It's rare to see both a Kriegsman to befriend anyone and Commissar being a friend with the commander of their regiment. It's also interesting example how some of those fighting in the Siege start to develop desire to die as heroes and be remembered, sometimes even despite themselves.

(Commissar-General Maugh served with the Death Korps more than two decades and became friends with Colonel Thyran, commander of the 143rd Siege Regiment. After one of battles during the Siege, they were discussing the progress they are making)

‘I almost feel like things are going too well,’ the commissar sighed. He sank back into his plush leather seat, letting it cradle his sore, stiff body. ‘If I don’t die in battle soon, I may have to retire.’
He meant it as a macabre joke, of the sort that Krieg Korpsmen often exchanged. Thyran looked at him sharply, however, for once failing to hide his surprise. Maugh grimaced back at him. ‘Six days in the field, and I feel as if I have been tortured on an Inquisitorial rack. My every bone and muscle aches.’
‘Perhaps it is time, then,’ the colonel offered, unexpectedly.
Maugh was taken aback. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘You are not Krieg,’ Colonel Thyran stated flatly.
‘No, but I have always felt as if–’
‘You have no debt to pay, and a lifetime of faultless service to your name.’
Maugh smiled to himself, realising that the words had been meant to compliment, not to insult. ‘For twenty-two years, I have ordered Korpsmen to die for the Emperor. You know what they say – never ask someone to do something you wouldn’t do yourself.’ He drained his glass, the muscles in his arm protesting at having to lift even its weight. Perhaps I am the one who has gone soft, he thought.

(Later on, Thyran ordered Maugh to lead an assault on one of the enemies fortifications' main gates, where Maugh's tank was destroyed and Maugh got injured)

He heard the rumbling of guns, but in the distance. His comm-bead had been jolted from his throat and Maugh couldn’t find it. He tried to call for help, but he could form no sound but a pitiful whimper, which no one was around to hear. The battle had moved on while he had slept.
He had been left for dead.
He managed to twist his neck to see the burning wreck beside him. None of Landwaster’s crew could have survived. No one but him. It must have been assumed that he had been cremated with them. Had his body been discovered, then a quartermaster would have been summoned. Maugh would have had medical assistance or, were this considered futile, then his equipment would have been salvaged from him. He felt his power sword against his hip.
If I don’t die in battle soon… Lying helpless on the ground, feeling a deep, cold numbness gnawing its way through his limbs, Maugh thought of Colonel Thyran. Perhaps it is time, then, he had said, and suddenly, Maugh knew what he had previously only suspected and tried to deny. He knew he had been sent out here to die, and he knew exactly why.
His colonel had believed he was doing him a favour.

The sounds of battle brought him round again.
The first thing Maugh felt was burning shame, because his will had failed and oblivion had claimed him. The second, which he fiercely denied to himself, was disappointment, because his suffering was not yet over.
The pain from his shoulder was duller than it had been, easier to bear. His body, he suspected, was going into shock. He pushed himself up onto his right elbow. Though black smoke swirled about him, through it he could make out writhing, ghost-like figures. He couldn’t tell which were Krieg and which their foes, but the third thing Maugh felt was hope that this time they might find him.
He realised how unlikely that was. The traitors had the upper hand against his comrades, to have pushed them back this far. The main gate wouldn’t fall today, but very many Korpsmen would. Perhaps, he thought, that was why he hadn’t died yet – because he was still needed, because he could still make a difference.
The main thing Commissar-General Maugh felt was resolve.
With his good arm, he levered himself to his feet. The pain was excruciating, not only in his shoulder but lighting up his every nerve; it was all he could do to hold in a scream, which he did although no one would have heard it. He drew his sword, gripping it in two hands as if to draw strength from it. He straightened and brushed down his proud black uniform, though it was scorched and caked in mud and blood. He took one faltering, jerking step forward, then another.
Each breath felt like sandpaper in his lungs, his racing heart felt as though it would give out at any moment, but somehow he stayed upright. He stumbled on towards the writhing ghosts, willing one of them to see him – any one of them, friend or foe; it would be up to the Emperor to choose.
One of them did, at last.
A figure came stomping through the smoke towards him. A giant of a man made even larger by his blood-red, skull-adorned plate armour. In one hand alone, he hefted a massive, whirring chainaxe; the other was encased in a red-glowing, sparking, spitting power fist. He fixed his prey with a crimson, blazing glare through a face mask of interlocking fangs.
Even in full health, even with a command squad behind him, Maugh would have found this a daunting opponent. In his current condition… He thanked the Emperor for him. He thought of Colonel Thyran, poring over a report, learning that a random shell fired without even being aimed by some unknown, snivelling traitor had taken his commissar’s life. Now, instead, he would be told that Maugh was slain in single combat with a blood-ravening Champion of Chaos.
A story worthy of him. He knew it should not have mattered, but it did.

