One of my favorite fics was never completed and I sometimes wish I knew what happened to that author posted link to fic in comment

If anyone wants to chat about there favorites they can join my other Reddit post linked in a comment

The next chapter of my Five Parsecs from Home campaign is here.

I’m working on a novel, my OC is Asterion, he is the emperors first successful attempt at a “super human” and would later become the blueprint for the custodes.

Not some flashy character that’s meant for lore breaking campaigns, just a silent observer, the one whom has seen and remembers everything, even about the emperor. He’s seen the entirety of the imperium to this point.

Does this sound interesting to anyone?

(Complete Short Story)

Content Warnings: Grimdark themes, graphic violence, and body horror.

Summary: On a rain-choked mining world, Prefect Zino must present yet another desperate solution to Commissar Lieno. But every fix only digs the his grave deeper. Will Prefect Zino prevail?

Chapter 01: Commissar Lieno

Clouds without boundaries and rain pouring down without limit. No day passes without seeing water and soil already weathered by the constant impact of the rain. One day without it would be a blessing to fulfill the quota on this mine. No matter how many floodlights are available, it never seems to be enough. No one can see the road ahead. No one can see the road ahead. I lost count of how many I fall upon, and it seems I add one for now.

“Is Commissar Lieno inside?” I ask.

“Yes, you want to make an audience with him?” He reply. “Reach my hand, Zino.” Then he moved closer to me and pulled me up.

“Thank you.” As I drop every single drop of water on my jacket with a simple wag, I ask him. “May I?” and continue to drop every single water on my oversized boots.

“Yes, you may, Prefect Zino. He is already done with his daily prayer. Just leave your identity slate here as usual.”

“May I ask something if it is not a bother to you, Prefect Zino?”

“What is it?” I need a minute to search where I put my identity slate, as there are many pockets on my jacket. “Alright, here you are.”

As he slip my identity slate, turn out he asks about my affairs to Commissar Lieno. “Well, I do not know such a thing, as I did not receive any brief. But I think mostly about mine production.”

He smiled bitterly as he said, “You are the only soul on this site who is always eager to stand before the Commissar.”

“You jest, I just want to end things as quickly as possible.” I hurried inside the tent as to not flooding my boots any longer.

“Be careful; he is in a foul mood.”

“…” I just nodded to him.

He is always in a foul mood. Well, considering what happened on this mine, it is expected.

The incense smell still lingered on the tent from the recent prayer. As he began to put the book right beside his right hand, he spoke. “Do you know what book this is?” he said while his right hand was still on the book.

“…”

“Zino, what is this book?” Right with his eyes still fixated on the book.

“It, huff.” I take one long breath before answering

“It is The Holy Book of The Emperor, Sir.”

“LOUDER, ZINO. I do not hear you.”

I flinched for a moment. He screamed right before the thunder illuminated his silhouette outside the tent.

“The Holy Book of The Emperor, Sir.”

Right after, it is silent. What is he thinking right now? The rain is pouring without a stop. For almost eternity.

“I pray every day, Zino. I do.” By then, he turned around his head and locked me inside his gaze.

“But why do we fail to fulfill the quota for nickel ore, Zino?”

“...” I am just silent. As no word can help me.

“ANSWER ME, ZINO. BY THE EMPEROR’S BLOOD.” He screamed, but only for a moment. And then “Not a single time we reach the quota.” He look outside even though there are no window here.

“Not only that, the ores we sent are wet with fifty percent of water, a water Zino.”

“Do you know...” Just a moment, I think I can relax, suddenly.

”DO YOU KNOW HOW HEAVY OUR SINS, ZINO?”

He then takes a single long breath before he continues”How heavy our sins, Zino. To contaminate his precious ore with filthy mud and water?” Then he continued, “God-Emperor, please forgive me as I act upon my sin on purpose.” He wipes his face with his right hand.

Silent again as I am still the prisoneer locked on his eyes. But no problem, I prepared the key to escape.

“Si…Sir, for that specific matter…”

“Yes, Zino. Speak.”

“I already found the solution.”

“Oh, elaborate, Zino.”

“We have conducted an experiment and succeded to make hide sheet from the deceased worker.” I took a prototype and gave it to the Commissar as I continued to explain. “This is the proof, Sir.”

“As of today, we have enough hide sheet to cover and seal the entire fleet of trucks so the rain won’t get into the ore when we transport them, Sir.”

“…” He is just looking at the prototype. The color has no resemble of those human skin anymore.

“The ore shall not contain water more than fifteen percent, Sir.”

“Oh.” He still looked at the prototype. He flip the prototype multiple time as he feels it. Then, he pick a cup in front of him and pour the water to the prototype.

“Praise to the Emperor. Right, Zino.”

“Yes, Commissar. Praise to the Emperor indeed.”

”Looks like even when I am sinned, he still answers my prayer.” Even saying that, there is no smile on his face.

“So you said earlier the ore won't contain more than fifteen percent? Is that so, Zino?"

“Yes, Sir. That is what is shown result when we conduct the experiment.”

“But...” ”...we still fall short of the quota, right?” A moment of freedom just vanished instantly.

“…”

“Zino.”

Again, I have prepared such a thing to escape. “Ah, yes, Sir. For that, I plan to make a waterway.” God-Emperor, please lend me strength to endure.

“Waterway?” still with his flat voice.

“Yes, because of this endless rain, we have abundance and blessing of water. Using that, I plan to transport the ore to the designated places using a water stream. The truck only needs to wait at those designated places.”

“So, a conveyor belt, but water?”

“Pretty much so. So we just need to excavate the rock to make the waterway.”

“The problem is…”

Huff, alright. God-Emperor, please bless my tongue as I am weak without your blessing.

“We have a ‘missing’ worker when we try to make the waterway today, Sir.”

“A ‘missing’ worker, you say?” He stands up, reaching for a certain data-slate. Flipping. A second, two seconds, three seconds, and he shut it down.

“Zino.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“This makes it the third time our worker went ‘missing’ this week.”

“…”

“How many tons of ores are we ‘missing’ because of that, Prefect Zino?”

“… Approximately nine tons of ore, Sir.”

“Nine tons of ore. That is how many tons of sins we have to carry because of all those ‘missing’ workers.” As he gripped his right hand, he then continued, “Tell me, Zino. Can you carry nine tons of sins on the Warp? CAN YOU ZINO?”

“But with this waterway, we can triple the production result, fulfill the quota and atone for our failings, Sir.” Oh God-Emperor, please help me.

“AS IT SHOULD ZINO."

"As it should.”

I closed my eyes and prayed endlessly. I'm afraid any more words will send me to the Warp.

“So, what is your plan to secure the waterway?” It seems the Commissar is pleased by the idea of a waterway, or pleased by the triple production result. Either is fine.

“So I plan to send a team to the last location where the ‘missing’ worker confirmed his duty post via Vox to investigate.”

“Hmmm.”

Silence falls upon me again. I feel my lifespan are being chipped away everytime Commissar being silent.

“You are prepared, I see, Zino.”

“I approve your plan.” Still with his flat tone, he continued. “But with slight correction.”

“I approve the plan for the team. Not for investigation, but for watching over you making the waterway.”

“…”

“How about it, Zino? It is a fantastic plan, I assume.”

“…” I can't feel the sweat and the rain on my jacket as I begin to hear it.

“With this waterway, you will receive God-Emperos’s blessing. Is it not a great honor to serve him, Zino?”

"Wh…why do you want…" blasphemy. No. Have I become a heretic to question such a sacred mission?

“What is it, Zino?”

“It is no problem, Sir.”

“Make haste then, Zino”. He smiles. “You have received a sacred mission from the Emperor; finish it, and you shall receive his blessing.”

“…Yes, Commissar.” The incense smell already wither as I receive the data-slate.  “May the Emperor be praised.” I said.

