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ask-the-crimson-king · 5 years

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Ascension

[Breaking blog theme here. But I decided to write a thing inspired by an encounter on shamchat and then boosted by a friend giving me good ideas. So this now exists. Enjoy(?), its a long one.]

The chamber was large, quiet, and empty save for a sole occupant. Light seemed to shy away from the walls, leaving them cloaked in shadow. Occasionally, there would be a flicker, a soft orange glow, but it was always fleeting. Within the center, in the middle of an ornate mosaic of the Chaos Star that covered the floor of the chamber, was an altar. Upon it was a large, old tome, however its pages looked as though they were unaffected by time or use. Candles flickered around it, and carved into the altar itself were the sigils representing each of the four gods; Khorne, Slaanesh, Tzeentch, and Nurgle. Before this altar, with the candleglow flickering over his features, knelt a man. A man who had suffered through exhaustive trials over the past ten thousand years, proving himself time and time again to the gods who had given him favor. It was not for nothing. No, he had been rewarded greatly for each trial he passed. Power undreamed of was his. He could unmake worlds with a simple command, although he could do that before when he was a true man. Not the thing he had become now. Certainly not the thing he was about to become. Outside the chamber walls, before the Templum Inficio, a man stood before a crowd of thousands of superhuman warriors, surrounded by millions of unagumented humans. Vox systems were rigged across the world and beyond, so that every member of the Legion would hear him speak, from noble Astartes to lowly serf. The man was ancient, as were a great many of his peers. But it was he who showed his age more than most. His breaths left him with a ragged whistle, his skin had grown thin, his eyes sunken and hollow. A great wound he suffered ten millennia ago still went unhealed. It was a miracle he stood or spoke at all. "Faithful of Sicarus," the man began, "studious of Ghalmek, and valiant warriors of the gods. I ask all of you to hear me now, and listen well. I am Kor Phaeron, your Keeper of the Faith. I speak now so that we may prepare ourselves for an event that shall rock the very foundations of this galaxy. I speak in the name of my son, our most holy lord, Lorgar Aurelian." He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Murmurs arose over the crowd, along with exchanged glances of unease. "For ten millennia have we worked in his name. For ten millennia have we fought the heretics and sheep within the Imperium. For ten millennia have we brought about the will of the gods themselves. For ten millennia have we venerated him with our prayers, offering sacrifice so that he may one day return to us. I tell you now, Bearers of the Word, that day has finally come." Within the chamber, the man kept his head bowed. The glint of his tattoos scattered some of the candlelight. His eyes were closed, his hands in loose fists placed upon his thighs as he knelt. His lips were moving, forming silent syllables.

Upon a world light-years away, within the Material realm, standing atop a tower of obsidian, a demigod stared into the roaring maelstrom of his adoptive world. Daemons were shrieking and cackling around him, but they were leaving. They ascended into the clouds and vanished. Thunder and lightning flashed and roared, along with winds that would threaten to rip a lesser creature away. It merely ruffled the feathers of wings of warpfire, stirring long, crimson hair. One eye kept staring into the skies. A glaive was clutched in one hand, the other resting on a book bound by his side. Footsteps from behind him made him glance over his shoulder. "My Lord, the daemons, they're fleeing!" said the sorcerer, his voice altered by his helm. "This storm is drawing them in. What do we do?" "They are not fleeing, my son," replied Magnus the Red. He turned and looked down at the warrior, his single eye a mix of color, betraying none of his emotions. "They are flocking." "Flocking? Flocking where? The Warp is-" "-tumultuous, yes, I am well aware. A storm is building. The tides recede." Magnus looked to the skies once more, gesturing to it with his glaive. "They swell elsewhere. Something is gathering." "But... what could it be?" the sorcerer asked, following Magnus' gaze. Magnus lowered his arm, and answered.

