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templeofulchtar · 5 years

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Starscreamian Correspondences: Part One

This is Part One of a two-part series. The topic is so large that I couldn’t cover even half of it! This first post is a general discussion of correspondences as they relate to Starscream, while in Part Two, you will find an exercise to help you develop your own personalized set of correspondences for Starscream.

What are Correspondences?

Correspondences are things that people tend to associate with… well, other things. In magick, correspondences are used to evoke the power of certain entities, or weave certain energies into your ritual or spell. A correspondence can be almost anything, from plants, colors, weapons, planets, constellations, elements, musical instruments, animals, numbers, crystals, days of the week, and so on.

Roses, for example, are sacred to Venus. So are apples, copper, the color green, the number five, and Friday. If you were to create a ritual that taps into Venusian energy, you might have it on a Friday, Venus’ sacred day, and make an offering of five roses, a green apple, or five copper pennies; you might light a green candle and write your intention using a pen with copper-colored ink. By using these correspondences, you are anchoring your working in Venusian energy, which will help you realize intentions associated with Venus, such as love or abundance.

Starscream has correspondences too.

Quite a lot of them, in fact! His classic colors of Silver and Red are obvious correspondences, as is the Eagle, since his G1 alt-mode is that of an F-15 Eagle. Numerologically, his name equates to the number 36 (or 9), so I consider those to be his sacred numbers, and his signature weapon, the Null-Ray, and coronation crown are also very much associated with him.

In addition to these ‘canon’ correspondences, I also have a large set of personal correspondences for Starscream. Some I can back up with evidence, while others are idiosyncratic. For example, I can make a reasonably solid argument for why I think Starscream is a Scorpio, but my reasons for thinking of the Thistle as one of his plant totems are more personal.

Below are my thoughts on some of the more canon-supported correspondences for Starscream. These are just suggestions. Take what resonates, and leave the rest. Your path with Starscream is yours, and it's ultimately up to you, and him, to decide what's best.

Starscream’s Weapons

Starscream has a number of weapons, ranging from deadly (his cluster-bombs) to comical (the slingshot he uses in *More Than Meets The Eye, Part 2*). But of course it’s his signature weapon, the Null-Ray, that’s always held the greatest fascination for me. Marvel's *Transformers Universe* comic series describes the null-ray as being "able to interrupt the flow of electricity in any circuitry... for periods of up to two minutes."

How cool is that? Not only does it interrupt the flow of energy through circuitry, but it also appears to stabilize or neutralize energies that have become unbalanced. It has even been shown to have healing properties. In the episode Auto Berserk, for example, Starscream fired his null-ray at Red Alert, causing his logic circuits to stabilize. Magickally speaking, the Null-Ray has so many potential applications that I ended up writing a separate post for it, complete with a meditation. See The Null-Ray: Magickal Uses.

Starscreamian Colors

I love how colorful the Seekers are! They are like splendidly plumaged birds, each with his own vivid color scheme that's uniquely his. I have some headcanon regarding color in TFs. For example, I like the idea that a character's outward colors aren't paint, but are created by chromites—that is, specialized nanites that create the color and finish on the character's frame. I also like the idea that the chromites respond to the character's spark in creating his or her signature colors and patterns, and so there is often a correspondence between a character's frame color and the color of their spark.

Color is a fun topic. There is no doubt that color has a potent psychological, and even physiological effect, on us, and I wear Starscream’s colors a lot. For this reason, it makes complete sense to use it in magick. It can be incorporated into your workings in countless ways (too many to list!), but here is a quick run-down of colors I associate with Starscream, and what their magickal associations tend to be:

Red: The color of human blood, red is associated with vitality, life force, passion, instinctual drives, survival and sexuality. It’s also thought to be the color of the Root, or Base Chakra, which is located at the perineum and is associated with survival and security.

Silver: The metal silver is associated with the Moon, with night, feminine forces, yin, intuition, the deep subconscious, wisdom and secrets.

Blue: The color of Earth’s sky, blue is also thought to be the color of the Throat Chakra, associated with mind, science, reason, speech, writing and other forms of verbal communication. It’s also the color most associated with water, and has connotations of purity and cleansing.

Yellow: The color of our Sun, yellow is thought to be the color of the Solar Plexus Chakra, located between the ribs and the navel on a human. This Chakra is associated with ego, will, drive and aggression. It's interesting that the only yellow part of Starscream is his brilliant golden-yellow cockpit canopy, and that when he's in root mode, it's located in roughly in the same location as the Solar Plexus Chakra would be on a human. It's as if his Will or Ego center is hugely overblown and exaggerated - which is actually true! In fact, his French name is Ego).

Gold: The color of Starscream’s crown is, as you might imagine, the color associated with extravagance, wealth, riches, and excess, though it is also associated with illumination, love, compassion, courage, passion, magic, and wisdom.

Purple: The color of Starscream’s coronation mantle is purple, a color which represents the sythesis of blue’s calm stability with red’s fierce energy. Purple is associated with intuition, the psychic realm, royalty, creativity, luxury, power, pride, homosexuality, ambition, mysticism, independence, magic and… wouldn’t you know it… resurrection. (And, of course, Decepticons.)

The Mantle

Starscream’s coronation outfit. Le sigh.