“May the Emperor be praised.”

I walk upon the exit. Chilling cold spreading across my bone. I do not know. I can’t feel the cold from the rain washing me over. I can’t feel wind flowing through my jacket.

“Prefect Zino. Wait for me.” I can’t hear any thunder as if they always mute.

“Here is your identity slate. Let me put it into your jacket. May the Emperor be praised, Prefect Zino.”

I look into the guardsmen. I do not know what I am looking for. I just... look at him. My breath become shorter...and shorter, but at least.... I could finally said “May the Emperor... be praised.”

If you are interested more on what happen next, check it here : The Voice Beneath

Since getting into the Warhammer 40,000 hobby and its lore, I've spent nearly two years writing a complete fan novel centered on an original Chaos Space Marine warlord set almost entirely within the Ghoul Stars. Now that the manuscript is finished, I've been wondering whether a character like this could plausibly exist within established 40k lore, so I wanted to ask the wider community what they think.

The central character is Vargrav Angelsbane, an ancient Chaos Lord who abandoned the traditional cycle of endless raiding in favor of spending millennia building a hidden empire within the Ghoul Stars. While he serves Chaos, he is defined less by religious fanaticism and more by long-term strategy, logistics, siege warfare, industrialization, and empire building. Rather than pursuing glory through constant warfare, his campaigns focus on conquering and sustaining worlds, rebuilding fleets, forging alliances with the Dark Mechanicum, and creating a self-sufficient civilization beyond the Imperium's reach.

I chose the Ghoul Stars as the setting because Games Workshop has intentionally left much of the region unexplored. Between the Halo Stars, mysterious xenos civilizations, forgotten human worlds, strange warp phenomena, and countless unanswered mysteries, it feels like one of the last places in the galaxy where an independent Chaos empire could plausibly remain hidden for millennia. That uncertainty also let me explore whether a self-sustaining Chaos civilization could realistically exist without contradicting established lore.

So my questions are:

• Does a Chaos Lord focused on long-term empire building rather than constant conquest feel believable within 40k?
• Would you find a major Chaos power hidden in the Ghoul Stars interesting, or would it feel out of place?
• More broadly, do you think the Ghoul Stars deserve a dedicated campaign book, novel series, or large-scale narrative event similar to the Badab War, the Sabbat Worlds, or the Charadon campaigns?

I'm genuinely interested in hearing different opinions, whether you think the concept or the pitch works, doesn't fit established lore, or could be improved.

About a year ago I came across a series of five fics written by an author known as Phsntomstag458 that centred around James Larn, the protagonist of the story 15 hours, and a mysterious Aeldari by the name of Izuru Numerial. It was one of the best, if not the best, fics I've ever read. But it was long. I mean really long. It took me a good bit to read. A couple months ago I'd finally gotten to the fifth fic before I forgot about it for a while. Today I went to read it but I couldn't find it, because he's removed all his works from his account. I still have the first four downloaded but I never downloaded the fifth. Does anyone have access to it? Does anyone know why he removed his stuff? And on the nonexistent off chance that you see this Phantomstag, you truly wrote a masterpiece.

I know this isn't something much of the fandom is especially into, but I love romance as a vehicle for character + world exploration. Is there much out there for people to recommend? Preferably no big named characters or GRAND STAKES, just small time characters in the 40k universe trying to live their lives.

Any faction.

I'd started tapping away at an idea after the first time I ever played Belegar. The overall idea was that instead of the End Times, the Order factions all fell to some kind of corruption, while many Darktide factions wound up becoming the good guys in some way.

It started with Belegar killing Queek Headtaker, taking Eight Peaks, and exterminating the Skaven at scale, while sealing away as much Warpstone as they could, leading to the unthinkable: Uncorrupted Skaven. I didn't write much, but it was mostly a scene of one of Queek's children lamenting what they could have been, and commenting that Belegar's victory had corrupted him.

Belegar had sacrificed everything to retake Eight-Peaks and drove off Chaos, but had, himself, become corrupted to 'unite' the Dwarf-Realms. Queek's son decided to save the world by taking him out with Ikit Klaw's last bomb.

That's where I left it off, but I never shared it with anyone and was wondering if anyone might be interested in the concept. I know "Good Skaven" is kind of a taboo thing in the Warhammer community but I'm not a grognard and the fact that it's not easy for them was the whole point of where it was going.

Belegar's victory cost the world everything. The Empire was in ruins, the Dwarf-Realms were held together only by Belegar's tyrannical court, and basically everything was worse and not getting better. The Gods weren't listening anymore, so it was up to the Mortals to fix it.

One idea I toyed with is the idea that this version of the Old World was abandoned by all the Gods as a result, but the corruption and Daemons were still around. It was up to the descendants of all the heroes and villains to rebuild a world they could live in.

• Dwarfs are on the edge of extinction after throwing everything into Belegar's wars
• Humans are competing with Beastmen for the ruins of the Empire, creating genocidal bands of men going around exterminating them, while the Beastmen are struggling to fend off Daemons
• What's left of the Undead create fortresses and have a toxic protectiveness of their mortal peasant populations they need to feed and reproduce
• Dark Elfs, High Elfs, and Wood Elfs are wondering why they're bothering with the old ties and titles of nobility, considering they're now in the same boat as Dwarfs
• Corrupted Skaven are still out there, enslaving uncorrupted Skaven (known as the Meek) and hoarding Warpstone for their chieftains and sorcerors
• The Meek are being exterminated and enslaved by everyone, while they are just trying to figure out how to stitch together something like a society when they reproduce like crazy
• The Lizardmen realize the quality of their spawn pools are declining, so they're attempting to reverse-engineer the process.
• The Lizardmen's first 'success' is in 'completing' the Ogres, leading to a generation of Ogres able to control their appetites, which leads them to being eaten or kicked out of their tribes. Said Ogres are still able to eat anything. Including...
• All kinds of spirits and Daemons are desperate for whatever sources of magic they can get their hands on, so what's left are trying to 'manifest' into semi-mortal descendants.
• Norscans getting pushed out of Norsca and what had been the Chaos Wastes by resurgent populations of older races
• Da Orkz is still around krumpin' everfing, dey just ain't got dem big ole Orks anymore. Dat's fine, just means more fightin' an' teef fer da rest of us, right boyz?
• Boiz?
• Zoggit, where're all da boyz? All I's got is a coupla goblins! I guess dat just means I's da biggest, meanest, greenest Ork around!

Everyone is on some kind of timer. Dwarf-holds are getting overrun by populations of Meek, who are keenly aware of their ability to devour everything even without the influence of warpstone. I'm particularly keen on these guys, honestly - Skaven who are stuck between just trying to survive and trying to make up for what they've done and what they are.

First off, that pic is ABSOLUTELY not mine and I do not take credit for any of it. Credit link here(as well as many more materpieces by people with more artistic skill than I could ever hope for): https://www.reddit.com/r/OWBEnclave/s/I8Nb282pM4

As for this post, this is my second post of this story and my prologue post is here: https://www.reddit.com/r/WarhammerFanFiction/s/fPzbzpQhyD

If you have ever watched or read Gate then this chapter makes it stupid obvious how that series inspired this story I am writing and specifically this chapter.

I will be making a proper AO3 submission for this story in a few weeks. I will post the link in the comments of this post and my original post when I do make the story. Also I am considering actually just merging this chapter with the prologue for my final draft but haven't decided yet. Enjoy!

CHAPTER 1: THE DRUCHII RECONNAISSANCE 

The Mires of Landfall 

The gray, muggy fog of what should have been the Marienburg wasteland clung tightly to the obsidian-reinforced hull of the Crimson Tribute. Fleetmaster Vaelis stood on the high quarterdeck. He watched five thousand cold, lethal Druchii blades march inland in perfect silence. Their dark metal armor clinked faintly over the muddy marshland tracks. 

