#zikar-sin of the thousand sons

[ask-the-crimson-king]

Fantasy's Wings

Dusk descended gracefully upon the beautiful glittering spires of Tizca. Small lanterns, crafted by the younger children in anticipation for the celebration, hung all around the city. It was the beginning of the celebrations to ring in the new year, and tonight was the Night of Wishes, a time where children would make lanterns, make a wish, and let them fly off into the night. Some had already been lit, flying into the pale orange sky as it faded to a deeper blue, while others waited until the first stars appeared. They were all colorful, adorned with all manner of decorations from abstract patterns of colors to depictions of mythical beasts and animals.

Zikar-Sin strode around the city without much care or purpose. His day's work had been completed, and he had wanted to see the bounds of his home again. The quiet hum of everyday life around him was a breath of fresh air compared to the constant drum of war. He had only been away for approximately a decade, but he was more than happy to return. He was awaiting his placement to one of his cousin Legions for his secondment.

He had selected three of them, based on a few of the interactions he had with their warriors; the White Scars, the Iron Warriors, and the Word Bearers. He almost selected the Blood Angels, but one of his close friends -- an initiate into the Order of Ruin named Imentet -- was already selected to join them. So he chose the Word Bearers, in part because he wanted to meet the newly recovered primarch. Lorgar had been discovered and given reign over his Legion only about five years prior, and Zikar-Sin found the change from Iconoclasts to the Bearers of the Word... interesting. Not that he knew the Legion much before the coming of their primarch, just that they seemed to transform themselves into something... different. New to the Legions.

New wasn't always bad. So he wanted to learn more about it.

As the Astartes walked, he let his mind unwind a little. He rose into the lower Ennumerations with some concentration, allowing him to see the City of Light in all its splendor. Presently he stood on the edge of central Tizca, the mountains flanking him as he watched the waning dusk. Stars began to peek out of the dimming sky, which meant that it was almost time for the other lanterns to be lit and released. Zikar-Sin remembered when he first took part in the tradition; he had just been selected as an initiate into the Legion itself, and he had created one infused with his hopes to be the greatest warrior the galaxy had ever seen.

How naive he once was, he thought to himself.

You're still naive, he knew his brothers would tell him. Just a different kind of it.

He shrugged off the assumed words of his close kindred and started his walk back into the city proper. Families were gathering with their little ones, carefully taking the lanterns and preparing to send them off on their final flights.

As he walked, he kept his mind open, sensing the temperaments of those he strolled past. One child was wishing for another cat in addition to the five they already had, much to the chagrin of their older sibling who happened to be allergic. Could that be altered by the Pavoni? Zikar-Sin would have to ask later. As the child lit the lantern with the help of their sibling and parents, Zikar-Sin felt the dulled mind and presence of a stray a few streets over. With some gentle aetheric nudging, he led the animal back to the child, much to their immense delight. The Astartes was already long gone by the time the cat had made it over, and the bright light of happiness outshone their own lantern in Zikar-Sin's aethersight.

He continued onward, his mind still abroad and wandering. Another child was hoping that they could use their pyromantic abilities to turn into a dragon, or a lion with the mane of a sun. Their parents were not as enthused by this aspiration, and Zikar-Sin noticed they had already more than fireproofed their home. The parents did not have a similar lean -- one was an auramancer while the other some variation of geokineticist -- so the gentle tiredness and exasperation at their child's wish and aspirations for the coming year was nothing new for them. He allowed himself a smile.

But then something interesting snagged at his other senses. It wasn't a happy emotion, rather one of fear and sadness. Zikar-Sin's brow furrowed, and he went and followed the thread. It led him back towards the Silver District, to a side street that didn't have any lanterns hung.

Well. Save for one, being closely held by a small child.

They must've been no older than eight or nine Terran years, by Zikar-Sin's rough estimate. Midnight blues and uncertain yellows clung to them closely. They were crying. Zikar-Sin approached slowly, gently brushing his mind against theirs. He found a longing there, but before he could discern more, the child jumped and whipped their head around, looking for the source of the disturbance. They spotted Zikar-Sin and jumped backwards, trying to hide their lantern and aggressively wiping at their face to hide their tears.

"I did not mean to disturb you," Zikar-Sin said slowly.

"Am I in trouble?" the child asked. Zikar-Sin shook his head.

"Of course not. Why would you be?"

"Because you're not supposed to be sad when people are celebrating," the child answered.

"And who told you that?"

"My friends." The child wiped at their face again.

"Not all celebrations will bring feelings of happiness," Zikar-Sin said. He stepped closer and crouched down so he was more on the child's level. "I am Zikar-Sin, of the Thousand Sons. May I have your name?"

"Huitzilin," the child answered.

"It is very nice to meet you, Huitzilin," Zikar-Sin said with a smile. "Would you mind if I asked why you were feeling sad?" He sensed Huitzilin mentally brace, as though they were facing reprimand or ridicule.

"I..." they hesitated, fiddling with the tassels of the lantern still behind their back. "I just miss my dad..." Tears came to their eyes, though they did their best not to cry in front of an Astartes. Zikar-Sin feared this meant the child was an orphan of war, realizing their father was garrisoned with the 28th Expedition Fleet. But he then saw what made up part of the child's lantern, though Huitzilin wanted to hide it. Unfortunately, the child's aura betrayed their emotions. It was a letter, promising he would be home soon, and to keep watch over their cat and bird while he was away.

"You miss him dearly, don't you?" Zikar-Sin asked. "I'm sure he misses you just as much." Huitzilin nodded and sobbed, covering their eyes with a hand.

"I'm sorry..."

"No, no, don't apologize. Here." The Astartes took out a small rag from the belt that helped secure his tunic in place. The child took it and wiped at their eyes and nose. "Would you like a hug?" Huitzilin took a moment to consider, before nodding wordlessly and allowing themself to be brought into a warm hug by the Astartes.

"I'm sorry," Huitzilin mumbled.

"Hush. None of that now," Zikar-Sin said softly. "Don't let anyone tell you that you aren't allowed to be upset about missing your parents. No matter the occasion. Okay?"

"Okay." The child pulled back, still hiccuping a little. They brought the lantern to their chest, sniffling and rubbing their eyes.

"Would you like my help releasing your lantern?" the Astartes asked. Huitzilin hesitated for a few moments. They hugged the lantern a bit tighter, almost defensive over it. Zikar-Sin felt the child's worry. They worried that if they let it go, they'd be letting go of their father's promise. Their wish was obvious.

"It is okay to say no," Zikar-Sin said. "Scary thought, to let go of a wish, isn't it?" Huitzilin nodded. "You know, I bet your father made a lantern for you tonight. And he has the same wish as you." The child's eyes widened.

"They make lanterns out there?" they asked. Zikar-Sin nodded.

"Of course. And, just like the ones here, they get released into the tides of the Great Ocean itself, and through the power of great will... they may just come true," the Astartes answered. "The more people wish for something, the more likely it is to come true."

Huitzilin looked back at the lantern. It was decorated like a brightly colored bird, the note from their father inside.

"Again, it is okay to say no. You do not have to let go of it if you do not want to," Zikar-Sin said.

"I think I want to," Huitzilin said, holding out the lantern to Zikar-Sin. "That way, my lantern can find his, and our wishes can both come true." Zikar-Sin nodded, beginning to conjure a small current of wind around him.

"Are you ready?" he asked. Huitzilin nodded, closing his eyes and silently mouthing his wish. When he opened his eyes again, Zikar-Sin lit the lantern, sending it into the skies above to join the thousands of other artificial stars, buoyed by the hopes and dreams of the children of Prospero.

"I hope it works," Huitzilin said quietly.

"It will. I know it will." The Astartes slowly stood to his full height, nearly doubling that of the child's. "Would you like to join me for the festivities happening in Occulum Square? A few of my brothers have planned out quite the spectacle. I think you'd enjoy it."

"That's a far walk..." Huitzilin mumbled. Zikar-Sin laughed.

"And who said you would be the one walking? I can carry you on my back, if you'd like."

That seemed to excite the child. They nodded, and Zikar-Sin crouched down again, letting Huitzilin hop on.

"Hold on tight, we'll be there before the sun fades!" the Astartes said. He gave the child a few seconds to clasp their hands around his neck, and he supported their legs before he stood and ran off through the streets of Tizca. His sandals slapped against the paved walkways as he raced for the heart of the city, making sure to take the streets that were less occupied so that he didn't accidentally trample over anyone. Huitzilin laughed and whooped in his ear, urging him to run faster, almost as though Zikar-Sin were their noble steed. The Astartes grinned himself and did his best to comply, taking a detour before getting to the heart of the festivities. He let the child down as the opening remarks began, earning some strange looks from the other gathered Thousand Sons present.

