Imperium Ascendant

Book II: The Great Crusade

Chapter Twenty-Three: On Silver Wings

Location: The Primarch's quarters, Imperial Palace.

Date: 792.M30

Memory is a curious thing. It is incredibly inaccurate and easily tampered with. Yet it sculpts sentient life more than any other force. Conjuring up the right memory at the right time can save or damn someone. Mental ghosts of agony can cripple more easily than any blade or bomb. Similarly, remembrance of lessons and connections can push beings past all conceivable limits. For those burdened with power and responsibility beyond understanding, memory becomes a signpost. Moments filtered through recollection help guide those shouldered with monumental duties and keep them true to what they wish to be and need to be. One of these memories, belonging to a very special being, would help change the course of Galactic history. It starts like so many stories that shape the saga of sentient life. It started with a child crying.

Even during its early years of construction, the Imperial Palace of Terra was a labyrinthian colossus. Spanning thousands of kilometers across the homeworld and over two hundred kilometers from its tallest spires to deepest dungeons. When the first designs were put forth, the War-Masons and Architect-Clans were stunned and confused by the structure. Only upon further inspection did the genius and reasoning behind the skeleton the Emperor provided became apparent. Upon finally understanding a modicum of its purpose and its perfection, the War-Masons and later the Primarchs helped design the megastructures details.

The basic design was penned by the Emperor himself. An architectural outline to be filled in over the centuries. The reason for this curious style was the Emperor's long term intent with the palace. Humans as a species build things for current or immediately noticeable needs. With structures designed to last centuries or millennia at the maximum. The Imperial place was the opposite. It was built for purposes apparent now and in thousands of years. Designed to withstand war, disaster, and time itself for geologic ages.

Such a megastructure is built to change with the millennia and be easily updated and modified. For this purpose, countless passages, chambers, and nooks dot the palace. Unused and waiting for some future purpose. Hidden away in the gothic vaulting of the Primarchs quarters was one such place. A small balcony that provided access to a number of maintenance hatches. Its elevated location, hidden between baroque outcroppings and tucked away nature made it a perfect hiding spot. A place of solitude and reflection for the only Primarch who could easily access it. Dante: The Ninth Primarch and Imperial Angel.

A little over ten terran years old the demi-god would often escape to this perch. Seeking solitude and peace. Recently, Dante had taken to his roost for more unpleasant reasons. Hiding away out of fear and pain. Fear of his brothers, his father, and himself. Pain originating from his body and mind. Dante had started to wonder why he is what he is. He alone among the Primarch possessed wings. While many of his brothers possessed traits beyond even the most magnified human abilities. They all had legitimacy in Imperial law and human history. The inclusion of Genetics from Terran species and environmental adaptations were common and understood. All but the most extreme abhumans and spliced were accepted into the Imperium.

Dante's wings did not seem to fall into any of those categories. No Terran vertebrate, let alone mammal held six limbs. Nor possessed wings that on closer inspection seemed less like those of a Bird of Prey but instead something far more Alien. The structure and joints were flexible to a disturbing degree. The feathers looked like the smooth plumage of birds but internally were more like organic blades carved into aerodynamic form. Additionally, his bones were a latticework of compounds and alloys. Granting additional mobility and strength beyond his brothers. While his psychic powers were needed for true flight, even fully armored he could glide upon his wings.

The Primarchs' very being was marred with Archeotech and biology clearly beyond the acceptable. Where some of his siblings would wear this power and nature like a badge of honor. Flashing it at every opportunity, as Magnus demonstrated. Dante found his wings worrying and dangerous instead. He knew he and his brothers' creation had been a precarious thing. His enhanced nature indicated he was a prototype even among his siblings. Such thoughts were disconcerting but the other source of his misery turned these disturbing thoughts to outright fear.

For the IX Primarch felt deep within him something utterly terrifying. A rage as black as the void and a hunger for violence unquenchable. At the edge of his consciousness was something beyond comprehension. Mind shattering wrath honed into a diamond-sharp edge. Constantly calling out for destruction. To be unleashed upon the unworthy. A thirsting phantom that desired to be unleashed. Putting all of Dante's power to the purpose of annihilation. No matter what he tried to distance himself from this force the Primarch could not. Simply because it was no curse or chaotic intrusion. It was part of him, as much as his wings and his soul.