A world of bloodsoaked battlefields was full of nothing but dueling warriors. Some sparring, others fighting to the death, each locked in a lethal dance. Blade met blade, sparks shedding from the more brutal clashes. A lumbering giant with bat-like wings and crimson skin stood from a throne of skulls. His eyes constantly were full of hatred, pain, and an unending bloodlust. But something drew him away from the combat. The daemons that usually swarmed this world, acting as friend and foe in equal measure, were leaving. Some flying into the crimson skies, others merely turning and running, reminding the man of herds of animals. There was even braying and trampling of the weaker creatures, their broken bodies returning to the realm where they were born. The giant let out a huff. "Deserters," Angron Thal'kyr growled. Yet he could feel what they were running towards. He could feel something... growing. Something building in the realm beyond, in the realm that bathed this world. Something about it was strangely familiar. Through a mouth of fangs, he growled out a name, hefting his weapon into both hands.

Lounging upon a mass of cushions, a four-armed creature lay, his serpentine tail lightly wound in a loose coil. In one hand rested a jeweled chalice, filled with a wine so exquisite that mere mortal men would kill each other for a taste. His chamber was full of light and music, warriors in garishly-colored armor gathered around him, ready to serve his every demand. His chamber was lacking something, however, and just before he could move to speak, a mutilated warrior approached him. "My Lord Fulgrim," he greeted, head bowed. "What news?" Fulgrim asked, taking a sip from his chalice. "It appears that the daemons are leaving. None are speaking with us." "Leaving?" Fulgrim echoed. He finished what was left within his glass, passing it to a waiting warrior. "What do you me-" his words were cut short. He looked to a nearby window, revealing a tumultuous sky beyond the polished and perfect walls of his sanctum. Daemons were, in fact, leaving. All of them. He then knew why. His eyes became narrowed as he hissed a single name like a curse.

Death and decay wreathed him. It marked him as deeply as it did the warriors within his Legion, from his torn insect-like wings to the rot that crept upon his armor and the gas he exhaled through his affixed rebreather. Though he was far from the destruction he had wrought now, he still could feel the pestilence and smell of death around him. The daemons that swam alongside the craft in the void only enhanced this feeling, until... ...it began to recede. He could feel the tides being drawn somewhere. His own knowledge of the Warp told him that something... no, someone is pulling them in. Someone he had not seen in millennia, not truly. He could feel it even attempting to draw upon him, like a moth to a flame. But Mortarion was no simple moth, no. He would not join them. He wheezed out a name as he stared into the maelstrom of the Immaterium.

"Our glorious Primarch ascended to the most esteemed ranks of daemonhood ten millennia ago, as he secluded himself away from us, sparing time for none save the gods themselves," Kor Phaeron spoke. "Our prayers have not gone unanswered. It is because of us, because of the toils of our beloved Daemon Primarch Lorgar, that he ascends once more!" Upon this pronouncement, the crowded erupted into gasps and murmurs. "Ascending further? What could this mean?" one asked. "What is happening?" "He says a lot without saying much." The flames from the candles flickered, growing and diminishing as though a wind blew throughout the chamber. The man's body was trembling, all of his muscles taught. His face was locked into an expression bordering on pain, his fingers digging into his palms. His eyes were still screwed tightly shut. Voices whispered in his ears as he continued to mouth fervent prayers that slowly became a long incantation. The pages of the tome began to rustle, the candlelight flickering, growing brighter, bright enough to cast shadows upon the walls.

They came in their thousands, their ten-thousands, hundred thousands, millions. Flying, running, slithering, galloping, moving in every way ever imagined in every color ever seen. They came screeching, crying, braying, cackling, roaring, bellowing. They came together, from four different gods, from four different worlds, from four different Legions. They nearly blotted out the skies. On a world that could have been described as a forge world, now corrupted and twisted by darker machinations, a warrior clad in hulking plate stepped out of his great workshop to see them pass overhead. He saw his own daemonic allies joining them, and he saw his own Legionnaires attempting to keep the daemon engines here. He knew their efforts was futile. As he watched, he spoke a name echoed throughout the Immaterium and beyond, a name that was slowly gaining power. As he spoke, five others joined him. From the distant realms of Segmentum Solar, a demigod returned to bring glory back to a dying empire knew something was happening. He knew a brother was returning. He knew of the shifting within the tides of the Warp. And he spoke a name. They all did. "Lorgar."