Zikar-Sin spent the next hour accompanying Huitzilin around the festival, until they ran into their friends and said. The children were in awe at the fact that Huitzilin had befriended one of the Legion. A couple of them seemed jealous, much to Zikar-Sin's delight. They invited Huitzilin to come play some games with them, and the child hesitated, looking up at Zikar-Sin.

"You don't need my permission," he said. "If you want to play with them, you are free to do so."

"I don't want to leave you alone," Huitzilin said, wringing his hands nervously. Zikar-Sin laughed.

"Oh, don't worry. My brothers are nearby. I'll need to check in with them anyway," he said. He looked over to where three of them had gathered, talking among themselves about some higher concepts. One of them noticed Zikar-Sin looking in their direction and furrowed his brow. Zikar-Sin grinned mischievously. "Maybe once you are done playing, you all can come meet them. I'm sure they would love to say hello."

+Zikar, what in the Emperor's name are you dragging us into?+ came a psychic voice.

+You can handle being around some small children for a few short minutes,+ Zikar-Sin sent back. +Some socialization would do you good.+

+Like you have any leg to stand on.+

+I have two, actually.+ Zikar-Sin then pushed away his brother's connection, focusing back on the children who were excitedly talking amongst themselves.

"That'd be awesome!" said one of them.

"Can we meet them now?" asked another.

"Later," Zikar-Sin said, "first I need to speak with them. Go play your games and have fun, and I'll call you all over when they're ready."

There was a small chorus of 'awww's that followed his words, but the kids seemed to accept it.

"C'mon, Huitzi," one of the kids said, gently grabbing Huitzilin by the shoulder. "You've got to see this cool lizard thing! It's from one of the worlds my mom went to!"

"No way, they've got to see my new cat first!"

"I want to show them the dragon!"

"Peace, children, peace," Zikar-Sin said with a dry expression. "Huitzilin, what would you like to see first?"

"Well..." Huitzilin said, frowning in thought. "The lizard does sound cool..."

"Then let's go! Bye, Sir Astartes!" said one of the kids, grabbing Huitzilin's hand and pulling them away. Zikar-Sin waved goodbye, watching them run off. He then turned to go join his brothers, a soft smile on his face.

"Scouting for new initiates?" asked the same who had intruded on his thoughts earlier.

"Not really," Zikar-Sin answered. "Though isn't that your job, Nekhbet?"

"Sometimes, when I'm not tending to the one's we're already testing," Nekhbet answered. "You seem to like the child well enough. They could be Astartes material. They seem to be of age."

"Hmm..." Zikar-Sin frowned.

"We could at the very least test for viability," said the soft-spoken voice of Asim, hardly more than an aspirant himself. Zikar-Sin turned back to where Huitzilin had ran off, thinking of the child's wish.

"I think they may like that idea," Zikar-Sin said.

---

The sky churned with the might of an endless storm above him. Starlight was obscured and refracted in strange ways, making the already peculiar light cast over the landscape even stranger. The ground beneath his armored boots was shards of shattered glass, each reflecting facets of both past and future to be and never to be again.

In his hands was a lantern, light and decorated in the aspect of a colorful bird. With a breath, Zikar-Sin conjured a current of wind, lit the lantern, and let it fly off into the sky. Inside of it was a note, never to be read.

It was but one artificial star, flying alone into the uncaring heavens above. It carried a wish that was never to be granted.

A wish for his little brother to find peace and safety in whatever realm he now walked within.

A silent tear rolled down his cheek, falling and splashing onto one of the shards below. As the sorcerer turned, he conjured his tower, walking inside without another glance at the tortured sky.

He did not see that, for the barest and briefest of moments, there was a second lantern. It winked in and out of existence in the span of a heartbeat, but it was there.

And that was all that mattered.

#thousand sons #warhammer 40k #warhammer 30k #not magnus this time #welcome to the stage my little anxious and audacious sorcerer/diabolist #zikar-sin of the thousand sons #and later zikar-sin of the word bearers #as with most of my writings this is inspired by a song of the same name #fantasy's wings by ancient bards #this is the unofficial/official announcement of me adding him to the blog as a side muse

[fides-regnat-aeterna]

Across Legion Lines

The garden held true significance to only two souls on the entire vessel. One of them was the Dark Apostle, who admired its crystalline structure as he walked out of the darker, cramped room he had just been sequestered in, listening to the song of the universe. His robes were a dusty grey layered with black, Colchisian cuneiform marking his collar and some of the cloth around his shoulders. His skin was a burnished copper, and upon his cheeks and hands were small tattoos, passages taken from the Book of Lorgar. Specifically the Testamentum Veritas, so as to remain closer to the primarch's original teachings.

Dark Apostle Ans'ar moved through his sanctum that was recently rebuilt. He occupied a number of rooms on the upper decks of his flagship, the Unitas Abyssi, but this central chamber, he knew, would come to be his favorite. A small garden was being cultivated beneath a great glass pyramid featuring a number of plants from worlds long since dead. Ans'ar walked over to one small bush of beautiful blooms, all with glittering blue petals. He crouched down, reaching out to touch a delicate flower. A small smile crossed his face. A wonderful addition to the garden, a suggestion made by his Master of Possession, Zikar-Sin. He had truly grown into that position over the years, though the transition wasn't easy. Especially since he was forgoing one Legion for another.

Ans'ar remembered that fateful meeting well.

"Apostle Ans'ar," came a low, graveled voice. It was enough to shake him from his meditations, and the Apostle could feel his connection to the Immaterium slip away from him. Shadows flickered across the mostly-barren walls to the chamber. He could sense the bulky presence of his Coryphaus on the other side of the silken curtain before he turned to address him. Slowly, he stood, his limbs feeling stiff and sore.

"What is it, Ishum?" he asked, keeping his tone light and masking his slight frustration. Ans'ar pushed the curtain aside, looking into the dark eyes of the warrior. Unlike Ans'ar, he was much more muscular and was more accustomed to war and heavily scarred, with one ragged gash cutting a silver line through his short black hair. The Shadow Crusade had not been kind to him. Unusually, the Apostle found a measure of concern on his face. Ishum was not one to show concern, believing he had to remain stoic and always sure in order to help guide the warriors of the Host. A good replacement for their once-Chapter Master.

"We have received a distress signal," Ishum answered.

"A distress signal," Ans'ar echoed. "From whom?"

"A ship known as the Techlotl."

Ans'ar frowned. "That does not sound like our brothers."

"It is not," Ishum confirmed.

"Then why bring this news to me?"

"Because of who we found on it." The uncertainty and concern deepened. "They are Thousand Sons. And one of them seemed strikingly familiar to me. I think you should see for yourself."

"Ishum, must you be so cryptic, friend?" The Apostle asked, looking almost exasperated. Then he paused, his brow furrowing. "... Thousand Sons?" he asked. Ishum nodded. "Do you mean to tell me you've found-"

"Transports are ready to board. You'll want to be in armor, there is a chance that their hull integrity has been compromised. I shall meet you on the hangar." Ishum turned and started to stalk away, leaving Ans'ar alone. The Apostle watched him go in an awed silence, brows still furrowed, mind racing.

They were there in less than three hours. The preliminary assessments of the vessel had come back indicating that it had not sustained any major damage externally, but nonetheless, the warriors who were going to board came armed and armored. Ans'ar was armored in his ornate crimson warplate, crozius in hand in case they found any unwelcome visitors. With him was his First Acolyte, Dakuri, a stocky and belligerent warrior with aggression marked within his movements, the Coryphaus, Ishum, and a small number of their Annointed brethren. They walked through the halls of the vessel, seeing remnants of the Warp's touch. Some of the walls had given way to flesh or scales or feathers. There were malformed, formerly-human bodies occasionally strewn around. Outside of the sound the small coterie made, there was nothing but a deep, uneasy silence. Lumens flickered overhead. Shadows flickered. The Annointed had drawn their weapons. Ishum stayed close to his Apostle at the head, followed by the First Acolyte.

"Where are they?" Dakuri asked, his voice sounding even harsher than usual across the vox.

"Towards the stern, on the lower decks, First Acolyte," Ishum answered. "Last we could pick up on their signals, they were there. They could have moved."

"Wait," Ans'ar stopped suddenly, holding up a hand. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what, my lord?" Dakuri asked.

"Listen."

Every warrior went still and silent, straining to hear anything. The First Acolyte snorted, impatient.

"We're on a Tzeentchian vessel, there ought to be illusions-" his words were sharply cut off by the sound of a distant wail. Heads and weapons were turned in its direction, down a hallway that split off and headed towards the deck below.

"That was no mere illusion, my Acolyte" the Apostle said quietly. "Let's move."

"Is this wise, Apostle?" Dakuri asked, watching as Ans'ar pushed past and started to follow the source of the sound.

"Have faith in him, Acolyte Dakuri," Ishum answered, following after the Apostle. With a slight eyeroll, the Acolyte followed, keeping a firm grip on the bolter in his hands.

