was once the most favoured in Nurgle's court of Daemons. Wise and cunning beyond his peers, he sows malaise and doubt in equal measure to disease.
Epidemius, the chronicler of catastrophe. He is the Grandfather's Tallyman, and is tasked with wandering the cosmos in his efforts to record all acts pestilential.
And finally, Horticulous Slimux, the Gardener of Nurgle and tamer of the wild beasts within his realm. Never smiling and never laughing, he takes his duties seriously as all should in praise of Father Fly.
The Gardens Putrescent
As foul as the servants of Ruin are, no more foul are they than the realm they call home. The Gardens of Nurgle are an endless swamp, thick with poisonous plant beast.
Macabre in fashion, every plague and pestilence, sickness and viral strain, can be found within its depths. Bacteria without name but holy in purpose, fungi whose spores inflict the most cursed of afflictions, all these exist in celebration of life without change.
Though one would be forgiven for thinking this wilderness to be a product of chance, nature given free reign to devour as it likes, they would be wrong. The chaos apparent to the untrained eye is instead cultivated with care, each plant nourished, each island within the virulent waters given purpose by careful hands.
Through this must one delve to find any proof of a creator however, and few will do so gladly. Past the buzzards however, and the trees that feed on blood, one will eventually find the ramshackle abode of the Lord of Decay.
The Blighted Mansions of Misery and Mirth, decrepit and ancient, stand tall amidst the jungle shroud. Within these crumbling walls does Nurgle work away upon his creations, the mad scientist lost in joy as he works his wonders upon the world.
Alone he is not however, for not only do his plagues burble happily within their flasks, but so too does another live within these halls. Isha, Goddess of Life, trapped and caged by chain and Nurgle's toxic love without restraint.
As he works, so does she, spilling secrets of hope and healing to those who need it most, learning from her captor even as she foils his every move.
So would it remain, a paradise of stasis and regression... But others planned different. A trap gone awry, Guilliman lured into the Forests Contaigon and escaped by the power of the Emperor, whose last act was to set aflame even as Nurgle's brothers sought vengeance for his recent success.
Such petty violence achieves nought however, for in the end...
It changes nothing.
The Cauldron of Nurgle
Hewn from his own body, warped like metal into a vast basin, the Cauldron of Nurgle is the pinnacle of the Plaguemeister's craft. It is within this bubbling pot that death is given form, life sprung eternal to claim its due. Such is the way of the alchemist, equal exchange for an equal price.
Chapter Four
Slaanesh
I sought oblivion and calm respite, my path forged through sensation and blinding excess. I explored depravity, ventured into the darkness never mapped, until I swept past Experience, witnessed only by the gods.
Thus became I a voyager upon delights unknown, my ship named only, "Sweet Departure".
The Sin Serpentia
For you see, Sin, and its more extreme counterpart, Addiction, are inherently lazy concepts. Many people talk about the temptations of Vice, the lure of decadent bliss, but mostly that is just an easy excuse. Sin doesn't try to tempt... It just does.
We all know what it is to thirst, to hunger for more. We have all stared upon our work and sought perfection even as its image fled our grasp. We have all needed... And so there we begin our story. Not where we'd like to, but where we must.
This is Slaanesh, She Who Thirsts, He Who Craves, the Mad Prince of Obsession and Perfection. It is her will to ever experience what cannot be defined, and by his word are boundaries broken, for to be denied is poison to the Serpent's Chalice, venom upon her racing mind.
Thus are his followers expected to act always, with plan or without, she cares not. The rush of battle, the thrill of art forbidden and acts obscene, one must not pause to ponder. Onwards and forwards forever until at last cessation
brings that final sensation that can only ever be felt once.
This is the Path of Excess, to live without limit, to
reach without constraint. All must be abandoned, for to
love with anything less than obsession is a crime, to care with more than the briefest glance but a waste of time divinely spent.
So then calls upon you those darkest desires and most bitter of pains. Abandon thine morality, steer clear of philosophies left restrained. Slaanesh has only one lesson to teach you, oh believers of perfection...
It does not believe in you.
Cry Havoc
To start in the
beginning... Even here
does Slaanesh strive to
differ from his kin, for though their pasts
are locked in mystery, hers are known
well by those who fear her most.
Raised upon the embers of decadence, kept warm amidst the flames of hedonistic collapse, Slaanesh first saw light as the vast empire of the Aeldari cannibalised itself in jaded apathy. So depraved had these scions of the Old Ones become, that their excess took upon form divine... And malice most dark and foul.
The winds within the Warp howled, let loose shriek and moan. Some fled, some waited, some watched, nascent thought glut upon the fell crimes of immortal sin. A crack then, a splinter, and out forth came incarnate vice wrought by tragedy and denial.
The Aeldari were devoured, their gods but candle flames before the tempest darkness that stormed into reality. Cegorach the Trickster would vanish, Kaela Mensha Khaine would be shattered and scattered throughout the void, and a legacy more ancient than near any other would meet the most terrible of fates... Extinction.
Left behind were only those refugees outrunning the storm and mad heirs to a crime without forgiveness. Where once a kingdom had started, risen high in majesty, hung now only a tear into the Abyss, a violent abomination against rational and reason.
So was born Slaanesh, the Eye of Terror his cry for attention, the flame of countless souls her nourishment. Impossible to contain within a single form, in repose upon the tides of madness does he rest, appearing ever as she wants dependent on whim and mercurial humour.
Favoured by the Mirror Darkly however, is to appear as a little of everything at once. One half a man, the other a woman, two horns of gold adorned by hair of palest silk. This is the Prince of Pleasure, manifest within us all.
Valiant Vice
Thus are Slaanesh's followers encouraged
to try all things that they can, even as their patron dances with damnation. Obeisance through obsession, praise through pursuits of perfection, service in sin, these are the hallmarks of the Dark Prince. Many claim he just wishes for your happiness, but in truth she savours only the flames of your self-destruction.
The number six is of specific significance to her, and those who wish answers find joy in the occult complexity of his devising. This is but a trifle however, for the Sin Serpentia demands offering not to his self, but to you.
One must experience something new, create something wonderful, devise upon the world that which has never before been witnessed. An art mastered, a weapon of fell design, anything will suffice, provided it suffice only once.
Then offered are these sacrifices, within dens of iniquity and vice. Brothels and studios, drug dens and opera houses, Slaanesh does not discriminate on your choice of poison.
So serve those slaves to sensation. The match lit, the spark set free, the flame roars into life as desire forms fuel for it to burn. Watch it roar, they are told, feed it higher... Never realising that the flame will inevitably feed on them.
Devotees of Discordia
You might then wonder, and rightfully so, how one would choose to walk this path so clearly marked with danger. Alas, like addiction, the dark touch of Slaanesh festers and pulls upon the soul.
The artist, barren of muse, facing ridicule and self-loathing, the dilettante bored now with their life of ill-repute. The craftsman surrounded by competition and superior talent. All these souls, driven not by rage or pride, but by desire...
The artist paints a picture, delving into styles esoteric and forgotten. The dilettante ventures deeper into the shadows, abandoning now his mundane pleasures for something else. The craftsman abandons family and food, focussed now only on furthering their work.
So is the first step taken, selfish in their selfless harm upon themselves.
The artist finishes their masterpiece, blood dripping from the easel as alien eyes of unearthly beauty stare back. The dilettante tastes human flesh and delights, before once more growing grey with sorrow. The craftsman, alone and poor, completes his task, its quality unequalled even as the last embers of a life forgotten fade away.
This is how so many fall into the Dark Prince's clutches, and so many do so without ever knowing. Rare is it to find a cause more alluring than ones own gratification, rarer still is it to find those who can turn such worship down.
From this simple message do a thousand cults across a thousand worlds thrive, insidious and sinister in their sly corruption, effecting debased change in a universe so tightly repressed. Numbered amongst these are some of the most foul mortals to ever draw breath, the likes of the Pirate Princes of the Spiral Helix, and the Hollow Cult whose enlightened deceptions destroyed an entire Grey Knight Company.
The most fearsome of her living servants however, are the Emperor's Children. Once the brightest of the Angels Astartes, now they are sick parodies of honour and virtue. Wielding weapons of shrieking sonic and discordant doom, they destroy only to taste death in its cruellest form.
Spawned of Sensation
With such darkness amongst the mortal mind, it is scarce possible to believe that those figments of his own desire could be any worse. Alas, even the supple Daemonette, capricious and beautiful in equal measure, is a creature wrought of the most profane and wanton acts.
Besides these succubi both intriguing and repulsive come the Fiends and Steeds of Slaanesh, a horrific mirror to the fae charm of their lesser kin. They are monstrous in totality, an honest view at the heart that beats only jealousy and greed.
Above them from palanquins of skinned flesh and enchanted incense ride the Heralds, their siren song calling once more for the thrill of battle to commence. Masters of magic that twists the mind and plays with illusion, their mere presence can stop a heart in delight.
Only the Keeper of Secrets rule higher, and they are truly magnificent. Depraved like none other, reeking of sin and delicate ruin, they move like shattered glass and give battle like music upon the page. These are the servants of She who Thirsts, as dangerous in dream as they are on the fields of war.
The Princes Perfidious
Though mighty is the force that swears fealty to his dark name, Slaanesh values competence and mastery above near all else. As such, competition is rife, violence an art form in her fell realm. Those who succeed then, become beloved in the Prince's eyes, gifted further by his overwhelming passion.
Fulgrim, the Phoenician, once Primarch of the Emperor's Children, now father to a Legion of shattered oaths and mercurial loyalty. Obsessed with himself and only himself, he sips upon the chalice of war, like a noble upon their wine.
Lucius the Eternal, arrogant "master" of the blade, scarred warning against the sins of hubris and denial. A wanderer without loyalty to any but his own ego, searching forever to prove his skill against all others.
Shalaxi Helbane, Blade of the Dark Prince, Serpent Queen of the Sable Sword. She is a hunter, a killer and a warrior without equal amongst the Daemonic Legions. None can stay her blade, not even those blessed by gods more ancient than she.
Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair and most beloved of Slaanesh's servants. Her delight is corruption, her poison of choice those souls of the Eldar who still live in fear and dread of his shadow.