Rapidly developing his psychic powers the Lord of the Ninth to-be scryed his future. Desperate to uncover the purpose and danger of this crimson rage within him. Peering into the possible is not beyond the scope of any trained psyker. Doing it accurately and consistently, however, is. Dante and Konrad were born with a natural knack for this type of power. Twin seers to watch mankind and intervene when necessary. When looking into the future Dante saw it as a series of paths. Strings of cause and effect that reached from a single moment into the eons. With each event branching into countless paths. Creating an impossible web of possibility, ranging from the probable to theoretical.

As he mastered this skill the IX Primarch learned to take tentative steps along the path of destiny. Following three basic rules. First to never trust any path as the truth. They are all possibilities and easily changed by countless actors. Second to follow the Emperor and Malcador's example. Differing to their judgment and skill. Lastly that when it seems no good options are available. Take the most branching path to ensure the most possibilities to return to the course you desire.

Using these guidelines Dante peered into the future and saw countless strands of fate. Some as strong and solid as sail-tested rope. Others frayed and split by the unknown and possible. The more certain an event the stronger and larger this thread/path. With far too many blackened threads thicker than Blackwood Trunks leading to mankind's extinction or enslavement. Yet the Primarch always found comfort in a single path of brilliant gold. As unblemished and solid as pure aurumite. This was the shining path. A perilously thin and taut string of fate leading to ascension. Where mankind could not just survive but thrive. With every action of the Emperor and his servants that faint path grew stronger and brighter. Even before his very eyes, Dante watched as the Master of Mankind wove it ever larger. The Imperium acting as some great loom of destiny. Each subject of Revelation; a string working to weave themselves into a stronger path.

All twenty Primarch were woven into this shining path. Each playing integral roles to preserve and extend this thread of survival. Dante could peer into his brother's futures and catch snippets of who they were born to be. Mighty Rogal sheltering trillions under his golden Aegis. Clever Tengri wandering the outer-void laughing as he kills scourges from beyond the stars. Wise Magnus seated upon a Throne of Gold, plugged into the secrets of the cosmos itself. Of course, he could also see what might occur if any of his brothers failed. How Iskandar could grow a serpent's tail and join the Court of Pleasure. Or Philip's zeal might blind him to the truth he seeks. All of these possible futures diverged from each other at key points. Sometimes that point was crystal clear, other times lost in the fog of possibility. Yet all split at one point.

One exception existed of course. When Dante peered into his own future he saw two possibilities. An angel of light and beauty that protected with golden spear and tender mercy. Everything he hoped to be. Contrasted by an angel of blood and fury. Bringing doom and rage upon the galaxy. These two fates were no fractures or split threads along his destiny. Instead the twin Angels Dante foresaw overlapped. Existing together in a duality of being. Contradicting destiny somehow spun together. No matter what he tried, no matter how hard he scryed. The Primarch always saw the two angels together. One of lily-white wings that sheltered the weak. Another with Bloody-blades for feathers that screamed for vengeance and death.

This paradoxical and unnerving vision scared Dante. Shaking him to his core and making him question his existence. Was he a defect? A broken angel cursed to carry a schizoid nature. Seeking to do good and bring hope while born with an addiction to bloodshed and war. This misery led the youthful Primarch to his current state. Tucked away from his family and teachers in a hidden ledge he pondered his wings with a blade in hand.

When faced with the suffering and the unknown mankind always struggled with the abyss. The call of annihilation. The maddening desire to hurt oneself. Now even a Demi-God faced that dreadful siren song. Repressed pain and fear bubbling forth in a geyser of illness. The Primarchs were born larger than life. With minds and bodies near deific in proportion. This was matched by their emotions. A Primarchs joy burned brighter than the Sun, his rage capable of swallowing worlds. The Demi-Gods misery could drown billions. This byproduct of their transhuman and warp-born nature granted them profound humanity. While cursing them battle an internal maelstrom of galeforce feelings. As they grew in wisdom the Primarchs would master their nature and not be subject to herculean whims. That was not the case for poor Dante at this tender age.

Seeking something, anything to stop the bloody fury inside of him Dante planned the unthinkable. He would not disgrace himself and bring this shameful defect to his father. He would carve his mutation and failure from his very flesh. With a piece of metal gripped between his jaws and a cruelly edged dagger in hand. The Primarch prepared to cut off his wings. Sating his rage upon his own flesh and discarding what separates him from his brothers. With something between a snarl and a whimper, the Primarch made the first incision. His dagger slowly cutting through flesh and bone made to withstand bolt-fire.