There was another cry that echoed down the hall, and something about it struck Ans'ar. He stopped for a moment, his face beneath his helm becoming one of surprise. That sounded too familiar. Without warning, he started to run towards the source of the sound, his boots echoing loudly down the hall. Faintly he could hear his warriors calling to him, but it didn't matter.

A door greeted him at the end of the hall, locked. Ans'ar set his crozius across his back and slowly started to pry at the doors, revealing a room that looked to be a small ritual chamber, with the faint smell of incense and brimstone still clinging to the air. The floor was marked with burn scars and chalk, a shelf that had been half-blown apart and books scattered across it. Opposite to the entrance was a small slab of stone where a brazier still burned, and there were two figures before it. Both were armored in sky blue edged in gold, the serpentine ouroboros marking their shoulder guards. One was bareheaded, the other seemed to be convulsing on the ground.

"No, no, no..." the bareheaded one muttered. From the door, Ans'ar could make out sandy blonde hair and sun-kissed skin. Two hands were firmly pressed down on a breastplate that bulged and buckled. Coils of aether-light were gathered around his gauntlets. The Apostle could hear the desperation in his voice. "No, it... it was supposed to be gone! Th-the Rubric was supposed to get rid of it! This can't... I can't..."

"Do you require aid?" Ans'ar asked. The warrior immediately turned, reaching for a long, gilded staff nearby. Its head seemed flat, almost like a hammer, until it made contact and a blade of light emerged.

"Don't come any closer," he threatened. His blue eyes were full of pain, and wetness marked his cheeks. "Don't you take another step, zealot, or else I will-"

"Zikar-Sin?" Ans'ar asked suddenly, taking a few steps closer. "Is that you?" The warrior stopped, tensing.

"How do you know me?"

"It's me," he said, slowly removing his helm. The Thousand Son's eyes went wide.

"Ans'ar!" He ran over and quickly took him into an embrace. "Oh, thank the stars it's you! If you were anyone else, I would've..."

"I am happy to see you as well, old friend," Ans'ar replied with an easy smile on his face. The footsteps of his accompanying warriors followed down the hall. He could hear Dakuri and Ishum calling for him. "I am here, brothers, and I am well."

"Your grace, please, try not to do that again," Ishum said with a small huff. He filed in, followed closely by the rest of the coterie. "I see you found him."

"I did indeed." Ans'ar held Zikar-Sin out at arm's length. "What has happened here? What happened to your ship? There's hardly a soul here."

Zikar-Sin pulled himself away, hurrying back over at the convulsing form of his brother. "I can explain all of that later. Do you have sorcerers with you? I... I need help, much as I hate to say. Citlali is destabilizing, and I don't know how much longer he can persist."

"We have some who are skilled in such things, yes. I can help him. I can see the markings of corruption upon him," Ans'ar replied. "We have ways of removing it." He turned to his Coryphaus. "Help him back to the Medicae decks. I want to have Merrick and Kikuid see to him, if they are available."

Ishum put a fist to his breastplate. "At your word, Apostle."

"Dakuri, you will be accompanying them as well. I will be joining you once I can gather the proper tools necessary for undoing this. Do you remember the proper rituals for cleansing, my Acolyte?"

"I do, Apostle."

"Excellent. Quickly, take him before his condition worsens." He gestured to the warrior, who was beginning to look less and less humanoid as time went on. Zikar-Sin moved to help lift him as two members of the Annointed crowded into the small room.

"Stay strong and fight it, Citlali," he muttered. The other Thousand Son moaned quietly. Zikar-Sin collapsed his staff down into a small, thin rod and clipped it to his waist. Ans'ar walked over and put a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll do all we can, Zikar."

"I know." The Thousand Son took his helm from his side and placed it on. "Tzeentch willing, it is enough."

Almost a week had passed. Five other Thousand Sons were recovered from the vessel after Zikar-Sin and Citlali were rescued. Zikar-Sin paced the halls outside the Medicae impatiently, barefaced and still armored. Ans'ar and his Acolyte had been locked in Citlali's room for days. Zikar was growing anxious. He couldn't be losing another brother to the Flesh Change. He couldn't. He refused! He had even reached into the Great Ocean and-

The doors opened with a small hiss. Ans'ar, robed in layered grey with gilded runes marking the collar, finally walked out, sweat and weariness marking his features.

"Is it done?" Zikar asked. "Is my brother okay?"

"He will recover, yes," Ans'ar practically rasped. He cleared his throat. "It took much work and dedication, but he should recover."

Relief poured over Zikar like cold water on a brutally hot day. He nearly fell to his knees, tears stinging at his eyes.

"I... I don't know how to thank you," he stammered, voice raw with emotion. "I-"

"Your gratitude is enough," Ans'ar answered with a raised hand. "You owe me nothing short of an explanation. How did all of this come to be?"

"It's a long story."

"I have plenty of time to hear it. We will need time to speak with the Mechanicum about your ship."

"Ah. Right." Zikar-Sin quickly rubbed a hand over his face.

"Come, walk with me. You can explain yourself on the way." Ans'ar beckoned for the sorcerer to follow.

"On the way to what?"

"My sanctum. I have something that may be able to put your mind at ease, at least a little." He then turned and began walking.

"Wait, what about your... Acolyte?" The sorcerer replied, jogging a few steps to catch up.

"He is still speaking with our Apothecaries and I have asked him to stay and observe," Ans'ar answered. "Go on, explain what happened."

"Do you know what's been happening with my Legion after the Heresy ended?" Zikar-Sin asked.

"I have heard rumor, but nothing more."

"I will try to be brief. Our affliction returned to us, and in a desperate attempt to banish it for good, one of my brothers created this ritual known as the Rubric and cast it on us. It worked, for the most part, but now most of our brothers are--"

"--turned to dust." Ans’ar’s brows knitted together. “I see those rumors were true.”

"Precisely," Zikar-Sin said with a nod. "Now, I still stayed with my brothers up until we besieged Fenris at the Fang, but afterwards I just..." He sighed. "I couldn't stand to see so many great minds, those whom I had once called brother, now reduced to nothing but dust inside armor. So, once we were repelled back to Sortiarius, I grabbed a few of my brothers and my warship and we just... left. No true destination in mind, nor a destiny to follow. We just needed to be away. Citlali," Zikar gestured to the door behind them "wanted to track down Ahriman and make him pay for what he had done. I and a few others argued against it. We decided to simply be a warband for hire for a while, until we received some grand revelation. Another of my brothers even suggested trying to find a cure ourselves. I said no, because we hardly knew what even went into the Rubric, let alone what would break something so strong."

"So that explains why there were so few aboard your vessel," Ans'ar murmured. "But I do not recall seeing many unaugmented humans aboard."

"There weren't many," Zikar answered. "We only had maybe 10,000 with us. But that is how I came to be a part of this... well... I don't even know if I can call it a warband, there were only nine of us."

"Only nine of you?"

"I refused to take any Rubricae. I don't want to be commanding my brothers like that." Zikar looked at Ans'ar as they walked. "Would you?"

They passed by a number of warriors as they made their way to a passage leading to the upper decks, all whom bowed their heads and gave utterances of respect as the duo passed. Ans'ar dignified them with a small smile and words of greeting before he passed. A thoughtful look gleamed in his eye for a moment before he answered.

"No," he said at last. "No, I do not think I would."

"Exactly. So, there were nine of us. We were actually going to meet up with some more of our brothers, those who were somewhat like-minded, until we were beset by raiders."

"Raiders? Were they xenos?"

"No," Zikar answered with a snort. "Tides of the Ocean, do I wish they were."

"What were they?"

"Night Lords," the sorcerer answered curtly. His lip twisted into a sneer.

"Night Lords?"

"We crossed too close to one of their ships, apparently. I wasn't navigating, I was meditating and communing with the Neverborn. But they attacked us, we defended, and we tried to evade them. We were successful, but then we got lost within the Warp. I tried to help get us out with the help of the things lurking beyond, but it just led to some in-fighting and then everything started to go haywire while I was trying to set up a ritual and then..." He trailed off.

The pair arrived at a lift which brought them to the upper decks, and a few moments after, to the Apostle's sanctum. Ans'ar led him past the antechamber and into the wide, central room. It was made as a simulacrum to one of the gardens in Vharadesh, with moon lilies blooming along the edges of the paths that led to the other rooms. A few benches had been placed around, and Ans'ar gestured for Zikar-Sin to sit.

"It looked as though the Neverborn had gotten in."

"They did," Zikar said with a nod, taking a seat. "Our gellar field failed because of some damage sustained during the brief fighting with the Night Lords. We were so focused on getting out and fighting back those raiders that we didn't even notice. So much for our acclaimed intellect, huh?"

"I'm guessing it also led to the... destabilization?"