And lastly, the Masque, banished from the court of She Who Thirsts, doomed to dance through existence bringing misery and woe to whomever hears her tune. Even the Harlequins cannot match her grace, nor stand for existence so similar to theirs.
The Realms of Repose
Unlike his kin, whose homes stand as vast bastions protected both by nature and artificial design, Slaanesh's realm is open for all to wander. Guarded only by tests to ensure the worth of those who set forth, it is shade cast bitter upon the soul, harrowing and empty in its riot of life.
Of these tests there are six, each one a realm in their own right. The first is of Avarice, the Excess of Riches, and here lies a dragons horde in gemstone and gilt. The sun burns bright a ruby light, the trees covered in gold leaf, the bones of those who took more than they could carry crunching below.
The second, Gluttony, the Excess of Sustenance.
Here amidst the oceans of delicate wine lie
islands scattered far and wide. Should one
survive the delicious seas without drowning
themselves, they will find a bounty of food cooked
to perfection, intoxicating in their aroma. Alas
do many surrender here, eating their fill and then
eating some more, never realising just how familiar
a form such food takes.
Third is Lust, the Excess of Bodily Delights, and no mortal brothel nor den of iniquity could match this shrine to physical gratification. The air hangs thick with enraptured musk, and those that succumb find every sense heightened, every pain inflicted by the waiting Daemons magnified a thousand-fold.
Then comes Envy, the Excess of Adoration, and to follow this path is to walk upon dreams held in the darkness. Each experience within these halls is unique, portraying the adoring crowds and loving family that could be yours were you to only reach past loyalty and oath and into damnation. Suffice to say, few awaken from this dream.
The Palace of Pleasure
What comes next then, past the outer realms that catch upon the weaker soul, are those torments and challenges devised to bind those whose arrogance is too great for mortal pleasure.
Pride, the Excess of Achievement, and here does the lonely soul reflect upon their deeds, heightened through the lens of what if and possibly. Think too long however, drink too much of such bittersweet dreams, and you will find yourself devoured by the failures that await you coming forth.
Finally however, is that most dangerous of things. Peace, the Excess of Repose, the very air calming the fires of ambition and desire. In truth, it is the most toxic of traps, for in the grim darkness of our world, what more could one ever crave than an escape from the constant horror.
Should one successfully navigate there way through all six realms, prove themselves so self-obsessed that no trinket nor divine gift could lead them astray, then at last may they enter upon Slaanesh's own abode.
No warriors guard these halls, only statues of coloured marble and impossible design. No traps, only art and music so lovely as to draw passion from even metal and rock. No soul save one in this shrine to dark deplore...
The Prince of Darkness themself.
The Fifth Cronesword
Said to be legendary swords hewn from the fingers of the Eldar Goddess Morai-Heg, they are relics of a dying empire and the last embers of hope for a race already dead. Though four of these have already been found, the last lingers now within the halls of Slaanesh, seemingly forever out of reach.
The Eye of Terror
Though by no means the sole domain of Slaanesh, it is a ruptured hole in reality formed by the screaming birth of She who Thirsts. A land where gods meet mortal in kind, it is the seat of damnation within the galaxy, the gate through which hell makes rampant abandon upon those still clinging to false hope.
Art
1: Unknown
2: Eye of Terror Codex (3rd Edition)
3: Khorne: Soulbound by Max FitzGerald
4: Blood for the Blood God by BMacSmith
5: The Silver Light by Tze Kun Chin
6: Unknown
7: Chaos Daemons Codex Cover
8: Unknown
9: Mark of Khorne by Anton Babitskiy Demont
10: Tzeentch, The Eye of Changes by Gwiom
11: Unknown
12: Unknown
13: Unknown
14: Servants of Tzeentch by Harry Osborn
15: Unknown
16: Unknown
17: Plaguebearers and Nurglings by helgecbalzer
18: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
19: Nurgle's Blessing by Jacob Atienza
20: The Lords of Silence Cover
21: Grandfather Nurgle by Oleg Leshiy Shekhovtsov
22: Unknown
23: Tome of Corruption by RalphHorsley
24: Broken Realms Art
25: Slaanesh Marine by Adrian Smith
26: Unknown
27: Wrath and Rapture Box Art
28: Slaanesh Symbol2 by SlaaneshG
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.
Nurgle
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us out to play,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us dance today.
Oh Papa Nurgle please, give us broth and bone,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, hear me shriek and moan.
The Lord Entropic
Woe he who enters both mighty and great, for I am Ozymandias, Guardian of this gate.
All must come to ruin who enter this land, even ruin itself, by ruin's own hand.
Plague and pestilence, rot and ruin, so does the Warp reflect collapse even as it creates. Ennervation some call it, Entropy to others, it is the fate of all things to die. As such it should be of little surprise that the Warp, in all its perverted nature, would defy this.
So stands tall the Lord of Decay, Master of the Ripe and Ruin. Nurgle is his name, Sisyphus by those who know true, for his will is to endure eternal, never changing and never moving. It is by his decree that rot binds tight, by his order that sickness run free, death ever out of reach.
Such then is the fate of those who pledge allegiance to the Grandfather, forced to exist in repetition and toil, enjoy the madness out of choice left barren. It is love of the most absurd kind, for it chokes as it claims, smothers as it
seeks to protect. Vile obsession perhaps, or just the
death of soul and song...
This is the Path of Decay, as rotten without as it is within, poisoned by depraved consent. What dreams possessed are abandoned to sorrow, what hopes unravelled by a gift without equal. There can be no change upon this road, for that is the price you pay.
From dust to dust, from ashes to ashes, this way does existence lie barren, empty of life, empty of death.
Only Silence, forever at the end.
A Bad Apple
All things have a
beginning, even that
which cannot start nor end.
Caught eternal in existence, Nurgle's
moment of birth would define the
universe's path towards cessation without stop.
The dark lore and ancient pages describing those beings within the Warp speak of many things, and of birth do they speak freely but without much proof. From battles long past between empires that devoured stars do some state the beginning occured. The War in Heaven that split asunder reality and tore the veil so deep that madness was born.
Other legends persist of a time during humanity's ruin, as plague swept through the Middle Ages and devoured all in its path. The fade into nothing was a feast before the nascent thought, and upon each life taken, each land abandoned, did he glut himself into existence.
Last speak those of a time without time, for when life was born, so to was death. The Reaper exists and always has, for the day that he doesn't is the day that no one would be able to tell.
This confusion and doubt feeds only into his desire however, for ignorance is but the rot of the mind. Progress is inimical to the Lord of All, and so truth must be destroyed. That death comes is the only fact of importance, that all hope is lost, the only words to have meaning.
From this description would you then imagine a gallows figure, a haunting spectre of devastation and sorrow. Such a belief could not be further from the truth, for he is a corpulent creature of jolly smile and booming laughter.
A dichotomy then, that proves more horrifying than any revenant being of ruin. Surrounded by diseases given thought and malice, scarred by rot and infested organ spilling from his infected wounds, the sight of Nurgle is enough to kill... The smell enough to drive one into the abyss.
Nurture and
Nourish
While the other Gods may show inconsistent apathy to their followers, or take sadistic joy in their suffering, Nurgle instead offers love. Love, because little else has the power to disguise what horror lies in his service.
Those seeking to return his compassion do so through ritual long held dear to the Lord of All. The number seven, for instance, holds a special place in his heart, and such numbers his legions and most perfect of plagues.
In ruins do they pray, natural and machined, relics of a time long passed and a haunting reminder of the fate of all. Here do they raise high their decline, plot their goals of nought, and devise life from decay and death.
Those who wish to prove themselves to the Grandfather must do but the simplest thing... Endure. Survive, and you shall find plague and pestilence as gifts, bring low the enemies most glorious moments, and you shall find anonymity amidst the eternal hordes that follow you.
Reap then, and you shall find the harvest most prosperous...
The bounty of the grave, resplendent.
Servants of Sickness
Insidious then, is the lure of the void. Once your path starts down the road to ruin, your choice matters not, your damnation already fait accompli. Often does it start from the most benign of seeds, or rooted in a terror that has driven mortals into darkness since the first soul asked, "What happens next?"
The doctor seeks answers to diseases that cannot be cured, hunts for salvation as those they loves die. The noble looks upon their legacy and despairs, for it is incomplete and ragged. The mortals fears change, and so seeks to make it stop.
So then does the doctor begin to understand, wisdom given as soon his curiosity becomes love. The diseases more important than the host, intricate and divine in their perfection. Restoration becomes malady, the need to cure but another vector of decay as their humanity grows infected.
The noble, desperate, offers sacrifice for just another year, promises payment for but one last chance to finish what they began. Death releases them but the cost is great, and so their legend turns to rust even as they scramble for more coin to pay the keeper.
The question is asked, the answer replies... "Nothing."
Countless have sought the cure to finality, and the legions of Nurgle are thick with those too foolish to turn away from the hand black with rust. Astartes and angels, mortal and monster, l'appel du vide sings and they act without thought.
The most notable amongst these servants are the Death Guard, once bright stars in humanity's future, now pox-ridden and hollow. Beneath the wings of the Agent Apocrypha do they stride, relentless and eternal, scarring the very earth as they pass.
Before them walk mortals, eager in service to groups such as the Sevenfold Conjunction and the Plaguechildren, preaching of Nurgle's loving word even as they gather themselves to unleash a tide of ruin, their lives easy sacrifices for the glory of the Grandfather.
The Plagues have Eyes
Those servants born of the mortal coil may be legion,
but the darkness numbers endless in its desire to
destroy. The Daemons of Nurgle are creatures of
horror and fear, laughing fiends of joyous decay
who spread sickness by their very name.
The very least of these are the Nurglings and Plaguebearers, hordes of chittering diseases and
corpulent humanoids wielding blades of rust. Weak
and slow, only fury and the deadliest of blows can
stop their advance.
Then there are the mutants, those crude creatures of bountiful pestilence. The Molluscoid, thick with slime and shell, the Bloat Flies and their rotten kin. The Feculent Gnarlmaws, the swarms of Eyestinger bugs and the Bests of Nurgle themselves. Each is a glorious celebration of sickness and decline, devolution of the finest order.