Drops of sanguine blood trickled between white feathers. Biting through his make-shift gag of iron the Primarch's eyes flashed from sky-blue to ichor-red. His black rage transformed into self-destructive acts. Pausing his mutilation to suck in lungfuls of recycled air. Dante prepared to continue cutting. Gripping the knife with a shaky hand he pressed it into his flesh. Something blazing hot and unbearably bright grabbed the Primarchs wrist with adamant grip. Shocked, the Primarch dropped the knife and looked up. Staring down at him was a golden mask. Angelic features sculpted with disquieting perfection. Tears cut from opulent rubies traced somber paths down the mask. A figure formed of light and memory gripped Dante's wrist. Wearing the death-mask of an Angel and flanked by wings of fire. Just as quickly as it appeared the angelic phantom faded away.

Stunned and confused the young Primarch did not notice another figure now occupied the hidden alcove. Clad in a simple tunic, with his hair bound back the Emperor of Mankind had arrived. He had been hundreds of miles away, deep within his laboratory. Pouring over occult technology and analyzing the production quality of Astartes. Then a flicker of something at the back of his mind caught his attention. For a moment the Emperor felt his IX son's pain. Transmitted to him by the ghost of an Angel. He had raced to Dante and would have been a moment too late if the ghost had not intervened.

Realizing his father stood before him, shame filled the young Primarch. At a loss for words, Dante fumbled over his tongue as the Emperor approached him. Stoic as the mountains the palace rested upon the Emperor showed no emotion as he marched towards his wounded son. At that moment Dante feared his father more than anything. Imagining what horrid fate might await him. Would he be discarded as a failure? Or rebuilt in the hidden laboratories of Luna into something more suiting his father's needs. Worst of all part of the Primarch feared his father would pick up the discarded dagger and command him to continue cutting. The Emperor of Mankind did none of those things, in fact, the Emperor was not truly there. For a single moment, the mask of the Master of Mankind dropped. In its place was Atham the Revelator, an impossibly old man who grieved his son's pain. Dropping to his knees, Revelation wrapped his arms around his son and held him close.

Like a damn bursting Dante's pain detonated. He seemed to deflate as his sadness poured out of him. The Primarch wept into his father's arms as Revelation held him. They sat there for a long time. A scared demigod hugged close by his divine father. As his sobs grew weaker and his tears dried Dante looked up at his father and asked: "Why did you give me wings father?"

A sad smile crossed the Revelations face and he gently touched the clotted-over wound on his son's wing. A spark of light from ancient fingers flowed across the crude incision and healed it near instantly. Gesturing for his son to sit next to him Revelation spoke: "Because it's what mankind has always dreamed of. Since the first hominids glanced skyward our species has dreamed of flight. Natural selection never ordained us with wings or air-sacks. Instead, we imagined the impossible. The idea of winged humans became the first and most potent symbol of mankind transcending its boundaries. Becoming more than what the universe intended and forming a connection to power and purpose. "

With a flick of his fingers, Revelation summoned up a fire that twisted into shapes. Of a man with wax-wings falling from the sky. An ancient genius carving wings of canvas and wood. Two brothers building the first aeroplane. A somber expression crossed the ancient immortal's face as he spoke. "Many things set you and your brothers apart from mortal humans Dante. Most humans go their entire life searching for purpose, a reason to justify and validate their existence. That quest often defines the lives of trillions. My son, you were robbed of that, and gifted a clear and concrete purpose. In my opinion that creates the largest gap is simultaneously the great strength and weakness of the Primarchs. Each of your brothers and you were born to play a role in ensuring mankind's survival and ascension. It is a heavy burden, but one I believe you will all grow into perfectly. This role, in fact, brings us back to those wings I gave you. Dante, you are mankind's hope. A symbol of what we can be and what we must be. You are the messenger of humanity's future. The Imperial Angel who watches and protects. Setting an example to aspire to. You, my son, are our hopes for the future. You were created to help mankind survive and eventually thrive. Dante my son, I gave you wings so you could help teach mankind to fly."

Trembling with emotion Dante hugged his father and burst into tears. Looking up at Revelation the young Primarch asked in between sobs. "The-then what a-about the rage within me? How can tha-that be good for mankind? I fear what might happen if I lose control!"