"Yes," Zikar answered with another small nod. He looked away. "After we were able to fend off the daemons, one by one, each of my brothers started to succumb. You know me, Ans'ar. I wasn't a biomancer, I didn't know what to do outside of just... trying desperately to hold them together. It felt like trying to hold on to a bag full of liquid and stop the liquid from spilling out. I sent the distress signal the moment I recognized the symptoms and brought Citlali to my ritual room to try and do anything to stop it. But... but nothing was working, and I started growing even more desperate, and..." he trailed off. Ans'ar waited patiently. Zikar-Sin inhaled, then exhaled slowly. "And I did something that I think my own father did to try and stop it all those years ago."

With a small flick of his fingers, Zikar used some telekinetics to remove the gauntlet and bracer around his left arm. As each piece was removed, his flesh was exposed, but it was not the same tan color as his face. Zikar looked away as it was revealed, feeling shame. What remained was an appendage that was flecked with iridescent blue feathers, ending in an arm that was beginning to look more like a raptorial claw than a hand anymore. Ans'ar's gasp almost made him flinch.

"Zikar..." the Apostle said softly.

"I know," he said, quickly moving to cover it. "It hasn't spread too far. I think it's more controlled. But I had to. I wanted to save them. I couldn't let any of my brothers succumb like that. Even if it was just eight of them, one would be far too many."

"I do not blame you for whatever you have done, Zikar," Ans'ar told him. His face was stern, yet kind. Just as Zikar-Sin had remembered him to be. "We can help you with-"

"No," Zikar said quickly. "No. I don't want you to. Just as my father is forever half-blind, so too should I bear this mark. I did what I could to try and save them, and I was able to at least slow it. Whatever follows..." he trailed off.

"Let me grab us something to drink. We've been able to scavenge a few things from nearby Imperial ships recently." Ans'ar stood and walked into a room off to the left, leaving Zikar momentarily. He looked down at his clawed hand and the feathering that was slowly creeping up his arm. He remembered the thing he had spoken to, and he remembered even during the Crusade being told of this creature and the great power it possessed from a then-friend and brother of his.

Aquilae. What a name, especially when compared with the Corvidae or the Raptora or the Pavoni.

Ans'ar returned with two glasses and a bottle of some sort of spirit. Zikar-Sin raised a sandy brow.

"I did not expect you to bring drinks," he said with an amused snort. He put the gauntlet and bracer back over his arm, then accepted a glass as Ans'ar poured a murky-colored liquid inside. He took a small sniff. It smelled potent, but fragrant.

"You need something to quell your mind." Ans'ar took a seat near Zikar. "As you were saying."

"I tried to make this pact in order to protect all of us." The sorcerer took a small sip off his drink, his brows raising. "Doesn't taste too bad..." he hummed and took another drink. "I think I was able to slow it enough in the others for them to re-assert control. But Citlali was degenerating too fast for me to do much, no matter how much I begged." He looked down at his lap.

"But we were able to find you," Ans'ar said. "And, if I have been reading things correctly, it seems we were the help you had prayed for." Zikar gave a snort of derision and shrugged.

"I'm not the most spiritual Astartes out there. Especially in comparison to you. But I guess you're right." He took another drink off his glass. "I'll need to think of a way to thank you more properly. Were you able to find my other brothers?"

"All but two," the Apostle answered. Zikar's face fell.

"I expected as much. Those daemons were bastards," he muttered. "Took a lot of strength to throw them back amongst the chaos of everything else. I would not be surprised if their souls have passed on." He let out a long sigh. Ans'ar put an arm around his shoulders.

"You may stay with us for as long as you need, Zikar. I can arrange for more proper room to be set aside."

"I would appreciate that," Zikar said. "Thank you."

"Of course." Ans'ar smiled again, and Zikar managed to smile back.

Three days later, Zikar was off on a mission, marching through the halls and bumping into a few Word Bearers as he passed. A number of 'sorry' and 'excuse me's were given along with a few telekinetic pushes here and there. He quickly hopped on the lift and ascended to Ans'ar's sanctum. He walked into the central chamber, but couldn't find the Apostle.

"Could've sworn that Acolyte said he'd be here..." he muttered.

"I am right here, Zikar," Ans'ar called, pushing aside a silk curtain. Once more, he was dressed in more ceremonial looking attire, with a loose crimson shawl about his neck. "Is there something you need?"

"I know you are preparing for your sermons, but I think I know of a way to thank you," Zikar said quickly. There was a wide grin on his face. He took in a breath. "Let me join your Host. I know you already are well versed in diabolism, however I think I can still be of aid." Ans'ar looked quite surprised.

"You wish to... join us as a diabolist?" he said slowly. Zikar nodded.

"I know. It sounds weird, but I think it'd be a good fit for me. I've been searching for a sign, and I think this is where I'm meant to be."

"And your other brothers?"

"They..." he trailed off. "They want to go back. To Sortiarius, I mean. They don't think trapezing the galaxy is right for them."

"I see..." the Apostle said slowly.

"You don't need to say yes," Zikar told him, holding out his hands. Despite being dressed in more casual robes, both of his hands looked normal, for the most part. Illusions were useful. "But I just thought I'd offer."

"Right..." Ans'ar put a hand to his chin. "Tell you what. Join me at my sermon, and if you are also willing to commit yourself to the Truth, I shall fully induct you into my Host."

"Oh, thank you!" Zikar clasped his hands together and grinned. "I promise you will not regret it. I have extensive experience in working with the Neverborn. I was a part of a botched "Sixth Cult" for a while, but I have never truly dropped my studies."

"We can go over qualifications later, Zikar," Ans'ar said with a chuckle. "I'll meet you with the rest of the congregation and we can discuss things there. How fares your brother?"

"He is well. I think I can convince him to stay for a while, but I have a feeling he'll want to leave too. Which is fine," Zikar said, scratching at his arm idly. "But thank you. I promise I won't let you down."

"I know you won't. Now, leave me to my studies and meditations for now. If you see Dakuri on your way back, send him right to me."

"I will. Thank you again!" Zikar then turned and hurried out, leaving the Apostle alone once more.

A few hours after his official induction, Zikar-Sin went to meet with Apostle Ans'ar on the observation decks as they began their translation into the Immaterium. He had come armored, the new crimson still glistening with wet paint. Ans'ar was also armored with some new, flowing prayer scrolls affixed to the armor itself. Both were bareheaded.

"So... Dark Apostle, huh?" Zikar had asked while they watched the Warp around them from the observation deck. "Sounds a lot more sinister than 'Chaplain', doesn't it?"

"As does 'Exalted Sorcerer'," Ans'ar replied with a snicker. Zikar laughed too.

"I remember getting the message that you had finally become a Chaplain," he said. "I was so happy for you that one of my brothers came running, thinking it was news of a new assignment. Unfortunately for him, it was not."

"And I remember when you had sent that message telling me you had become a Philosophus. Though an Astartes sending a message via Astrotelepathic communication was a little risky. You should have used your own mortal Astropaths, they nearly had a seizure."

"Hey, I just wanted to see if it could be done." Zikar laughed again. The two looked on at the roiling warp in silence, seeing the occasional limb or eye pass over.

"How did it feel?"

"How did what feel?"

"The whole... transition. You lot were so zealous, so convinced that the Emperor was-"

"Ah. Right." Ans'ar cut him off. "It was... not easy, as one could imagine. I did not even want to accept this new Truth at first. It felt too... too vicious, from what my brother-Chaplains had told me. But then I was able to hear my Primarch speak this Truth, and once I began to read and understand his writings, it had begun to make more sense." The Apostle looked to Zikar. "I will explain to you our three Paths another time, but do know that our Path believes in the divinity of humanity, not just the Four. I follow the writings of our father and try not to let the Keeper of Faith or First Apostle poison the faith too much."

"Bold of you," Zikar said with a snort.

"Indeed. It is cause for some of our brothers to look at me with derision. They will not think highly of me for bringing you into our fold."

"Really? I thought your Legion is all about enlightenment of the Truth."

"We are. But we have different means of getting there, and some of our brothers are staunch traditionalists." Ans'ar shook his head. "Again, I will explain another time. It will be vital knowledge."

"Then why not explain now?" Zikar crossed his arms.

"It would take too long. I will be needed by our Coryphaus soon. We make haste to reinforce some of our brothers who are locked in a war of attrition," he replied.

"Ah. I see." The sorcerer nodded, and the conversation phased out once more, and they continued watching the colors and flickering shapes in the aether.

"It took a bit of getting used to and growing into," Ans'ar said after some time.

"Hm?"

"The title. Dark Apostle," he clarified. "I did not like it at first. I still do not fully like it. I prefer just 'Apostle' instead. Occasionally our brothers still call me Chaplain, even now."

"I see." Zikar nodded. "Mine took a bit of time too. Especially since we raged against being labeled as sorcerers and warlocks for so long. And then..." He shrugged. "Times changed. And so have we."