Above the desolate hordes then ride the Heralds, masters of the Legions in Sickness and wise to the ways of disease. These are but the lieutenants however, servants to the Great Unclean Ones whose forms is made in magnificent homage to the Grandfather. Towering over all else, bolsters by the darkest magic, they are the true harbingers of extinction.
The Masters Malaise
From such a loving figure, it should be of little surprise that some of his children stand out in his favour more than others. These entropic champions are formidable beings, nigh inviolable and rife with pestilential power.
Mortarion, Lord of the Death Guard and Reaper of a thousand worlds. Upon wings of tattered flesh does he soar high, cleaving through with magic and dark might.
Typhus the Traveller, architect of truth to the Death Guard. His passage is foul with plague, the dead crawling forth to serve him.
Ku'Gath the Dour, pessimistic and quiet, he was once the most favoured in Nurgle's court of Daemons. Wise and cunning beyond his peers, he sows malaise and doubt in equal measure to disease.
Epidemius, the chronicler of catastrophe. He is the Grandfather's Tallyman, and is tasked with wandering the cosmos in his efforts to record all acts pestilential.
And finally, Horticulous Slimux, the Gardener of Nurgle and tamer of the wild beasts within his realm. Never smiling and never laughing, he takes his duties seriously as all should in praise of Father Fly.
The Gardens Putrescent
As foul as the servants of Ruin are, no more foul are they than the realm they call home. The Gardens of Nurgle are an endless swamp, thick with poisonous plant beast.
Macabre in fashion, every plague and pestilence, sickness and viral strain, can be found within its depths. Bacteria without name but holy in purpose, fungi whose spores inflict the most cursed of afflictions, all these exist in celebration of life without change.
Though one would be forgiven for thinking this wilderness to be a product of chance, nature given free reign to devour as it likes, they would be wrong. The chaos apparent to the untrained eye is instead cultivated with care, each plant nourished, each island within the virulent waters given purpose by careful hands.
Through this must one delve to find any proof of a creator however, and few will do so gladly. Past the buzzards however, and the trees that feed on blood, one will eventually find the ramshackle abode of the Lord of Decay.
The Blighted Mansions of Misery and Mirth, decrepit and ancient, stand tall amidst the jungle shroud. Within these crumbling walls does Nurgle work away upon his creations, the mad scientist lost in joy as he works his wonders upon the world.
Alone he is not however, for not only do his plagues burble happily within their flasks, but so too does another live within these halls. Isha, Goddess of Life, trapped and caged by chain and Nurgle's toxic love without restraint.
As he works, so does she, spilling secrets of hope and healing to those who need it most, learning from her captor even as she foils his every move.
So would it remain, a paradise of stasis and regression... But others planned different. A trap gone awry, Guilliman lured into the Forests Contaigon and escaped by the power of the Emperor, whose last act was to set aflame even as Nurgle's brothers sought vengeance for his recent success.
Such petty violence achieves nought however, for in the end...
It changes nothing.
The Cauldron of Nurgle
Hewn from his own body, warped like metal into a vast basin, the Cauldron of Nurgle is the pinnacle of the Plaguemeister's craft. It is within this bubbling pot that death is given form, life sprung eternal to claim its due. Such is the way of the alchemist, equal exchange for an equal price.
Chapter Four
Slaanesh
I sought oblivion and calm respite, my path forged through sensation and blinding excess. I explored depravity, ventured into the darkness never mapped, until I swept past Experience, witnessed only by the gods.
Thus became I a voyager upon delights unknown, my ship named only, "Sweet Departure".
The Sin Serpentia
For you see, Sin, and its more extreme counterpart, Addiction, are inherently lazy concepts. Many people talk about the temptations of Vice, the lure of decadent bliss, but mostly that is just an easy excuse. Sin doesn't try to tempt... It just does.
We all know what it is to thirst, to hunger for more. We have all stared upon our work and sought perfection even as its image fled our grasp. We have all needed... And so there we begin our story. Not where we'd like to, but where we must.
This is Slaanesh, She Who Thirsts, He Who Craves, the Mad Prince of Obsession and Perfection. It is her will to ever experience what cannot be defined, and by his word are boundaries broken, for to be denied is poison to the Serpent's Chalice, venom upon her racing mind.
Thus are his followers expected to act always, with plan or without, she cares not. The rush of battle, the thrill of art forbidden and acts obscene, one must not pause to ponder. Onwards and forwards forever until at last cessation
brings that final sensation that can only ever be felt once.
This is the Path of Excess, to live without limit, to
reach without constraint. All must be abandoned, for to
love with anything less than obsession is a crime, to care with more than the briefest glance but a waste of time divinely spent.
So then calls upon you those darkest desires and most bitter of pains. Abandon thine morality, steer clear of philosophies left restrained. Slaanesh has only one lesson to teach you, oh believers of perfection...
It does not believe in you.
Cry Havoc
To start in the
beginning... Even here
does Slaanesh strive to
differ from his kin, for though their pasts
are locked in mystery, hers are known
well by those who fear her most.
Raised upon the embers of decadence, kept warm amidst the flames of hedonistic collapse, Slaanesh first saw light as the vast empire of the Aeldari cannibalised itself in jaded apathy. So depraved had these scions of the Old Ones become, that their excess took upon form divine... And malice most dark and foul.
The winds within the Warp howled, let loose shriek and moan. Some fled, some waited, some watched, nascent thought glut upon the fell crimes of immortal sin. A crack then, a splinter, and out forth came incarnate vice wrought by tragedy and denial.
The Aeldari were devoured, their gods but candle flames before the tempest darkness that stormed into reality. Cegorach the Trickster would vanish, Kaela Mensha Khaine would be shattered and scattered throughout the void, and a legacy more ancient than near any other would meet the most terrible of fates... Extinction.
Left behind were only those refugees outrunning the storm and mad heirs to a crime without forgiveness. Where once a kingdom had started, risen high in majesty, hung now only a tear into the Abyss, a violent abomination against rational and reason.
So was born Slaanesh, the Eye of Terror his cry for attention, the flame of countless souls her nourishment. Impossible to contain within a single form, in repose upon the tides of madness does he rest, appearing ever as she wants dependent on whim and mercurial humour.
Favoured by the Mirror Darkly however, is to appear as a little of everything at once. One half a man, the other a woman, two horns of gold adorned by hair of palest silk. This is the Prince of Pleasure, manifest within us all.
Valiant Vice
Thus are Slaanesh's followers encouraged
to try all things that they can, even as their patron dances with damnation. Obeisance through obsession, praise through pursuits of perfection, service in sin, these are the hallmarks of the Dark Prince. Many claim he just wishes for your happiness, but in truth she savours only the flames of your self-destruction.
The number six is of specific significance to her, and those who wish answers find joy in the occult complexity of his devising. This is but a trifle however, for the Sin Serpentia demands offering not to his self, but to you.
One must experience something new, create something wonderful, devise upon the world that which has never before been witnessed. An art mastered, a weapon of fell design, anything will suffice, provided it suffice only once.
Then offered are these sacrifices, within dens of iniquity and vice. Brothels and studios, drug dens and opera houses, Slaanesh does not discriminate on your choice of poison.
So serve those slaves to sensation. The match lit, the spark set free, the flame roars into life as desire forms fuel for it to burn. Watch it roar, they are told, feed it higher... Never realising that the flame will inevitably feed on them.
Devotees of Discordia
You might then wonder, and rightfully so, how one would choose to walk this path so clearly marked with danger. Alas, like addiction, the dark touch of Slaanesh festers and pulls upon the soul.
The artist, barren of muse, facing ridicule and self-loathing, the dilettante bored now with their life of ill-repute. The craftsman surrounded by competition and superior talent. All these souls, driven not by rage or pride, but by desire...
The artist paints a picture, delving into styles esoteric and forgotten. The dilettante ventures deeper into the shadows, abandoning now his mundane pleasures for something else. The craftsman abandons family and food, focussed now only on furthering their work.
So is the first step taken, selfish in their selfless harm upon themselves.
The artist finishes their masterpiece, blood dripping from the easel as alien eyes of unearthly beauty stare back. The dilettante tastes human flesh and delights, before once more growing grey with sorrow. The craftsman, alone and poor, completes his task, its quality unequalled even as the last embers of a life forgotten fade away.
This is how so many fall into the Dark Prince's clutches, and so many do so without ever knowing. Rare is it to find a cause more alluring than ones own gratification, rarer still is it to find those who can turn such worship down.
From this simple message do a thousand cults across a thousand worlds thrive, insidious and sinister in their sly corruption, effecting debased change in a universe so tightly repressed. Numbered amongst these are some of the most foul mortals to ever draw breath, the likes of the Pirate Princes of the Spiral Helix, and the Hollow Cult whose enlightened deceptions destroyed an entire Grey Knight Company.
The most fearsome of her living servants however, are the Emperor's Children. Once the brightest of the Angels Astartes, now they are sick parodies of honour and virtue. Wielding weapons of shrieking sonic and discordant doom, they destroy only to taste death in its cruellest form.
Spawned of Sensation
With such darkness amongst the mortal mind, it is scarce possible to believe that those figments of his own desire could be any worse. Alas, even the supple Daemonette, capricious and beautiful in equal measure, is a creature wrought of the most profane and wanton acts.
Besides these succubi both intriguing and repulsive come the Fiends and Steeds of Slaanesh, a horrific mirror to the fae charm of their lesser kin. They are monstrous in totality, an honest view at the heart that beats only jealousy and greed.
Above them from palanquins of skinned flesh and enchanted incense ride the Heralds, their siren song calling once more for the thrill of battle to commence. Masters of magic that twists the mind and plays with illusion, their mere presence can stop a heart in delight.
Only the Keeper of Secrets rule higher, and they are truly magnificent. Depraved like none other, reeking of sin and delicate ruin, they move like shattered glass and give battle like music upon the page. These are the servants of She who Thirsts, as dangerous in dream as they are on the fields of war.
