M20 Planet Marelech

While the Pony Federation ruled supreme, their technology keeping the Yax and Eldeer at bay with their powerful tech, a FTL ship comes into orbit around the planet Marelech. This ship is a relic of a bygone age, an age before warp drives and Gellar field generators. This relic of a ship would have served as a generational ship for the earliest of pony colonists, now instead it holds a number of ponies whom time has no touch.

The nose of the FTL ship glows red-hot as it plunges into the planet's atmosphere. White-hot plasma caused from friction with the air engulfs that ship as it plunges deeper and deeper into the layers of gasses that serve as the blanket for Marelech. The old ship shudders and rattles from cross currents and eddies in the atmosphere, as if the very planet is attempting to force it away, but it stays on course.

The ship slows as it enters the lower atmosphere and begins circling, starting a landing pattern. Kilometers below the descending ship is its goal, an ancient and crumbling temple of unknown origin. Landing struts extend from the hull of the ship as it begins to near the ground. The ship groans and creaks, almost as if protesting, as its struts settle into the ground.

A ramp extends and settles onto the ground. Out walks in a single file line ten ponies. They older than the living memory of mortals. Ancient and powerful beyond reasoning, they are beings known as perpetuals. Rockhoof, strongest of them. Somnambula, wisest of them. Mistmane, most skilled psyker. Flash Magnus, greatest warrior of them. Meadowbrook, doctor and healer of renown. Starswirl, master of the Sigilite Order. Marestarte, brilliant geneticist. Stygian, master of stealth. Clover, clever inventor. Oleander, eldest of them all. At the end of the line walks the leader and most powerful of them all, a mare who bears the traits of all ponykind, her white coat shines in the light of the sun, her white-feathered wings lay relaxed at her side, her curling ivory horn extends high from her forehead. She is known by many names, Revelation, The Herd-Master of Ponykind, none truly know her name. Today she bears a new title, one that is whispered among the Neverborn who hide just beyond the pale, Anathame, for her very existence is anathema to the parasites who live in the immaterium and sup on the souls of those whom they have deceived into believing they are gods.

The procession enters into the ancient temple. Ancient carvings of esoteric and profane symbols decorate the walls, chief among them is a star with eight points. The procession walks through the winding passageways, lumen globes mounted on anti-grav harnesses. The lumen globes creates long shadows in the dark passageways. Some of the shadows seem to dance around and move on their own. Some seems to taunt or reach out to the procession. The shadows seem to rerteat from Anathame.

The procession passes chambers that were once used for profane rituals. The carvings on the walls of the chambers depict vile rituals. Some depict bloody gladiatorial combat and ritual beheadings. Some depict magical rituals and followers twisting into strange forms. Some depict the worship of rot and decay.

Whispers begin filling the passageways. Some offer power, knowledge and secrets, others threaten and coerce, others whisper doom and despair. Undaunted, the procession marches on.

In a massive chamber carved out from the bedrock of Marelech the procession enters. In the center of the room, atop a massive carved plinth with eight sets of stairs leading up to it sits their goal. A tear in space-time, a wound in reality, a gateway between the material and immaterial.

Anathame ascends the stairs as her companions keep guard. She takes a breath and steps to the gash in reality. In the blink of an eye she is gone.

***

Anathame comes to rest on what can be considered solid ground for this realm. It is known by many names, the Immaterium, the Empyrean, the Sea of Souls, the Realm of Gods, the Warp. Time flows forwards, backwards and laterally here. Anathame gathers her psychic might about her and conceals herself. Though she has come to this realm to confront the most ancient enemy, the Primordial Annihilator, the False Gods, it is not her only goal.

Throughout this realm Anathame prowls like a thief in the night seeking her treasures. The power of the soul of an indomitable warrior here, ancient and forgotten knowledge there.

After uncountable centuries, Anathame stands on the border of the realm of chaos. She surveys the ever-shifting landscape. The Blood God, the Murderer God, the Hound, sits in his citadel of brass atop a throne of skulls while his legions wage war across blood soaked and blazing plains. The Changer of Ways, the self-proclaimed Master of Fate, the Raven sits in the center of a crystalline maze while his followers plot and scheme. The Lord of Plagues, the Master of Despair, the Crow sits in a black mansion in the center of a garden of rot and disease stirring a cauldron of filth while his followers tend to the fetid growths of the garden. A god of Hate, a God of Betrayal, a God of Malice shouts curses as he tears away at the borders of the other three gods while his followers try to destroy everything. In the distance another god swells and writhes in its gestating form, a thirsting abomination yet to break free of its profane womb, snakes and twisted mockeries of revelers slither and undulate and writhe around this unborn new god.