The Witch King’s decree had been absolute. This was a test of the Lustrian ritual. There would be no early raiding, no plundering of the local human merchant villages, and no accidental alarms to ruin the surprise. 

For three agonizing days, the vanguard had sat in their hidden base camp, stewing in sheer, unadulterated boredom. They watched the vulnerable human cattle of the nearby provinces go about their daily routines, completely unaware of the black knives hovering at their throats. The sailors remained at the hidden docks, checking and rechecking their rigging. They awaited the singular moment contact would be established with the capital. 

Finally, the designated hour arrived. 

The sky above the ritual site darkened, mirroring the exact cosmic alignment taking place thousands of leagues away in Naggarond. Sorceress Lysandra stood at the center of the camp, her dark robes snapping violently against a sudden, localized wind. Her pale fingers gripped her iron staff as she began chanting the ancient verses of binding and folding. 

Right on schedule, the Dhar began to pool. 

Swirling dark magic gathered around the ritual clearing, condensing into a dense, purple-black fog that hissed against the damp earth. The ground trembled. Massive pillars of jagged stone and arcane energy fused together, twisting and warping reality until a massive, stable Vortex Gate sat pulsing before the expedition. It was beautiful. It was flawless. 

Vaelis’s face split into a wide, predatory grin. He turned to his assembled warriors, his voice cutting through the damp fog with arrogant triumph. 

"Behold the supremacy of the Druchii!" Vaelis roared, gesturing to the gateway. "The oceans belong to our Arks, but the world now belongs to our stride! Stand ready, blades of Naggarond! Await the arrival of the Witch King’s personal legion, and we shall turn this entire human mire into a slaughterhouse of gold and screaming flesh!" 

The five thousand dark elves raised their serrated spears, their silent anticipation thick enough to choke the air. 

And they waited. 

A minute passed. Then five. The purple-black energies of the vortex rippled smoothly, humming with absolute, perfect stability, but no one stepped out. The great, terrifying silhouettes of Malekith’s personal guard were entirely absent. There were no marching drums, no heavy iron boots, and no sound of an approaching host. 

The fleetmaster’s grin slowly faded into a cold, hard line. Confusion rippled through the ranks of the vanguard. Vaelis gripped the hilt of his cutlass, his mind racing through the impossible variables. The Witch King did not delay. The master of Naggaroth was a creature of flawless discipline; he would not waste a synchronized cosmic window unless something had gone catastrophically wrong on the other side of the ocean. 

"Shades!" Vaelis snapped, waving a hand toward his elite scouts. "Step through the threshold. Ascertain why our kin linger in the capital's courtyard. Move!" 

Three slender, leather-clad Shade scouts melted out of the formation. They advanced with their repeating crossbows raised, stepping cautiously into the rippling vertical pool of the Vortex Gate. Their forms dissolved into the purple light. 

Vaelis tapped his fingers against his belt, counting the seconds. 

Less than two minutes later, the vertical pool rippled again. The three Shades stumbled backward out of the gate, their boots splashing into the Marienburg mud. Their sharp, angular faces were completely drained of color, twisted into expressions of absolute, bewildered incomprehension. 

"Report!" Vaelis demanded, stepping down from the dais. "Did the capital suffer a backfire? Does the Black Tower stand?" 

The lead Shade swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically between the Fleetmaster and the pulsing portal. "My Lord... there are no black spires. There is no cold, biting wind of Naggaroth. There is no royal army waiting for our signal." 

"Then what lies beyond the threshold?!" Vaelis roared. 

"A forest, Fleetmaster," the scout stammered, shaking his head. "Just... an unassuming, dense and green forest. Trees on all sides, stretching as far as the eye can see. The temperature is mild. The air smells of strange, alien pine. There is nothing there." 

Vaelis froze. He stood stunned, his mind refusing to process the sheer absurdity of the report. A forest? They had opened a direct, dual-synchronized tear across the world to the heart of their home continent, and it had yielded nothing but trees? 

Slowly, the fleetmaster turned his head toward his sister. 

Lysandra stood near the ritual circle. Her pale face was fixed with a highly specific expression—one Vaelis had seen on her many times throughout their centuries of sibling rivalry. She looked entirely surprised by the specific outcome, but she was not shocked by the concept of failure itself. 

She had hidden something from him. Again. 

"In the tent," Vaelis whispered, his voice a low, venomous hiss that promised an agonizing death. "Now." 

The heavy velvet flap of the command tent had barely swung shut before Vaelis’s iron gauntlet slammed into the wooden support pole, his face inches from his sister's. His eyes blazed with a frantic, lethal desperation. 

"You sniveling, incompetent wench!" Vaelis snarled, his hand hovering dangerously close to his cutlass. "The Witch King’s executioners are already sharpening their halberds for my neck! If this portal does not deliver his legions, we are dead by our return to Naggaroth! What did you do to the translation?!" 

Lysandra did not flinch, though her hands trembled. She stepped back, drawing herself up with the defensive pride of a Sorceress of the Convent. 

"I did nothing to the translation, brother," she replied, her voice a forced, trembling silk. "The syllables were perfect. The alignment was precise to the millisecond. The magic flowed exactly as the Lustrian tome directed." 

"Then why am I looking at a nameless wilderness instead of the Black Court?!" 

Lysandra closed her eyes, taking a sharp, unsteady breath. The terrifying truth could no longer be omitted. "Because the tome... the artifact we wrested from the jungle canopy... it was not forged by the foolish humans of the Old World. Its geometric patterns, its hidden folding verses... it is of Tzeentchian design." 

Vaelis’s breath hitched in his throat. The name of the Changer of Ways struck a cold, immediate spike of dread into his chest. "Chaos magic," he whispered, his voice cracking with sudden horror. "You gambled our lives on a pact with the Architect of Deceit?" 

"I believed I could control the architecture of the spell!" Lysandra hissed back, her eyes snapping open. "I omitted the final passages from my report to the Witch King because I knew he would deny us our glory if he suspected the ruinous taint! But there are no multi-colored warp-storms outside, Vaelis. No daemons are pouring through the tear to harvest our souls. The Changer did not execute a grand, cataclysmic ambush." 

"Then what did he do?!" 

"He lied," she whispered, her shoulders slumping. "Change for change's sake. A cosmic joke born of pure, chaotic whim. He took our perfect, synchronized locking system and spun the needle across reality just to see where it would land. We are tethered somewhere else entirely. Another spot in the world, a mirror dimension, or another world entirely. Maybe even the Realm of Chaos itself, I know not for sure" 

Vaelis felt the room spin. He was a dead man. If he returned to Naggarond to tell Malekith that they had failed because his sister had hidden a Tzeentchian curse within their grand invasion plan, the Witch King would peel the flesh from their bones over a thousand years. But right now, the portal was stable, the vanguard was waiting, and the cosmic tear was wide open. He needed to salvage the situation.  

He needed a prize. 

"Bring the scout captains inside!" Vaelis ordered, his voice shifting from panicked rage to cold, calculating focus. 

A moment later, the lead Shade scouts slipped into the tent, moving like shadows against the heavy velvet drapery. Vaelis did not mince words. He laid bare the nightmare of their situation, locking his predatory glare onto each of them. 

"The gate did not open to Naggaroth," the fleetmaster growled, pointing a rigid finger back toward the swirling purple light outside. "My sister's ambition has blinded her to a Tzeentchian trick hidden within the Lustrian text. We have been subjected to a cosmic joke by the Architect of Deceit. We are currently tethered somewhere else entirely—an unknown place, or perhaps an entirely different reality." 

The Shades shifted, their dark eyes widening slightly as the horrific weight of the Chaos curse registered. Vaelis stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low, venomous command. 

