Kratos5627
patreon
Interlude
🕑 Added 2025-05-26 04:46:49 +0000 UTCWe are slowly going towards the goal, I am aiming towards. Will Post a Author's note in coming hours, Discussing the end of Volume 2. One hell of a journey it has been for me.
Abaddon stood alone in the dark, his broad back to the churning, twisted expanse of the Eye of Terror. The stars were sick, distorted, and suffocating their lights strangled by the Warp. A shudder ran through him, but it wasn’t from fear. He’d never feared the Warp. It was, however, unsettling. Like something was watching him. The Gods. They were always watching.
He knew they thought him a fool. They had always treated him as one no more than a servant, a tool for their dark whims. But this time, it would be different. He could feel it in his bones, a quiet certainty grew inside him like an infection. He was more than a servant. The power, the ambition, the vision they were his now. He would outplay them. He would use them, and they would have no choice but to kneel before his will.
The visions had come to him, just as they had come to all the others who had served Chaos. But these were different. The Hand of Darkness. The Eye of Night. Relics of power, relics the Gods themselves had shown him. They weren’t gifts. No, they were bait. And Abaddon had learned long ago that the only way to gain power was to take it. To claim it, before anyone else could.
Zaraphiston stood a few paces away. The sorcerer had always been a mystery to him calm, aloof, always just a little too composed. Too careful. Abaddon had never fully trusted him. But Zaraphiston was useful. For now. And the relics… Zaraphiston was the key to finding them.
“Zaraphiston,” Abaddon’s voice was steady, as he called him out. “You know what to do. You had the same visions from the gods as I. Find the Hand. Find the Eye. Bring them to me. No excuses. We are on the verge of something far bigger than any of us. Don’t disappoint me.”
Zaraphiston’s eyes, glowing like burning embers, met Abaddon’s. The Thousand Sons were never just pawns. They played their own game, and Abaddon knew it. He wasn’t a fool. But Zaraphiston’s power, his knowledge of the Warp, was too valuable to ignore.
“It shall be done, my Lord,” Zaraphiston replied, his voice was clipped as he answered. But there was a flicker, a brief moment where his calm demeanor cracked for just a moment. “The Gods have shown us the way. These relics will lead us to the Blackstone Fortresses. With them, we can end the false dream of those Corpse worshippers once and for all.”
But Zaraphiston didn’t stop there. There was something else behind his words, something more. A hint of doubt, a veiled warning. His lips barely parted as he continued, almost as if he had to force the words out.
“You will not be able to control them, Warmaster. You cannot control the Gods. They gave you the visions, yes, but do you truly think they would allow you to rise above them? The Hand and the Eye are more than just power. They are dangerous—dangerous in ways you may not fully understand. Do not let your arrogance lead you to your downfall.”
Abaddon’s hand twitched, the grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. The Talon of Horus. His strength. His symbol. He had spent years fighting, clawing his way up to this point. He had sacrificed so much to be where he was, and Zaraphiston’s words, though not unexpected, still cut deeper than they should have.
“You think I don’t understand power?” Abaddon growled, his voice low, almost a growl. “You think I don’t understand the cost? I have bled, I have sacrificed. I’ve burned worlds, killed friends, destroyed allies. And now now, the Gods will see me as I am. Not a pawn, Zaraphiston. But a king. As my own being.”
Zaraphiston’s gaze never wavered. “A king who would be undone by his own pride. The Gods will see to that.”
The words hung in the air between them, thick with tension. The silence stretched on for a heartbeat longer than it should have, and Abaddon’s anger flared. But he did not move. He would not give Zaraphiston the satisfaction of knowing that the sorcerer’s words had landed, even if they had.
The truth stung. The Gods had always been playing their own game, laughing at Abaddon’s attempts to control them. They had let him rise, knowing full well that his ambition would one day blind him. But he would not let that be his downfall. He would not be their plaything.
“They think I’m arrogant. That I’m a fool,” Abaddon murmured, almost to himself, his voice cold, biting. “But I will show them. I will show them all.”
Zaraphiston took a step back, bowing slightly just enough to be formal, just enough to show respect. There was a glint in his eyes, something that almost bordered on amusement.
“Then go ahead, Warmaster. Prove them wrong. But remember,” Zaraphiston’s tone shifted, becoming more serious, more ominous. “Even the Gods have a purpose for you. And they have no need for a king who tries to outplay them.”