The Princes Perfidious
Though mighty is the force that swears fealty to his dark name, Slaanesh values competence and mastery above near all else. As such, competition is rife, violence an art form in her fell realm. Those who succeed then, become beloved in the Prince's eyes, gifted further by his overwhelming passion.
Fulgrim, the Phoenician, once Primarch of the Emperor's Children, now father to a Legion of shattered oaths and mercurial loyalty. Obsessed with himself and only himself, he sips upon the chalice of war, like a noble upon their wine.
Lucius the Eternal, arrogant "master" of the blade, scarred warning against the sins of hubris and denial. A wanderer without loyalty to any but his own ego, searching forever to prove his skill against all others.
Shalaxi Helbane, Blade of the Dark Prince, Serpent Queen of the Sable Sword. She is a hunter, a killer and a warrior without equal amongst the Daemonic Legions. None can stay her blade, not even those blessed by gods more ancient than she.
Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair and most beloved of Slaanesh's servants. Her delight is corruption, her poison of choice those souls of the Eldar who still live in fear and dread of his shadow.
And lastly, the Masque, banished from the court of She Who Thirsts, doomed to dance through existence bringing misery and woe to whomever hears her tune. Even the Harlequins cannot match her grace, nor stand for existence so similar to theirs.
The Realms of Repose
Unlike his kin, whose homes stand as vast bastions protected both by nature and artificial design, Slaanesh's realm is open for all to wander. Guarded only by tests to ensure the worth of those who set forth, it is shade cast bitter upon the soul, harrowing and empty in its riot of life.
Of these tests there are six, each one a realm in their own right. The first is of Avarice, the Excess of Riches, and here lies a dragons horde in gemstone and gilt. The sun burns bright a ruby light, the trees covered in gold leaf, the bones of those who took more than they could carry crunching below.
The second, Gluttony, the Excess of Sustenance.
Here amidst the oceans of delicate wine lie
islands scattered far and wide. Should one
survive the delicious seas without drowning
themselves, they will find a bounty of food cooked
to perfection, intoxicating in their aroma. Alas
do many surrender here, eating their fill and then
eating some more, never realising just how familiar
a form such food takes.
Third is Lust, the Excess of Bodily Delights, and no mortal brothel nor den of iniquity could match this shrine to physical gratification. The air hangs thick with enraptured musk, and those that succumb find every sense heightened, every pain inflicted by the waiting Daemons magnified a thousand-fold.
Then comes Envy, the Excess of Adoration, and to follow this path is to walk upon dreams held in the darkness. Each experience within these halls is unique, portraying the adoring crowds and loving family that could be yours were you to only reach past loyalty and oath and into damnation. Suffice to say, few awaken from this dream.
The Palace of Pleasure
What comes next then, past the outer realms that catch upon the weaker soul, are those torments and challenges devised to bind those whose arrogance is too great for mortal pleasure.
Pride, the Excess of Achievement, and here does the lonely soul reflect upon their deeds, heightened through the lens of what if and possibly. Think too long however, drink too much of such bittersweet dreams, and you will find yourself devoured by the failures that await you coming forth.
Finally however, is that most dangerous of things. Peace, the Excess of Repose, the very air calming the fires of ambition and desire. In truth, it is the most toxic of traps, for in the grim darkness of our world, what more could one ever crave than an escape from the constant horror.
Should one successfully navigate there way through all six realms, prove themselves so self-obsessed that no trinket nor divine gift could lead them astray, then at last may they enter upon Slaanesh's own abode.
No warriors guard these halls, only statues of coloured marble and impossible design. No traps, only art and music so lovely as to draw passion from even metal and rock. No soul save one in this shrine to dark deplore...
The Prince of Darkness themself.
The Fifth Cronesword
Said to be legendary swords hewn from the fingers of the Eldar Goddess Morai-Heg, they are relics of a dying empire and the last embers of hope for a race already dead. Though four of these have already been found, the last lingers now within the halls of Slaanesh, seemingly forever out of reach.
The Eye of Terror
Though by no means the sole domain of Slaanesh, it is a ruptured hole in reality formed by the screaming birth of She who Thirsts. A land where gods meet mortal in kind, it is the seat of damnation within the galaxy, the gate through which hell makes rampant abandon upon those still clinging to false hope.
Art
1: Unknown
2: Eye of Terror Codex (3rd Edition)
3: Khorne: Soulbound by Max FitzGerald
4: Blood for the Blood God by BMacSmith
5: The Silver Light by Tze Kun Chin
6: Unknown
7: Chaos Daemons Codex Cover
8: Unknown
9: Mark of Khorne by Anton Babitskiy Demont
10: Tzeentch, The Eye of Changes by Gwiom
11: Unknown
12: Unknown
13: Unknown
14: Servants of Tzeentch by Harry Osborn
15: Unknown
16: Unknown
17: Plaguebearers and Nurglings by helgecbalzer
18: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
19: Nurgle's Blessing by Jacob Atienza
20: The Lords of Silence Cover
21: Grandfather Nurgle by Oleg Leshiy Shekhovtsov
22: Unknown
23: Tome of Corruption by RalphHorsley
24: Broken Realms Art
25: Slaanesh Marine by Adrian Smith
26: Unknown
27: Wrath and Rapture Box Art
28: Slaanesh Symbol2 by SlaaneshG
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.
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us out to play,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us dance today.
Oh Papa Nurgle please, give us broth and bone,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, hear me shriek and moan.
Oh Papa Nurgle please, let us dance today.
Oh Papa Nurgle please, give us broth and bone,
Oh Papa Nurgle please, hear me shriek and moan.
The Lord Entropic
Woe he who enters both mighty and great, for I am Ozymandias, Guardian of this gate.
All must come to ruin who enter this land, even ruin itself, by ruin's own hand.
Plague and pestilence, rot and ruin, so does the Warp reflect collapse even as it creates. Ennervation some call it, Entropy to others, it is the fate of all things to die. As such it should be of little surprise that the Warp, in all its perverted nature, would defy this.
So stands tall the Lord of Decay, Master of the Ripe and Ruin. Nurgle is his name, Sisyphus by those who know true, for his will is to endure eternal, never changing and never moving. It is by his decree that rot binds tight, by his order that sickness run free, death ever out of reach.
Such then is the fate of those who pledge allegiance to the Grandfather, forced to exist in repetition and toil, enjoy the madness out of choice left barren. It is love of the most absurd kind, for it chokes as it claims, smothers as it
seeks to protect. Vile obsession perhaps, or just the
death of soul and song...
This is the Path of Decay, as rotten without as it is within, poisoned by depraved consent. What dreams possessed are abandoned to sorrow, what hopes unravelled by a gift without equal. There can be no change upon this road, for that is the price you pay.
From dust to dust, from ashes to ashes, this way does existence lie barren, empty of life, empty of death.
Only Silence, forever at the end.
A Bad Apple
All things have a
beginning, even that
which cannot start nor end.
Caught eternal in existence, Nurgle's
moment of birth would define the
universe's path towards cessation without stop.
The dark lore and ancient pages describing those beings within the Warp speak of many things, and of birth do they speak freely but without much proof. From battles long past between empires that devoured stars do some state the beginning occured. The War in Heaven that split asunder reality and tore the veil so deep that madness was born.
Other legends persist of a time during humanity's ruin, as plague swept through the Middle Ages and devoured all in its path. The fade into nothing was a feast before the nascent thought, and upon each life taken, each land abandoned, did he glut himself into existence.
Last speak those of a time without time, for when life was born, so to was death. The Reaper exists and always has, for the day that he doesn't is the day that no one would be able to tell.
This confusion and doubt feeds only into his desire however, for ignorance is but the rot of the mind. Progress is inimical to the Lord of All, and so truth must be destroyed. That death comes is the only fact of importance, that all hope is lost, the only words to have meaning.
From this description would you then imagine a gallows figure, a haunting spectre of devastation and sorrow. Such a belief could not be further from the truth, for he is a corpulent creature of jolly smile and booming laughter.
A dichotomy then, that proves more horrifying than any revenant being of ruin. Surrounded by diseases given thought and malice, scarred by rot and infested organ spilling from his infected wounds, the sight of Nurgle is enough to kill... The smell enough to drive one into the abyss.
Nurture and
Nourish
While the other Gods may show inconsistent apathy to their followers, or take sadistic joy in their suffering, Nurgle instead offers love. Love, because little else has the power to disguise what horror lies in his service.
Those seeking to return his compassion do so through ritual long held dear to the Lord of All. The number seven, for instance, holds a special place in his heart, and such numbers his legions and most perfect of plagues.
In ruins do they pray, natural and machined, relics of a time long passed and a haunting reminder of the fate of all. Here do they raise high their decline, plot their goals of nought, and devise life from decay and death.
Those who wish to prove themselves to the Grandfather must do but the simplest thing... Endure. Survive, and you shall find plague and pestilence as gifts, bring low the enemies most glorious moments, and you shall find anonymity amidst the eternal hordes that follow you.
Reap then, and you shall find the harvest most prosperous...
The bounty of the grave, resplendent.
Servants of Sickness
Insidious then, is the lure of the void. Once your path starts down the road to ruin, your choice matters not, your damnation already fait accompli. Often does it start from the most benign of seeds, or rooted in a terror that has driven mortals into darkness since the first soul asked, "What happens next?"
The doctor seeks answers to diseases that cannot be cured, hunts for salvation as those they loves die. The noble looks upon their legacy and despairs, for it is incomplete and ragged. The mortals fears change, and so seeks to make it stop.
So then does the doctor begin to understand, wisdom given as soon his curiosity becomes love. The diseases more important than the host, intricate and divine in their perfection. Restoration becomes malady, the need to cure but another vector of decay as their humanity grows infected.
The noble, desperate, offers sacrifice for just another year, promises payment for but one last chance to finish what they began. Death releases them but the cost is great, and so their legend turns to rust even as they scramble for more coin to pay the keeper.
The question is asked, the answer replies... "Nothing."
Countless have sought the cure to finality, and the legions of Nurgle are thick with those too foolish to turn away from the hand black with rust. Astartes and angels, mortal and monster, l'appel du vide sings and they act without thought.