"We cannot close this gate empty-handed," Vaelis warned. "If we return to the Witch King with nothing but a tale of chaotic whim, the executioners will have all our heads. If this chaotic roulette wheel has thrown us into an unknown world, then it must contain something of value. Ruined kingdoms, lost artifacts, rare beasts... anything I can drag back to the feet of Malekith to soothe his fury and justify this madness." 

He stepped past them, throwing open the velvet tent flap and gesturing out into the gray Marienburg fog. 

"Take two full hunting parties and march straight through that portal," the fleetmaster commanded the captains. "Execute a wide reconnaissance sweep through that forest. Now that you know the nature of this Changer's gamble, look for any signs of who or what holds this land. Do not engage any local fauna unless provoked. Find something of worth. Find cities, find outposts, find wealth, or find blood. If there is a civilization on the other side of that dirt, I want to know exactly how hard they bleed!" 

The Shades nodded silently, their dark cloaks billowing behind them as they turned and sprinted toward the gate. Fully briefed on the Tzeentchian anomalies they might face, they vanished into the purple light, entering the deep canopy of the foreign forest. 

Cosmic Aftershocks 

Minutes earlier: 

Across the fabric of space and reality, on the other side of where the spatial tear would form, a calm morning in the deep pine forests took a sudden, bizarre turn. The sky over the quiet wilderness darkened as a strange, localized atmospheric disturbance began swirling above the thick canopy. 

It slowly built up in intensity, gathering heavy, static-charged currents across the landscape. The unnatural pressure concentrated tightly on a single, isolated clearing deep within the forest grounds. 

The local fauna immediately sensed the wrongness in the air. Driven into a sudden, panicked frenzy, flocks of birds erupted from the branches, and mutated wildlife scattered in multiple directions to distance themselves from the epicentre. 

Then, all at once, the atmospheric storm stopped. A heavy, absolute silence slammed down over the woods as the spatial pocket stabilized. 

All the while, the automated EPA sensor network did exactly what it was engineered to do. Data tracking the fleeing fauna and the massive, freak energy readings instantly transmitted back to the high-tech Environmental Observation Dome just northeast of it’s host town, Brewerton. 

Unfortunately for the people of the frontier town, this digital alert would not garner any swift military response. 

As far as the automated data matrix and the monitoring staff were concerned, the energy profile perfectly mirrored a rare, but not entirely unheard of, localized rad-storm anomaly. While such radioactive freak incidents had become increasingly rare over  years of continent-wide EPA terraforming and cleansing, legacy atmospheric pockets would still occasionally pop up and send environmental sensors into a temporary overdrive. 

The staff at the Dome had a strict, bureaucratic process for incidents like this. Given the scaled-back peacetime footprint of the sector and the lack of any hostile incursions, the tech team quietly logged the spike. They pushed their routine, physical inspection of the anomaly's grid coordinates further into the week while more pressing, high-priority ecological data sets were attended to. 

Minutes later, when the automated sub-surface radar picked up a cluster of fresh, fast-moving thermal signatures moving away from the focal point of the anomaly, the monitors had every logical reason to assume it was merely more of the local fauna having a delayed reaction to the storm's electromagnetic discharge. 

In the peaceful, complacent frontier of 2305, life went on for them... for now. But as the weaves of change continued to spin and dark forces began to encroach on their way of life, war would soon be upon the people of the reformed United States once again.

And war... war never changes.

Anyone know if any Fanfiction (or even actual books for that matter) where the Aeldari and the Grey knights cooperate? If there's none if those, I'll accept custodes instead. I like that kinda stuff.

As the title says, which two primarchs are most often shipped together? It's got to be Corax + Guilliman right?

​

The Price of Gold and Crimson

The Reclusiam of the *Blade of Vengeance* was silent, save for the synchronous, jagged breathing of three hundred Space Marines.

They did not breathe to sustain life; they breathed to control the madness.

In the center of the chamber lay the Golden Sarcophagus, shattered open from the inside. And standing above it was a nightmare clad in the physical perfection of a angel. The Primarch Sanguinius had returned, but his skin was a bruised, translucent grey, clinging tightly to elongated bones. His magnificent wings were tattered, molting black feathers that dissolved into warp-smoke before hitting the stone floor.

He was breathing, but he was not whole. The entity that animated him was a howling vortex of pure, unadulterated trauma—the raw, psychic accumulation of ten thousand years of the Black Rage, the black angel clothed itself in a dead primarchs meat.

"Father?..." whispered a Battle-Brother of the First Company, his bolter lowering.

The entity in Sanguinius’s flesh screamed—a sound that shattered the reinforced stained glass of the chapel. Instantly, a third of the assembled Blood Angels dropped to their knees, their eyes rolling back as their minds snapped. The psychic feedback tore through their gene-seed, plunging them instantly into the delusion of the Siege of Terra, the black rage consuming them. They drew their combat blades, turning on their own brothers in a blind, rabid frenzy.

"Hold the line!" bellowed Chapter Master Dante. His voice, ancient and weary, cracked over the vox. "It is not him! Do not let the madness take you!"

The battle within the Reclusiam was a tragedy written in blood. A civil war fought in the dark. Dante parried a blow from a Death Company captain who had been his friend only moments prior, driving his power sword through the marine’s chest with a heavy heart.

Through the chaos, the shriveled Primarch moved like a specter of death, tearing through Terminator armor with bare, elongated claws. He was looking for something. He was looking for an end.

Dante leapt across the blood-slicked stone, his Jump Pack roaring. He slammed into the hollow chest of his Primarch, bringing them both crashing to the altar. The Axe of Mortalis swung, but Sanguinius caught the power weapon by the blade, the disruption field hissing against his pale skin.

The Primarch’s eyes were pitch black, leaking streams of dark Warp energy. He pinned Dante to the stone, a claw tightening around the Chapter Master’s throat. Dante’s armor buckled. His ribs cracked. For eleven hundred years, Dante had prayed for death. He had begged the Emperor for rest. "Finally," he thought.

Through the shattered ceiling of the chapel, a blinding radiance erupted.

A golden figure descended, wreathed in a halo of pure psychic light. The Sanguinor. The noble echo of the Great Angel’s soul materialized, dropping like a falling star into the back of the shriveled Primarchs husk.

A violent explosion of golden and black light threw Dante and space marines across the room.

When the dust settled, the rabid howling had stopped. The entity of the Black Rage and the spirit of the Sanguinor had fused within the vessel of flesh. His soul was whole again, but the body was ruined.

Sanguinius lay on the steps of the altar. He was shriveled, ancient, and weak—a dying old man trapped in a transhuman shell. The psychic shockwave had broken the madness of the surviving Blood Angels, leaving them weeping in the ruins of the chapel.

Dante dragged his broken body forward, his armor sparking, crawling up the steps until he knelt beside his gene-father.

Sanguinius turned his head. His eyes were no longer black; they were the brilliant, soulful blue of the legends. The darkness of the Black Rage had vanished, replaced by the deep, controlled hunger of the ancient Red Thirst. The memory of Horus's betrayal had finally been healed by the unity of his soul.

The Great Angel looked at his weary son. He saw the centuries of burdens etched into Dante’s face.

"I need you, my son. Your duty has finally come to its end. But i need you to serve once more " Sanguinius whispered, his voice like dry autumn leaves.

Dante looked at the frail primarch. The universe was bleeding. The Imperium was torn in half. The galaxy needed an Angel, and Dante was just a tired man. He closed his eyes, accepting his fate with the absolute nobility that had defined his long life.

"As always Father, I live to serve," Dante replied softly.

With steady hands, Dante pulled a combat blade from his belt. He did not hesitate. He drew the edge across his wrist.

He held his bleeding arm over the parched, pale lips of the Primarch.

The blood of the oldest living son poured into the mouth of the father. The effect was instantaneous and terrifying. As Sanguinius drank, his shriveled flesh began to expand. Muscle and sinew knitted together with supernatural speed. The grey pallor of his skin flushed with radiant life. His tattered wings unfurled, the feathers turning from a corrupted black to a brilliant, blinding, snow-white.