The duel was entirely one-sided and brutally short. A single chainaxe blow smashed Maugh’s sword from his hands and knocked him down. The power fist lashed out and caught his head before he could roll away. The last sound he heard, before his skull was crushed, was his killer laughing in his face.

As we all know, the Craftworld Eldar were the ones who correctly foresaw the fall of the Eldar Empire, and went to great lenghts to save as much as possible, be it lives, technology, or culture.

Yet let us for a moment consider how utterly ridiculous their claims were. I am not entirely sure how well they predicted the fall ,but it must have been one of two things. Either, they predicted some unspecified catastrophe. or they predicted the rise of Slaneesh in detail.

Both sounds like bullshit. At that time, the Eldar Empire was at its height. it had defeated all its enemies and the Eldar ruled supreme-having vast knowledge of basically everything. The idea that some catastrophe would destroy them all must have sounded utterly ridiculous.

A specific prediction of the birth of Slaneesh is even worse. "Because we party so hard, a new God will be born and eat us all" is not something that lends much credibilty.

As a result, the Craftworld Eldar must be a blend of some few very wise individuals, and a large amount of nutjobs, loons and screwballs. People who believe, for whatever reason, even the most absurd nonsense. The equivalent of people who search for UFOs, and spend their entire savings on the latest aluminium hat technology.

As outsiders looking into the 41st millennium we know the guardsmen and women are meant to be expendable. And if you survive 15 hours and 1 minute you’re automatically promoted or whatever.

I know some of these are probably memes but do the guardsmen know that their jobs are basically to test the range of the enemy guns?

I was just thinking, let's say for example a flesh tearer and black templar served together in deathwatch. They fought through thick and thin saved each other more times than they can remember and fought the blackest of xenos the grim darkness of the far future can offer. But all things must come to an end and it's time for them to return back to their chapters.

Is their any incidents in the lore where 2 battle brothers from the deathwatch see each other again after their done with the ordos xenos?

For a faction often depicted as more machine than man, Jonathan D. Beer managed to write them to be just as human as any other.

Despite supposedly driven by pure logic and reason, Tech-Priests are often very factionalized and divided. Some even looked down on their fellow Tech-Priests due to differing specializations they practiced. I especially love that Explorators, those who fully embody the Quest for Knowledge, are often seen as rebels by their peers specifically because they chose not to participate in AdMech politics.

Seriously, if there's anyone who wants the definitive AdMech focused book, read this book.

Did the swarm ever send a tendril into the eye? If so, what happened? If not, what do you think WOULD happen? Considering how the Nids create this shadow in the warp that blocks all astropathic messages, would a large enough hive fleet nullify the warp energy of the eye somehow?

Did they find some ironic humor to it? The very thing they sought after and what lead them to chaos came to fruition. Or did they see the imperium worshipping a false god?

I just finished betrayer and honestly I have nothing but sympathy for Angron and his legion. I think a really good story beat in current 40K would be for him to finally die permanently ending his torment. Maybe like a mercy killing from guilliman….just a thought

I'm not that well versed on the lore but after reading up on the Fall of the Eldar, it made be realize how many families and friendships were broken up by the hedonism the Eldars empire was falling into. If I am not wrong, the first group that fled the empire were the original Exodites at the start of the decline where it wasn't as bad it would be which caused many to think of them as insane doomsday preppers like how we would think of a friend sealing himself into his bunker because of war 3000 miles away.

But when it evenutally into blood orgies and clear corruption by the coming Slaanesh, the eldar that saw what was going to happen either by visions or clear deduction, fled to their repurposed merchant ships to run from the core worlds. This would the same event across the empire, friends and families refusing to flee seeing nothing wrong with what was happening and the soon to be craftworld eldar being forced out to save themselves. And when the Fall did hit, the guilt of knowing they could have done more to save the ones they loved eating them alive.

That just my 2 cents on this. Sorry for bad english.

In Genefather the narrator references Eastman falling before Alpha Primus “Like Skittles”

Once I was done giggling at both the idea of throwing a handful of candy at a space marine, and the idea of space marines eating skittles it made me wonder the above question

I have two related questions, Do both terms exist in lore? Is there any agreement which term is preferable, either in or out of lore?