"Indeed we have." Ans'ar agreed.

"Apostle," said the timid voice of a serf. Both warriors turned. The serf kept their eyes down. "Apologies for any interruptions. Coryphaus Ishum is waiting for you."

"Thank you, arad," Ans'ar replied with a gentle smile. "You are dismissed." The serf bowed and swiftly left. "Best not keep him waiting. Join me for Darkuri's lessons later, would you?"

"Why not? Might as well," Zikar-Sin said with a shrug. Ans'ar clapped a hand to his shoulder before heading off. He took a glance over his shoulder and noticed Zikar still watching the Warp go by, idly scratching at his left arm as he did so, despite it being encased in armor. A brief look of concern crossed his features, but he continued on anyway. Ishum was not the most patient man on the best of days.

In the centuries that turned to millennia following that day, Zikar-Sin took on the title of Master of Possession a few years after his induction into the Host. Though he was not a devout follower, he still listened to and practiced the faith alongside the Legion at times. He did not call himself a true Word Bearer, and nor would the Legion at large. Ans'ar did not care for the scorn his brothers whispered about him. Zikar-Sin had proven to be a valuable ally and friend. He gave thanks to the Powers for allowing the two of them to find each other.

"Apostle," said a voice, taking him from his reveries of the past. He looked up, standing as he saw the familiar form of Zikar, robed in white and red, approaching.

"Zikar."

"Admiring the new blooms? I told you, the greenhouse ties everything together," the Master of Possession said with a smile. The Apostle chuckled.

"You were right. And thank you for acquiring the seeds. They are quite the beauty to look at."

"I told you they would be."

"What is it that you need?"

"I have consulted the skeins of Fate. Your visions seem to be correct, and the construction of this Gehemehnet should bolster our signal for the coming Crusade against the Iron Snakes," the diabolist reported.

"And our calls for help?" Ans'ar asked, gently folding his arms.

"Answered, mostly. And we will even be helped by one of my brothers." He rolled his eyes. "What a luxury that will be. He's even an exile."

"Are you not happy to be with one of your own brothers, Zikar?"

"I would be, if I didn't know how much they've changed while I've been away."

"You have changed too," Ans'ar remarked. "How goes the...?" he tapped his arm. Zikar looked all around before his left arm revealed itself. The feathering had climbed all the way up his shoulder, but had stopped there for now.

"I've been able to still hold it off," he answered.

"My offer still stands."

"As does my answer. I appreciate you, but I want to keep this as a reminder. Especially to my brothers who think that a cure will be so simple to find." He huffed.

"Alright," Ans'ar gave a polite nod. "I do have an alteration to tell you of."

"Do you?"

"I will be telling Coryphaus Gibil this shortly, but I want to have Merrick overseeing these newcomers. I need him to be put in with An-Ishkur and Hersyaf's coterie."

"... you sure about that?" Zikar asked with a brow raise, putting the illusion back up. "Hasn't Merrick been humiliated enough since losing his title?"

"It is not humiliation. I have received certain portents and I would like to see if they come true."

"Fair enough." He shrugged. "I can let him know if you wish."

"That would be appreciated." Ans'ar smiled again. "Would you care to try one of the first fruits off of the new tree?"

"Is it poisonous?"

"It isn't supposed to be."

"Then yes." Zikar made his way over to the tree in question alongside Ans'ar, and the two continued idly talking with one another about the new arrivals in the gardens. The final translation was being made soon, as would contact with these new warriors be established. Ans'ar found himself eagerly awaiting these new warriors. Especially if they proved themselves to be great warriors indeed.

Maybe, just maybe, he could keep them around for long enough for his final plans to be realized. But that would have to wait until Sicarus. And if Ans'ar knew anything, it was that patience was a very valuable thing in short supply among his brothers and cousins.

Zikar, however, was feeling anxious. Meeting a brother of his and having to deal with a Khorne Berserker was going to be rough. Ans'ar knew this, but Zikar had been patient enough to just grit and bear it for now. After all, he was the Master of Possession, dealing with stubborn, bull-headed and bellicose entities was his job. He was just thankful he wasn't Merrick or An-Ishkur at that moment.

Eventually, Zikar and Ans'ar were called away to their own duties, and so they said their brief goodbyes and headed off, leaving the gardens in a blissful silence. Soon, these new warriors would be able to come down and see its small marvels itself, even if they were not completely aware of the mind behind it just yet. It was a testament to brotherhood despite Legion lines, something Ans'ar had always held dear, and the perfect location to welcome in new brothers.

It was, after all, the place where he had welcomed Zikar-Sin.

#warhammer 40k #word bearers #thousand sons #dark apostle ans'ar #master of possession zikar-sin #basically 5.5k words #(its 5496) #enjoy maybe if you have the patience to read it all #its a lot

[ask-the-crimson-king]

A Fate Determined

What a fall from grace.

He used to be quartered in a finely furnished cabin, with an entire library at his fingertips whenever he chose. He could find other scholars of the Great Ocean and consult them or banter with them. He could create marvelous experiments with his brothers, even if they sometimes had less than ideal results. 

Now, he was sequestered away in the dingy underbelly of a beaten -- and most likely stolen -- warship that belonged to a band of miscreants and barbarians. Fitting, he reasoned, considering what had passed.

He was armored, even though today was not to be a day of skirmishing and combat. He had long since learned the value of maintaining some level of protection, especially in times between fighting. His associates, for he was not permitted to call them cousin nor even ally, were negotiating. With whom, the sorcerer did not know, for he was told it was not his right to know.

Being a sorcerer, most would reason that he could just pluck the information he wanted from the minds of the unwilling, and they would be correct.

If his new "boss" was not a member of the dreaded XII alongside most of the members of this miserable band. Though whether he could even refer to them as members of a Legion felt dubious. The change brought about from the Siege and these few... what, centuries now? had changed them so fundamentally. They were fracturing and breaking away. Most of the Legions were.

After all, their primarchs were beginning to abandon them, and they were without direction and unity. 

His own Legion had fractured long before the others. Recent events only broke them further. 

He shakes his head to clear the thoughts. He'd rather not entertain and remember what had happened. 

For now, he needed to focus. The leader of this warband had instructed him to formulate a ritual to summon forth a greater daemon of Khorne, and-

A knock at his door stops his thoughts. 

"Hey! Sorcerer!" comes a gruff shout. Pachua. A former member of the III, usually the one sent to fetch the sorcerer since most of the others in the band could hardly stand to be near him. The sorcerer once had a fleeting vision of Pachua holding the head of the current leader, Ukwtakun, and using it as a bargaining chip. 

"Yes?" the sorcerer replied, already rising from where he had been sitting. 

"You're called to the command deck," Pachua said. 

"Any particular reason?" the sorcerer asked as he opened the door. "Am I assisting in navigation again?"

"Don't know, don't care to know," Pachua said with a snort. "I have other things to attend to." Before another word could be said, the other Astartes stalked off, the dim light from the overhead lumens reflecting the garish colors and fresh trophies he had recently adorned his armors with. With a sigh, the sorcerer quickly made his way through the ship, coming to the doors that opened to the command bridge. 

Immediately he was greeted with an unfamiliar sight. Two Terminators, painted in crimson edged in silver, barred his way. Scripture was both etched into their plate and pinned to their armor in various scrolls. He took notice of several symbols meant to ward away the creatures of the Immaterium -- unsurprising, given that these two were of the XVII. 

"Greetings," the sorcerer said to them. "Ukwtakun summoned me."

"You are the sorcerer?" one asked. 

"I am." Perhaps the XVII were not aware of the changes that had befell his Legion. He knew his cerulean and gold plate seemed strange to them. 

"He is speaking with our Apostle," said the other. 

Apostle. The sorcerer was still uncomfortable with the word.

"May I ask that he be informed of my presence, at least?" 

"We've sent word along," the Terminator said, sounding annoyed. 

A silence stretched out between the three of them. While he awaited clearance to enter, his mind wandered, as did his other senses. Despite the suppression required to avoid getting killed, he could still keenly sense the auras of those around him.

A reliable talent to help avoid taking a fist or an axe to the face. 

He thought it a hold-over from his time as part of the Atheanean Cult from before the Fall. Such designations were archaic, now, and his mastery over the arts of old was giving way to new talents and curiosities. 

Some were not as new as he let on when he was still with the Legion, but he had wanted to keep up appearances then. Part of him did find it amusing that his ambitious brother had been right, in a way. There was more to the disciplines than what the Five Cults provided. 

Soon enough, the doors opened, and the sorcerer was allowed to enter. He gave a nod of acknowledgement and respect to the two Terminators as he entered, though who he saw left him stopped in his tracks.

Standing near to the brutualized warrior that was Ukwtakun was a face the sorcerer had not seen in centuries. Scripture marched down the left side of his face, his crimson armor left unadorned aside from the occasional lines of scripture or wards that looked similar to those borne by the Terminators who had stood sentry outside. A crozius arcanum rested near his feet.