Staring into his son's eyes Revelation could see the wrath within Dante. This was no foul pollutant of emotion like the blood-hunger of Chaos. Nor the petty rage of tyrants and thugs. What lay within his Ninth Son was righteous fury. Mankind's incarnate struggle against the dying of the light. "Oh my son" the unwilling Master of Mankind spoke.

"That rage within you is not some petty temper of mortals. When I say you are incarnate of mankind's hopes and dreams. I do not speak in metaphor. Along with each of your siblings, you are bound to humanity in a unique way. You, Dante, are what mankind dreams of. What we hope and need for the future. Dante my son, you were born to ensure mankind's survival and fulfill its hopes of a better future. On some primal level you can feel what humanity needs to survive. Of all your psychic and physical might, that is the power that sets you apart from your brothers. It touches your mind and carves itself into for better or worse. This power is valuable beyond words and dangerous too. What mankind needs is not always what we would wish. Mankind needs the beauty, heroism, and compassion you are capable of. It also needs the desperate fury and infinite hate inside of you. We want, and we need to strike back against this sadistic cosmos. To survive in this galaxy, the ability to create and protect is sadly not enough. We must also be able to destroy. Dante that fury inside you is mankinds. It is the rage of trillions suffering at the hands of our enemies. It is the bitter fury of the survivor hoping to push back the dark just one more night. You will use that rage, that hate to do good. Just as you will with your compassion and love. To survive our people need an Angel of Wrath as well as an Angel of Hope."

Absorbing this knowledge the Primarch sat there with his father for a long time. Slowly but surely new understanding entered him. Looking past his fear and trepidation. Dante looked, truly looked at the rage inside of him. Past the screams for blood and vengeance he saw it for what it truly was. It was the pain of trillions. The calls for aid that would never come. The maddening rage and grief of a mother desperately trying to ward away cerebevores from her children. Shock and hatred of a militiaman on some distant world realizing the Orks treated the destruction of his homeland like a sport. Bitter fury pouring off a child who watched her grandmother be fed to the sacrificial pits once she grew to infirm to slave away. The human species wanted to survive and it wanted vengeance. To finally strike back against the evils of the universe. To break the things of nightmares and finally know they were safe.

Swearing a silent oath to himself Dante decided from this day forward what he would be. To the lost children of Terra, he would be a deliverance on Silver Wings. To the cosmos's myriad of evils he would be a Destroying Angel. Like the Elohim of Terran myths, he would protect the chosen people and be blazing doom to their foes.

Location: Vostroya, Northern Segmentum Obscurus

Date: 890.M30

The lessons taught and the knowledge gained that fateful evening would echo for centuries to come. Particularly during the early years of Imperial expansion into the galactic north. When the great Primarch Dante Uriael and the IX Legion were dispatched on the first expedition to those distant reaches. The IX was renowned across the growing Imperium for its compassion, honor, heroism and martial talent. From Lord-Commander to Neophyte the Legion was forged in the Primarchs image. Skilled in more than the ways of War. The IX Legion is a brotherhood of artists and soldiers. Renowned for winning the compliances of hundreds of worlds. Through refined diplomacy or red-tinged fury. Ranking both in the top three for martial victories and peaceful unification among the twenty legions. These combined reputations and countless merits earned the IX the arduous task of entering the mysterious stars of the galactic north.

A region with scant records and little contact with the rest of the galaxy. The Halo Stars and Ghoul Stars formed a grim crown for the galaxy. Places rife with legends and stories of monsters and fiends. The Imperium had focused on a balanced path of expansion across the galaxy to ensure supply lines were not overstretched or threats were overlooked. Logiticians and other experts in math-lore estimated the Imperium would make its first forays into the galactic north by 925.M30. Recent events had forced the Imperium to move up the time table and dispatch the IX Legion in a macro-expedition to the sectors that bordered both Halo and Ghoul stars.

This exceptional act of dispatching an entire Crusader Fleet and accompanying forces was not without reason. Disturbing reports were coming in from the Imperial system of Vostroya. The industrial world of Vostroya Prime was one of the more important centers of Imperial power in the Segmentum Obscurus. Recently a worrying event rocked the system. Thousands of warp-signatures erupted without warning at the Mandeville point. A massive fleet of unknown origin was warping into the System. Astropathic distress calls were sent. The systems PDF and Mechanicum maniples readied for battle. As the unknown fleet entered into realspace it was bombarded with Vostroyan scans and hails. No response came and the fleet of countless divergent vessel designs simply hung in the void. Silent as the grave.