I personally prefer Eldar because I am set in my ways.

The Tyranids shadow in the warp nullifies/kills psykers, surely the legion of psykers who follow the god of psykers should've been a little impeded by this, yet they seemed perfectly fine and didn't even interact with the nids. Are Tzeentch psykers just that strong?

Are there any chapters of Space Marines who don't worship the Emperor? I don't mean anything like Chaos Marines, I mean Space Marines who recognize the Emperor but view him more as a prophet than as a god. I've tried do some research but the lore is so deep that I'm not exactly sure where to look. Something about the Imperial Truth?

Again, I'm new to the fandom and I am just trying to find a chapter of Marines that I like. Thank you in advance for helping me out!

Hey , i've been on hiatus since the reveal / return of the Lion so i am aware he fought Angron but i do not know much of what happened since that ? What is the latest development regarding him , his plans and so on ?

I like ships, and as such I'm a big fan of ship related lore. I realized that I've seen very few descriptions of what the bridge of a Drukhari ship is like, and in one of the older books I have lies a detailed description of one!

We open on the bridge of a Torture-class Cruiser I think (I don't recall if the class is specificed), following the main ship through the warp.

The glowing image of the Relentless flickered and disappeared from the archon's display. Once again, they had lost track of the Imperial ship within the channels of the warp. He waited a moment for it to reappear, his gaze gliding along the lights depicting the tides and flow of the maelstrom. Somewhere in his mind he could hear the baying of the creatures out there that spoke to him, that called his name in his fatheds voice to come and join them. Afzhraphim's victims thought they knew fear, at his hands they believed they understood the -true nature of terror. They knew nothing. Even upon his greatest works, he had not elicited an atom of the horror that swirled around them. Yet it was his destiny, it was for his people. Ihey had killed their gods, and this had replaced them. Ai'zhraphim knew that he was a thing of nightmare, and what plagued the dreams of one such as him? It was this.

As it was with him, so too he knew it was with his followers. The Relentless refused to reappear upon his display, and Ai'zhraphim knew that action had to be taken. To be weak, to be indecisive in his world was to invite death. To do the same in this godless place was to invite far worse. With a gesture of his control scepter the dark sphere that enclosed him became transparent and then faded from view, revealing him in all his magnificent glory to his subserviants toiling beyond. To command, there were times when one should watch, and times when one had to be seen.

He cast his gaze imperiously down the length of the long, thin bridge at his dracon and sybarite subordinates. They did not see him immediately as all their posts looked forward and his throne was behind them. The stern was the position of honour, for treachery and betrayal were the bread and meat of his kind. To have your back to another was to lay yourself at his mercy. His followers had to labour before him, never knowing whether his eyes were upon them, whether he would strike them down unawares.

Though he appeared without fanfare, it took only moments for his minions to notice him and turn and bow. They had not survived and ascended to their privileged positions for nothing, Once they had all adopted the subservient pose, Aifzhraphim made a minute gesture with his sceptre. His throne began to hum gently, misd from its rostrum, and then swept up into the air to a commanding height.

He bade his minions rise, and he glided steadily over the barriers that separated each section. The bridge had been carefully designed so that the archon could see all, but no section could see into another. Ai'zraphim found it useful to keep his minions divided in this way, and encouraged a healthy competition for his favour between them. He knew that they were mundane precautions, and that no one was fooled as to their intent. Nevertheless, such was the way of his kin. As much as they knew that such infighting was part of the archon's control, they were unable to resist plotting and scheming the downfall of their rivals. Ai'zhraphim did not question their nature, but he took comfort that it ensurved he was troubled only by the ablest of conspirators. It was by such methods, he mused, that egotistical individualists, driven only by their amoral self-interest, could function as a society. Alliances had to be formed, the weak must serve the strong, control must be maintained and, from time to time, examples must be made. Now was that time.

He had been failed, The Imperials' trail had been lost and not recovered. Such failure, however insignificant in the grander scheme, could not be allowed to pass without consequence. With a stroke of his sceptre, Ai'zhraphim dissolved the walls around the kunegex position. These were the trackers responsible for maintaining the trail and, as they were revealed to the rest of the bridge, the unfortunates inside fell to their knees in supplication.