The most notable amongst these servants are the Death Guard, once bright stars in humanity's future, now pox-ridden and hollow. Beneath the wings of the Agent Apocrypha do they stride, relentless and eternal, scarring the very earth as they pass.
Before them walk mortals, eager in service to groups such as the Sevenfold Conjunction and the Plaguechildren, preaching of Nurgle's loving word even as they gather themselves to unleash a tide of ruin, their lives easy sacrifices for the glory of the Grandfather.
The Plagues have Eyes
Those servants born of the mortal coil may be legion,
but the darkness numbers endless in its desire to
destroy. The Daemons of Nurgle are creatures of
horror and fear, laughing fiends of joyous decay
who spread sickness by their very name.
The very least of these are the Nurglings and Plaguebearers, hordes of chittering diseases and
corpulent humanoids wielding blades of rust. Weak
and slow, only fury and the deadliest of blows can
stop their advance.
Then there are the mutants, those crude creatures of bountiful pestilence. The Molluscoid, thick with slime and shell, the Bloat Flies and their rotten kin. The Feculent Gnarlmaws, the swarms of Eyestinger bugs and the Bests of Nurgle themselves. Each is a glorious celebration of sickness and decline, devolution of the finest order.
Above the desolate hordes then ride the Heralds, masters of the Legions in Sickness and wise to the ways of disease. These are but the lieutenants however, servants to the Great Unclean Ones whose forms is made in magnificent homage to the Grandfather. Towering over all else, bolsters by the darkest magic, they are the true harbingers of extinction.
The Masters Malaise
From such a loving figure, it should be of little surprise that some of his children stand out in his favour more than others. These entropic champions are formidable beings, nigh inviolable and rife with pestilential power.
Mortarion, Lord of the Death Guard and Reaper of a thousand worlds. Upon wings of tattered flesh does he soar high, cleaving through with magic and dark might.
Typhus the Traveller, architect of truth to the Death Guard. His passage is foul with plague, the dead crawling forth to serve him.
Ku'Gath the Dour, pessimistic and quiet, he was once the most favoured in Nurgle's court of Daemons. Wise and cunning beyond his peers, he sows malaise and doubt in equal measure to disease.
Epidemius, the chronicler of catastrophe. He is the Grandfather's Tallyman, and is tasked with wandering the cosmos in his efforts to record all acts pestilential.
And finally, Horticulous Slimux, the Gardener of Nurgle and tamer of the wild beasts within his realm. Never smiling and never laughing, he takes his duties seriously as all should in praise of Father Fly.
The Gardens Putrescent
As foul as the servants of Ruin are, no more foul are they than the realm they call home. The Gardens of Nurgle are an endless swamp, thick with poisonous plant beast.
Macabre in fashion, every plague and pestilence, sickness and viral strain, can be found within its depths. Bacteria without name but holy in purpose, fungi whose spores inflict the most cursed of afflictions, all these exist in celebration of life without change.
Though one would be forgiven for thinking this wilderness to be a product of chance, nature given free reign to devour as it likes, they would be wrong. The chaos apparent to the untrained eye is instead cultivated with care, each plant nourished, each island within the virulent waters given purpose by careful hands.
Through this must one delve to find any proof of a creator however, and few will do so gladly. Past the buzzards however, and the trees that feed on blood, one will eventually find the ramshackle abode of the Lord of Decay.
The Blighted Mansions of Misery and Mirth, decrepit and ancient, stand tall amidst the jungle shroud. Within these crumbling walls does Nurgle work away upon his creations, the mad scientist lost in joy as he works his wonders upon the world.
Alone he is not however, for not only do his plagues burble happily within their flasks, but so too does another live within these halls. Isha, Goddess of Life, trapped and caged by chain and Nurgle's toxic love without restraint.
As he works, so does she, spilling secrets of hope and healing to those who need it most, learning from her captor even as she foils his every move.
So would it remain, a paradise of stasis and regression... But others planned different. A trap gone awry, Guilliman lured into the Forests Contaigon and escaped by the power of the Emperor, whose last act was to set aflame even as Nurgle's brothers sought vengeance for his recent success.
Such petty violence achieves nought however, for in the end...
It changes nothing.
The Cauldron of Nurgle
Hewn from his own body, warped like metal into a vast basin, the Cauldron of Nurgle is the pinnacle of the Plaguemeister's craft. It is within this bubbling pot that death is given form, life sprung eternal to claim its due. Such is the way of the alchemist, equal exchange for an equal price.
Chapter Four
Slaanesh
I sought oblivion and calm respite, my path forged through sensation and blinding excess. I explored depravity, ventured into the darkness never mapped, until I swept past Experience, witnessed only by the gods.
Thus became I a voyager upon delights unknown, my ship named only, "Sweet Departure".
The Sin Serpentia
For you see, Sin, and its more extreme counterpart, Addiction, are inherently lazy concepts. Many people talk about the temptations of Vice, the lure of decadent bliss, but mostly that is just an easy excuse. Sin doesn't try to tempt... It just does.
We all know what it is to thirst, to hunger for more. We have all stared upon our work and sought perfection even as its image fled our grasp. We have all needed... And so there we begin our story. Not where we'd like to, but where we must.
This is Slaanesh, She Who Thirsts, He Who Craves, the Mad Prince of Obsession and Perfection. It is her will to ever experience what cannot be defined, and by his word are boundaries broken, for to be denied is poison to the Serpent's Chalice, venom upon her racing mind.
Thus are his followers expected to act always, with plan or without, she cares not. The rush of battle, the thrill of art forbidden and acts obscene, one must not pause to ponder. Onwards and forwards forever until at last cessation
brings that final sensation that can only ever be felt once.
This is the Path of Excess, to live without limit, to
reach without constraint. All must be abandoned, for to
love with anything less than obsession is a crime, to care with more than the briefest glance but a waste of time divinely spent.
So then calls upon you those darkest desires and most bitter of pains. Abandon thine morality, steer clear of philosophies left restrained. Slaanesh has only one lesson to teach you, oh believers of perfection...
It does not believe in you.
Cry Havoc
To start in the
beginning... Even here
does Slaanesh strive to
differ from his kin, for though their pasts
are locked in mystery, hers are known
well by those who fear her most.
Raised upon the embers of decadence, kept warm amidst the flames of hedonistic collapse, Slaanesh first saw light as the vast empire of the Aeldari cannibalised itself in jaded apathy. So depraved had these scions of the Old Ones become, that their excess took upon form divine... And malice most dark and foul.
The winds within the Warp howled, let loose shriek and moan. Some fled, some waited, some watched, nascent thought glut upon the fell crimes of immortal sin. A crack then, a splinter, and out forth came incarnate vice wrought by tragedy and denial.
The Aeldari were devoured, their gods but candle flames before the tempest darkness that stormed into reality. Cegorach the Trickster would vanish, Kaela Mensha Khaine would be shattered and scattered throughout the void, and a legacy more ancient than near any other would meet the most terrible of fates... Extinction.
Left behind were only those refugees outrunning the storm and mad heirs to a crime without forgiveness. Where once a kingdom had started, risen high in majesty, hung now only a tear into the Abyss, a violent abomination against rational and reason.
So was born Slaanesh, the Eye of Terror his cry for attention, the flame of countless souls her nourishment. Impossible to contain within a single form, in repose upon the tides of madness does he rest, appearing ever as she wants dependent on whim and mercurial humour.
Favoured by the Mirror Darkly however, is to appear as a little of everything at once. One half a man, the other a woman, two horns of gold adorned by hair of palest silk. This is the Prince of Pleasure, manifest within us all.
Valiant Vice
Thus are Slaanesh's followers encouraged
to try all things that they can, even as their patron dances with damnation. Obeisance through obsession, praise through pursuits of perfection, service in sin, these are the hallmarks of the Dark Prince. Many claim he just wishes for your happiness, but in truth she savours only the flames of your self-destruction.
The number six is of specific significance to her, and those who wish answers find joy in the occult complexity of his devising. This is but a trifle however, for the Sin Serpentia demands offering not to his self, but to you.
One must experience something new, create something wonderful, devise upon the world that which has never before been witnessed. An art mastered, a weapon of fell design, anything will suffice, provided it suffice only once.
Then offered are these sacrifices, within dens of iniquity and vice. Brothels and studios, drug dens and opera houses, Slaanesh does not discriminate on your choice of poison.
So serve those slaves to sensation. The match lit, the spark set free, the flame roars into life as desire forms fuel for it to burn. Watch it roar, they are told, feed it higher... Never realising that the flame will inevitably feed on them.
Devotees of Discordia
You might then wonder, and rightfully so, how one would choose to walk this path so clearly marked with danger. Alas, like addiction, the dark touch of Slaanesh festers and pulls upon the soul.
The artist, barren of muse, facing ridicule and self-loathing, the dilettante bored now with their life of ill-repute. The craftsman surrounded by competition and superior talent. All these souls, driven not by rage or pride, but by desire...
The artist paints a picture, delving into styles esoteric and forgotten. The dilettante ventures deeper into the shadows, abandoning now his mundane pleasures for something else. The craftsman abandons family and food, focussed now only on furthering their work.
So is the first step taken, selfish in their selfless harm upon themselves.
The artist finishes their masterpiece, blood dripping from the easel as alien eyes of unearthly beauty stare back. The dilettante tastes human flesh and delights, before once more growing grey with sorrow. The craftsman, alone and poor, completes his task, its quality unequalled even as the last embers of a life forgotten fade away.
This is how so many fall into the Dark Prince's clutches, and so many do so without ever knowing. Rare is it to find a cause more alluring than ones own gratification, rarer still is it to find those who can turn such worship down.
From this simple message do a thousand cults across a thousand worlds thrive, insidious and sinister in their sly corruption, effecting debased change in a universe so tightly repressed. Numbered amongst these are some of the most foul mortals to ever draw breath, the likes of the Pirate Princes of the Spiral Helix, and the Hollow Cult whose enlightened deceptions destroyed an entire Grey Knight Company.
The most fearsome of her living servants however, are the Emperor's Children. Once the brightest of the Angels Astartes, now they are sick parodies of honour and virtue. Wielding weapons of shrieking sonic and discordant doom, they destroy only to taste death in its cruellest form.