With a final glance, Zaraphiston turned and disappeared into the dark, swallowed by the shadows of the Warp. Abaddon stood there, alone, the weight of the universe pressing down on him.
The Gods had their plans. Zaraphiston had his doubts. And Abaddon? He had his own path. He would walk it, whether the Gods approved or not. The Blackstone Fortresses were within reach, and with the Hand and the Eye, he would break the Imperium. But more than that he would rewrite the galaxy itself.
He would take control of his own fate. And when it was all over, the Gods would know who had truly played them.
Abaddon’s gaze hardened as he turned away. The war was coming. And this time, it would be on his terms.
—-
---
Perspective: Kaptin Borlaut Urluk, Da Smartest Git in da Stars
The Krumpin’ Glory was technically a ship. That is to say, it floated in space, occasionally moved in the direction it was pointed (mostly), and made a lot of noise. Which, according to Ork engineering standards, made it perfect.
The bridge was a scrapyard married to a scrapyard, and then divorced because one of them exploded.
Kaptin Borlaut Urluk stood in the middle of this metallic war crime, wearing a red coat made from the flayed upholstery of a stolen Rogue Trader’s couch. It was his thinking coat. It didn’t actually help him think, but it looked like it did, which was more important.
“ALRIGHT YA PILE O’ FUNGUS-ADJACENT NOBSKULLS,” Urluk roared, slamming a wrench down on the ‘tactical’ table (which was just a crate with “TACTIKAL STUFF” spray-painted on it), “I GOT A PLAN SO KUNNIN’ IT MIGHT BE STUPID!”
Gasps. Literal gasps. One grot passed out from the sheer intellectual force of it.
“Now listen ‘ere, I bin hearin’ all dis chat about Chaos dis, Chaos dat, ooooh we’z all scared o’ spooky lads in black armor with spikey bits. WELL I AIN’T. I’LL HEADBUTT A DAEMON IF HE LOOKS AT ME FUNNY.”
“Wot if ‘e don’t look at ya?” asked Grubskab, the pilot-slash-sandwich-maker.
“Then I HEADBUTT ‘IM ANYWAY FOR IGNORIN’ ME!”
Roars of approval. A Nob started chewing on a plasma coil in excitement. No one stopped him. It was his birthday actually.
Urluk turned to the star chart. He stared at it like it owed him money. “Dis place,” he said, jabbing his sausage-thick finger at a planet marked “DO NOT APPROACH – IMPERIAL STRONGHOLD,” “looks LOOTY.”
“Uh, boss, dat’s where da Inquisitors live.”
“I KNOW dat’s where dey live! That’s why I wanna knock on da door, flash me bum, and shout ‘COME OUT YA POINTY-HATTED NERDS!’ while da boyz nick all da teacups.”
A mek started crying. Urluk mistook it for joy.
"Now listen," he continued, walking over to the big red button labeled "DO NOT PRESS – SHIP WILL GO TOO FAST." He pressed it. The Krumpin’ Glory immediately shook, groaned, and made a sound like a squig being kicked through a pipe organ.
“Where we goin’, boss?”
“DUNNO! But it’s that way!” he screamed, pointing in several directions at once. “Skarzog, release da squig-navigators!”
“We ain’t got squig-navigators, boss.”
“THEN YOU’RE PROMOTED TO SQUIG-NAVIGATOR.”
“I’m just a janit—”
“SHUT UP, NAVIGATOR.”
Meanwhile, in Urluk’s brain:
Step 1: Find loot.
Step 2: Loot the loot.
Step 3: Paint everything red.
Step 4: ???
Step 5: Profit.
Urluk’s personal warband, “Da Lootin’ Ladz,” were already preparing the landing party. They were halfway through a dance-off with a mob of Burner Boyz over who got to ride the Big Mek-flinger first. (It did what it said on the tin.)
Down in the hold, a Weirdboy was eating a lightbulb for “more thinkin’ power.”
In the mess hall, a grot had started a religion worshiping Urluk’s left boot, which hadn’t moved in six weeks and smelled like divine revelation.
Back on the bridge:
“Right then!” Urluk said, placing a dented saucepan on his head. “Battle strategy time.”
He drew a crude picture of a planet on a nearby wall with mustard.
“This is da planet.”
He drew a big X.
“This is where we land.”
He drew an Ork.
“This is me.”
He drew explosions, fire, and a lot of stick figures screaming.
“This is wot happens next.”
The crew nodded sagely. One even muttered, “It’s beautiful.”