Anathame steels herself and double checks that her concealment is still in place. Though the time to confront these blights is near, it is not time yet and she still has a few more prizes to snatch. From the realm of the Blood God she steals the ability to erase fear. From the realm of the Changer of Ways she steals the knowledge of how to shape flesh and bone. From the realm of the Plague Lord she steals unyielding endurance. From the Lord of Malice she steals the weapon of hate. From the unborn god she steals the means to perfect her vision.

Upon a high precipice Anathame stands and reveals herself. "Come forth you profane ones and meet your doom!", she cries out in a loud voice.

"ANATHAME!", Khorne, Tzeench, Nurgle and Malice cry out as one. The unborn god quakes in their abominable womb.

"KNOW TERROR AND DIE, ANATHAME!", Khorne bellows. Eighty-eight legions of bloodletters, bloodthirsters and beserkers scale the precipice, baying for the Anathame's blood. Golden rays of light come forth from her, shattering the deamonic hordes.

"Return what you have stolen!", screeches Tzeench. Nine changers of ways fly up and cast profane magics at the Anathame. The precipice she stands upon shifts and warps into jagged crystals, writhing tentacles and grasping talons. The Anathame spreads her wings and takes flight. One by one she strikes each changer of ways down in single combat.

"Know despair and rot.", burbles Nurgle. Seven great hosts of rot, each led by seven great unclean ones shamble up the precipice to bring the gift of rot to the Anathame. Flames of gold and crimson issue forth from her, burning the fetid abominations away.

"HATE! HATE! HATE!", curses Malice, the renegade god of chaos. Eleven armies of jackal-headed horrors scramble and scrabble up the precipice, slashing and tearing at one another, in an attempt to be the first to reach the Anathame. She hurls freezing meteors and flaming comets, smashing the armies to dust.

Six bands of twisted revelers dance and cavort up the precipices, licking their lips in desire to taste the Anathame's flesh. She summons a cleansing flood and washes them away.

"HEAR ME NOW AND TREMBLE, YOU PARASITES! I WILL STARVE YOU, I WILL DENY YOU YOUR FEASTS, AND WHEN YOU LAY AS EMACIATED WRETCHES, I SHALL COME ONCE AGAIN AND FINISH YOU OFF!"

In the shadows another watched. Not some profane parasite that claims to be gods. No! He has been the thorn in the side of the chaos gods. The fly in their ointment. He is the Laughing God of the Eldeer, Discord. "My, my, my! What an impressive display of might, soon-to-be Mistress of Ponykind.", Discord says to himself with a chuckle. "It appears we have similar goals. They will not let the theft of their gifts and brazen attacks on them slip by without retribution. I shall be watching you. Heh-heh-heh-hee-hee-hee-hah-hah-hah!"

***

The Anathema of Chaos stepped out of the tear in reality. Untold centuries passed for her, only a few minutes passed for her companions. It was clear she had grown in might. Power radiated off of her like waves in a mighty storm upon a beach, the air danced and shimmered about her, her eyes shown gold with eldritch might, her mane and tail, once a dusty pink, were now a pastel rainbow and flowed on the winds of the warp.

As the Anathema of Chaos descended the stair, she spake to Rockhoof in a voice that was simultaneously motherly and of a being of immeasurable power, "Rockhoof, old friend. I have a task for you. Protect this gate and let none pass through it, not even myself."

As the old FTL craft left orbit, the Anathema of Chaos looked out across the gulf of space towards the very heart of the Eldeer Empire. She could see , hear, smell and taste their hedonism, their excess brought on by boredom, their hubris. She could see the storm clouds forming in her future sight centered over the heart of their civilization and would engulf the entire galaxy. In fifty centuries their actions would birth a new parasite abomination that would consume their Empire. It had been a long seventy centuries to reach Marelech, and it would be another long seventy centuries to return to Equestria.

Author's Note

This is my first foray into the world of 30K.

Lore masters, please be kind.

Thank you all for reading and I hope you all enjoy.

Upcoming is the Empress revealing herself, and her first steps into conquering Holy Equestria.