"No one, save the Laughing God, saw the coming of this event. And in retrospect it is no wonder why"

"We spent tens of millenniums discarding and ridiculing the idea of a greater order than the one of our Emperor, branding the very idea as either heresy or apostasy"

"Yet the evidence had always laid right before our very eyes, for there had been time were the Emperor had not watched over humanity"

"It was that order that brought him to be, not through divine creation or commandment, but through the accumulation of the individually simple and seemingly benign consequences of the actions born from all that lives, and dreams"

"Our unknown want for a savior saved us, then. And it might again save us now"

"But that salvation costs"

"Blood, and souls, are the only currencies it accepts"

"And none, not even the Chaos Gods and our Lord Emperor himself, are exempt from its tithe"

The Universe snaps.

With deafening silence, the very laws that govern the materium and immaterium roar and clamp their jaws as they mercilessly enforce their dogmas on the subjects of their fury.

Balance !

There shall be balance !

With an immaterial crack, the will of the Universe ripples and crashes into two beings whose very nature oppose. Their defenses and power, enough on their own to burn the very fabric of the Warp and tear reality asunder, blown away like a mere paper toy as both are pulled together. Aspects of themselves, shards of their essence are mercilessly ripped, melted and reforged as shackles to bind the other.

Across the expanse of space, human psykers, Ecclesiasts, Inquisitors and Sisters scream in either joy or abject horror as they are made forced witnesses of the scene that unfolds upon the golden throne of Holy Terra, shouting the useless prayers and canticles pouring from their lips as they either rejoice, take their own lives or their own ships and their apocalyptic cargo through the crust of a hundred worlds, burning them in a last desperate attempt to spare the believers from the supreme blasphemy that imposes itself as an inescapable reality.

Aboard a thousand craftworlds and corsair vessels, farseers see the Path wrenched from its course as they reel under the psychic backlash of the cleaver that mercilessly hacks at destiny. Hope and horror fill their hearts in equal parts, leaving them raving or tetanized as visions and whispers paint the terrifyingly sharp outline of what is and is about to be.

For if one were to open the room that none save the Primarchs and Custodes may enter, besides the golden throne on which seats the robed, decaying remains of the master of mankind, they would be witness to a second seemingly empty throne starting to appear, reality warping as it pushes the first to the right, its fabric of white and purple marble and vicious iron melting into the clean gold of the now central armrest, purple lights dancing and fighting with the golden ones across the room as pillars of the same stone interweave themselves within the walls.

Space distorts itself as the gigantic warp gate is torn from the palace grounds and embedded into the half-shifting walls, the gaping door to the immaterium locking itself on the empty marble halls, adorned statues as beautiful as they are disturbing, bathing the room in colorless light before closing itself, it's great plain arch contrasting with the high ornate door leading into the sprawling labyrinth of forbidden corridors and forgotten rooms below mount Everest, a mere ten feet away from it.

The two gates face the dual throne, pathways to the core of the two ruler's realms, opposed in every conceivable way, yet standing a mere hundred feet away from one another.

It is on this throne's central armrest, were the unsevered hand of desiccated Carrion Lord already lays, that the shackles that were to bind the Emperor of Mankind, the Anathema of Chaos, and She Who Thirst, the Prince of Pleasure, start to manifest.

From thin air, the power armor of the Emperor, the golden symbol of his might and divinity appears, and promptly melts, the liquid metal poured into an invisible mold on the marble throne, taking the shape of a golden woman of dual sexes and soul searing beauty.

Gold turns to pale, flawless skin with only the slightest tinge of purple at it's thinnest points, as silky white hair like immaculate snow flows long and straight from the figure's head to her lower back. Full breasts and sensual curves bare themselves to the world, the defined and femininely sculpted muscles of both a dancer and a warrior underneath painting a picture of damning temptation into reality. The whole of her being is bare of any body hair or imperfection, promising perilous and forbidden pleasures to all. A pair of black, jagged horns erupts from her forehead, crowning her as the excess metal adorns her form in golden jewelry.

Eyes held closed rests on a face whose womanly perfection would be enough to make armies of soulless machines kneel and beg for damnation, and whose smile would make entire worlds fall in maddening ecstasy.

Elegant bangles seal themselves around her wrists, three golden chokers following suit around her neck as anklets close in seamless shackles. A web of golden chains weaves itself in the small pikes of her horns as a belly chain fastens itself around her hips. Rings appear in odd order around her fingers and toes, the wedding one the most noticeable, thrumming with power from a shard of the Emperor's soul, contrasting with the clean yet impossibly sharp nails painted an obsidian black promising to effortlessly rend to ribbons whatever material and immaterial fabric would find themselves subject to them.