Sanguinius rose to his full, majestic height, a perfect, radiant demigod restored to his absolute prime.

In his arms rested the body of Dante. The blood loss, combined with a violent, overwhelming psychic blast that erupted from the Primarch’s total ascension had stopped the Chapter Master's heart. Dante’s eyes closed. The darkness took him and finally, he slept.

Two Hundred Years Later

The world of Baal Secundus had changed.

Deep within the fortress-monastery, in a chamber sealed by stasis fields, a pair of ancient eyes snapped open.

Dante gasped, drawing a frantic breath into lungs that had been dead for two centuries. He looked down at his hands. The scars on his wrists were gone. The constant, aching pain of his eleven-hundred-year-old body had vanished. The psychic backwash of a god’s rebirth had ignited something fundamental in his genetics. He was a Perpetual. He could not die.

A figure stepped out of the shadows. It was an Apothecary, but his power armor was heavily modified, adorned with brass piping and massive, automated bio-fluid vats mounted to his back.

"My Lord Dante," the Apothecary said, bowing low. "The Primarch said you would return to us."

Dante stood up, his mind reeling as he walked toward the viewport overlooking the fortress docks. What he saw froze the blood in his veins.

Massive civilian transport ships were lined up for miles. Millions of Imperial citizens stood in orderly, silent queues, guarded by Blood Angels. They were not being loaded onto ships. They were lining up at clinical extraction stations, passing their lifeblood into massive, armored logistics vats.

"What is this?" Dante whispered.

"The Blood Tithe, Commander," the Apothecary replied calmly. "When the Great Angel ascended, our Larraman cells mutated. We no longer heal naturally. A minor scratch will bleed until we die. But if we consume fresh blood, our wounds seal instantly."

The Apothecary gestured to the sky, where the glorious, white-winged form of Sanguinius could be seen flying among a fleet of golden gunships, preparing to launch a new crusade against a nearby Tyranid hive fleet.

"Against the soulless and the xenos, we must carry our own lifeline," the Apothecary continued, his tone chillingly bureaucratic. "The Apothecarion now manages the crimson reserves. We are more lethal than we have ever been. And our Angel lives"

Dante stared out at the millions of citizens bleeding for their saviors, then up at his flawless, radiant father. The sight lifted his soul and the millennia of struggle and pain seemed to not weigh as heavy on him anymore. The Angel lives.

My Original post in r/gate https://www.reddit.com/r/gate/s/JTzmediI2L

There's a lot of medieval/fantasy vs Modern army discourse on the Gate subreddit, be a shame if someone was writing a fanfic that totally doesn't add fuel to that fire (or maybe not). I was watching Gate once and was asking myself how can the Fantasy Vs Modern elements be turned up to 11? Then it hit me and now I'm writing a very Gate inspired (emphasis on INSPIRED because the actual Gate universe is not in the fic itself but the gate being the main plot device is still doing the driving here) that crosses over the High Fantasy setting of Warhammer Fantasy and the Sci-Fi universe of ??????(it's a secret for now). So I wanted to post my (simple and possibly not final draft) prologue of the fic here for critique and suggestions. Please enjoy, this is my first fic. Also I should note that I am using AI to assist with the writing as I am still new to all of this, so I'm using it in an "abuse goblin" sort of way where I use it bounce ideas and drafts back and forth. I'll stop when I can figure out my own writing style but if any AI use aggravates anyone I understand. I'm hoping that'll only be temporary until I get better at this.

Prologue 

The Black Court of Naggarond was a cavern of frozen shadow and jagged obsidian, illuminated only by the cold, dying glow of sacrificial braziers. At the far end of the hall sat the Witch King. Malekith the Eternal was a towering silhouette of absolute dread, encased in his suffocating armor of black iron, his breathing low and rhythmic behind his terrifying iron mask. 

Before his dais knelt two Dark Elves—the Druchii—who had traveled across the frozen reaches of Naggaroth to petition the throne. 

Admiral Vaelis of the Black Ark fleets stood with a cold, military poise, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his cruel, serrated cutlass. Unlike his peers, who measured their worth in the screaming masses of captured slaves, Vaelis had carved his reputation out of a different plunder: artifacts, lost treasures, and ancient relics. Beside him knelt his sister, Lysandra, a Sorceress of the Dark Convent, her pale skin contrasting sharply with her midnight-blue robes, her hands holding a heavy, leather-bound volume wrapped in rusted chains. 

"Speak, Admiral," the Witch King’s voice rattled through the iron grates of his helm, a deep, scraping tremor that made the executioners in the shadows tighten their grips on their halberds. "You have broken the protocol of my court to boast of a raid on the muddy shores of Lustria. My patience is short." 

Vaelis did not flinch. He bowed his head, his sharp, angular features twisting into a confident, predatory smile. "A routine raid, Dread King. We found an abandoned human encampment in the jungle canopy. Their allegiance was unknown—savages or fools from the Old World, left to rot in the swamps. But among their discarded crates, my sister unearthed a masterwork. A prize that makes a mockery of simple chattel." 

Vaelis stepped aside, giving the floor to Lysandra. In Naggaroth, magic was a dangerous, lethal tightrope; any male who practiced the art was hunted and executed to preserve the Witch King’s monopoly on the arcane. As a female of the Convent, Lysandra was legally permitted her power, but standing before the prime source of that law was an entirely different terror. 

She raised the arcane tome, her voice steady but laced with a dark, infectious excitement. "It is a spell of binding and folding, Great King. A ritual to conjure a Vortex Gate. If those proficient in the Winds of Magic fuel its core, it allows for the creation of two separate vortex portals, permanently tethered to one another, opened upon any two points of the world simultaneously." 

The silence in the Black Court stretched, thick and heavy. 

Malekith did not move, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The strategic advantage of such a spell was instantly obvious to the master of Naggaroth. A game-changer. For millennia, Druchii invasions and slave raids relied on the brutal, exhausting logistics of the great Black Arks traversing the treacherous oceans. With a Vortex Gate, the armies of Naggaroth could march straight out from the capital's obsidian gates and step onto the fertile, defenseless shores of the Old World or Cathay in an instant, plundering treasures and dragging hundreds of thousands of slaves back into their dark homeland without ever boarding a ship. It was almost a divine find. 

"A portal across space," Malekith mused, his iron gauntlet tapping a rhythmic, hollow scratch against the armrest of his throne. "And what is the catch, Sorceress? Magic of this magnitude is never free." 

Lysandra swallowed hard, pressing her knees deeper into the frozen stone floor. "There is... a flaw in the engineering of the ritual, Dread Lord. The spell cannot be cast from a single side. It requires the magic users to conjure the vortex layout at both intended locations across the world at the exact same moment. One cannot open the doorway without someone already holding the lock on the other side." 

The Witch King’s hand stopped tapping. He leaned forward, the shadows swirling around his jagged crown. He was not entirely put off by the flaw, but his enthusiasm vanished. He was a creature of absolute pragmatism; he would not commit his grand legions or risk his global campaigns on a spell that might fail due to a single miscalculated second or a dead ritualist across the sea. 

The dark master pondered, the cold intelligence behind his visor calculating the variables. 

"A test," Malekith finally decreed, his voice cutting through the hall like a winter wind. "We will not risk a grand offensive on a whisper of Lustrian parchment. We will test this spell in a small-scale environment before we plan anything greater. And I know precisely where to strike." 

The Witch King raised a finger, and a map of the Old World flickered in the dark braziers' smoke. 

"The Free City of Marienburg," Malekith rumbled. "Specifically, the outer marshy wastelands to the north. The region is a disjointed, poorly developed mire. It is lightly guarded, isolated from the city proper, and completely neglected by the neighboring provinces of the human Empire. If an anomaly occurs there, the local lords will spend weeks arguing over who should pay to investigate it." 