Okay, confession time: I’ll admit that I felt embarrassed and vaguely uneasy the first time I watched the coronation scene, and as we all know by now, it turned out my sense of unease was fully justified. Whenever things go well for Starscream, it’s pretty much always because the writers are setting him up for a fall; and what a fall this was.

*pauses to sigh again*

But in seriousness, there’s a lot to be said about the symbolism of these clothing items. A mantle represents authority. In fact, when we say that someone is ‘assuming the mantle’ of something, it means they are taking on a specific role or position, along with any associated responsibilities.

Perhaps the presence of the mantle in the coronation scene was intended to underline the idea that Starscream was overstepping his assigned role in life, and that he was unprepared, or unfit, to take on the responsibilities associated with the role he’d just usurped.

There is, of course, another way of looking at it, one that is especially suitable for Ghost Season symbolism, which can be summarized by the saying, ‘fake it ‘til you make it.’ Our goals and ambitions *should* be a stretch for us. They should be a challenge, and they will almost certainly push us into taking on new roles and responsibilities for which we may feel unfit, or unprepared. That’s how growth is.

Sometimes the best thing you can do is brazen things out. Put on your mantle, wear it with pride, and prepare your acceptance speech. “Fellow Decepticons! As your new leader…” In time—and with practice—your new mantle will begin to feel as much a part of you as your null-rays.

Until then, my friend, fake on! (It looks so damn good on you.)

The Crown

Crowns, as you can probably guess, represent royalty. They correspond with the Crown Chakra, the energy center which connects us to universal energy (aka God), and thus symbolizes a monarch’s ‘divine’ right to rule. This is a very ancient idea. Throughout history, rulers have been viewed either as gods themselves, or as divinely appointed.

The Transformers series is fully on board with this notion, presenting the Autobot Matrix as a stand-in for the divine force that confers kingship upon those it deems worthy. In other words, those who possess a special, mysterious quality get divinely appointed to rule over the rest of us. Call it… the Touch. But Starscream, in refreshingly iconoclastic fashion, upends this whole paradigm.

Sure, he could wait around for a sparkly rock to decide he’s worthy to rule, or he could take matters into his own hands. Of course by doing so, he violated the established ‘natural order’ of the Transformers universe, and because of this, he was swiftly put back in his place. One does not simply appoint oneself king! You must stand around and wait until the sparkly rock chooses you. (Obviously!)

In light of what I’ve said above, you may already have guessed that you can invoke the symbolism of the crown as a means of activating to your Crown Chakra and connecting to the divine, especially your own divine nature. The crown can also symbolize the act of choosing oneself; of reclaiming one’s personal and spiritual authority.

Starscream’s crown has four prongs. In numerology, 4 represents stability, rationality, structure and rules. It’s linked to the Emperor card in the Tarot deck—which is interesting, since the Emperor, in Tarot, is the king of kings—and it’s also associated with the Death card. In some cultures, 4 is considered an unlucky number due to its association with death, but the Death card in Tarot is actually a positive card which symbolizes transformation. Starscream’s crown is an excellent symbol to employ if you are seeking to take charge of your life through your magick, or to transform it in a deep and powerful way.

The scarlet gems which adorn Starscream’s crown are another obvious bit of symbolism. We’ve already talked about the symbolism of the color Red, and we could speculate about what type of gems those are (rubies, perhaps?), but since this is getting long, I want to draw your attention to that central, hexagonal gem that sits directly on the forehead of the crown.

That is a Third Eye. It actually looks like one of Starscream’s own optics, but turned sideways—a classic depiction of a Third Eye. The Third Eye is the Sixth Chakra, which on humans is thought to be located on the forehead, above and directly between the eyes. It governs intuition and psychic abilities, making Starscream’s crown a wonderful symbol to employ in psychic development or awakening one’s intuition.

In the next post, I’ll give you an exercise for developing your very own, personalized set of correspondences. Keep reading!

#starscream #starscream spirit guide #pop culture magick #pop culture paganism #pop culture spirituality #pop culture spirit guides #starscream's crown #starscream's null-ray #symbolism #magical correspondences

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teen-titans-imagines · 6 years

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The Batboys As Dads [Headcanons]

Since me and @loudmouthwally have been screaming about dad! Dick and dami and such, I decided to write headcanons after she suggested it to me. As always: reader insert 😎

Dick Grayson

He honestly wasn't sure on being a dad

But when he laid his eyes on you, his daughter/son, he was absolutely ready to fight everyone who had any second thoughts about you.

Dick Grayson was ready to lay down everything for you. Even leave the mantle of Nightwing to someone else, because jesus christ, you were so important to him. (And still are)

Dick Grayson is a playful man, and if you think he wouldn't hit himself on the head with a skillet to make you laugh, you are very, v e r y mistaken.

As you grow up, there is one thing you learn about Dick Grayson.

Dick is a dad joke within himself.

Dad jokes for d a y s.

There is no escaping them.

"I had a scarecrow friend try out for stand up comedy, but the audience thought he was too corny."

"I'm calling the police on you for harassment."

Despite Dick being a silly dad, he is also very protective.

No boys/girls until you are dead.

Actually, no wait, nope, not even in the afterlife.