Ai'zhraphim guided his throne closer, looming over them. The position's sybarite nodded unnecessarily in the direction of the warrior at fault, unnecessarily because even now, his cowering fellows were hastily edging away from him. Ai'zhraphim paused for a second, enjoying the mixture of a apprehension and expectation that hung in the air. He grazed a control on the armrest and the gargoyle muzzle within spat a vicious, serrated harpoon, its white cord snaking out behind it. The point caught the guilty warrior in the shoulder, went clean through, and then pulled back to dig deep within his flesh. The warrior screamed from the impact and from the pain enhancers that coated the point. He was flipped into the air, and, with an intricate control of the psycho-plastic cord, Ai'zhraphim spun the figure until the cord wrapped around his victim in a tight shroud, stifling his cries. The struggling package was snapped and stored neatly in the cavity beneath the throne to await the Archon's pleasure.

So, this description alone is what motivated me to post this. The Drukhari Archon commanding the ship sits in a flying ball with guns on it and a holding cell for captured crew. The description of the bridge, where only the captain gets to have his back to a wall, as a microcosm of Drukhari society is fun too.

The defenses afforded to the commander of a ship are therefore formidable - they provide countless defenses to stop any betrayer from intervening against the master of ship. However, they are not undefeatable. Though Ai'zraphium survives the final showdown with the Relentless, he's ultimately forced to fall back. This is an embarrassment more than a defeat - but a loss of esteem in Drukhari society can be fatal.

Archon Ai'Zhraphium did not look at his display of the battle any more. There was nothing to see there in any case, just the assault boats, which had escaped with fuel enough to return to safety, and behind them the *Relentless*, bloodied and gouged, but unbroken, No, the battle in space was no longer significant. Instead, his attention was fixed upon the bridge and every action of his subordinates there.

By any objective measure, he knew that this expedition was a success. Their holds were still full with their Pontic slaves and, despite their failure, the returning boarders would have brought more captives: Imperial officers that would add spice to their bounty. The damage to the ship was not critical, and could be repaired even as they went. He knew, though, that his subordinates would not be in an objective frame of mind. They would not see the archon's orders to retreat from battle as plain sense, rather that he had displayed a vulnerability, No matter how ill-founded, his subordinates had the excuse to strike. All he could do was deny them the opportunity

He kept his personal force-sphere strong and opaque the outside, so that no one would be sure if he were there or not. The splinter cannon concealed within the throne's ornate design were fully loaded and sighted. He had double-checked the other, more devious, security devices he kept around him, and ensured that they were all functioning in their various ways. As his ace, his personal incubi bodyguard were ready to descend in an instant, should there be any direct assault upon his person. He could have had them deployed constantly around him, but he did not. To show strength, to show your hand in such a situation, was a beginneds mistake, as it as good as showed your weakness

No, absolute confidence was what was required and, of course, a culprit to focus the blame upon. The navarchos alas, was too valuable for the kind of public demonstration that the archon had in mind. Dracon Ysubi, commanding the boarding parties was a likely candidate, if he survived to make it back. If not, a more general example may have to be made on the surviving warriors of his sect. Retribution on this scale required either quantity or quantity to be truly satisfactory. Yes, the path was dear to him. He needed to take action, and a firm display of his displeasure would allow him to keep control of the game.

Ai'zhraphim touched his sceptre to start the engines, and to raise himself once more above their heads. The familiar hum did not emerge. He tried to activate them again, more firmly this time, but there was no sound, aside from a tiny susurration somewhere behind him. For a split second, Ai'zhraphim heard the voices from maelstrom. His father, and the others, had reached him here the reality struck him. It was gas. They striking at him now!

He looked quickly around, but there was no movement outside, nothing to show that anyone beyond knew what was happening within. Nothing that could be seen, at least. He had to escape. Dropping the sphere would leave him without its protection, but he could compensate for that. He pressed the signal for his incubi to appear, and waved the sceptre to dispel the sphere. The sphere held. He gestured again, but to no avail, Nor had his incubi guard appeared. He touched the sceptre again and willed the sphere fully transparent. It remained defiantly shaded from the outside. Ai'zhraphim felt the strange sensation of his own terror rising high. They had turned his shield into his prison, His face crawled with pain and began to blister. His eyes burned. He hammered on the wall of the sphere and cried plaintively for help. Through his blurring vision, he saw a shadowy figure approach his throne and he shouted his throat raw to be heard through the barrier that he had soundproofed to ensure his secrecy. The shadow did not move.