With a cry of release, the man threw back his head, opening his eyes. Light poured from them, his form bulging and becoming wreathed in pure psychic power. It was golden at first, slowly becoming blackened. Tendrils of energy began to crawl up his bare form, his slender musculature altered by his ascension to daemonhood, slowly becoming undone as he began to become something greater. Something more powerful. His cry became a roar, a wordless release of emotion as his very being became both unmade and remade. Outside of the chamber, a storm grew. Thunder bellowed, lightning flashed, winds howled. And upon those winds, they came. "See now his power!" Kor Phaeron cried. Some of the humans listening became fearful, some seeking to flee but finding themselves trapped by the Legionnaires. With a final cry, it was over as soon as it had started. With a flash of light, the man within the chamber was gone. In his place knelt a being, a being slowly becoming bigger, more animated as the power of the Immaterium began to swell within him. A crown of horns encircled his head as it had before, but his eyes were bright. His face seemed human, his golden scripture renewed and seemingly glowing, with new glyphs added to the old. His face was innately human, as beautiful as it had once been, but fangs filled his mouth. Psychic light streamed from him, forming great, folded wings, one feathered and one bat-like and torn. His hands were, seemingly, different. One was as it had been when he was merely a human that had experienced advanced evolution. The other was clawed, more calloused and monstrous. His body was muscled, as he had been before, but the scripture covering him differed. Some glowed brilliantly, others pulsed with duller energies. Power flowed through him, fluid, begging to be released. The Warp was calling to him, as it always had, but now he had an even greater mastery over its song and its tides. He felt the Neverborn flocking to him, he felt them craving to be near his radiance. They were fleeing his brothers, he knew. But even his brothers would come. Oh, they would come.

If not willingly, then by his Word. The Warmaster had done it. He would be more than capable of such a feat.

And the Warmaster would be the first to kneel.

His ancient armor formed around his new body, and it seemed it too had changed. Altered to fit his new form, now with differing script, similar to that which now covered him. He took up his old crozius arcanum, and he disappeared, leaving the chamber empty and silent once more.

The being appeared before a crowd of millions, with millions more quickly flocking to him. All who looked upon him gasped and wept, most immediately kneeling before him. Even Kor Phaeron knelt. "Behold!" he wept. "Our Lord returned to us, ascended! Behold -- Lorgar Aurelian, Patron Deity of the Faithful, Lord of Truth and Valor!" The daemons finally came, descending upon the Templum Inficio. They bowed, all of them. Seas of them kneeling or crouching, demonstrating their deference however they could. Lorgar looked upon all of them, with eyes of blazing gold. He stood there, now so far above them that he realized how... insignificant they seemed. He understood, then, what the Pantheon felt. For although he was not their equal, far from such a thing, he was still a god. In all rights, he was a god. A minor one, one still growing and nursing from the power of the Immaterium, one still barely connected to the Materium, but a god nonetheless. It was Faith that fueled him. Not only faith in the Pantheon, no. The fervent zealotry within the Imperium... that fed him also. It almost made him laugh. His hated enemies, now a part of his flock, in an odd way. He spread his arms wide, his mismatched wings extending alongside them. The daemons began to cry and bray at him, joined by the chanting of his name. Aurelian! Aurelian! Aurelian! Lorgar ascended. A new god of the Empyrean. A greater servant to the Powers than any other. As the crowds chanted, his eyes went to the skies above. In the depths of madness, he saw a man staring back at him, looking like a warrior, an aged sage, a weary father, a battered traveler, his expression never sticking to one visage. He saw gold that mirrored that which he now shed. A smile finally came to his lips.

#random lorgar fic appears #idk #inspiration does weird things man #lorgar #lorgar aurelian #word bearers #primarch #chaos

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