He will stalk you while on your dates, being as obvious yet hard to spot as possible.

Dick is the waiter, the random guy you bump into on the street, the carnival's janitor.

He's fucking everywhere, man, don't even try to kiss your date because Daddy Dearest will know. In a heartbeat.

#GroundedForKissingMyBoyfriendAfterFindingOutMyDadWasSpyingOnUsAftetHeFELLFROMTHEDAMNTREESCREAMINGBLOODYMURDER #IWANNANEWDAD #JASONBEMYNEWDAD

Despite all the crap he puts you through, Dick loves you very much and just wants the best for you, and that includes a happy life and childhood. He knows that you can lose a lot in a blink of an eye, and he wants you to be happy.

Yet, while he holds a superhero job, it can be pretty straining on your relationship as father and daughter/son.

Just know Dick loves you very much, even if he is a pain in the ass crack.

Jason Todd

If there is one thing Jason Todd does not know how to do, it is Parenting 101.

Please send help. He has no idea how to even wrap a diaper on a child, let alone r a i s e one.

Jason had to have Dick help him out a lot little.

However, after a while, Jason fell into a good routine after doing a lot of research and hands-on learning.

He totally owns one of those 'Parenting for Dummies' books but will completely deny any kind of knowledge about it should anybody find it (demon spawn from hell aka damian fucking wayne)

Spending time with you, Red Hood later. ALWAYS.

He honestly adores you.

You are his everything and if there's one thing Jason never thought he would have wanted until now, it is definitely you.

Instantaneous Death to anybody who even mentions your existence.

Jason Todd Will Not Hesitate, Bitch^TM

He actually snapped at a woman who said she could just 'eat you up'

"Yeah, well, we don't believe in cannibalism, so."

Jason definitely sings you to sleep, and is proud, even touched, that you will raise hell if he fails to sing you to sleep right on schedule.

As you grow and get into school, Jason is quick to teach you self defense.

And taught you that all boys had a contagious virus and to punch any that tried to kiss you or hold your hand. (Female)

And taught you that girls were the devils spawn and were to be avoided at all cost (Male)

You once got suspended for calling the teacher an 'asshat'. Jason was lowkey sort of proud. Dick wasn't amused.

You have a white streak in your hair, and when you need to be with your father, he will play with that lock of hair.

You and Jason are exactly alike, with some different attributes. But that doesn't make you any less of a Todd.

Your damian's favorite. Just saying.

Tim Drake

You were definitely not what Tim Drake was expecting.

But definitely everything he wanted.

If there is one thing you both know how to do, it's complain.

"Oh my god, I did literally everything the books told me to do. Why are you still c r y i n g???"

"...WAH-"

*slams head into desk*

Tim swears that if he wasn't a coffee addict then, he fucking is now.

No sleep. At all. You give him too much shit.

Jason thinks it's hysterical because you seem to be Karma in a onesie for all the times Tim was a little shit to him.

Tim loves you to the moon and back, but you never fail to irk at least one of his remaining nerves that still works.

P r o b l e m a t i c C h i l d r e n

Yes, that means Tim and you.

Did he give you a bath just now? No the fuck he didn't. Did he just clean the high chair? No the fuck he didnt, bitch. Did he just change your diaper? Come back, bitch. It's a shitstorm in here, and you're in the eye of the hurricane. Gas mask it up, son.

As you grow up, Tim wants you to get out there and do whatever. He's slightly not ok with you dating, but don't think he won't do at least 15 background checks, stake outs, securing the perimeter, interrogations, whatever. Each. 15 each.

You are a computer genius just like him, but don't spend your time on the computer all the time. Mostly just to play games here and there.

As you grow in school, there is not a single day that goes by that you absolutely loathe it.

Honestly

Why cant you just homeschool. We have the capability too.

"Who even needs human friends? Uncle Damian is doing just fine with his animals."

"He also has homicidal tendecies, so. You're gonna get some human interaction whether you like it or not."

Honestly, you and Tim butt heads all the time, but at the end of the day, you are his flesh and blood, and he will protect and love you till the world stops turning.

Damian Wayne

Let's be honest: Damian Wayne would be the most worried and/or scared person on earth if he found out he was gonna be a dad.

All these insecurities about his past, the bad memories, all of it coming back to haunt him as he thought about his child.

Damian was not ready at all.

He was honestly very weary of you. Since he didn't really get along with children, there was no way to explain to him how to raise his kid for the next eighteen years.

He realized that when he held you. Kinda like an 'aha' moment, but with an 'oh shit' instead.

After Damian warmed up to you, though, he was Dad to the Max. Spin the fucking wheel to jackpot.

Damian has very high expectations for himself as a dad. He needs to be on top of the mark at all times or he is sure he has failed you.

Damian is a perfectionist, so if he doesn't get you to calm down after screaming bloody murder on the first try, he literally wants to stab something because wtf he was sure he was doing this right.

Damian sings you to sleep. Dami has the voice of an angel when he's quietly singing and it's soothing as fuck. Never fails to make you sleepy. Add in a bit of bouncing while leaned against his shoulder and it is lights o u t.

Damian is a very teasing father, despite how serious he can be. You are the only person who he shows his soft, relaxed side too. You are his everything and he lets you know that shamelessly.