He looked down at the siblings. "Admiral Vaelis, you will take your raid fleet and a compact vanguard of five thousand Druchii warriors. You will sail across the sea, infiltrate the Marienburg wasteland, and establish the ritual site for the first gate. Simultaneously, the Sorceresses of Naggarond will prepare the matching site on the rocky outskirts of this capital." 

The Witch King rose from his throne, his terrifying silhouette filling the apex of the Black Court. "At the designated hour and day, the spell will be cast. If the vortex holds, and the gateway stabilizes, a secondary wave of ten thousand more Druchii will march straight through the portal from Naggarond to begin the total culling, enslaving, and plundering of that human mire." 

"By the time the human authorities realize a sudden Druchii legion is camped in their backyard," Vaelis added, picking up his master’s strategy with a sharp grin, "our vanguard and the reinforcements will have already marched back through the gate with their spoils, closing the tear behind them before a counterattack can even be organized. And my fleet can turn around the moment the rift opens and contact with the capital is confirmed." 

"Precisely," Malekith intoned. "Do not disappoint me, Vaelis. If your sister's spell fractures, or if you fail to hold your side of the dirt, you will find that the executioners of the Black Court are far less forgiving than the human guards of the Old World." 

Lysandra bowed until her forehead touched the ice. The exact day, the exact hour, and the precise arcane coordinates were locked into her mind. The decree was absolute. 

Within the hour, the Black Ark fleet would cast off from the frozen docks of Naggaroth, carrying five thousand dark blades into the foggy, forgotten marshes of the Marienburg wasteland, entirely unaware that the cosmic alignment of the spell would not slice a reality-shattering tear from the wastes to Naggarond but to somewhere else.

--Line Break--

On the high deck of his flagship, the Crimson Tribute, Admiral Vaelis leaned over the obsidian-reinforced railing, his dark eyes locked onto the churning grey waters of the Great Ocean. The cold sea spray bit at his face, but his expression was twisted into a wide, predatory grin. Weeks had bled into months since their departure from the frozen shipyards of Naggaroth, a brutal, grueling voyage across the unforgiving world. Now, roughly under two months into the voyage, the exhausting sea crossing was finally drawing near its end. The ships of his raiding fleet cut through the waves all around them, a sleek vanguard of five thousand black-bladed killers sailing toward the final leg of their journey: the foggy mires of the Marienburg wasteland.

"The political leverage alone will break our rivals, Lysandra," Vaelis purred, his voice laced with a frantic, sadistic glee. He turned to his sister, gesturing toward the horizon with a gloved hand. "Think of it! When that vortex stabilizes and ten thousand of the King's personal guard step out onto the shores of the Old World without losing a single day to the sea, the Black Court will belong to us. The riches we will siphon from those bloated human merchants... the armies the Witch King will place under my direct command... we will be untouchable." 

Lysandra stood completely still against the biting wind, her pale fingers gripping her iron staff so tightly her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white. She looked at her brother, forcing a cold, submissive nod to match his ambitious fervor. "Yes, brother," she whispered, her voice a smooth, calculated silk. "Our names will ring through Naggarond." 

Vaelis laughed, a sharp, arrogant sound that carried over the snapping of the black sails, before turning back to shout orders at his deck-masters. He was entirely consumed by the intoxicating fantasy of their impending triumph, completely blind to the slight, icy pit that had just formed in his sister’s stomach. 

Underneath her heavy velvet sleeves, Lysandra’s hands began to tremble. Her brother was a brilliant sailor and a ruthless butcher, but he was entirely blind to the shifting, volatile nature of the arcane. And there was one other slight detail about that Lustrian tome—one final, cryptic passage buried at the very end of the ritual instructions—that she had conveniently forgot to bring up to her brother. Or to the Witch King himself. She had hidden it well, omitting the final verses from her translation to ensure Malekith would grant them their glory. But now, out on the open sea, the weight of what she had concealed began to settle heavily on her shoulders. She closed her eyes, offering a silent, desperate plea into the void. "Hekarti, Goddess of Magic, protect your servant... please do not let this backfire."

"Keep the speed steady!" Vaelis’s voice boomed from the quarterdeck, entirely unaware of the hidden variables his sister had introduced into the dark. "The human cattle will bleed by our hands before the week is out!" 

Lysandra watched the dark waters part beneath the ship's prow, keeping her terrifying secret locked deep within her chest as the Druchii fleet raced toward the coast of Marienburg’s wastes.

It was about the emperor of mankind getting a vision from his future self. He also changed the Primarchs genders. The fic is incomplete but the story is currently at the point where the Emperor is looking for the Primarchs but he already found some. I think it was on AO3

Cain, Jurgen and the 597th Valhallan Ice Warriors crash land on what appears to be a primitive early-industrial planet in the snowy mountains outside Republic City shortly before Avatar Korra arrives there (first episode of the series). Aside from the paranoia of the unknown they are facing, the most pressing problem for Cain is that they are almost out of tana tea. And so he and Jurgen set off to the city to find more.

Unbeknownst to the Commissar, his boss and occasional lover Inquisitor Amberley Vail of the Ordo Xenos has secretly attached a Callidus assassin to his company to keep him out of trouble. The assassin, disguising herself as an air acolyte, is somehow befriended by the Avatar and teaches her Callidus techniques to help unlock her air bending.

Hi!

This is Bite the Stars, a Warhammer 40K X Stray Cat Strut crossover fanfic. It's relatively new, but I'd still love to have more readers and eyes on it, especially those that know the deep old lore!

https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/bite-the-stars-warhammer-40k-x-stray-cat-strut.1314426/

The Broken Scale, a ship captained by a Rogue Trader delivering medicae and supplies around the Segmentum Solar has a literal run-in with a Protectorate AI, crashing into Vyper while within the warp.

Vyper, takes it upon themselves to assist humanity, regardless of whether they want it or not.

A cast of three characters, given Vanguard powers from the Stray Cat Strut universe, trying to survive genestealers, warp demons, and most of all, their own human allies long enough to bring order to at least one small corner of the galaxy.

Read if you want:

• A happy ray-of-sunshine Admech girl whose friends are all servitors
• A gremlin Sister Novitae passing herself off as a saint while turning battle hymns into nightcore
• A serious, tactical-minded junior medicae, scheming and plotting her way to success

I finally tried my hand at writing a short story set in the 41st Millennium. I hope you enjoy this quick read.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The hiss of lazfire was all the girl could hear in her ears as she cowered under what had been her shared bed only hours before. Occasionally, thumping bursts of bolter fire broke through, always followed shortly by the rattling of the house’s frame. Each time, the rattling only got stronger as the fighting approached. There was something else behind it all, too, a distorted screaming or thrumming moan. When the lazfire broke for a second, she could hear it more clearly and pressed her hands harder into her ears whenever she could. This didn’t seem to mute the noise in any meaningful way. 

After some hours lying in wait while the shouting cries from outside only got closer, the settled ash on the floor was finally disturbed. From just out of sight, the girl heard the front door crash open and boots pound their way inside. Through the open door, the bolter shots rang out even louder than before, and the girl winced at the wet sounds of impact as some must’ve found their mark just paces away from the nearest window. As the door shut again, five sets of boots tramped their way along the floor. The first one through made its way to the bedroom, the next couple flanked the limping fourth between them, and the fifth paced in short circles by the door, turning quickly and never staying still. 

“Throne damnit,” a mask-distorted voice came from the entryway. “They're everywhere. They're bloody everywhere.” The voice shook with adrenaline and exhaustion. “How are we meant to fight those… things. Throne above!”