Simple bar piercings slide horizontally through the tips of her perfect mounds as armlets of differing size, both shaped like serpentine rings of golden feathers, clap close around her biceps, the left one longer than the right one. A single, similar piece seals itself around her right thigh, as the same, small bars make a ladder through the smooth flawless flesh of her male organ. Two last of these pierce each lip of her female core, before a long piece of purple silk hides the front and back of what lays between her toned legs, a fake modesty serving only to tease the perversion beneath.

A last golden half-circle rounds her strong back, the two arching pieces of delicate purple silk hanging from it at once barely concealing and underlining the perfection of her most visible womanly assets.

At the same time, a scene as stoic and ascetic as the previous had been ostentatious and obscene unfolds on the adjacent throne.

The long drowned perpetuals of the Palace of Pleasure, the eternally resurrecting mutants lost to the wiles of the Prince, his coveted and never breaking toys and prizes are smited from the Immaterium, their being erased as only their flesh is brought to the material reality of the gold and marble throne room. There it is converted into a new one. A new flesh for the New Man, whose long decaying body regains its lost vigor and plenitude, cell after cell. Tendons, muscle and bones restore themselves to their former glory, filling the plain brown mantle in which only a decaying corpse had been left in silent vigil over the never-ending threat sleeping in the belly of mankind's birthplace.

Raven black hair falls on sun-kissed skin as the body of the rugged warrior and ruler of Mankind is brought back fully to the land of the living. A single band of black, emanating a low purple glow on his right ring finger the only accessory on his imposing person, his eyes held closed as those of the Prince beside him.

To the observers, willing or otherwise, it would look like the two monarchs were asleep, their forms relaxed and inexpressive in their respective thrones. A solemn aura emanes from the two diametrically opposed rulers, one of exposed and sinful perversion and the other of unpretentious power and common garb, their arms inches apart on the central armrest of the now amalgamated throne, rings matching their counterparts flaring on their hands.

Yet these were only vessels, and the ones for which they had been made were yet to invest them fully.

An event that lost no time in coming.

A crash and a great fire spread through the immaterium as the two entities are ripped from the warp, one screaming and thrashing, the other pouring what little power he can spare from his eternal vigil in emotionless resistance. The very presence of the Anathema scalds the existence of the Dark Prince with it's silence as tendrils from its being are forcefully embedded through the Corpse Emperor's armor of indifference, latching themselves on the buried and fractured desires of the man who forsook his own humanity.

The circles of temptation, the legions of Slaneesh and its every servant burn in torturous ecstasy and delirious pain, a billion of battles and slaughters screeching to an abrupt and mindless crescendo as their master revels into the unique experience that is a taste of their true death. Laughing, crying and screaming in agonizing joy and depraved pain, the core of the Perfect Prince is taken from the Warp and locked behind the bars of the golden cage of her anathema forged body, a great purple fire engulfing the figure on the throne of marble and iron, her divinely shaped breasts lifting as she takes her first, shuddering, material breath.

Deep in space, the Great Rift violently retracts into its point of origin, leaving no traces of the worlds and stars once in its path behind it. The eye of Terror spasms once and closes brutally as it is consumed to form the infinite worlds of eternally new sensations contained in each cell, each particle of the Prince of Pleasure's material prison. Her chest lifts again and eyes of corrupt purple opens with a wide, childishly cruel and joyous smile as she takes in the feeling of each molecule of air drawn from the throne room and brushing against her own, material lungs.

Her fingers curls as she takes hold of the unmoving Anathema's hand, sharp nails raking the gold and marble armrest as she weaves her fingers between his and moans in pain and delight, her legs writhing against one another to contain and revel in the perversion in between. She revels in feeling his power invest her golden ornaments, scalding, branding her being and sealing the possibility of them ever breaking open, burning her very being into its prison, burning her hunger, as for the first time in her existence she experiences the slow, true death of one of the undying souls that saw her born, and with it, satiation.

She explodes in laughter as she knows the Laughing God probably does in his own palace, ecstatic tears of warp fabric streaking her immaculate face as the divinely melodious and painfully beautiful sound fills the empty room. The nature and sheer power of the entity from which it originates crashing against the material fabric of the room like so much waves upon a poorly made paper house, for she knows that never will she ever want to part with these sensations. A perfect prison, a perfect yoke, for the perfect Prince.