Damian will kill anybody who even dares to mention your name or make horrible implications about your existence.

That is his child and he will fuck someone up if they speak wrongly of you. Talk shit, get hit, bitches get a fucking katana to the eye.

Definition of the meme "Don't talk to me or my son ever again."

Damian Wayne Will Definitely Not Hesitate, Bitch^TM

As you grow up, Damian makes it crystal clear.

NO DATING AT ALL.

Damian is protective as fuck. He needs to know where you are, where you are going, who is going with you, who is all going to be there, how long is it gonna be, how long are you gonna be driving there, are there gonna be any boys present, Drake, would you finish the damn background checks already???

Damian is just like Dick: not even in the afterlife or the bullshit after that.

You are very much like Damian. Practically a spitting image. It makes Damian feel proud because of the Wayne Legacy that you might keep up, his ego, and the fact that his child is a badass and looks like one too.

Damian and you are not perfect, though. You two often get into arguments about certain things, usually the littlest. One of the things you two often fight about, however, is the mantle of Robin.

Huge no-no.

Noooo. No no no.

There is no way you are becoming Robin. You are his baby and he is NOT going to let some STUPID costume ruin that for him.

He can be very cold, even to you at times, and since you didn't inherit his amazing lack skill of patience, you are often calling him out on his bullshit and his attitudes.

Seriously. Who even is the adult here anymore.

You are taller than Damian. It infuriates him to no end.

"Dad, how's the weather down there?"

"gROUNDED."

At the end of the day, Damian loves you dearly and you love him dearly as well. There is never a dull moment between you two and it makes for a harmonious atmosphere. Even if you can be a pain in each other asses, Damian is sure he would be lost to the world of familial love had it not been for you.

You are his rock and he is your oasis in a barren land. Family always, always matters to you both.

#batboys #dick grayson #nightwing #jason todd #red hood #tim drake #red robin #damian wayne #robin #batman #not teen titans #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #damian wayne x reader #dick grayson headcanon #jason todd headcanon #tim drake headcanon #damian wayne headcanon

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kuresoto · 7 years

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*eyes emoji* 7, 11, 21, 29, 37 for the 40 Qs meme

Mah babe, ty

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Arghhhh I have two from the same chapter of Smoke and Retribution lmfao spoilers w/e

“You’re a monster,” she whispered, fear creeping into her voice.

“How else does anyone survive? How do you destroy a monster without becoming one?” His dishevelled hair fell across his face but his dark eyes still found her. “It’s just us now.” He moved to caress her cheek but the tears streaming down her face made him stop, fingertips inches from her face. “Whatever you decide to do now, I won’t stop you. Whether you decide to leave or stay, I won’t stop you.”

and

Rey exhaled slowly and repositioned her grip on the knife. She shifted her knees and flexed her fingers. She had to do it. It was now or never.

“You should have reported me when you had the chance.”

Ben’s sleep-ridden voice caught her off guard but not enough for her to pull the knife away from his throat. “I didn’t know you had killed everyone who had wronged me in my life.”

“No, I don’t mean recently. I mean before, when we first met, years ago.”

She pressed the tip further against his throat, the dull edge sinking into his flesh. “What do you mean?” she whispered harshly.

“Rey, sweet Rey, the small girl who used to masquerade as a boy. The small girl who helped an injured man she found in an alleyway one night. The girl who understood that the Security Force could not be trusted. Rey, the girl who was nobody but somebody at the same time.”

“You.”

Ben opened his eyes lazily, his dark orbs watching her through his long lashes. “I recognised you the moment you bumped into me on the street. I was even more surprised when you managed to find your way back into my life, in this very room. The moon was out, just like tonight. You had changed but yet hadn’t at the same time.” He chuckled. “You still had that hair.”

11. Is writing your passion or just a fun hobby?

It’s a hobby I’m passionate about heh, but srs, it’s just a hobby and I know it’ll never be more than that, which I’m okay with. It distracts from my monotonous job :)

21. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

I try and read my one-shots like….at least once before posting, which is TERRIBRO. For my 2+ chapter fics, I try and get a beta since my eyes just zone out, and then do a final once over as I post.

29. If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

Alright alright alright so @extrakyloren @lariren-shadow and I read @coupdefoudrey mermaid reylo fic and have been losing our shit over it bc WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENS NEXT we don’t know but we sure are fucking thirsty to find out and headcanon-ed about it for two days sweats

37. Talk about your current wips.

I mean….do you really want to know? Skldfhsdjg alrighty

Sunblossum: My inception AU fic for @reylofanfictionanthology that I’m busting my balls to finish the draft x_x

Paper Minds (Kylo origin story): currently written 8/11 (? maybe?) and it’s at that part where it’s fucking complicated and I need to make sure shit makes sense

One Month Vacation (Reydar for @red-applesith): MAN I’m like halfway through the second chapter (ngl, I haven’t touched it since Feb) and it’ll probably have like…idk another chapter and I’m trying to think of more crack scenarios for it

Bad Neighbors: lmfao I do actually want to write a second chapter that is Kylo’s POV

