It is the 41st Millennium.

For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon‐infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperorʹs will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio‐engineered super‐warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever‐vigilant Inquisition and the tech‐priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever‐present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants—and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times.

Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re‐learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for there is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods. But don’t forget that in the grim darkness of the far future, there is also more than that.

There are people, too. And those people are worth fighting for.

Dramatis Personae:

Scions of the Konic

Severa, Scions Chapter Master, pathologically prone to honesty as brutal as a blow from her power fist

Casimiria, Chief Apothecary, pathologically showing compassion toward non-combatants, human or otherwise

Lucius, Master of Sanctity, pathologically dropping cluster f-bombs like they’re going out of style

Incomitus, Master of the Forge, pathologically possessed of a moody outlook on life and an oft-demonstrated mastery of the usage of snark

Magnus, Chief Librarian, pathologically curious to a degree that would have the Inquisition knocking on his door with murderous intent were he not a Space Marine

Felix, Battle Brother, pathologically incapable of driving any sort of vehicle in a sane and reasonable manner

Author's Note

Wrote both these things up, so I decided I might as well throw them in at the start.