A strike force of resupplying Solar Auxilia quickly assembled and prepared to board the largest ship in the Ghost Fleet. All auspex scans came up with no signs of life and only the bare minimum of ship functions. Once aboard the seemingly abandoned vessel, they were shocked when its primary airlock opened itself to them. Preparing for the worse the soldiers entered the vessel.

As they skulked through the empty halls of the ship it became apparent something was incredibly wrong. The ship had been vented of atmosphere and its systems seemed to be only operating at the bare minimum to ensure functioning. The first sign the ship was, or at least had been crewed appeared as they approached the bridge. A single human hand clenched around a support bar. Frozen solid and severed at the wrist it showed all the signs of rapid-decompression and void-death. Suddenly very thankful for the Solar Pattern armor they wore. The Auxilia continued into the vessel.

Signs of violence dotted the hallways as they drew closer to the bridge. Las-burns dotted bulkheads. Flattened slugs dented the metal walls, and most worrying of all. Claw marks and blast-patterns of psychic lightning covered the floor and walls. Finally, the imperial scouts reached the Bridges entrance. A hulking door of solid alloys and wardings against warp-predators. Countless scratches were etched into the door. The frantic clawing of human hands leaving trails of frozen blood and much larger cuts made by alien talons.

After checking the surroundings and laying down detection-webs the Auxilia got to work cutting through the scarred bulk-head door. Even with plasma-cutters, it took the Imperials a while to carve an entrance into the bridge. Once inside they found the command deck nearly empty. Its portholes and the faint flicker of cogitator runes the only light. Igniting a few lux-globes the Auxilia spread throughout the Bridge. At the vessels command throne, they found all that remained of the ship's crew. Literally bolted into the command throne was a void-mummified corpse.

The Ship's captain had strapped himself to the throne and kept the ship on course, even into death. If the rigor-mortis grips on the console were any indication. As if sensing their presence the bridge suddenly came to life. Great data-feeds projected forth and started displaying runes and messages recorded by the ship's crew. The tongue and writing system of the ship had diverged significantly from Gothic. Of all the information only two were recognized by the Auxilia. The Skull and Crossed Bone and the three open circles of Biohazard. Symbols born on Ancient Terra and kept across the stars to mean Death and Diseases.

Documenting everything they could the Auxilia prepped themselves for decontamination and left the ghost ship. Similar discoveries were found aboard the entire fleet. Most lacking a captain, and the ship's Machine Spirits slaved to the capital ships will. A Magos Biolagos and his entourage was quickly summoned alongside Dialectic and Cultural experts to decipher the ghost fleet mystery.

The results came back quickly. An unknown Xeno threat had attacked the fleets home system and unleashed a number of mutagenic bio-weapons. In a desperate attempt to flee the Alien onslaught a fleet of hastily assembled refugee ships were launched to the last contacted human system, Vostroya. Infected humans or disguised Xenos, the data was unclear. However, managed to sneak aboard the vessels. The survivors and crew fought valiantly but were quickly overrun as the infection spread through the fleet. Granting the quickly mutating subject to the Xeno Curse a malicious intellect and physical properties beyond mortal humans. As death stalked closer with each passing day and the uninfected found themselves being pushed farther and farther back. The fleet captain made a fateful decision. It was better to die human than let the monsters use him and his fleet to attack another human system. Final messages were recorded. Tearful farewells to a family long dead, and snippets of information on the Alien threat. Then in a final desperate act the fleet exited the warp. Opened all airlocks and shut down all atmospheric systems. Jettisoning everything in the fleet. Freezing and voiding both Xeno and humans alike. Leaving the bridges with just enough air to allow them to plot a new jump into the warp.

This dead fleet had flowed on the Sea of Souls currents for over a century. Finally exiting at Vostroya, carrying a message to all who would listen. This light flung into the future would not go unnoticed. The Imperium of Mankind would avenge the Ghost Fleet and the lost worlds it hailed from. The IX Legion and Primarch Dante Uriael aboard his flagship the Sephirah had arrived at Vostroya. With wings of mercy and blades of wrath, the Imperium was coming. Nothing would stop the Imperial Angel and his sons.

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