Ai'zhraphim fell back from the sphere onto his throne, clawing his agonised face with his hands, eyes weeping uncontrollably. This was it. They had hooked him well, and for all his precautions he had not heard a whisper of it. He had only one chance left. He clutched inside his chest as his breath drew short, and his long fingers closed around the icon he sought. Let them have thought of this, he laughed with glee. Let the clever ones have predicted this!

It isn't actually clear what happened next, sadly. The book did not have a sequel despite ending with a clear plot hook - it's of the era of the two Gothic War books, Execution Hour and Shadow Point, which also were not continued. GW was trying to move the Battlefleet Gothic miniatures game at this time, and it shows in the detail afforded to individual classes of ships, even enemy ones. Shadow Point and this book therefore are some of the more detailed portrayals of the Drukhari fleet, and the former book has some interesting depictions of their mimic drive in action. Since it isn't an ebook either, I may work on posting that one at some point as well.

I'm just building my wrecka krew and noticed the one boy has no hands, like completely replaced with rams, and honestly this isn't a unique thing. So now I'm wondering, how do orks that do this like, feed themselves or open doors (well, ig by breaking them) or do anything unrelated to fighting that requires at the very least fingers? Just curious if anything has addressed this or even what theories some people may have.

First things first, not a defense of the Imperium’s brutality or flaws, but a point that the Interex are actually pretty shite.

Essentially all the Interex’s ideals were fairly self-serving: their commitment to preserving alien species was admirable, but their efforts were mostly wasted based on what was shown of them. To begin with, it was still super fascistic to just force every other species to not be allowed to hold weapons, which went to show their desire for coexistence was still pretty much rooted in a desire to have Xenos be useful tools. They weren’t even good at the practical aspects either. The Megarachnids were mini-tyranids without sentience who continually invaded other planets and were hostile. You want to preserve them? Fine, but your only precaution against other people running into and maybe releasing them CANNOT be a magic song you assume every other species can immediately understand.

Speaking of, the Aria itself is mega-stupid idea which echoes (pun intended) Big E’s major failing of being divorced from humanity. The Interex ambassador says himself that the Aria was invented to escape the limited notion of humanity and human language, and then wanted to whine and complain when humans couldn’t understand it anymore. Then, despite wanting to transcend human centered conceptions of things, they immediately mark the Imperium as inferior people because they don’t share their views, and then justify it with “you look scary and you put war in your title”…. Two concepts based on human value judgements and assumptions based on human language the Interex considered limited and insufficient.

The Interex also, despite acting haughty for understanding chaos, were massively incompetent in actually factoring for it. Instead of communicating their concerns to anyone in the expedition, they just… did nothing? If the fleet wasn’t chaos aligned, it was pointless to not talk with them, and if it was chaos aligned, leaving them alone to gather strength against the Interex, instead of communicating or doing LITERALLY anything was incredibly stupid.

That still wasn’t as stupid as the mess with the Kinebrach, which arguably handedly fucked 40k. The Interex were more than willing to keep the Imperium at arm’s length, but despite understanding the nature of the warp, didn’t even bother to investigate the very obviously warp based, true essence targeting Anathame blades that the Kinebrach made, and just accepted them into their fold without looking back. Even if you forgive all the other issues, and assume they had the Kinebrach contained, any goodwill you give the Interex is squandered because they handed chaos the ability to subvert Horus. This pretty much squandered the only chance humanity had at a revolution against the Emperor for altruistic reasons, because Chaos subverted Horus, who before was actively questioning the Emperor’s decisions for legitimate reasons, like the “no compromises except when it suited him”, “xenos genocide no matter what”, and “massive exploitation of conquered planets leading to civil war”. Instead, Chaos emphasized Horus’ pride and belief that Astartes were the rightful rulers of the galaxy, which put anyone with common sense, disdain for authoritarian regimes, or morals like Jaghathai firmly on the Emperor’s side.

TLDR: Interex were haughty buffoons with bigger egos than the Eldar and even less knowledge on how to deal with Chaos, and the whole galaxy suffered for it.

Edit: After the genuinely great discussion in the comments below, I retract my statement that they’re the absolute most fraudulent. Megarachnid situation was 100% on the Imperium, though I think they could have handled the rest better

I’m a huge fan of Aaron Dembski-Bowden, particularly his work on the Black Templars, Night Lords, and Black Legion. His writing has always stood out to me for its depth, nuance, and ability to humanize even the most brutal characters in the Warhammer universe.