"There you are!" Ukwtakun's voice ripped him from his momentary stupor. The warrior's face was nearly bisected by a massive scar that ran from one temple to the opposite corner of his jaw. A wild swing from a Blood Angel, he had said. It nearly took his eye out. The sorcerer gave a brief bow.

"How may I-"

"I called for you hours ago," the warrior interrupted. His lips pulled into a snarl. "Where were you?"

"In study and mediatation," the sorcerer answered carefully. His eyes flicked between the berserker and his guest. The XVII Legion warrior remained stoic. The sorcerer had caught a momentary glimpse of recognition flickering across his aura, but now his was being drowned out by the ever-burning rage his current "boss" held within him. 

His answer did not sit well. 

"Looks like I have to remind you that you come when called for, sorcerer," Ukwtakun snarled. "You're only here because you're convenient, but I'm sure we could always replace you."

The sorcerer said nothing to this. It was true. They happened to find him as he was fleeing, and they could have butchered him, but did not. 

"I understand," he said meekly. 

"I don't think-"

"Is this the time for this?" 

The voice came from the Word Bearer -- the Apostle -- that Ukwtakun was dealing with. It was soft yet commanding. Both the sorcerer and the berserker looked at him. 

"You're on my ship, Book Thumper," Ukwtakun growled. "If I have to deal with an insubordin-

"And you are requiring my word to resupply at Ghalmek," the Word Bearer countered. "And, if my assumptions are correct, this is the sorcerer that you require to uphold your half of our bargain." 

Silence. Uneasy silence. Ukwtakun's aura diminished slightly under the weight of the presence the Apostle emanated. 

"I'll deal with your bookworming later," Ukwtakun spat towards the sorcerer. He nodded, already beginning to prepare himself for what was to come. If he was lucky, he would only maybe lose a limb for this. 

"So you are his psyker," the Apostle said, now focusing his attention on the sorcerer. His eyes were dark, but they were warm. Open and inviting, matching the rest of his body language. "May I have your name?"

"I-"

"Doesn't deserve it," Ukwtakun said with a snort. "Ask him your questions so I can have him dealt with."

"Fine." The Apostle sighed. "You are experienced in diabolism, yes? Have you begun experimenting with the creation of bound weaponry or armor?"

"I... Yes, somewhat," the sorcerer answered. Something was strange. He recognized this Apostle from the times before the War... didn't he recognize him? He thought he saw a flicker of recognition before, but it could have been a mistake. 

"Somewhat?" There was no malice or derision in the word.

"I have not been granted the space nor the proper supplies to enact the proper experimentation," the sorcerer answered. He flinched as he felt a flare from Ukwtakun, who had reached for his chainaxe. 

"You filthy-"

"And if you were provided such materials," the Apostle went on, one hand gripping the arm of the berserker, "you could perform such experiments and yield positive results?" 

The sorcerer hesitated. His hearts were pounding. He had not felt this much stress since-

"Are you trying to steal my sorcerer?" Ukwtakun asked, breaking away from the Apostle. 

"It is not stealing," the Apostle replied cooly. "You promised me a sorcerer who would be able to assist in the binding and creation of weapons and armors, in exchange for repair and resupply at Ghalmek so that you would not have to go through the Iron Warriors while you are working with elements of the Emperor's Children." 

Silence again. 

"We still have need for him," the berserker said. 

"It sounded to me as though you are ready to replace him." The Apostle tilted his head. "Have I misunderstood your earlier declaration of, 'you're only here because you're convenient'?"

The sorcerer found himself stunned and blinking. He stared with his mouth slightly agape at the Apostle, whom he swore gave him the smallest of smiles. Again, recognition flickered over his aura. 

He does remember!

Hope flared for the first time in ages. Could he get him away? That's what it sounded like he was trying to do. He silently pleaded with whatever powers were out there that he was successful. 

The berserker was shaking with barely suppressed rage. The two had their eyes locked on each other; one's face a rigid mask, the other keeping calm and composed. 

"Fine!" Ukwtakun said abruptly. "Take the stupid sniveling rat. So long as you can get us our stuff, you can have him."

"Gladly. I'll have word sent that we are on the way." The Apostle grabbed his crozius and put it over his shoulder, looking to the sorcerer. "Come with me. I would like to have a conversation with you in private."

"Of course," the sorcerer said, offering a bow, "but my things-"

"Please, go retrieve them," the Apostle told him. "Allow one of the Annointed to accompany you. Abdima?"

One of the Terminators by the door put a fist to his breastplate. The sorcerer offered a salute and another bow, swiftly leaving while the Apostle and Ukwtakun shared some final words. 

His mind was racing. Hope felt strange and new to him. Freedom at last from the confines of his dingy hole, freedom from the ever-present stress of existing around trigger-happy berserkers. 

Freedom to experiment and allow his talents to roam free once more. 

They made it back to his current room, and he sensed the unease radiating from his Terminator escort. It was, admittedly, a mess. Strange paraphanalia and a stack of old journals and musings crowded the room, which was truly only about as wide as two paces for an Astartes.

Human quarters, obviously. 

For the first time in an age, the sorcerer unfurled his mind beyond the tightly bound cage he had made for himself, scooped up his belongings in a telekinetic grasp, and nodded to the Terminator. If he encountered any difficulties from the band, he expected the Terminator to help diffuse any open aggression. 

As they walked back to reconvene with the Apostle and the other elements of his retinue, he dared to feel excited. Anxiety, ever-present, also flooded through him. It was not fear; it could never be. But he was uncertain. This had to be too good to be true. There was something he did not see, surely.

The thought dampened everything, even after he saw the Apostle offer him a genuinely warm smile and even as he was welcomed aboard the Word Bearer's vessel. It was called the Unitas Abyssi, and it was decorated in just the way the sorcerer had imagined any ship of the XVII would be.

Thousands of mortals moved about, offering prayers and hails as the Astartes passed by. The smell of incense burned throughout its halls. The sorcerer felt the attentions of the denizens of the Great Ocean no matter where he went. The Apostle was leading him down to his own personal chambers at the heart of the ship, the two of them accompanied by an entourage of Terminators. 

The walk was a silent one, and the Terminators had been dismissed once they made it to the Apostle's quarters. Beyond the doors lay a great central chamber which had four other rooms that split off from it. The room itself was occupied by the beginnings of a garden, with various troughs and small plants slowly breaching a surface covered in strange mulches. It smelled earthy. A few benches had been arrayed around a focal point in the center, upon which a mosaic depicting the octed star of Chaos had been placed. The Apostle sat on one of them, his back facing the far wall that stood mostly blank and bare. 

"Now that we are away from that blunt berserker," the Apostle had said, gesturing to a bench near to him. The sorcerer went and sat down. "May I have your name?"

"I..." he paused. "I am Zikar-Sin, sir."

"Zikar-Sin," he said, nodding. "I thought you seemed familiar. I am sure my introduction is unnecessary."

"So you did recognize me!"

"Of course," the Apostle said with a smile. "How could I forget the Son of Magnus who challenged me in the middle of a symposium to defend my intellectual and theological honor?"

"And how could I forget the Chaplain to whom I served secondment with who dared to call Prosperine food 'too sweet' after sampling nothing but sweets for an afternoon?"

“That I sampled at your insistence, need I remind you.”

 Zikar-Sin smiled. "It is good to see you Ans'ar."

"The feeling is mutual. I had feared for your loss after what befell Prospero," Ans'ar said. Zikar-Sin's bright expression darkened, and his eyes turned away from the Apostle. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and when he looked up, he saw the face of an aggrieved friend. "I am glad to learn you live."

The sorcerer did not know how to respond to that. His mind was becoming full of thoughts of what had happened, and his brain uncomfortably reminded him of the complicity of the Word Bearers in the wake of the devastation of Prospero.

It was, after all, Horus who had ordered it done. 

"I did not mean to stir up hurtful memories-"

"It's fine," Zikar-Sin said shortly. He flinched, then curled a bit into himself. "I did not mean to interrupt you."

His eyes flickered away from the Apostle. He felt him take his hand away from his shoulder. 

"Where have you been?" Ans'ar asked quietly. "How did you come to be with a group of World Eaters?"

"That is a very long story," Zikar-Sin said with a tired sigh. The Apostle snorted. 

"It is good, then, that I have a very long time to listen." He stood. "Wait here." He walked into one of the adjacent rooms. Zikar-Sin heard some light rummaging and the clinking of glass. When he returned, there was a bottle in one hand and two glasses for wine in the other. Zikar-Sin suppressed a snort of his own, but there was a definite glint of amusement in his face. Ans'ar caught it.

"What?"

"Are you going to light some candles and bring out flowers next?" Zikar-Sin asked with a chuckle. Ans'ar paused, then laughed himself. 