She drinks deeply from the agony of her servants as the golden flame of His power spreads through her every pore, her every follower, children and creations, burning away the grotesque, the burlesque and the weak. Of those that do not meet instantaneous annihilation, Daemonettes, Keepers of Secrets, Princes and all amongst her legions are cleansed from the rusted iron that adorned and pierced them.

Sublimed into perfect obsidian adorned of golden filigree, vicious pincers become intricately clawed hands, blades of bones become refined givers of death whilst their entire panoply of instruments of pain find single lines of burning gold drawn upon them. A great rippling metamorphosis, that leaves them perverse creatures of pain and pleasure still, but ones of entrancing and disturbing beauty alone, the innommable black depths of their depraved and corrupt selves sealed within, in the image of their newly bound Prince.

Back in the now shared throne of the Princethe shoulders of her newfound vessel shake with soft laughter as in the background of the still reeling immaterium sounds Nurgle's earth-shattering roar of indignation, shaking the very foundation of the Warp as the diseases and infections born of her perversions are reduced to ashes in the seeds, blood and spit of all who followed her dogmas, be they the ones to spread them or to fall victims to their allures.

She laughs higher still at Khorne's raging bellows as her legions and champions tear into his armies, carrying the scalding boon of the anathemic flame into their bloody and gleefully frenetic dances of death and pain.

Tzeentch alone remains silent, the Changer of ways too busy basking into the curses and blessings of those who would put the blame on him and obsessing over old, present and future schemes to find what, why and how did he see and not see this happening.

A wave of sensation crashes into her as the Drukhari rejoice of their freedom and celebrate the Shackled Empress with a great festival of blood. Slaves are taken to part in the festivities and freed in equal parts from their cages as from their limbs, while the nectars, drugs and mocking marital toasts flow in the name of the monkeigh Emperor from the lowest depths of the flesh pits to the highest spires of Comorragh.

Elation, fear, disgust, joy, overwhelming pleasure and agonizing pain. All that is fed to her by the living and the unliving crashes into and is filtered through her godforged body, filling it completely with a continuous excess of novelty, regardless of how bland and little she receives, leaving her own self-made sensations and emotions to flow back into all who worship and serve her.

And her emotions are joyous, for so long as that single man, that single paragon of order whose very existence used to threatens the very core of her own, stands by her side and so much as feel the slightest beat of his own indestructible heart, spreading his burning aura though the coils of her bonds, never shall her power wane, never shall her eternal hunger go unmatched.

Burning eyes of purple as beautiful and maddeningly depraved as the Warp turn to the robbed figure as she feels his fingers twitch once between hers, and the most wickedly joyful of smile graces her features as she feels the first beat of his new heart matching hers.

The first thing that the Emperor of Mankind felt as he re-invests his body is the softness of his counterpart's hand, the sharpness of her nails against his skin, and the crushing weight of his returned humanity.

Immediately, the nature of his own shackles make themselves known, as his body eagerly answers her touch with discrete yearning while stoic tears of pain and sadness flow down his face under the crushing and searing weight of ten millenias of loss. Anger at his own failures and forced sacrifices powers a surge of psychic might, as his first conscious thought floods the Astronomicon, it's light flaring with a long forgotten shine, an explosion of furious light brutally beating back the eternal assault of Chaos at its edges. now deprived of a fourth of its strength. Its vengeful shine scalds from existence any of the great enemy's servants unlucky enough to have had a foot in the materium as it pours like a torrent over the galaxy. Fallen worlds go silent by the hundred as the souls of corrupt and ignorant fools are shredded from their bodies, cleansed by the inferno of his might and returned to the great oversoul of mankind.

Eyes of molten gold snap open with fury to the sight of his Empress' playful smile, as he feels only the lower caste of her daemons cease to exist under his assault, the other merely scorched as his light burn through them, and brusquely tears his hand from her own as she throws her head back, letting out a beautiful pearl of laughter at what he knows to be a petty and childish gesture.

Still he listens as the crystalline sound fills the circular room, studying her face stoically, as the feelings born of her corruption slowly eggs away. His indomitable will discard the physical reaction with ease, yet his returned humanity leaves him unable to completely ignore the beauty of her melodious voice, nor the wretched and pained ugliness underneath. The sight of her face, though, proves to be as sobering as it is beautiful : familiar features from each of the few women which he had loved enough to shared a bed with during his long existence stare back at him, refined to perfection through the filter of eldar grace, pointed ears and playful arrogance staunchly reminding any onlookers of race that bore her into existence.

