To Travel is to Heal
'Why did you leave?' It is always the same question. Why would one leave the safety of a Craftworld? A place with no strife, no scarcity? Why would one risk…
Echoes of Guilt
I had not returned to the gardens of Craftworld Alaitoc for a long time. Pink and blue petals drifted from hundreds of pale trees, dancing in an artificial wind whilst…
Da Boy on Da Moon
Rezdek watched in confusion as the ship pulled away from the void-scarred moon. “Dey’ll be back, I reckin.” He said to himself, of course there was no atmosphere, so he didn’t…
The Last Hope
From the flames, a single ship darts out into the void. A single golden shard lost to the darkness, as the last Craftworld falls. Alone at the helm, Arhanas fights…
Path of the Ghost
One hundred years ago, I died upon the petal strewn fields of fair Myiathra where I felt no sorrow. For that century I was at one with the abiding spirits…
Examination
Farseer Cailenn Ilain faced her student, they sat on the bare floor of the chamber, deep with the craftworld Ai’belcanoic. The white wraithbone walls were veined with psychoactive crystals and…
Extinction’s Welcome
While the stars died, fires stifled by the cold one by one, their attendant planets spiralled to their own dooms, and void-vessels screamed as the Warp imploded, daemon and mortal…
A Wolf in Sheepskin
Auldinwë stood valiantly atop the mangled corpse of a greater daemon of Slaanesh–its desirable pink flesh marred and ruined. The Howling Banshee raised her power sword into the air, wailed…
On The Hunter’s Watch
Once a primitive, plains-dwelling race, The T’au have formed a spacefaring empire by bringing together several intelligent alien races to combat the hostile Imperium of Man. When a T’au cadre led by commander M'COVA ("EERVEE") is ambushed, she finds herself isolated and introduce to a strange world's inhabitants – and an an enigmatic woman (MARLENE BARCOV). Thrust together, M'COVA must navigate a coded dance of indoctrination, and resistance to discover whether humanity can ever be trusted.
The True Lords of Entropy
‘My skin is pallid. My soles are worn. Buboes burst as I sojourn. In foetid rivers, my skin is torn. May your child grant my immortal form! Rusting metal, rotting horns, take me to your Neverborn!’ Burghott sang from the centre of the viscous Nurgle sigil atop the craggy plateau.
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