"Come, now. There won't be any flowers aboard this vessel for the next few weeks at least." He sat down and poured each of them a glass. Zikar-Sin recognized the vintage from its scent alone. It was sourced from Vharadesh. 

He took his glass with a small thank you. Ans'ar nodded and set the bottle down next to him.

"Now that I have cleverly socially trapped you," he said, taking a sip of his wine. "Let us hear your tale of woe."

Zikar-Sin looked down at the deep crimson of the wine inside his own glass.

He inhaled and exhaled, then took a swig of it that drained nearly half the glass. It had been far too long since he could enjoy anything with proper flavor in it. 

"Alright. Let us begin in the aftermath of Terra, and Ahriman's folly."

--

Lightning danced and surged around them all. Immense power, the likes of which had only been invoked a handful of times before, pulled at all of them. It felt as though his soul was being stretched thin and pit through a sieve. The world shook. 

He fell to his hands and knees, huffing and panting. His eyes burned. The tides of the Great Ocean beat against them all, smashing them upon unseen rocks and distant, unknown and intangible shores. It took immense strength to remember how to think and how to breathe. 

He did not know how long this sensation would last. He did not remember what happened between being on the ground and being back on his feet, potentiality boiling around him, and screaming for his brothers as their bodies and minds were turned to dust and sealed away within their armor. Sorrow and disbelief filled him; he began to draw upon the power still roiling around him when he felt it siphoned away. A greater storm was gathering in the Great Ocean. A hurricane of fury and malice, all directed and pointed towards the thing that had started this all. 

A father on his way to kill his favored son. 

In the wake of the disaster, there was despair. There was anguish. There were tears, though he would never admit it to anyone else. 

Despair fed into desperation. He hardly knows what he is thinking by the time he has everyone gathered.

Eighteen. Eighteen of his brothers, now damned into an existence of barely-sapient automata. Only three of his still-flesh brethren knows what he is about to attempt.

He prays. He hopes, so fervently, so desperately, that this will work. If it can work on them, then it can work on everyone, can't it? Surely it must!

The ritual begins. There is laughter. There is unfaltering focus. 

And it fails.

Eighteen souls are devoured. Eighteen souls are torn free and sent into the Immaterium.

And the one who conducted it all runs.

He flees, as far and as fast as he can. He even stole a ship to leave. He grabbed only what was around him at the time; nothing but a handful of grimoires and talismans, alongside the armor he wore. 

But he flees. To where, he did not know. He thinks that perhaps he will die in isolation. Or perhaps he can work on undoing his mistake, and undoing whatever had been done to the Legion-

And that is when he is found. His place of refuge boarded and searched by a band of warriors looking for things to scavenge. 

And my, what a prize he was. 

They were lost, having butchered their own mortal navigators and astropaths. They very nearly gave him the same fate before the Emperor's Child, Pachua, intervened. They needed a psyker. He was tired of floating aimlessly, he wanted to find a place of true war again. 

And so he had been abducted and forcibly recruited, acting as navigator for a band of insane berserkers. He had learned swiftly that his psychic talents had to be suppressed as far as he could, otherwise he was going to be fighting the warband each moment he was within eyesight. 

There he had remained, an exile and outcast, grieving and dreading the future of his Legion, left to fester in the underbelly of their miserable ship, until Ans'ar happened to find him.

--

Silence follows. Zikar-Sin finishes his glass of wine. 

"I knew the plight of the Thousand Sons was a difficult one," Ans'ar said, "but I also know you do not deserve such mistreatment."

"It matters little what I deserved."

The sorcerer shrugged. "Though, respectfully, I disagree. My actions led to the destruction of eighteen of my brothers. Total and complete, beyond what this... this Rubric did to them." He shakes his head, then hesitates. He removed one of his gauntlets, revealing a hand that was covered in feathering. Most of the feathering was small, and some scales had begun forming upon the segments of his fingers. Small eyes blink from between his knuckles. 

"Flesh Change?" Ans'ar asks carefully, leaning in closer. 

"Mutation from our new patron," Zikar-Sin said bitterly. "A reminder of my failures, and a reminder of the fate most likely to consume me one day. The ritual that Ahriman conducted was supposed to scour the Flesh Change from the Legion for good. It did. But it does not mean we cannot still be 'blessed'." 

The Apostle's face darkens. Most of what Zikar-Sin is speaking must surely sound like blasphemy and sacrilege to him. 

"I would like to offer you something," he says slowly. 

"Is it some escoteric item of note?" There is a small eye-roll.

"Better. I want you to formally join my Host."

Zikar-Sin raised a brow. "Was that not already the plan?"

"Not quite. I was willing to have you on in a manner similar to how Ukwtakun had you -- an auxiliary sorcerer we had on hand. But I would like to formally induct you into the Legion."

"You think I would forsake the Thousand Sons?"

"Have you not already?"

The question disarmed him. He was left blinking like a fool, his mind genuinely going blank. 

"I... suppose I have," he said slowly, his brow furrowing. 

"If you need time to think on it, then I will grant it to you. But for now I will arrange for you to be given proper rooms and a proper place for you to conduct rituals and experiments," Ans'ar said, offering more wine to him. Zikar-Sin gently declined, though the Apostle filled his own glass. "You will be given the respect and room you deserve to operate as you please. Within reason, of course, I am not going to let you take the mortal thralls and whore their lives away without purpose."

The sorcerer bit back a retort about the practices of the Word Bearers as a whole, and only gave Ans'ar a nod of acknowledgement. He handed back his empty glass and stood, sensing that their conversation was over, for now. 

"I will have Abdima show you to your new rooms. I would like to speak again in a day or so about your first experiments," Ans'ar said, affecting a more business-like tone. Zikar-Sin nodded again.

"As you wish." He paused. "How should I address you in front of the others? Surely they would take offense to an outsider calling you by your name."

"You may refer to me as Apostle, as they do." Ans'ar drank from his glass, then set the empty glasses down and stood, walking over to Zikar-Sin. He put a hand on his shoulder, then pulled him in for a quick embrace. "I mean it. I am glad to see that you are alive, old friend."

The sorcerer was caught off-guard, and awkwardly returned the gesture. "As am I to see you." The Apostle pulled back, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder before he called for his Terminators -- his Annointed, as Zikar-Sin would learn to call them -- to escort him to his new rooms.

--

More freedom took some getting used to. Being able to unfurl his mind and senses and not immediately detect murderous intent aimed directly toward his person was a good change of pace. Of course, there was always suspicion, he knew it would be foolish not to expect it. 

He was an outsider, but he would only be the first of many to join the 17th Host. 

His presence became part of the background hum of the operations of the Host. The Annointed greeted him by name after a few short weeks, as did some of the Astartes he began working a little closer with. Some were diabolists, but they had learned sorcery through means similar to that of Kor Phaeron.

Having the natural connection to the Great Ocean and the decades of experience that Zikar-Sin could provide was invaluable. 

Eventually, Ans'ar came to him with the offer again. A chance to be fully and completely repatriated into the Word Bearers. The hesitance he had from before had mostly melted by this point. 

And so, Zikar-Sin was no longer Zikar-Sin of the Thousand Sons, former adept of the Cult Athaenean of the Fifth Fellowship. He became Zikar-Sin of the 17th Host, Master of Possession, as he would remain for the next ten millennia.

#its zikar-sin posting #thousand sons #warhammer 40k #aka how he wound up joining the WB #aka ans'ar saved his ass #sorry for it being so long #kinda got away from me

[ask-the-crimson-king]

Magnus & Musings

Greetings to you all. You may call me the Mysterious Hermit, and I am the human behind the blog. I think I've procrastinated long enough on making a proper pinned post, so allow me to do so now.

If you follow this account, know you will see more than just rp threads. You will most likely see artwork and writing, the occasional lore post, or just some banter. I am a mostly-rp account. Not every post is or will be in character.

The contents of this post will be as follows: > RP Expectations/Rules >My Portrayal of Magnus the Red >Side Muses Bios

RP Expectations/Rules What I do not rp/answer to:

I do not do NSFW rp of any kind, nor do I entertain NSFW asks of any kind.

I prefer mostly-serious threads. I do not mind the occasional banter, but PLEASE do not come spamming old TTS memes/recycled grimdank memes in my ask box.

What I would like as a thread/expectations you should have when starting a thread with me:

I do not mind doing crossovers! If I am not familiar with the original property/your OCs backstory/etc., I may ask about it.

I am willing to do threads during the Crusade/Heresy and the modern 40k era. If you do not specify which you would like, I'll most likely assume 40k.

I am sometimes very, very slow to respond. Please be patient, or hit me up if it's been a while and you want to continue a thread I might've dropped.

I try to match length in responses as best I can, but please do not feel pressured to do the same. All that I ask is multi-para replies do not get one singular sentence.