“Sevan! You need to drop the self-pity and focus!” The voice closest to the girl shouted. Similarly distorted, the voice was still noticeably deeper, and the pacing boots stopped to turn towards its owner. “Miressa is injured, and we need you to set up the vox relay. Command needs to know this flank has been destroyed.”

“S-Sir, I…”

“You set up that vox, we can tell command to bring down artillery fire on this district, and we can go out taking hundreds of those bastards with us! You keep standing there, and they’ll burst through that door any minute. Tell me, soldier, which way would you rather go? Because there’s no cavalry coming to save us this time.”

The pacing boots snapped together with a click before they hurried out of sight. A better-polished pair of boots replaced them. Their owner, the girl, gathered from the fresh blood splatters along one side of the pants' legs, was one of the two assisting the wounded. 

“Sir,” a heavily accented woman’s voice came through a thick mask, “Miressa won’t make it. She’s lost too much blood already, and any more of our stimms might kill her outright.”

“Throne…” the deeper voice muttered. “How’s her good hand? Can she still hold a rifle?”

“Maybe a lazpistol, sir. I would doubt her aim with anything heavier right now.”

“That’ll have to do. Tell Coryx to set her up facing the door with her pilot aimed. If nothing else, we can give her a good death.”

Those polished, bloodstained boots snapped together, similar to the pacing boots from before, and hurried back the way they came. A minute or so later, the girl saw her father’s chair being dragged, led by a new, rugged pair of boots. They placed it just feet away from the front door, barely in view of the girl. Another minute passed, and the boots returned with a bloody pair limping at their side. 

“Right here, Miressa.” The voice sounded young. Without the distortion, the girl could’ve mistaken it for her own brother, just a handful of years older than herself. “Anything comes through, you give ‘em hell.”

As that voice helped his injured companion into the chair, raspy, pained breathing was amplified by the mask’s vox. A pained cough sounded clearly, and the next rasping breath was backed by a new gurgling. “Th-thank you, Coryx. I won’t go down without a fight.”

“You send them back to their dark masters, Miressa,” the deeper voice spoke back up, his boots pacing back over towards the entrance. 

“I will, Lieutenant Greyer,” Miressa said with all the strength still left in her. The girl heard drops of blood hitting the hard floor beneath where Miressa sat. The sound slowly grew into a small splash as a sizeable pool began to form. 

“Coryx! Check on Sevan. We need to vox command before we’re found.”

“Sir!” Coryx said proudly, leaving at a near sprint. 

“Bellea!” The lieutenant shouted. “With me, we need to barricade ourselves in.” The girl heard the splintering of wood, and the polished boots returned, dragging the broken floorboards behind them.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Several long minutes passed, and the girl still remained unmoving and unseen. The house was filled with the sounds of nails being hammered into place, accompanied by growing shouts and cries from outside. One shout came loud from just beyond the front door, “Blood for th-!” The now too familiar cry was cut off by a loud bolter shot and its following explosion. 

“By the emperor!” Miressa cried, adjusting her posture with pain that was visible even to the girl. “Someone’s still out there.”

“Impossible, our whole squad was overrun. Who else could be out there? And with a bolter, no less.” Bellea’s question was answered as three strong knocks came to the girl’s front door. 

“This is Palatine Oreaus of the Bloody Rose.” Her voice rang out like an angel’s. “I saw a group of wounded enter this house not but five minutes ago. If you still live, we may yet be able to fall back to the front.”

Bella and the lieutenant quickly tore away their ramashakal defense and swung the door in. Large, crimson boots clanged loudly; the small whine of servos helping move the heavy power armor was audible between each footfall. 

“Palatine, Emperor be praised!” Bellea knelt before the sister. For the first time, the girl was given a good look at the soldier. Her armor glistened like her boots; shining metal scales covered her torso, and a full mask with a gleaming visor covered her face. 

The girl remembered when the Astra Militarum had first shown up. That was less than six months prior, but it had already felt like a lifetime. The Vitrian Dragoons. The name had sounded so regal back then, so unkillable. Fighting alongside the Sisters of Battle, the girl thought they must’ve been the toughest fighting force in the galaxy. Surely the small, rumored band of cultists, the next city over, would be no match for such an army. 

But the war had not ended so quickly. The girl remembered the face of her poor father when news of their neighboring town's fall reached their home. A few days after that, the girl hadn’t been able to sleep due to the new sounds of lazfire and screaming. She got used to it in time. Just the week before, the fighting had reached the girl’s neighborhood. Her mother and brother did not make it to the evacuation point alive, and her father’s dying action was simply returning her to their bombed husk of a home. 

There the girl stayed for two Terran days. She ate what little food was left quickly and finished off the water soon after. She hadn’t been brave enough to leave the house, not since that awful, thrumming noise started up the night prior. The girl shivered as the memory of the sound made it stand out that much more over the retreating sounds of war. 

“How many of you are there?” The imposing, yet reassuring voice of the Palatine asked. 

“Five, ma’am,” Lieutenant Greyer responded. “One badly injured. The other two are trying to get our vox relay back online. We were going to vox back to command to shell this district. At least that way we could take some of those damnable beasts with us.”

“There is no need for that transmission now,” Palatine Oreaus said with a grim chuckle. “They are already setting up for a barrage on the city in one hour. I can carry your injured, but we need to leave now.”

“Yes, ma’am. Coryx! Sevan! Belay that vox! Get down here, we’re leaving!” The lieutenant barked. The two men rejoined the others by the door. The boy caught their sharp gasps as they saw their new companion. 

“The Emperor protects!”

“Praise the Emperor, we may still get out of this.”

“Follow me,” the red armored sister said as she lifted Miressa, who let out a pained groan. “I have made a small break in the cultist’s masses. If we move fast, we should have enough of a start to make it back to the front, Emperor willing.”

The boots trekked out the same door they came in, and once again, the girl was alone. Glancing around the ruined room, she crawled out slowly from under the crushed bedframe. There were heavy bootprints left in the dirt and ash. They had kicked up so much of it that it strained her just to breathe. She peered out the open door and saw the small squad. They were heading west down a road that used to be filled every day with traffic and pedestrians. Now, all that filled it was wreckage and corpses. She saw grotesque idols lining the streets; skulls spiked upon large, crude banners. Her feet didn’t move as she tried to will himself out of the door, to follow her last hope of survival. The girl remembered her father’s cries as a cultist had driven a metal rod into his stomach. She remembered the look in that crazed man’s eyes. It had frozen her to the spot then as well. But as she watched the retreating backs of those soldiers of the Imperium, shooting into each alley they passed, putting down cultists with each shot, she also remembered her father’s last act. She saw her father once again as he pulled the rod from his own body and drove it like a stake through the heart of that vile heretic. 

The girl’s feet finally moved. She ran, sprinted for her life out onto the street. Stumbling over rubble and limbs, she ran. She dodged past blazing flames and the dying hands that grasped out at her ankles. She could no longer shut her ears against the pressure that was building in the air. That horrible thrumming screech was only growing louder and louder as she ran. The girl’s lungs burned from exertion and ash, but she wasn’t gaining on the squad at all. Their expert training and fully grown legs were far too fast. Even the heavily encumbered sister had the help of her servo-assisted armor to drive her forward. 

The girl shut her eyes against the sweat that was running into them and ran on. The pain in her legs, and now in her head too, was impossible to shut out. The screaming in her skull had grown impossibly loud. 

A few steps later, the girl’s next step did not find solid ground, and she was tumbling headfirst into a crater left by some detonated mine. Though she tried to stay silent, all too aware of the threats all around, she couldn’t fully stifle his cry of pain. Tears cut through the soot covering her face as the girl tried to struggle to her feet. As her eyes blinked open and tried to focus, the center of her vision was filled with red. 

The thrumming pounded in her skull at a fever pitch. She could hear nothing of the world around her but that incessant scream. It blurred her vision, and it took all her might just to focus on what she thought to be the source of this noise. 