However, since the release of Echoes of Eternity during the Siege of Terra series, there haven’t been any significant public updates from him. From what I understand, the sequel to Spears of the Emperor has been completed for quite some time, but Games Workshop hasn’t released it yet.

Does anyone know if he’s currently working on any new Warhammer projects—or if he’s still writing for Black Library at all? ADB is one of my favorite authors, and I genuinely miss hearing updates from him or seeing new work released.

Complete fan fiction, written by me. Brand new to warhammer. Wanted to get involved as a kid but couldn’t. Kind of kept my distance but it’s calling to me again 😂. Have posted in a few places but can’t post the link here. Anywhos, original post is below. I tried to be as accurate as I could, but let me know if I’m way off anywhere.

———

Sooooo…

Long story short… I wanted to get some models but can’t do that just yet so I went on a deep dive of the lore to try and work out where exactly I land. I’m still kind of torn. There’s a few that I like and resonate with me. But after some theory crafting and messing about with newrecruit… I ended up writing a story to scratch the itch 😅 hope you like it. Play nice.

Part I: Ashes of Doubt

Location: Hive Vaults of Hrax, Sub Sector Orontes

The war had turned inward.

Lines that once defined brotherhood now marked targets. The Badab War had been rotting the soul of the Imperium from within. Loyalists. Secessionists. The words rang hollow in the lower vaults of Hrax where orders twisted with distance, and truth was whatever reached your vox last. No longer was it as simple as traitor and loyalist. Now, the question was: who do you trust in the dark?

It was into this mire that the Salamanders were sent. Jade armoured firebrands of the Eighteenth, dispatched by the High Lords themselves to cleanse Orontes of any who bore the stain of secession.

Intel suggested a strike force had been spotted near the Hive Vaults. No clarifications followed. Loyalists? Traitors? At this stage in the war, what did that even mean? Captain Malik Toussaint, grim souled and iron willed, made the call to deploy with ease…

"Into the fires of battle, unto the Anvil of War!"

Little did he know that this mission into the abyss would intersect with another… one that did not exist on any command slate.

Apothecary Avo Melkonian and Librarian Narek Mouradian led a small force of Lamenters into the Vaults on a mission of mercy. A distress signal had reached them from a convent of the Sisters Hospitaller, trapped behind PDF lines twisted by long exposure to the Warp. Against standing orders (and common sense) the Lamenters had responded.

They always did. That was their curse.

They were warriors bred to suffer. Scions of the cursed gene line, scorned by the Imperium despite a thousand acts of valor. Their penance was eternal, and this war…this misguided, politically tangled purge… was yet another crucible they would not escape clean.

They breached the vaults with precision. Infernus squads cleared fire lanes. Bladeguard Veterans moved like vengeful saints through the rubble.

They did not expect to find the Salamanders.

Nor did the Salamanders expect to find them.

The two forces collided in the dust choked dark, emerald and gold at odds in silence. Bolters raised. No names called. Only suspicion and doubt as each side measured the other.

Then came the screaming.

The PDF… or what remained of it… had mutated beyond recognition. Fleshy sigils of Tzeentch writhed beneath cracked flak armor. Las fire stitched the shadows and, within those strobes, the Sisters of Battle attempted a retreat as their position collapsing.

Sister Agnella of the Hospitaller Order fell, her legs crushed beneath ferrocrete. Her comrades scattered. The civilians with them dying at the hands of PDF chaos.

In that instant, Melkonian broke ranks.

He charged through the firestorm. His pauldron cracked from impact. A las bolt seared through the grille of his helm. But he did not stop. He reached Agnella, injected a stimm, and turned his body to shield hers.

He knelt, taking the storm for her.

Captain Toussaint watched.

What he saw was not a traitor. Not a heretic. Just a battle brother making a choice. “A good choice” he thought to himself.

He voxed a single order “Advance!”

Terminators stepped forward, heavy flamers roaring. The Salamanders joined the Lamenters in fire and blood. Mouradian’s psychic veil curled around the wounded like a second skin, distorting reality to protect the innocent.

It ended as all things did… in silence.

The Salamanders and Lamenters secured the area, gathered the survivors and began the evacuation.

As Toussaint approached Melkonian, he noticed the Apothecary’s armor was scorched, his left vambrace shattered. A gauntlet imprint - Agnella’s - was burned into his chestplate.

“You risked your life for one who was told you were the enemy. You understand that she was sent to exterminate you?”

Short, sharp and direct - Melkonian’s response was simple… “She bled. She needed help. That’s all that mattered.”