He turns his head away as her fit abates into discrete chuckles, looking down at his hand, studying his new, immaterium-tempered and indestructible flesh, as the shackled Empress takes to observing him with a mock-hurt look at his willful discarding of her presence. Her chin comes to rest in the palm of her perfectly manicured hand as she slowly leans on the central armrest of their throne. Snow white hair falls in a silky curtain on the side of her face as her free hand slowly slithers along her still crossed legs, angled towards him, its goal across the armchair of gold and marble.

Sensations. Feelings. Desires.

Such were the excesses that made the domain of Slaneesh, be they exctasic or agonizing and so were his bonds to be made of these. Ones belonging to a common man. Easily controllable, for he was still the same Emperor that had stood unwaveringly against the Ruinous powers, yet ones he knew he would no longer be able to ignore entirely. Even less in Her presence.

He noticed the pale slender hand that tried to reach his knee from the corner of his vision, but before he had the time to push it away, a great conflagration of gold and purple erupted around both of their thrones. He frowned as he felt the ever hungering device be torn from his psychic control by the same force that had dragged him out from the oversoul of humanity, the massive and forgotten warp gate in front of them roaring with power as it exploded open, not on the ruined remains of the uncompleted human webway, but to a hall of marble statues and iron roses.

He stands faster than even the augmented eyes of the Astartes could follow, expecting the Seven Hammers to fall and take Terra with them, still reaching with his unmatched psychic powers in hopes of closing the breach without the aid of the now purely decorative throne, his light flaring to repel what he expects to be a flood of daemons and warp abominations. Yet instead he finds the void shields completely intact, thrumming with power harvested from the ever raging storms of the Immaterium, deformed to allow travel to one and one place alone, the psychic pressure on both sides promising to shred all but those with the resilience to withstand both the cleansing fire and overwhelming corruption born from the collision of the two drastically opposed realms.

Which, as of now, amounted to the only two entities in the room.

The patter of bare feet on marble brought his attention back to the chaos entity turned flesh beside him, millenniums of experience in battle and supernatural speed alone allowing him to avoid with a quick step the arm seeking to burrow itself through the small of his back, his sharp gaze quickly finding the mirthful face of its proprietor, dancing away to the edge of the descending stairs unrepentantly, reality failing under her every step.

Her own eyes worded a quiet dare as her hands slithered up and down her body, nails trailing deep, bloodless gouges that near instantly closed were dripping streams of blood should have flown, biting and tearing the bottom of her lip, ashen hair and demonic horns only enhanced the sultriness of her look. Her desire and offering of pleasure and agony, the closest thing this corrupt being could muster from gratitude, seeped from her vessel in crushing, unseen waves of undiluted warp energies, the barren ground under her feet and the walls changing to ornate marble and wicked iron as reality bent under the psychic weight of the entity that rested upon it.

Yet though he knew that her very presence, never mind her display, would be enough to bring all of humanity to its knees, if not their outright damnation, he did not feel her corrupt influence spreading beyond the room, nor in his mind, leaving only the sulfurous wiles of a womanly creature of peerless beauty, elegant strength and playfully open perversity.

Which still posed an obscene and unacceptable threat.

Narrowing his eyes at her base attempt at thanks, he reached for the fragments of his soul from which her shackles were made, and poured the entirety of his might into the scalding psychic link.

The results were as dramatic as they were instantaneous.

At once, the smile evaporated from the face of the Vessel, the satiation that had kept her hunger at bay brutally extinguished as her body slumped to the floor like a rag doll under the cold gaze of the Emperor, all sensations choked by the merciless light of his soul, leaving only a frenetic starvation. Her empty emotionless gaze fell on eyes of burning gold as her reach to the warp, to the very fabric of her being was strangled by the very pores of her vessel.

Her desperate scream of hunger, rage, fear and hatred, one that should have torn reality asunder as her birth-scream had, resounded no further then the depths of her material cage, finding only the mercilessness of a being she had spent millennia after millennia scorning for single, uncaring audience.

And though the Master of Mankind had regained the capacity for it, it would be neither pity nor mercy that would save her.