Spawned of Sensation
With such darkness amongst the mortal mind, it is scarce possible to believe that those figments of his own desire could be any worse. Alas, even the supple Daemonette, capricious and beautiful in equal measure, is a creature wrought of the most profane and wanton acts.
Besides these succubi both intriguing and repulsive come the Fiends and Steeds of Slaanesh, a horrific mirror to the fae charm of their lesser kin. They are monstrous in totality, an honest view at the heart that beats only jealousy and greed.
Above them from palanquins of skinned flesh and enchanted incense ride the Heralds, their siren song calling once more for the thrill of battle to commence. Masters of magic that twists the mind and plays with illusion, their mere presence can stop a heart in delight.
Only the Keeper of Secrets rule higher, and they are truly magnificent. Depraved like none other, reeking of sin and delicate ruin, they move like shattered glass and give battle like music upon the page. These are the servants of She who Thirsts, as dangerous in dream as they are on the fields of war.
The Princes Perfidious
Though mighty is the force that swears fealty to his dark name, Slaanesh values competence and mastery above near all else. As such, competition is rife, violence an art form in her fell realm. Those who succeed then, become beloved in the Prince's eyes, gifted further by his overwhelming passion.
Fulgrim, the Phoenician, once Primarch of the Emperor's Children, now father to a Legion of shattered oaths and mercurial loyalty. Obsessed with himself and only himself, he sips upon the chalice of war, like a noble upon their wine.
Lucius the Eternal, arrogant "master" of the blade, scarred warning against the sins of hubris and denial. A wanderer without loyalty to any but his own ego, searching forever to prove his skill against all others.
Shalaxi Helbane, Blade of the Dark Prince, Serpent Queen of the Sable Sword. She is a hunter, a killer and a warrior without equal amongst the Daemonic Legions. None can stay her blade, not even those blessed by gods more ancient than she.
Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair and most beloved of Slaanesh's servants. Her delight is corruption, her poison of choice those souls of the Eldar who still live in fear and dread of his shadow.
And lastly, the Masque, banished from the court of She Who Thirsts, doomed to dance through existence bringing misery and woe to whomever hears her tune. Even the Harlequins cannot match her grace, nor stand for existence so similar to theirs.
The Realms of Repose
Unlike his kin, whose homes stand as vast bastions protected both by nature and artificial design, Slaanesh's realm is open for all to wander. Guarded only by tests to ensure the worth of those who set forth, it is shade cast bitter upon the soul, harrowing and empty in its riot of life.
Of these tests there are six, each one a realm in their own right. The first is of Avarice, the Excess of Riches, and here lies a dragons horde in gemstone and gilt. The sun burns bright a ruby light, the trees covered in gold leaf, the bones of those who took more than they could carry crunching below.
The second, Gluttony, the Excess of Sustenance.
Here amidst the oceans of delicate wine lie
islands scattered far and wide. Should one
survive the delicious seas without drowning
themselves, they will find a bounty of food cooked
to perfection, intoxicating in their aroma. Alas
do many surrender here, eating their fill and then
eating some more, never realising just how familiar
a form such food takes.
Third is Lust, the Excess of Bodily Delights, and no mortal brothel nor den of iniquity could match this shrine to physical gratification. The air hangs thick with enraptured musk, and those that succumb find every sense heightened, every pain inflicted by the waiting Daemons magnified a thousand-fold.
Then comes Envy, the Excess of Adoration, and to follow this path is to walk upon dreams held in the darkness. Each experience within these halls is unique, portraying the adoring crowds and loving family that could be yours were you to only reach past loyalty and oath and into damnation. Suffice to say, few awaken from this dream.
The Palace of Pleasure
What comes next then, past the outer realms that catch upon the weaker soul, are those torments and challenges devised to bind those whose arrogance is too great for mortal pleasure.
Pride, the Excess of Achievement, and here does the lonely soul reflect upon their deeds, heightened through the lens of what if and possibly. Think too long however, drink too much of such bittersweet dreams, and you will find yourself devoured by the failures that await you coming forth.
Finally however, is that most dangerous of things. Peace, the Excess of Repose, the very air calming the fires of ambition and desire. In truth, it is the most toxic of traps, for in the grim darkness of our world, what more could one ever crave than an escape from the constant horror.
Should one successfully navigate there way through all six realms, prove themselves so self-obsessed that no trinket nor divine gift could lead them astray, then at last may they enter upon Slaanesh's own abode.
No warriors guard these halls, only statues of coloured marble and impossible design. No traps, only art and music so lovely as to draw passion from even metal and rock. No soul save one in this shrine to dark deplore...
The Prince of Darkness themself.
The Fifth Cronesword
Said to be legendary swords hewn from the fingers of the Eldar Goddess Morai-Heg, they are relics of a dying empire and the last embers of hope for a race already dead. Though four of these have already been found, the last lingers now within the halls of Slaanesh, seemingly forever out of reach.
The Eye of Terror
Though by no means the sole domain of Slaanesh, it is a ruptured hole in reality formed by the screaming birth of She who Thirsts. A land where gods meet mortal in kind, it is the seat of damnation within the galaxy, the gate through which hell makes rampant abandon upon those still clinging to false hope.
Art
1: Unknown
2: Eye of Terror Codex (3rd Edition)
3: Khorne: Soulbound by Max FitzGerald
4: Blood for the Blood God by BMacSmith
5: The Silver Light by Tze Kun Chin
6: Unknown
7: Chaos Daemons Codex Cover
8: Unknown
9: Mark of Khorne by Anton Babitskiy Demont
10: Tzeentch, The Eye of Changes by Gwiom
11: Unknown
12: Unknown
13: Unknown
14: Servants of Tzeentch by Harry Osborn
15: Unknown
16: Unknown
17: Plaguebearers and Nurglings by helgecbalzer
18: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
19: Nurgle's Blessing by Jacob Atienza
20: The Lords of Silence Cover
21: Grandfather Nurgle by Oleg Leshiy Shekhovtsov
22: Unknown
23: Tome of Corruption by RalphHorsley
24: Broken Realms Art
25: Slaanesh Marine by Adrian Smith
26: Unknown
27: Wrath and Rapture Box Art
28: Slaanesh Symbol2 by SlaaneshG
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.
Slaanesh
I sought oblivion and calm respite, my path forged through sensation and blinding excess. I explored depravity, ventured into the darkness never mapped, until I swept past Experience, witnessed only by the gods.
Thus became I a voyager upon delights unknown, my ship named only, "Sweet Departure".
The Sin Serpentia
For you see, Sin, and its more extreme counterpart, Addiction, are inherently lazy concepts. Many people talk about the temptations of Vice, the lure of decadent bliss, but mostly that is just an easy excuse. Sin doesn't try to tempt... It just does.
We all know what it is to thirst, to hunger for more. We have all stared upon our work and sought perfection even as its image fled our grasp. We have all needed... And so there we begin our story. Not where we'd like to, but where we must.
This is Slaanesh, She Who Thirsts, He Who Craves, the Mad Prince of Obsession and Perfection. It is her will to ever experience what cannot be defined, and by his word are boundaries broken, for to be denied is poison to the Serpent's Chalice, venom upon her racing mind.
Thus are his followers expected to act always, with plan or without, she cares not. The rush of battle, the thrill of art forbidden and acts obscene, one must not pause to ponder. Onwards and forwards forever until at last cessation
brings that final sensation that can only ever be felt once.
This is the Path of Excess, to live without limit, to
reach without constraint. All must be abandoned, for to
love with anything less than obsession is a crime, to care with more than the briefest glance but a waste of time divinely spent.
So then calls upon you those darkest desires and most bitter of pains. Abandon thine morality, steer clear of philosophies left restrained. Slaanesh has only one lesson to teach you, oh believers of perfection...
It does not believe in you.
Cry Havoc
To start in the
beginning... Even here
does Slaanesh strive to
differ from his kin, for though their pasts
are locked in mystery, hers are known
well by those who fear her most.
Raised upon the embers of decadence, kept warm amidst the flames of hedonistic collapse, Slaanesh first saw light as the vast empire of the Aeldari cannibalised itself in jaded apathy. So depraved had these scions of the Old Ones become, that their excess took upon form divine... And malice most dark and foul.
The winds within the Warp howled, let loose shriek and moan. Some fled, some waited, some watched, nascent thought glut upon the fell crimes of immortal sin. A crack then, a splinter, and out forth came incarnate vice wrought by tragedy and denial.
The Aeldari were devoured, their gods but candle flames before the tempest darkness that stormed into reality. Cegorach the Trickster would vanish, Kaela Mensha Khaine would be shattered and scattered throughout the void, and a legacy more ancient than near any other would meet the most terrible of fates... Extinction.
Left behind were only those refugees outrunning the storm and mad heirs to a crime without forgiveness. Where once a kingdom had started, risen high in majesty, hung now only a tear into the Abyss, a violent abomination against rational and reason.
So was born Slaanesh, the Eye of Terror his cry for attention, the flame of countless souls her nourishment. Impossible to contain within a single form, in repose upon the tides of madness does he rest, appearing ever as she wants dependent on whim and mercurial humour.
Favoured by the Mirror Darkly however, is to appear as a little of everything at once. One half a man, the other a woman, two horns of gold adorned by hair of palest silk. This is the Prince of Pleasure, manifest within us all.
Valiant Vice
Thus are Slaanesh's followers encouraged
to try all things that they can, even as their patron dances with damnation. Obeisance through obsession, praise through pursuits of perfection, service in sin, these are the hallmarks of the Dark Prince. Many claim he just wishes for your happiness, but in truth she savours only the flames of your self-destruction.
The number six is of specific significance to her, and those who wish answers find joy in the occult complexity of his devising. This is but a trifle however, for the Sin Serpentia demands offering not to his self, but to you.
One must experience something new, create something wonderful, devise upon the world that which has never before been witnessed. An art mastered, a weapon of fell design, anything will suffice, provided it suffice only once.