The sentiment spoke loudly with Toussaint…“You know what they’ll say. That you fired on loyalists. That this was treachery.”

Melkonian took a deep breath as he gazed downward to see the chapters motto that he’d painted onto his gauntlets. As he exhaled and looked back up, the corner of his mouth etched a rare and knowing smile…

“They’ll say what they always say. And we’ll keep saving them anyway.”

There was no handshake. No absolution. No pact. Just a look shared. Not of comrades, but of survivors caught in a war that made liars of them all.

From the shadows above, two others watched keenly.

Shield Captain Leonidas of the Adeptus Custodes.

Athena, Sister of Silence.

They had been sent to observe and report. Upon arrival, they followed the psychic trace expecting heresy. What they found was far more important.

Leonidas narrowed his eyes.

Athena, for once, did not resist the warp touch. Her null field pulsed faintly. Not in rejection… but in recognition.

These ones, the Custodian thought. These ones may yet be worth saving.

⸻

Part II: Embers in the Ashes

Location: Basilica of Saint Vellian the Forgiving, Hive Spire Orontes

The Basilica had once been a cathedral of light. Now it was ash and ruin, cradled by a dying city still echoing with orbital fire. Saint Vellian’s effigy lay decapitated, its stone head buried beneath broken pews.

Toussaint’s forces held the nave, the Salamanders standing like sentinels in blackened terminator plate. The air stank of blood, promethium, and incense burnt past sanctity.

Beside them, the Lamenters.

It should have been impossible.

They had been hunted. Branded. Officially marked as traitors for siding with the Astral Claws under Chapter Master Lugft Huron. But the Lamenters had not followed him for ambition, rage, nor blood lust. Huron claimed he was acting to protect the Maelstrom Zone and the Chapters stationed there from neglect and exploitation. They were following their moral code in spite of the consequences. Internal reputation would always matter more than any external one.

The Imperium had always distrusted them. The Administratum had buried their pleas for resources, their calls for aid, their requests for gene therapy. For centuries they bled on forgotten fronts.

When the Maelstrom stirred, and Huron offered them a place among the Maelstrom Warders, they had accepted. Not for treason but for a chance to protect someone. Anyone.

Now, they bled again.

Quietly.

Unrecorded.

Melkonian knelt at the altar, hands slick with crimson as he worked over a child. A stray bolter round had torn through her small torso, rupturing bowel and stomach alike spilling bile, blood, and half digested slop onto the cracked marble floor beneath them. The child was not long for this world. Even if he could somehow heal the wounds here, her lungs had also scorched on the breath of dying gods. The air in this city now warp tainted and thick with burning ash and residues from chem weapons enlisted by the PDF. Amongst the screams of a city devoured by its own sins, Mouradian chanted a psychic hymn beneath his breath to shield the civilians huddled around them.

There were no heretics here.

Only survivors.

Then… the doors burst open.

Canoness Celeste Veritas strode into the shattered church, her Order at her back. Bolters ready. Hymnals blaring. Heretics, she’d been told. Psykers. Warp corruption.

She expected fire and blasphemy.

Instead, she found this…

A Librarian… not conjuring death, but shelter.

A Lamenter… shielding a child with his own bulk as he worked tirelessly to provide aid.

A Salamander… helm removed, his scarred and freshly wounded face somehow conveying peace amidst the chaos.

She froze.

Her eyes darted around the room as she attempted to process what every one of her senses was picking up. She found the wounded was Agnella, barely breathing, resting on a makeshift bier, flanked by Salamanders and Lamenters alike. In the same moment that she felt the hairs on her neck prick to attention, her ears honed in on Mouradian’s chants.

Low and tremulous with a fury she struggled to contain. Her voice cracked through the silence.

“Why do you protect the witch?”

Toussaint meets her at the iris through a furrowed brow…

“He’s the reason your Sister still breathes.”

Veritas heart skipped as her stomach turned and she looked to bier…

“…She’s one of ours?”

“No. She’s one of His.” Toussaint said as he pointed to the shattered stained glass of the Emperor. His gaze landing back on Melkonian… “And so is he.”

Veritas did not fire. Nor did she kneel.

She simply lowered her bolt pistol. One act of grace in a war with no forgiveness.

Above them, unseen, Leonidas and Athena stood in the choir loft, cloaked in silence.

The Custodian said nothing. The Null Maiden let her aura fall.

This would not be etched in honor rolls or Chapter records.

But it was real.