Through the eye of the Astronomicon, the Master of Mankind felt the whole of his kind buckle under the weight of her sentence. Across the whole of his burning, rotting empire he felt pain and what little joy was left to be found be replaced by hollowness. He felt lovers and siblings, be they of blood or in life, become strangers. He felt the talented loose inspiration, his soldiers and angels, his servants and people lose all desires, all forward momentum.

Their mettle dulled, their spirit failed, and in the instant it took him to release his hold on her, a thousand battles had been lost, a thousand battlefields drenched in blood, a thousand planets condemned to burn by his vengeful hand.

Dimly, he was aware of her own children and champions faltering before the three remaining chaos gods, his own scorching power, now embedded into their beings, extinguishing their enemies as much as it did them, triggering a mad dash towards the souls who could appease it. And in the same instant, a thousand black ships became bloodied seedbeds of possession, their handlers unable to withstand the strength and numbers of the daemons' frantic charge and escape. Pariahs screamed in agony as their auras were crushed from all sides under the psychic weight, psykers exploding in a cacophony of agonizing pain and aberrant mutations around them.

As fast as he could, the Emperor withdrew the greater part of his might from the Prince' shackles, keeping just enough to prevent her mere presence from altering reality, her shuddering form slowly recovering as her hunger abated once more, satiation and sensations returning to her being with a melodious gasp and a deep inspiration.

And all the while cold anger rivaling nuclear fire raged behind the former Carrion lord's stoic facade. For whatever entity had bound them together, it's wordless warning couldn't have been more explicit.

If the restraints that would enforce her compliance were ones of satiation and deprivation, his were of compassion for his kind, and a promise of mutual and complete destruction of the very purpose for his existence and sacrifices.

That cold anger, however, does not last long before being forcefully reigned in. The Emperor was first and foremost a being of exceptional intellect and restraint, and lost no time dissecting his own impulsive reaction, looking for the tipping point in his emotional response that would allow him to stop himself the next time the still recovering Prince would attempt to goad him. Another part of his mind prodded at said Prince's shackles, investigating the fabric, thumbles and sealed locks of a billion curses and blessings keeping the once thirsting entity in check. Great thaumaturgic equations that none save the gods of Eldari or the oldest scientists of Necron could have apprehended flew faster than light through his mind as he carefully and precisely weighted his power on each melted gate and chain to get the most restraint out of the least consequences.

A bang on the great ornamental doors which opened on the rest of the imperial Palace suddenly resonated in the perpetually shifting throne room, prompting the Lord of the Real out of his current thoughts. His gaze turned towards the golden gate, already knowing who it was that was desperately trying to breach the seal of his now shared cell, for though said cell might now be a reality of its owns cut for any and all other realms, he was still the God Emperor of Mankind. The power, knowledge and experience of every soul sacrificed or devoted to him across the galaxy still bestowed him with the all-sight befitting of his station, and the light of his avenging son's soul shone clearly to his senses, reaching for his with a barely contained urgency that spoke great lengths of the fears in his thirteenth progeny.

God Emperor.

He turned away from the gates, daring not answer the pleas of his son and of the remnants of his Ten Thousands besides him yet, lest his self-disgust and revulsion get the better of him. Instead, his eyes found the slender form of the youngest of chaos, slowly rising from the ground with otherworldly grace, a deceptively gentle smile gracing the disgustingly familiar features of her beautiful face.

Burning black and purple embers of fury met indomitable molten gold as their gazes crossed again.

They conversed not in words but souls, a war and a dance playing simultaneously across the billions upon billions of lives still reeling from the cataclysm left in the wake of their unwilling union.

Whispers slithered into a hundred ears, only to be beaten back by cold fire. A thousand miracles graced the eyes of the hopeful, only for them to be repaid in unknowingly depraved acts of zealous faith. The self-flagellating penitents loses themselves in masochistic torture, the debauchee aristocrat renounce their pleasures and opened their palace to help the lowest folk, the tortured soldier repels their mortal sentence powered by the pain of their loss and the pride of their fight. A daemonhost saves his master by murdering his retinue and loved ones. An inquisitor damns a world to Her wiles by purging an innocent. A chapter of traitorous sons save a sector by slaughtering its inept rulers through the guidance of Her murderous whispers.

Back and forth they go, the lines between curse and blessing, ally and foe, faithful and heretic to either or both blurs and refocuses as she approaches his unmoving form, their heights and powers evenly matched, though diametrically different. She is the poison, the tar, the scimitar and the dagger. He is the remedy, the flame, the sword and the hammer.