Professor/Pole Dancer AU: Rey is older than Ben and they’re both teachers at a high school and Ben obvs has a crush on Rey who is peak Hot Older Woman™ and he finds out she’s also a pole dancer whaaaaat pole dance pole dance drop splits fishnet bodysuits stripper heels my aesthetic i love

Smuggler Ben/Rey follow up from this that is stupid long and probably going to be a bullshit mutlichap and borderline crack but the title would be ‘Ben Solo’s Guide To Surviving The GalaxyWhile Trying To Not Fall In Love With Your Partner (And Ultimately Failing)’…yes, the title is purposely long and I’m still intending it to be a present for @politicalmamaduck who has to deal with me just dropping 15k+ shit for her to beta ;-; tq bby D;

And then I have Ideas™ that haven’t been written up but already blurted out to @reyloporn (Spy AU, xenomorph AU, demon/witch AU continuation, and that one canon divergent AU with clock emojis)

40 questions meme for fic writers

#fic meme #ask meme #tiaraofsapphires #*mine

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screamingatthevoid · 7 years

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Ravens and Wolves

A while ago, I wrote a long thing about Weregeld that ended up with my saying I hoped Corax and Russ went to the Eye of Terror together. Well, the two hundred year gap between their disappearances isn’t going to stop me.

Ravens and Wolves is the three-part story of how their epic Eye of Terror roadtrip begins.

Part I features a brief appearance from the Lord Reaper of the Carcharodons (which follows up on Our Sign of Parting) as well as a nod to my headcanon about the Hawk Lords and mixed Foundings.

Corax and Russ leave their legions behind and make their way to the Eye of Terror.

[Ravens and Wolves on AO3] [My works on AO3]

Part I: Nevermore

022.M31 Deliverance

IN THE DARKNESS, tears fell on the pale hands of a demigod as they crumpled his latest attempt to set his thoughts into words. The ball of parchment landed in the concavity of a discarded pauldron, one of many that nestled within. Still more lay on and around the other scattered plates of the Sable Armour that littered the chamber at the pinnacle of the Black Tower. The Ravenspire, Corax reminded himself. It didn’t feel like the Ravenspire anymore.

Haunted eyes looked out into the void, reflections of distant stars twinkling in the equally absolute blackness of his teary eyes. Above, the daylit orb of Kiavahr dominated the night of its moon. Shrouded in blood-red clouds, it was a constant reminder of the millions who had died in the uprising. The millions I killed. The crack of splintering metal brought Corax back to the present, looking down to find his fists in the cratered ruin of a control panel. Most of the controls in the chamber were inactive, the remains of systems made obsolete when the tower was refitted as a fortress-monastery for the XIXth Legion Astartes. For the best part of a century, it had served as an observatory for the Ravenlord, where he could look out on the transformation of Deliverance since its days as a gaol-moon. This time, though, he had come because it was the chamber farthest from his sins. Corax slammed his fist into the control panel again, drawing a trickle of blood where it caught on a jagged splinter. Tears and blood flowed together, filling the room with the smell of salt and iron. The primarch’s genhanced blood clotted almost instantly, yet somehow it had covered his hands and- Corax blinked. His hands were clean again. No, never that. Clean of real blood, but for the single trickle already crusted to brown, if not metaphorically. The red shadow, the darkness at the edge of his vision, took a creeping step forwards.