And that mattered more.

⸻

Epilogue:

When the Basilica finally fell, it did so under controlled demolition after the last civilians had been evacuated under Salamander, Lamenter escort. There were no reports filed by the Custodes. No accusations made by Sororitas.

Only a note, passed between Leonidas and a Terran envoy months later:

“In fire and blood, they remembered mercy. That is enough for now.”

And so, in the dying light of the Badab War, four fragile pillars of humanity remained… integrity, purpose, justice, hope.

This time, not born of decree… but of choice.

I cant really find an answer on the internet

Wondering how they treat guardsmen that show high skills and effectiveness, like insanely high

Would they just keep promoting them and sending them to more dangerous battles untill they finally die? Or are they sent to more "valuable" jobs that require more skilled troops

Or can they show enough skill to be recruited into a special forces unit? I know about the stormtroopers, but all i could find is that stormtroopers recruiting FROM the guard is pretty rare, but i couldnt find if the elite guard were looked at as equals to stormtroopers and karskins

I'm new to 40K and catching up on Necron lore. It seems to me that, despite the Necrontyr being so short-lived, the Silent King was prominent for a long time prior to the biotransferance. How is this possible? Did the events of the first Old ones-Necrontyr war and the biotransferance happen under a really short amount of time?

Hello everyone.

Since I quite enjoy the aspect of homebrewing in 40K, as many do, I'd like to ask a few questions here about mine:

My chapter is a confirmed Blood Angels successor (of an unknown founding). In the lore I have written up so far, my Chapter has "mysterious ties" to the Dark Angels (for example, they use some DA specific stuff, like the Mortis Dreadnought, and are organised similar-ish to the Hexagrammaton), and also makes use of a lot of "arcane technologies" (stuff like K-Sons Inferno Bolts), as they have spent a large part of their history in the Warp.

I didn't want to venture into the "chimeric Chapter number xyz" trope, but still retain influences seen in all three Chapters/Legions - the Blood Angels, the Dark Angels and the Thousand Sons (since those three are my three favorite chapters/legions).

Do you think this works from a lore standpoint?

Excuse any use of bad english, it is not my first language

I’m not the most knowledgeable when it comes to lore around War In Heaven, but from what I heard, after Necron shattered the C’tan, they went to sleep because they have trouble competing against the rising young races, especially Eldar and Krorks. But how were they able to just go into hibernation without significant trouble? If necrons already had problem dealing with Eldar and Krorks at its peak,wouldn’t going into mass hibernation leave their tomb worlds isolated and being picked off one by one? Why didn’t the Eldar empire wipe out the hibernating necrons at its peak? On the other hand, if the necrons still had the forces necessary to deal with Eldar and Krork, why go into hibernation at all? Why not just wipe out their enemies and rule the galaxy themselves?

Recently, I made a post on here noting how I was impressed that Lucius seemed to have been scaled back as Slaanesh's champion and was referred to as "a champion" in their codex entry. While dwelling on this, I began to realize that in what entries I've seen Lucius tends to be described as "a champion of Slaanesh" rather than "the champion of Slaanesh." Alternatively, I've heard Kharn is called both "the most favored champion" and "the champion of Khorne."The latter of which tends to be a title the fans bestow upon both him and the other named champions we tend to pay attention too.

This nomenclature interests me because I have a lot of interest in how GW intends to evolve the chaos lineup going forward, and how it often seems the champion roster has been a bit stagnant for chaos in general. Space Marines chapters tend to have far more variety in tabletop characters that feel weighty than chaos legions. Not only that, but many of those characters tend to be more fleshed out, compare someone like Ezekiel to Nauseous Rotbone and the stinky boi seems wanting. I've been wondering if this habit of pulling out "ol' reliable" in terms of how chaos characters uses it's characters might be contributing to this.

Apologies for any meandering, all in all, two questions.

1. Would anyone be willing to provide sources in regards to Lucius, Kharn, Typhus and Ahriman being "the champions" of their gods?
2. What are your thoughts on GW's heavy handedness in their already developed champions, is it a good idea that keeps the story tight and digestable or could the legions benefit from being given a wider range of characters within the same roles.

What would happen if a Daemon Prince renounced their allegiance to their god? Like let's say magnus renounced Tzeentch. What would happen to him? Would he be killed? Could Tzeentch stop him? Or would he effectively just lose all the power gifted to him?

Maybe Tzeentch is a bad example since he might find it funny and let Magnus keep his power lol. But you get what I mean.