Then offered are these sacrifices, within dens of iniquity and vice. Brothels and studios, drug dens and opera houses, Slaanesh does not discriminate on your choice of poison.
So serve those slaves to sensation. The match lit, the spark set free, the flame roars into life as desire forms fuel for it to burn. Watch it roar, they are told, feed it higher... Never realising that the flame will inevitably feed on them.
Devotees of Discordia
You might then wonder, and rightfully so, how one would choose to walk this path so clearly marked with danger. Alas, like addiction, the dark touch of Slaanesh festers and pulls upon the soul.
The artist, barren of muse, facing ridicule and self-loathing, the dilettante bored now with their life of ill-repute. The craftsman surrounded by competition and superior talent. All these souls, driven not by rage or pride, but by desire...
The artist paints a picture, delving into styles esoteric and forgotten. The dilettante ventures deeper into the shadows, abandoning now his mundane pleasures for something else. The craftsman abandons family and food, focussed now only on furthering their work.
So is the first step taken, selfish in their selfless harm upon themselves.
The artist finishes their masterpiece, blood dripping from the easel as alien eyes of unearthly beauty stare back. The dilettante tastes human flesh and delights, before once more growing grey with sorrow. The craftsman, alone and poor, completes his task, its quality unequalled even as the last embers of a life forgotten fade away.
This is how so many fall into the Dark Prince's clutches, and so many do so without ever knowing. Rare is it to find a cause more alluring than ones own gratification, rarer still is it to find those who can turn such worship down.
From this simple message do a thousand cults across a thousand worlds thrive, insidious and sinister in their sly corruption, effecting debased change in a universe so tightly repressed. Numbered amongst these are some of the most foul mortals to ever draw breath, the likes of the Pirate Princes of the Spiral Helix, and the Hollow Cult whose enlightened deceptions destroyed an entire Grey Knight Company.
The most fearsome of her living servants however, are the Emperor's Children. Once the brightest of the Angels Astartes, now they are sick parodies of honour and virtue. Wielding weapons of shrieking sonic and discordant doom, they destroy only to taste death in its cruellest form.
Spawned of Sensation
With such darkness amongst the mortal mind, it is scarce possible to believe that those figments of his own desire could be any worse. Alas, even the supple Daemonette, capricious and beautiful in equal measure, is a creature wrought of the most profane and wanton acts.
Besides these succubi both intriguing and repulsive come the Fiends and Steeds of Slaanesh, a horrific mirror to the fae charm of their lesser kin. They are monstrous in totality, an honest view at the heart that beats only jealousy and greed.
Above them from palanquins of skinned flesh and enchanted incense ride the Heralds, their siren song calling once more for the thrill of battle to commence. Masters of magic that twists the mind and plays with illusion, their mere presence can stop a heart in delight.
Only the Keeper of Secrets rule higher, and they are truly magnificent. Depraved like none other, reeking of sin and delicate ruin, they move like shattered glass and give battle like music upon the page. These are the servants of She who Thirsts, as dangerous in dream as they are on the fields of war.
The Princes Perfidious
Though mighty is the force that swears fealty to his dark name, Slaanesh values competence and mastery above near all else. As such, competition is rife, violence an art form in her fell realm. Those who succeed then, become beloved in the Prince's eyes, gifted further by his overwhelming passion.
Fulgrim, the Phoenician, once Primarch of the Emperor's Children, now father to a Legion of shattered oaths and mercurial loyalty. Obsessed with himself and only himself, he sips upon the chalice of war, like a noble upon their wine.
Lucius the Eternal, arrogant "master" of the blade, scarred warning against the sins of hubris and denial. A wanderer without loyalty to any but his own ego, searching forever to prove his skill against all others.
Shalaxi Helbane, Blade of the Dark Prince, Serpent Queen of the Sable Sword. She is a hunter, a killer and a warrior without equal amongst the Daemonic Legions. None can stay her blade, not even those blessed by gods more ancient than she.
Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair and most beloved of Slaanesh's servants. Her delight is corruption, her poison of choice those souls of the Eldar who still live in fear and dread of his shadow.
And lastly, the Masque, banished from the court of She Who Thirsts, doomed to dance through existence bringing misery and woe to whomever hears her tune. Even the Harlequins cannot match her grace, nor stand for existence so similar to theirs.
The Realms of Repose
Unlike his kin, whose homes stand as vast bastions protected both by nature and artificial design, Slaanesh's realm is open for all to wander. Guarded only by tests to ensure the worth of those who set forth, it is shade cast bitter upon the soul, harrowing and empty in its riot of life.
Of these tests there are six, each one a realm in their own right. The first is of Avarice, the Excess of Riches, and here lies a dragons horde in gemstone and gilt. The sun burns bright a ruby light, the trees covered in gold leaf, the bones of those who took more than they could carry crunching below.
The second, Gluttony, the Excess of Sustenance.
Here amidst the oceans of delicate wine lie
islands scattered far and wide. Should one
survive the delicious seas without drowning
themselves, they will find a bounty of food cooked
to perfection, intoxicating in their aroma. Alas
do many surrender here, eating their fill and then
eating some more, never realising just how familiar
a form such food takes.
Third is Lust, the Excess of Bodily Delights, and no mortal brothel nor den of iniquity could match this shrine to physical gratification. The air hangs thick with enraptured musk, and those that succumb find every sense heightened, every pain inflicted by the waiting Daemons magnified a thousand-fold.
Then comes Envy, the Excess of Adoration, and to follow this path is to walk upon dreams held in the darkness. Each experience within these halls is unique, portraying the adoring crowds and loving family that could be yours were you to only reach past loyalty and oath and into damnation. Suffice to say, few awaken from this dream.
The Palace of Pleasure
What comes next then, past the outer realms that catch upon the weaker soul, are those torments and challenges devised to bind those whose arrogance is too great for mortal pleasure.
Pride, the Excess of Achievement, and here does the lonely soul reflect upon their deeds, heightened through the lens of what if and possibly. Think too long however, drink too much of such bittersweet dreams, and you will find yourself devoured by the failures that await you coming forth.
Finally however, is that most dangerous of things. Peace, the Excess of Repose, the very air calming the fires of ambition and desire. In truth, it is the most toxic of traps, for in the grim darkness of our world, what more could one ever crave than an escape from the constant horror.
Should one successfully navigate there way through all six realms, prove themselves so self-obsessed that no trinket nor divine gift could lead them astray, then at last may they enter upon Slaanesh's own abode.
No warriors guard these halls, only statues of coloured marble and impossible design. No traps, only art and music so lovely as to draw passion from even metal and rock. No soul save one in this shrine to dark deplore...
The Prince of Darkness themself.
The Fifth Cronesword
Said to be legendary swords hewn from the fingers of the Eldar Goddess Morai-Heg, they are relics of a dying empire and the last embers of hope for a race already dead. Though four of these have already been found, the last lingers now within the halls of Slaanesh, seemingly forever out of reach.
The Eye of Terror
Though by no means the sole domain of Slaanesh, it is a ruptured hole in reality formed by the screaming birth of She who Thirsts. A land where gods meet mortal in kind, it is the seat of damnation within the galaxy, the gate through which hell makes rampant abandon upon those still clinging to false hope.
Art
1: Unknown
2: Eye of Terror Codex (3rd Edition)
3: Khorne: Soulbound by Max FitzGerald
4: Blood for the Blood God by BMacSmith
5: The Silver Light by Tze Kun Chin
6: Unknown
7: Chaos Daemons Codex Cover
8: Unknown
9: Mark of Khorne by Anton Babitskiy Demont
10: Tzeentch, The Eye of Changes by Gwiom
11: Unknown
12: Unknown
13: Unknown
14: Servants of Tzeentch by Harry Osborn
15: Unknown
16: Unknown
17: Plaguebearers and Nurglings by helgecbalzer
18: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
19: Nurgle's Blessing by Jacob Atienza
20: The Lords of Silence Cover
21: Grandfather Nurgle by Oleg Leshiy Shekhovtsov
22: Unknown
23: Tome of Corruption by RalphHorsley
24: Broken Realms Art
25: Slaanesh Marine by Adrian Smith
26: Unknown
27: Wrath and Rapture Box Art
28: Slaanesh Symbol2 by SlaaneshG
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.
I sought oblivion and calm respite, my path forged through sensation and blinding excess. I explored depravity, ventured into the darkness never mapped, until I swept past Experience, witnessed only by the gods.
Thus became I a voyager upon delights unknown, my ship named only, "Sweet Departure".
Thus became I a voyager upon delights unknown, my ship named only, "Sweet Departure".
The Sin Serpentia
For you see, Sin, and its more extreme counterpart, Addiction, are inherently lazy concepts. Many people talk about the temptations of Vice, the lure of decadent bliss, but mostly that is just an easy excuse. Sin doesn't try to tempt... It just does.
We all know what it is to thirst, to hunger for more. We have all stared upon our work and sought perfection even as its image fled our grasp. We have all needed... And so there we begin our story. Not where we'd like to, but where we must.
This is Slaanesh, She Who Thirsts, He Who Craves, the Mad Prince of Obsession and Perfection. It is her will to ever experience what cannot be defined, and by his word are boundaries broken, for to be denied is poison to the Serpent's Chalice, venom upon her racing mind.
Thus are his followers expected to act always, with plan or without, she cares not. The rush of battle, the thrill of art forbidden and acts obscene, one must not pause to ponder. Onwards and forwards forever until at last cessation
brings that final sensation that can only ever be felt once.
This is the Path of Excess, to live without limit, to
reach without constraint. All must be abandoned, for to
love with anything less than obsession is a crime, to care with more than the briefest glance but a waste of time divinely spent.
So then calls upon you those darkest desires and most bitter of pains. Abandon thine morality, steer clear of philosophies left restrained. Slaanesh has only one lesson to teach you, oh believers of perfection...
It does not believe in you.
Cry Havoc
To start in the
beginning... Even here
does Slaanesh strive to
differ from his kin, for though their pasts
are locked in mystery, hers are known
well by those who fear her most.
Raised upon the embers of decadence, kept warm amidst the flames of hedonistic collapse, Slaanesh first saw light as the vast empire of the Aeldari cannibalised itself in jaded apathy. So depraved had these scions of the Old Ones become, that their excess took upon form divine... And malice most dark and foul.