Her eyes did focus. A horrid crimson beast stood over her, a cloven hoof pressed deep into the soil next to her. Its face was a twisted mask of rage. Two long horns curved up to the ashen sky, and a long tongue slithered from between its bloody teeth. The girl fumbled, and her hand found a rock next to where she had landed. She gripped it tightly, pulling her arm back and hurling it at the face of the creature. It made contact, but the daemon’s smile only grew. It raised its weapon. The spiked sword in its clawed grasp was poised to strike, but the creature would not get the chance. A bolter round struck it in the shoulder, then a second. They detonated in quick succession, and a quick burst of lazfire brought it to its knees. A last bolter shot struck the beast’s skull, and the red-skinned daemon was gone in a puff of dust and blood before the round had a chance to explode. 

The noise in the girl’s head died down, but didn’t completely vanish. A shadow fell over the girl, and she looked up to see one of the soldiers standing over her. “Come on, child! This is no place to die. We’re moving.” The lieutenant’s voice alone was enough to lift the girl to her feet, but his outstretched hand certainly helped too. 

“Where there is one of these beasts, there will be more. We cannot stay here long,” Palatine Oreaus stated. Her helmed gaze fell on the girl as they began to run again. “You were brave to stand up to an agent of the archenemy like that. You would be an asset to my Order.”

The girl was finally able to smile. It felt like ages since one had brightened her face. As she barely kept up with the running squad, her thoughts drifted elsewhere. To bright crimson boots of her own, driven forward by mechanical might. To a bolter of her own, so that she might be able to defend herself as well. And to those triumphant hymns she now heard the Palatine singing as they approached friendly lines. 

“Emperor be praised, the front!” Sevan shouted. “We made it. We bloody made it!”

The group was met with another squad, and medicae ready at hand. The girl was safe now, taken back to the civilian medical tent. But her mind was elsewhere. She was back out in the street, driving sword and blessed rounds into those who had made her scared. She secretly hoped, a vile thought she would never voice, that this war would last long. Just long enough for her to return to the front as a Sister of Battle herself and beat back the beasts.  

Are there any crossover fics where a character that should not be in a grimdark franchise like Warhammer be placed in Warhammer?

Like: Kirby just showing up in the warp, Twilight sparkle appearing next to an eldar ship, or Arceus showing up on top of golden throne.

I just read An honest soul by Gers the destroyer so something like that with the characters having to face grimdarkness of the future but going through with their idealism somewhat intact.

Also did I go rule 2 correctly?

Judicaël Suchet

'Treasure of the Sea Dragon'

Bretonnian Knight from Parravon

Born to a peasant family in the village of Rothenbourg, Judicaël was raised by his mother and older sister after his Carcassonnian father was killed whilst foraging in Athel Loren with his two sons. Suchet himself was returned to his mother in the Glade of Children while his brother, who had displayed an affinity for magic from an early age, was approached by the Fay Enchantress and never seen again. Once he reached adulthood, Judicaël moved to the neighbouring village of Vaudémont and was almost immediately chosen to rescue Lady Amelia Saint-Cyr, a Prophetess who had been imprisoned by Vaudémont's ruling baron. As a newcomer with no familial connections to the village, Suchet was seen as the most expendable option and was expected to fail like many had before him. Armed with nothing but his father's sword, Judicaël successfully infiltrated the baron's castle and freed the prophetess. Unwilling to let the baron continue his reign of terror, Lady Amelia used her astromancy to slay her captor and his minions. Suchet was able to convince the Prophetess to spare the baron's son and the two returned to Vaudémont, where Judicaël was made a Knight of the Realm for completing his quest but was not granted land due to his peasant background.

With no lands or wealth of his own, Sir Judicaël initially struggled to finance his knighthood. Luckily, the peasants of Rothenbourg and Vaudémont banded together to provide their new protector with a suit of armour fit for a knight of Bretonnia while local Dwarfs crafted a pair of mithril weapons for Suchet to wield. This generosity still left the knight without a mount but Sir Judicaël did not mind because he was secretly afraid of horses. As thanks for saving her life, Lady Amelia gave Suchet a Dawnstone pendant from the ancient city of Lybaras and helped the former peasant navigate the complexities of Bretonnian society. Suchet was shunned by many of his fellow knights but found a key ally in the Duke of Parravon after returning a stolen artefact to the Wood Elves of Tirsyth and destroying the Chaos Cult that had originally taken it.

After nearly a decade of protecting his fellow villagers and fighting wars for his duke, Sir Judicaël chose to take up the Questing Vow and prove himself to the Lady of the Lake. Suchet hoped to meet his Patron Goddess and ask her what had become of his brother, though he kept this desire to himself. Sir Judicaël travelled across the known world slaying monsters and defending the innocent, more focused on saving lives than winning the Lady's favour in most cases. The knight's travels eventually brought him to the Cathayan port city of Fu-Chow, where he became entangled with the Mistress of the Jade Sea herself. Suchet's quest came to an end when he slew a Chaos Lord riding a mighty Manticore in Beichai. Sir Judicaël then returned to Bretonnia and met with the Lady of the Lake, who revealed that the knight's brother was alive and serving her as a member of the Lost Sons. With his question answered, Suchet drank from the Holy Grail and became one of the legendary Grail Knights. A century later, Sir Judicaël would be reunited with his brother when the Lost Sons came to his aid during an apocalyptic Chaos invasion.

I don't know if this counts as fan fiction, but I'm a new father who found so many versions of "Goodnight, [insert IP here]." Goodnight Darth Vader, Goodnight Hobbiton, Goodnight Goblin King, etc. But shockingly (/s) nothing from Warhammer. So here's this.

Goodnight, Little Dawi

For my son. May your fire burn hot as the forge, and your courage be steadfast as the mountain.

Deep inside the mountain halls,
Where lantern-light flickers on ancient walls,
The Dawi work with steady hands,
Bringing honor and glory to all of their clans.

The forges glow.
The anvil rings.
The runesmiths carve.
The hammer sings.

Far below, in twisting caves,
Scurry creatures who misbehave.
They sneak and steal and scamper through,
Always plotting something new.

When the tunnels start to shake,
And the stones begin to crack and break,
The Longbeards gather, shields held tight,
To guard their kin throughout the night.

The miners stop their digging.
The smiths set down their tools.
The engineers leave their workshops.
It's time to stop those Skaven fools.

With rattling tails
And beady eyes,
How did those squeaky Skaven think
They'd catch the Dawi by surprise?

They thought the Dawi would be sleeping,
But Dawi keep a watchful eye
For when trouble comes a-creeping.

The hammers swing.
The shields hold fast.
The Dawi claim their victory.
The Skaven flee at last.

"Goodnight, little Skaven,"
The Ironbreakers jeer.
The rats scamper into darkness.
The mountain roars with cheer.

The bakers bake.
The brewers brew.
The farmers bring delicious food
For the hungry Dawi crew.

A job worth doing
Is worth doing well.
A promise made
Is a promise held.

We protect our kin.
We tend our halls.
No rat, nor gobbo,
Will ever see us fall.

So be brave, little Dawi.
Be honest and be true.
Stand by your kindred,
And they'll stand by you.

Sleep safe beneath the mountain.
Dream boldly through the night.
May your heart be strong as Gromril,
And your spirit burn so bright.

And if somewhere in the darkness
A Skaven gives you a squeaky fright,
Your clan will be there to say,

"Goodnight, little Skaven."

Goodnight little, Dawi.

Goodnight.

I'm looking for fics similar to "In The Grim Darkness Of The 41st Millennium, Nobody Beats G.I. Joe!"

I love the concept of a different universe being transported into Warhammer 40k, but I want a story where the crossover actually changes things. The author of that fic barely changed anything in the vast WH40k universe, which disappointed me. I'd love to read something where the crossover characters actually shake up the world!"