The commanders of the XIXth legion were gathered in the chamber below. A long time ago it had been the guard officers’ mess, though none of the trappings of those times remained. The room was sparse, now, lit only by starlight and the dim orb of Kiavahr. As much a memorial to the Lycaeus uprising as it was a place of meeting, the walls were engraved with the names of every man, woman, and child that had fought for deliverance. Corax had carved each one himself. “Welcome home, Chapter Masters,” began Aloni Tev, Shade Lord of the Raven Guard. The last time they had all gathered here, the assembled space marines had all worn armour in the same black livery as his own, and all held the ad-hoc rank of commander. Now, each was the master of their own chapter, with their own colours. Corax had also been there, and he could see a sense of loss that mirrored his own writ plainly on the pale features of the others as they noted the primarch’s absence. Gherith Arendi was the one to put it into words. “Where is the Ravenlord?” asked the Shadow Warden of the Black Guard, voice heavy with concern. He still wore the title that had once belonged to Corax’s honour guard, but much of his armour was now white, a red sun pierced by lightning replacing the raven on his shoulder. “After you left, he went to the Red Level,” Tev paused, letting his meaning sink in. The green-armoured master of the Raptors, Branne Nev, opened his mouth as if to speak, but remained silent. During the Heresy War, the units of Raptors he commanded had included the mutants resulting from corrupted gene-seed. All of the assembled masters had fought alongside the ‘roughs’, seen them prove their worth in spite of their monstrous appearance. Branne, though, had known them best of all. They had been locked away on the Red Level after the war. He didn’t need to ask what became of them. He couldn’t bear to. Nobody survives the Red Level. “After that, he locked himself in his chambers.” “There has been no word since?” asked Soukhounou, Co-Commander of the Hawk Lords. His purple armour stood out among the others, as did his decision to co-found a chapter by uniting his aerial units with the pilots of the Ultramarines’ 21st Chapter - both known as the ‘Hawks’. He had not been born on Deliverance, but it was a spiritual home of sorts. His connection to their shared father went just as deep. Tev shook his head. “Silence.” “Why are we only hearing this now?” Agapito Nev demanded. In the short time since the Second Founding edict, his Revilers had earned a reputation for their fierce temperament. It was no surprise, for each of the grey-armoured warriors that wore the skull and lightning bolt had been survivors of the dropsite massacre. “Peace, brother,” counselled Branne, placing a hand on Agapito’s shoulder. The two of them, brothers before they were battle-brothers, had sat in this room the day Corax had led the uprising to victory, and dropped atomic charges on Kiavahr to secure it. Having survived Horus’ rebellion only to lose their father was now added to those bittersweet memories. “It’s been a year, Branne,” Agapito snarled, batting his brother’s hand away. Time had done little to dim the fire in his heart, if anything it had grown brighter removed from the influence of calmer heads. “To the day,” Tev remarked. He had thought, at first, that the primarch would re-emerge after a few hours, perhaps days. As the days has become weeks, he had wondered whether to tell the others. The weeks stretched into months, until finally Tev could not ignore the fact that this was a matter that affected not only the Raven Guard, but all their successors. “He is not coming back,” came the soft whisper from the shadows. The tension in the room thickened instantly. The gathered chapter masters had been content to ignore the hulking figure in terminator armour while he remained silent at the edge of the gathering, but now the Forgotten One stepped forward. Soukhounou, the other Terran in the room, was the only one who turned to regard the Lord Reaper of the Carcharodon Astra. Unlike the others, the colour of his armour was not new. It was the storm-cloud grey the legion had worn before the rediscovery of their primarch, marked with patterns that recalled tribal tattoos of the Xeric warriors from whom the earliest recruits were drawn. This warrior had never worn the livery of the Raven Guard, the only difference after centuries of war the coiled carcharodon that replaced the legion numeral on one shoulder. The Forgotten One was little more than a dark myth to all but the oldest veterans - even the Heresy War had not made the primarch willing to recall the brutal warlord from the outer darkness. “You did,” countered Soukhounou. He spoke it as an accusation. Unlike the heraldry worn by the others, the exile’s had been granted not by Corax, but by the High Lords of Terra. The primarch had refused even to meet with the former Legion Master. The Lord Reaper had not volunteered the terms of the Edict of Exile that granted him permission to found a new chapter, and none of the others had asked. The Forgotten One smiled, a fierce, shark-toothed grin. “Not for long, cousin. We will return to the outer darkness and he, he will go somewhere just as far.” “You speak as if you even know our father,” Agapito snapped, rounding on the exile. His hands were curled into fists. “You are right; I do not know your father.” The other commanders shared a look, acutely aware the Forgotten One had now denied kinship with both them and the primarch. The truth, if they had asked for it, was that the High Lords had decided Corax should never be formally associated with the Carcharodon Astra if he was unwilling to give his blessing. Especially given the question marks that remained over some elements of the nomad-predation fleet. “Yet I understand what he is doing well enough. It is exile, as sure as when he sent me out into the black. The division of the legion is meaningless if he remains.” “Long Shadow,” Branne whispered, realisation dawning. “Brother?” Agapito asked, turning his back on the exile once more. “He thinks he’s become a Long Shadow – that he can’t be trusted. Not since the Raptors.” Agapito scowled. Arendi nodded in reluctant agreement. “He named me Legion Master on Yarant, when he was planning to die there.” “Aye. We thought he changed his mind, but,” Branne paused, shaking his head. “He was only delaying. Until the war was over.”

Corax moved silently through the upper corridors of the Ravenspire. He was not trying to avoid detection – he could have entered a shadow-walk to become near-invisible if he had wanted that – stealth simply came naturally to him. Not a soul crossed his path, but that was no surprise. The vast fortress-monastery had been so very empty these last years. Newly reactivated sensors above an eagle-marked gate detected the primarch’s coming, cold motors grinding in protest as they pulled armoured doors apart for the first time in over a decade. On the other side was a cavernous space, though modest by the standards of a hangar. Where once the private armoured transports of garrison officers might have stood in ranks, now a single vessel dominated the space. It was bizarre in appearance, the angles of each hull panel precisely calculated to baffle every sensor known to man – and many more besides. A cameleoline layer even allowed it to baffle vision, though it currently remained in its default, matte-black colouration. In that respect it was a rarity to be able to see it at all. Corax wove through the servitors making the last of the preparations to the stealth ship, making his way to the cockpit. Although the ship was larger than a stormbird, it could carry only one passenger. Settling into the pilot’s seat, custom built to his frame, Corax activated the ship’s systems. A grimace crossed his features as he spotted the ship’s name, Alia Aenor, inscribed across the curiously analogue control bank. When he had asked what it meant, Alpharius had smiled cryptically, his only reply ‘What indeed.’ If it was a mystery Corax had never felt compelled to dwell on in better times, it was one he sought to put from his mind forever now. Alpharius died in Ultramar, some of the reports had said. Let the mystery die with him. Seeing the last of the servitors retreat to the edge of the hangar, Corax activated the engines. He had flown the ship only a handful of times, finding little practical use for a personal warp-cutter to travel between systems, and each time he had half-expected the engines to roar into life. Instead, archaeotech thrusters thrummed softly, tilting the Aenor slightly as it lifted from the deck before levelling off. A flick of a switch and the volume increased tenfold in the cockpit. Out in the hangar, however, the ship disappeared from sight and sound as the reflex shields were raised. They had been Corax’s own addition, despite his brother’s protests that they were unnecessary. Pushing the thrust lever to maximum, the Aenor ghosted out of the hangar and left Deliverance far below. Corax’s fingers strayed almost subconsciously over the controls, keying in the priority address frequency. The status light glowed a soft green, and he paused. What could he tell his sons? How could he ever explain what he had not dared voice even to his own brothers?