The winds within the Warp howled, let loose shriek and moan. Some fled, some waited, some watched, nascent thought glut upon the fell crimes of immortal sin. A crack then, a splinter, and out forth came incarnate vice wrought by tragedy and denial.
The Aeldari were devoured, their gods but candle flames before the tempest darkness that stormed into reality. Cegorach the Trickster would vanish, Kaela Mensha Khaine would be shattered and scattered throughout the void, and a legacy more ancient than near any other would meet the most terrible of fates... Extinction.
Left behind were only those refugees outrunning the storm and mad heirs to a crime without forgiveness. Where once a kingdom had started, risen high in majesty, hung now only a tear into the Abyss, a violent abomination against rational and reason.
So was born Slaanesh, the Eye of Terror his cry for attention, the flame of countless souls her nourishment. Impossible to contain within a single form, in repose upon the tides of madness does he rest, appearing ever as she wants dependent on whim and mercurial humour.
Favoured by the Mirror Darkly however, is to appear as a little of everything at once. One half a man, the other a woman, two horns of gold adorned by hair of palest silk. This is the Prince of Pleasure, manifest within us all.
Valiant Vice
Thus are Slaanesh's followers encouraged
to try all things that they can, even as their patron dances with damnation. Obeisance through obsession, praise through pursuits of perfection, service in sin, these are the hallmarks of the Dark Prince. Many claim he just wishes for your happiness, but in truth she savours only the flames of your self-destruction.
The number six is of specific significance to her, and those who wish answers find joy in the occult complexity of his devising. This is but a trifle however, for the Sin Serpentia demands offering not to his self, but to you.
One must experience something new, create something wonderful, devise upon the world that which has never before been witnessed. An art mastered, a weapon of fell design, anything will suffice, provided it suffice only once.
Then offered are these sacrifices, within dens of iniquity and vice. Brothels and studios, drug dens and opera houses, Slaanesh does not discriminate on your choice of poison.
So serve those slaves to sensation. The match lit, the spark set free, the flame roars into life as desire forms fuel for it to burn. Watch it roar, they are told, feed it higher... Never realising that the flame will inevitably feed on them.
Devotees of Discordia
You might then wonder, and rightfully so, how one would choose to walk this path so clearly marked with danger. Alas, like addiction, the dark touch of Slaanesh festers and pulls upon the soul.
The artist, barren of muse, facing ridicule and self-loathing, the dilettante bored now with their life of ill-repute. The craftsman surrounded by competition and superior talent. All these souls, driven not by rage or pride, but by desire...
The artist paints a picture, delving into styles esoteric and forgotten. The dilettante ventures deeper into the shadows, abandoning now his mundane pleasures for something else. The craftsman abandons family and food, focussed now only on furthering their work.
So is the first step taken, selfish in their selfless harm upon themselves.
The artist finishes their masterpiece, blood dripping from the easel as alien eyes of unearthly beauty stare back. The dilettante tastes human flesh and delights, before once more growing grey with sorrow. The craftsman, alone and poor, completes his task, its quality unequalled even as the last embers of a life forgotten fade away.
This is how so many fall into the Dark Prince's clutches, and so many do so without ever knowing. Rare is it to find a cause more alluring than ones own gratification, rarer still is it to find those who can turn such worship down.
From this simple message do a thousand cults across a thousand worlds thrive, insidious and sinister in their sly corruption, effecting debased change in a universe so tightly repressed. Numbered amongst these are some of the most foul mortals to ever draw breath, the likes of the Pirate Princes of the Spiral Helix, and the Hollow Cult whose enlightened deceptions destroyed an entire Grey Knight Company.
The most fearsome of her living servants however, are the Emperor's Children. Once the brightest of the Angels Astartes, now they are sick parodies of honour and virtue. Wielding weapons of shrieking sonic and discordant doom, they destroy only to taste death in its cruellest form.
Spawned of Sensation
With such darkness amongst the mortal mind, it is scarce possible to believe that those figments of his own desire could be any worse. Alas, even the supple Daemonette, capricious and beautiful in equal measure, is a creature wrought of the most profane and wanton acts.
Besides these succubi both intriguing and repulsive come the Fiends and Steeds of Slaanesh, a horrific mirror to the fae charm of their lesser kin. They are monstrous in totality, an honest view at the heart that beats only jealousy and greed.
Above them from palanquins of skinned flesh and enchanted incense ride the Heralds, their siren song calling once more for the thrill of battle to commence. Masters of magic that twists the mind and plays with illusion, their mere presence can stop a heart in delight.
Only the Keeper of Secrets rule higher, and they are truly magnificent. Depraved like none other, reeking of sin and delicate ruin, they move like shattered glass and give battle like music upon the page. These are the servants of She who Thirsts, as dangerous in dream as they are on the fields of war.
The Princes Perfidious
Though mighty is the force that swears fealty to his dark name, Slaanesh values competence and mastery above near all else. As such, competition is rife, violence an art form in her fell realm. Those who succeed then, become beloved in the Prince's eyes, gifted further by his overwhelming passion.
Fulgrim, the Phoenician, once Primarch of the Emperor's Children, now father to a Legion of shattered oaths and mercurial loyalty. Obsessed with himself and only himself, he sips upon the chalice of war, like a noble upon their wine.
Lucius the Eternal, arrogant "master" of the blade, scarred warning against the sins of hubris and denial. A wanderer without loyalty to any but his own ego, searching forever to prove his skill against all others.
Shalaxi Helbane, Blade of the Dark Prince, Serpent Queen of the Sable Sword. She is a hunter, a killer and a warrior without equal amongst the Daemonic Legions. None can stay her blade, not even those blessed by gods more ancient than she.
Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair and most beloved of Slaanesh's servants. Her delight is corruption, her poison of choice those souls of the Eldar who still live in fear and dread of his shadow.
And lastly, the Masque, banished from the court of She Who Thirsts, doomed to dance through existence bringing misery and woe to whomever hears her tune. Even the Harlequins cannot match her grace, nor stand for existence so similar to theirs.
The Realms of Repose
Unlike his kin, whose homes stand as vast bastions protected both by nature and artificial design, Slaanesh's realm is open for all to wander. Guarded only by tests to ensure the worth of those who set forth, it is shade cast bitter upon the soul, harrowing and empty in its riot of life.
Of these tests there are six, each one a realm in their own right. The first is of Avarice, the Excess of Riches, and here lies a dragons horde in gemstone and gilt. The sun burns bright a ruby light, the trees covered in gold leaf, the bones of those who took more than they could carry crunching below.
The second, Gluttony, the Excess of Sustenance.
Here amidst the oceans of delicate wine lie
islands scattered far and wide. Should one
survive the delicious seas without drowning
themselves, they will find a bounty of food cooked
to perfection, intoxicating in their aroma. Alas
do many surrender here, eating their fill and then
eating some more, never realising just how familiar
a form such food takes.
Third is Lust, the Excess of Bodily Delights, and no mortal brothel nor den of iniquity could match this shrine to physical gratification. The air hangs thick with enraptured musk, and those that succumb find every sense heightened, every pain inflicted by the waiting Daemons magnified a thousand-fold.
Then comes Envy, the Excess of Adoration, and to follow this path is to walk upon dreams held in the darkness. Each experience within these halls is unique, portraying the adoring crowds and loving family that could be yours were you to only reach past loyalty and oath and into damnation. Suffice to say, few awaken from this dream.
The Palace of Pleasure
What comes next then, past the outer realms that catch upon the weaker soul, are those torments and challenges devised to bind those whose arrogance is too great for mortal pleasure.
Pride, the Excess of Achievement, and here does the lonely soul reflect upon their deeds, heightened through the lens of what if and possibly. Think too long however, drink too much of such bittersweet dreams, and you will find yourself devoured by the failures that await you coming forth.
Finally however, is that most dangerous of things. Peace, the Excess of Repose, the very air calming the fires of ambition and desire. In truth, it is the most toxic of traps, for in the grim darkness of our world, what more could one ever crave than an escape from the constant horror.
Should one successfully navigate there way through all six realms, prove themselves so self-obsessed that no trinket nor divine gift could lead them astray, then at last may they enter upon Slaanesh's own abode.
No warriors guard these halls, only statues of coloured marble and impossible design. No traps, only art and music so lovely as to draw passion from even metal and rock. No soul save one in this shrine to dark deplore...
The Prince of Darkness themself.
The Fifth Cronesword
Said to be legendary swords hewn from the fingers of the Eldar Goddess Morai-Heg, they are relics of a dying empire and the last embers of hope for a race already dead. Though four of these have already been found, the last lingers now within the halls of Slaanesh, seemingly forever out of reach.
The Eye of Terror
Though by no means the sole domain of Slaanesh, it is a ruptured hole in reality formed by the screaming birth of She who Thirsts. A land where gods meet mortal in kind, it is the seat of damnation within the galaxy, the gate through which hell makes rampant abandon upon those still clinging to false hope.
Art
1: Unknown
2: Eye of Terror Codex (3rd Edition)
3: Khorne: Soulbound by Max FitzGerald
4: Blood for the Blood God by BMacSmith
5: The Silver Light by Tze Kun Chin
6: Unknown
7: Chaos Daemons Codex Cover
8: Unknown
9: Mark of Khorne by Anton Babitskiy Demont
10: Tzeentch, The Eye of Changes by Gwiom
11: Unknown
12: Unknown
13: Unknown
14: Servants of Tzeentch by Harry Osborn
15: Unknown
16: Unknown
17: Plaguebearers and Nurglings by helgecbalzer
18: The Great Unclean One by Igor Sid
19: Nurgle's Blessing by Jacob Atienza
20: The Lords of Silence Cover
21: Grandfather Nurgle by Oleg Leshiy Shekhovtsov
22: Unknown
23: Tome of Corruption by RalphHorsley
24: Broken Realms Art
25: Slaanesh Marine by Adrian Smith
26: Unknown
27: Wrath and Rapture Box Art
28: Slaanesh Symbol2 by SlaaneshG
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.