“Da Chaos ladz can ‘ave their daemons an’ skulls an’ spooky whispers,” Urluk declared. “We got LOUD NOISES and POOR LIFE CHOICES.”
With that, he kicked the controls, headbutted a servo-skull, and screamed, “WAAAGH!” so loud it ruptured a voidseal.
Somewhere, an Imperial Astropath flinched and pooped himself for reasons he couldn’t explain.
—-
[POV: Lord Admiral Kornelius von Ravensburg]
Gothic Sector – Segmentum Obscurus – Year 141.M41
The lights in the command sanctum flickered again. Third time today. Power conduits, they’d say. Routine maintenance. Minor fault. He didn’t buy it. Kornelius von Ravensburg had learned long ago not to trust minor faults.
He stared at the hololith, lines and sigils dancing across its flickering surface—fleet dispositions, logistics requests, reinforcement rosters, redacted incident reports, unacknowledged astropathic missives. Static cut across the datafeed like a wound. Another flicker.
Silence.
The room was quiet save for the background hum of void-shield generators and the distant, rhythmic pulse of the ship’s heart. The Divine Right, his Emperor-class battleship, was a floating cathedral to war but even cathedrals could rot from within.
He folded his hands, gauntlets polished, fingers rigid.
“Admiral,” came the voice of Sub-Commander Merov, sharp and efficient. “We’ve lost contact with the Eridani Patrol Group. No distress signal. Vanished.”
Kornelius didn’t answer immediately. He closed his eyes. That makes seven this year. Eridani. Before that it had been Sector Vigil-9. Before that, the Forge-liaison convoy. Not one trace recovered. No survivors. No wreckage. Just silence.
Something was draining them.
Not a hammerblow. Not a grand invasion. Not something the Lords of Terra could rally a crusade around. No, this was a scalpel. Slow. Precise. Bleeding the Gothic Sector dry while the Imperium’s bureaucratic lungs choked on protocol and red tape.
He rose slowly from his throne, boots clanking on the deck, cloak trailing like the shadow of a dying sun. His face, aged and scarred by voidfire and attrition, was fixed in grim calculation.
“Dispatch a full investigation team,” he said, voice cold and low. “Salvagers. Vox-breakers. Psykers if you can pry them from their coward dens. I want fragments, echoes anything.”
“Aye, Lord Admiral.”
He turned, gazing out through the thick armorglass viewport into the void. Stars stared back like indifferent gods.
Decades. Decades of depletion. And still they call it coincidence.
When the Gothic Sector had begun to fray, he had asked for reinforcements. For a redistribution of fleet strength from neighboring sectors. For reserves from Terra itself. Each petition returned with the same sanctified rejections.
“The Segmentum has other priorities.”
“Troop movement approved. Arrival estimated: 3 standard years.”
“Denied by order of the Senatorum Imperialis.”
“Request lost in transit.”
He wasn’t a fool. The Imperium was a monolith trying to dance. The Lords of Terra, when they bothered to acknowledge him at all, did so with patronizing vagueness. Even the Adeptus Mechanicus had grown quiet uncharacteristically so.
He knew the signs. Isolation. Compromise. Infection.
But it wasn’t Chaos not the kind that screamed and bled and twisted the stars. This was different. Surgical. Quiet. Like someone was waiting. Setting the board.
His hands clenched behind his back.
If this was war, it had not begun yet. But it was coming. And when it did, the Gothic Sector would be a half-lit corpse awaiting autopsy.
He would not allow that.
---
Kornelius stepped back to his command dais. He tapped the encrypted vox-channel.
“Activate the auxiliary threat board. Black Clearance.”
“Sir?” Merov hesitated.
“Now.”
The display changed. New data layers emerged unauthorized fleet movements, supply route failures, reports of warp ghosts, and star systems showing irregular auspex feedback. Ghosts of something huge moving just out of range. Not Chaos. Not Ork. Not even Eldar. Just… absence.
A plan was unfolding. Not his. Not the Imperium’s. Something else.
He would find it.
He would damn well find it before it devoured the sector from the inside out.
And if Terra wouldn’t send aid, then he would raise his own storm.
Better a traitor in defense than a servant in silence.
---
Word Count: 2234
Comments
Jonnylawz0
Dang lowkey hyped for u git going kratos
Kratos5628
Ha, I have introduced the true MC's of this story. Everything till now was just to set the stage for them. There waagh power shifted the meta narrative and made me do it.
Mika Willems
The Ork part was great.