There was confusion as the transmission stretched into seconds of silence. Then the hammer-blow of shock as the sons of Corax recognised the voice of their primarch whisper a single word. “Nevermore.”

Part II: For the Wolftime

211.M31 Fenris

IN THE SPACE of a moment, the world had been turned upside down. Bjorn, called the Fell-Handed by his kith and kin, was the fulcrum about which it twisted and bent. Unmoving, yet lost. There were two thousand others in the warrior-hall of the Valgard. Did they not sense the nauseating wrongness as he did? Perhaps they were no longer there after all. Perhaps he was alone. Bjorn could not tell. Two words filled all of his being. Not you.

The primarch ascended through the upper levels of the Valgard, heading inexorably toward the docking platforms at the pinnacle of the Aett. Behind him came the Einherjar, two-score of the greatest warriors of the Rout. A shadow of their former numbers, perhaps, but every one of them was a veteran of the Heresy War. Though there was a dark mood upon many of them, others laughed and boasted as though this were any other hunt. All knew that it was not. At their head, Grimnir Blackblood walked in silence at the primarch’s side, his features grim and his grip tight about the great maul Malanan. His one eye looked sidelong at his lord, and wondered. As Huscarl of the Einherjar, Grimnir had been closest to the primarch when he had entered his fugue. He had watched the primarch’s lips, and recognised the names upon them. Curze. Angron. Curze was long dead, but Angron? Russ had a score to settle there. Grimnir remembered their last battle, and his brow furrowed. It may have been a lesson, but the Wolf King had not let Angron defeat him – never that. Neither will stand, Russ had said. Lesson, or prophecy? A giant hand slapped Grimnir’s shoulder, pulling him in close. Grimnir flinched at the touch of his primarch, and at the chill of the armour Elavagar. “What’s on your mind, one-eye?” “You had the look of a man experiencing a vision.” He didn’t ask what it was – such things were better left to the gothi – but perhaps Russ might reveal something of what it meant. “Aye, it is so.” Russ chuckled, shaking his head. “All that time spent reading the runes to no avail, and a damned vision comes upon me when I’m just trying to have a drink. The wyrd is a real bastard sometimes.” Had the wyrd finally answered the Wolf King’s question, then? “Where are we going, Jarl?” Russ hesitated. “To find my brother.” “Which one?” There was a distant look in the primarch’s eye as he looked ahead, as if checking to see if a landmark he expected to lay on his path had come into sight. “I don’t know.” Grimnir scowled. If a primarch needed to be found, there was only one place for the hunt to begin. It brought the cryptic last words of Kva Who-Is-Divided to Grimnir’s mind, the old gothi beckoning him close, dark eyes like drops of blood frozen in amber wide with revelation. The Eye is in the Well, and the Well is in the Eye.

The Fell-Handed stood alone, seemingly rooted in place on the edge of the dais where the great table stood. Bjorn was called many things – the Fell-Handed, the Bear, Daemonslayer, Wyrd-Marked, Youngest, Jarl of Onn, Shield-Bearer – but of all of them Einherjar seemed a bitter irony for the last of Russ’ guard. It was usually rendered blood sworn in Low Gothic, but lone warrior was just as accurate. The rest of the Rout let him be, treating his manner as if it were merely his usual brooding. Could they truly be so blind? Wild speculation as to the fearsome beasts the primarch would slay and the mighty trophies with which he would return from his hunt echoed in the hall of carven stone. They drank and ate, boasted and brawled as though nothing had changed. Perhaps they did not yet comprehend that it had. “Who pissed in your mjod, Winterclaw?” The bass rumble at his shoulder intruded on Thrain Winterclaw’s thoughts. He turned to see Haldor Twinfeng grinning at him from behind his greying beard. The jarl of Tra – once Bjorn’s own Great Company – wore a gilt-edged suit of power armour in the blue-grey that was slowly replacing the old legion colours, heraldry of the sabretooth snarling on his shoulder. His namesake, a pair of curved fangs each as long and sharp as seax blades, hung from his gorget alongside those of a dozen xeno-beasts slain in the centuries since. “Hjà, Jarl,” Thrain replied half-heartedly. He had no retort to offer. “Skitja, your mood is black!” Haldor pressed on, throwing an arm around Thrain as if it would impart a measure of his levity. With his other hand he rapped his knuckles against the newly blackened ceramite of Thrain’s breastplate. “Have you taken the priesthood’s colours not just on your armour, but to heart?” “I’m not the only one.” Thrain gestured to Bjorn. “And what of it? Bjorn’s been a miserable bastard for years, no reason you should join him.” Thrain hesitated, wondering if he should continue. The first jarl only to have known the chapter, never the legion, Twinfeng shared perhaps the closest bond with the primarch outside the Einherjar. “It’s not like you to keep a leash on your tongue.” “What becomes of us now? We are not like the other chapters. It was only the will of Russ that kept us together. Yet we cannot fracture, the Wolf Brothers taught us that.” “You speak as if the Wolf King died.” There was an edge of threat creeping into the Jarl’s voice now. “How many of the others returned?” Thrain snapped. One by one, the primarchs had fallen or disappeared. With Russ’ departure, only Dorn would remain – the Emperor’s Praetorian to the last. “For all we are likely to see of him he is as alive as Guilliman.” “Guilliman? Do not speak to me of Guilliman,” Haldor spat, corrosive saliva hissing as it ate into the flagstones. He had been at Thessala the day Roboute Guilliman had been laid low. He had been the one who brought home the saga of the primarch in his living tomb. He shuddered at the indignity, and the memory of the Wolf King’s fury. Russ had raged for days – threatening to march into the Temple of Correction and tear his brother’s stasis-coffin down. “Propped up like a trophy on Macragge.” It was no way for a warrior to end. “Because they could not let him go.” Haldor bared his fangs with a growl that warned he had at last been pushed too far. “The Wolf King will return.” He spoke with conviction beyond faith. He didn’t just believe it, he would defy reality itself to make it true if he had to. After all the madness the galaxy had seen, it might even work. “I recognise my failing, and will be sure to correct it,” Thrain muttered, though his thoughts remained defiant. The Rout would not be held together by an empty throne and an absent king.