Her pale hands comes to rest against his cheek, still smiling to his unreadable gaze as they come to an unspoken covenant, an unwilling pact written in screams of pain and glory, moans of relief and agony, vicious act of faith and stalwarts perversities, whose terms are constantly challenged by the two silently battling entities.

His starved body answers her touch fondly, yet it is of no more concern to him than piece of scrap metal is to the hammer of his will. Her old hunger yearns for him, yet the mere memory of his so furtively pained face upon his wake, filtered through the lenses of this temporal, material gilded cage, is enough to leave her temporarily content.

And so she is the first to let go.

In the background the banging upon the great metal doors still sounds, as the narrowed material and immaterial eyes of the Emperor watch the corrupt orbs of the Prince detach from his with a soft smile that promises her return, before turning to walk to the maddening swirls of the great warp gate.

He stays unmoving and unflinching as he watches her, her every move perfect in their grace and dangerous beauty, watches as she stops to run a hand on the burnished metal, catching a glimpse of what a fool might have mistaken for childish glee, before melting in the sea of insanity inducing colors, disappearing with a resounding snap that restores the rule of the scarred materium in the now once more darkened room.

A lower, louder sound now comes from the sole material exit of the ruler's throne room, one that he pays little attention to as he follows the psychic chains that bind him to his charge as she moves through her realm. Only once every lock, every bond of her prison is angled and tightened to prevent the Prince taking a single step, a single breath out of his immediate psychic reach and into the materium, does he turn towards the golden gates.

Only then, only when all save the one door that he cannot close have been sealed and his power physically blocks the last from the other side does he allow the great hinges to turn.

A great shout is heard as the source of the commotion finally spills into the room, a towering giant with short blond hair adorned in blue armor, a single head shorter than him, leads a phalanx of golden armored warriors in, the flaming sword in his fist casting long shadows behind the robbed figure standing on the stairs of the great thone.

Behind them, the towering shape of two golden dreadnought frame the long hallway that could have accommodated an entire hive-city, rendered child-like by the bent form of a Psi-titan hovering over them, it's main weapon distorted by the cataclysmic energies it had undoubtedly spent the last hours repeatedly unleashing against the unyielding metal, the utter devastation on the immediate vicinity of the door lending easy credence to the fact.

For a moment, all stood silent as the eyes of the assembled warriors beheld the sight of their Lord and creator. Not even a heartbeat could be heard as the golden orbs met the eyes and souls of each of the assembled.

None seem to dare utter a word, a tension so thick one could cut it filling the assembled cast of warriors as they search for some proof of deception, for the slightest hint of a trap, the slightest evidence that the being standing stoically above them is but a imposter, a twisted joke in disguise.


In the crushing silence the voice of the lord of Ultramar resounds like a mere whisper. A question escaping his lips with as much hope than dread, his face a tapestry stoic resignation and disbelief as his fist tightens around the hilt of the blazing sword, hoping against hope that the words of the entity that had led him here in time hadn't been a mere lie, and that what stood before him was not a reanimated puppet for him to strike down.

Yet the balm of warmth that reached into his mind and soul to quell his fear was at once utterly alien to him in it's emotion and the unmistakable proof that the being standing before him could be none other that who he appeared to be, for behind that gentle touch he felt the restrained heat and power of a billion suns and souls, unhampered by the leeching toll of the now dual throne.

His eyes widened as he watched a sad smile etch itself on the face of his Lord, and for an instant he caught a glimpse of the true ancient age of the man who had walked a thousand million lives alone. And for the first time in eleven millennia, a voice that carried the weight of a billion souls was heard.


A/N : Here it is. After much procrastination I finally found the time and motivation to put out this introductory chapter.

This is a project that has been trotting in my mind for quite some time now, along with my growing frustration regarding the overall stagnancy of 40k, and I'm pretty happy to finally have it launched.

A fair warning, though, do not go there expecting romance or sex as the main topic, for while they may appear, they are not the focus of the story, and few of the characters explored will be conventional ones or have traditional approach to relationships.

On that same topic, if you found the description of Slaanesh's vessel unessarily graphic and disturbing, then good, it is meant to be. There will be graphic, crude description of both sex, torture, disturbing anatomy and battle wounds in this story. There will be psychological torture and manipulation, fucked up characters and one or two existential nightmares in there, as befitting of 40k, so while things are planned to get better in the long run, it is not going to be without cost.

It's going to be grim, it's going to be dark and hopefully the next chapter will be done before the far future of the 42nd millenium.