The Lord of Winter and War seemed to bend the very elements around him. The fur of his great wolf pelt stirred in disrupted air currents, bristling with impatience just as she had in life. Carven bone totems and ingots of raw metal rattled against the plates of Elavagar, cacophonous in the stillness at the top of the world. Beneath his feet, hoarfrost covered the exposed mountain peak. For the most part the mountain concealed the vast bastion that lay beneath the surface, but the upper kilometres of the Valgard were marred by spires and docking piers enough for several star forts. Atop the highest of the sky-bridges that wove between the mountain and its towers, the Einherjar grew restless as the minutes passed and Russ remained unmoving as the mountain beneath his feet. A stormbird idled on the landing platform at the other end, the sound of the engines swallowed by the thinness of an atmosphere that tested the limits of the space marines’ genhanced physiology. None reached for their helms. They were the Wolf King’s own honour guard, and they would not show weakness in the presence of their liege while he stood alone and unhelmed at the very pinnacle of Fenris. From his vantage point, Russ looked out over the jagged peaks of the volda hamarrki that rose from the storm clouds of Asaheim like the scattered islands of the worldsea. None came close to rivalling the Fang, but even the Father of Mountains did not quite live up to the legend that the World Spine pierced the void itself. Not by the Imperial reckoning, at least. The Imperium took things too literally, as ever, but Fenrisians understood the paradox. The mountains were the pillars that held up the sky-dome, and that limit defined the boundary between Fenris and ginnungagap, the space between stars. The stars are bright, he thought. They are calling you. Russ put the thought from his mind, for it was not his own, even as he paid no heed to the figure who was, and was not, standing beside him. The crippled king in battle-scarred bronze equalled his stature, even hunched against a broken spine, empty hands forever twitching, grasping for the bladed staff that had fallen from them centuries ago and light years away. Russ learned long ago to ignore the spectre that had haunted him since their duel on Prospero. It was easier to face the monster that his brother had become than to look into the blood-filled eye of Magnus as he had been on that day. That it had begun stepping into the waking world did not change that. The wheel of life and death had turned again. The last links to the old age, when he had walked the ice with the first Einherjar, were gone, and even the age that followed – that he had once believed would last forever – was a fading memory. The Allfather no longer had need of an executioner. Still you linger. “Does he wait for some sign?” “Perhaps he is having another vision.” Russ made no move, ignoring the unrest of his Einherjar and the silent whispers of the brother he murdered. He would move when the thread of the wyrd pulled him, and not before. He closed his eyes, frigid air threatening to freeze his nose, throat, and lungs as he pulled in a slow, deep breath. The death world had shaped him, and he had recast the Sixth Legion in his own image. It had been so natural, for all the primarchs, he had never stopped to consider whether it was wise. Now the wars they were made for were over. Where other legions had adapted to the new way, Fenris would not let the Rout change. Her ice was in their veins, her claws lodged deep in their hearts. Their fates were intertwined now. Perhaps they always had been. But his was not. An impossible distance away, a raven cawed. The smell of blood and brimstone filled Russ’ nostrils. His ears pricked up at the sound of the second, strangled cry. The third was a rasping death rattle. Eyes snapped open, focused with a predatory intent. The Wolf King threw back his head, and howled.

Infinities away, within turning wheels of thought and memory, the single eye of Magnus the Red was fixed on the world of ice. If his daemonic form had possessed a face, it would have been smiling.

Part III: The Raven and the Wolf

Coming eventually, probably.

#warhammer 40k #horus heresy #corvus corax #raven guard #hawk lords #carcharodons #second founding #fanfic #fanfiction #space wolves #leman russ #magnus the red

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