The Portrayal of Magnus the Red:

I try to stay as close to canon as I can, though occasionally I may deviate. I enjoy playing him as a complicated "road to hell paved with good intentions" kind of character, with all the hallmarks of his famous arrogance and gigantamax-brain-ness on display.

In the modern day, I have him currently focusing on his New Kingdom project, where he is trying to terramorph Prospero so that it is decently inhabitable again while training the human psykers who are being drawn to Sortiarius in droves. Instead of Prospero being a gunshop, I am instead running it as the future home of the human population, while Sortiarius stays for the Legion. There will still be industry on Prospero's surface, but to a lesser extent than to what has been described, since I just find it way more interesting.

Side Muses:

Kazakh, Daemon of Tzeentch

Kazakh is a small, brightly-colored daemonic bird who has been given the order of keeping an eye on Magnus. He generally acts as his small daemonic messenger and sometimes emotional support daemon if the time requires. He has a penchant for hoarding shiny objects within the fluff of his chest, and usually takes shiny things as payment for being a messenger or to get him to screw off. Though sometimes in response to the latter, he'll show off his very shiny knives. He has once tried to cut Fulgrim himself for not coughing up a shiny bauble for him.

Zikar-Sin, Master of Possession

Zikar-Sin is a former Thousand Son returning to the Legion for the first time in millennia. He still considers himself a Word Bearer, having been attached to a Host for these past few thousand years, but is happy to be returning to his parent Legion. His role in the creation of the New Kingdom has largely involved him aiding in the reconstruction of a viable biosphere, or helping to integrate the inbound humans to the teachings of the Legion. His sorcerous mastery mostly lies within diabolism, but he was an Athaenean in the ages long since past, and his telekinetic mastery has also improved. He can also be found accompanied by his tutelary, Sepa, who joins him in the form of small twin screamers.

#mobile rules #i may edit this later #magnus the red #warhammer 40k #warhammer 30k

[fides-regnat-aeterna]

Darius racks the slide on Outcast. “Who the fuck are you and why do you think you can sneak past me?”

"Alright, alright, alright," Zikar-Sin said, putting his hands up. "I know this looks bad, but this is all just a simple mistranslation." He was dressed in the crimson and silver lined armor of a Word Bearer, but was overlaid with the older looking cerulean robes of a Thousand Son. His voice sounded accented more like a Son than a Bearer of the Word.

"Why don't you just put the gun away, and we can talk about this like civil folks, yes?" A couple of tiny screamers floated nearby and Zikar-Sin made a small 'tss!' noise to get them to back away.

[fides-regnat-aeterna]

Hanahanu Reborn

"Bring him in," a voice announced. It was strong, albeit a bit concentrated in the nose. It was one that wouldn't be too out of place within his home Legion. But here? It was one of the many markers that made him so distinct from his newfound kin.

"Yes, lord," a second voice said, a figure bowing and moving from the threshold of the door that was barely cracked open. This one was firm, a bit hardened by yelling orders to his warriors, though a note of unease was easily able to be noticed. The figure was dressed in full warplate, crimson and edged in steel, with the armor itself carved and inset with symbols taken from the Book of Lorgar. Upon one pauldron sat the icon of his Legion, the Latros Sacrum, and on the other sat the icon of his Host, a bloodied handprint over a leatherbound book. The Host had no grand title or name -- few did, nowadays -- and was simply known as the 17th Host. He was bare headed, with tanned skin, black hair styled with an undercut swept to one side, and dark eyes that betrayed his worries. His name was An-Ishkur, and he had been asked to assist in the rejoining process for his brothers within the Legion.

He strode into an adjacent chamber, where a number of warriors bearing similarly-colored warplate currently sat. It was quite barren, as the newly-named Master of Possession had asked it to be, with benches lining the walls and warding sigils carved into the pale walls. The floor was a mosaic of white and black, marking out the sacred octed beneath their feet. The warriors within tried not to show their overt discomfort. Most were able to mask it well. But some were pawing at their faces, snarling with annoyance, tapping their foot, or reciting prayers and litanies under their breath. Within each one sat a creature of the Empyrean, one of the revered Neverborn. Daemons, as many called them.

"Hanahanu Elil," An-Ishkur said from the doorway. A few heads came up, and he locked eyes with the one who was destined to go next. "Your time has come, brother." The eyes looking back at him were a tawny grey tinged with amber, a testament to how much the daemon within had changed him. He was just surprised to see that Elil was able to even take his helm off -- several of the other Legionnaires could not. The face looking back was darker than his own, with the same handsome, almost patrician features found amongst most of the Legion. His hair was a short, messy crop of black that almost edged on a very dark grey. He reached a gauntleted hand up to brush some of it aside.

"We're ready," Elil said, standing. As he spoke, An-Ishkur noticed his teeth were becoming sharper. If all went well, like it seemed to with the two who had gone before, then hopefully the beast within could be quelled.

Hopefully.

An-Ishkur nodded, making a gesture and leading him to the door. The door itself was decorated and ornamented, with some more recent carvings and wards having made permanent marks within its surface.

He raised a hand to knock, before the man within impatiently said, "I know who you are and who you are with, just get him in here."

The two traded glances, and An-Ishkur shook his head before opening the door and allowing Hanahanu in first. The room still smelled of burning flesh, blood, and incense. The only other figures within the vaulted chamber was an Astartes clad in robes of red and white, followed by two smaller robed humans as he renewed the circles and prepared for his next experiment. The room was approximately fifty feet on a side, with braziers of burning incense set about ten feet apart to the duo's left and right. Towards the front of the room sat a raised dais with a lectern, and upon it sat a book bound in skin with yellowed pages. An-Ishkur suppressed a shiver as his eyes passed over the book. Something... else felt as though it brushed his consciousness as he did.

The man in robes finished speaking an invocation and finally drew himself up, turning to face the two newcomers. With the two of them arrayed in battle plate, it almost made him look smaller and slighter in comparison. He was still formidable compared to the two humans beside him. He brushed aside his sandy-colored hair, his odd sky blue eyes staring into Hanahanu. He clasped his sun-kissed hands together, a smile plain on his face.

"Well, Hanahanu Elil, it is my pleasure to formally meet you," he said. An-Ishkur had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "And a pleasure to meet your partner as well. Do they have a name?"

"Hersyaf," Hanahanu growled, his teeth half bared. He shook himself out, closing his eyes and letting out a breath. "... Hersyaf. He calls himself Hersyaf."

"Hersyaf," the man said with a nod. "I am Zikar-Sin. Formerly of the Thousand Sons, now taking the position of your new Master of Possession as the Apostle wills."

Formerly was an interesting word to use. To An-Ishkur, it was blatantly obvious that he had not entirely eschewed the ways of his old Legion, and that he still considered himself one of them.

"Do you know why I have called upon you, Hanahanu-Hersyaf?" Zikar-Sin asked.

"You want to make us more 'whole'," the warrior answered. An-Ishkur could hear the growls of the beast under the careful voice of his friend and brother. An-Ishkur looked to him, trying to hide his worry.

"Are you sure you want to volunteer? Maybe you should wait until we know it works," he had said when the sorcerer had first announced his intentions.

"An-Ishkur, we've been over this. If something isn't done, Hersyaf is just going to take over and rend us apart anyway. This can be a chance to give us true balance, rather than having this more..." Hanahanu trailed off. "... parasitic relationship we have together."

"Hopefully it won't be more than a few weeks of waiting and testing," An-Ishkur protested. He sighed. "Look, I get it. Hersyaf is getting stronger and bolder, but he's always been a bit of an arrogant blow-hard. It hasn't always been easy calming you down."

"That's the point," Hanahanu said. "This can make it so I can have more control, too. That way we both benefit, and the bond is less one-sided. I don't want to just be a vessel to feed a daemon, An-Ishkur. I am my own man, with my own thoughts and my own devotions of the Powers."

"I know, I know. I'm just worried something will go wrong."

"And if it does, I know you'll be there to take care of me." Hanahanu rested a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We've been side-by-side ever since we first strode the sands of Colchis as aspirants. And we've been there for each other in all other miserable exploits of ours. Remember the wine raid in Tizca?"

"Hey, that was your idea," An-Ishkur replied, finally breaking into a small smile. "But that was much different to this."

"Even though we had one of our cousins scolding us for ages afterwards?"

"Hanu, come on. I know you want to make light of this, but this is a serious decision."

"I know it is. And I know why I've made it." Hanahanu removed his hand. "It's for the benefit of us both. Even if Hersyaf is impatient and doesn't want to admit it, we spent some time discussing it and we both agreed." He offered his friend a kind smile. "But I appreciate the concern." An-Ishkur tried to smile back, but he knew it read false. His expression turned into obvious concern as his brother walked back to his own personal chambers to prepare for what was to come.

"I am indeed." The words of the sorcerer shocked him out of his memories. "I am going to make sure that both of you can co-exist in a mutually beneficial relationship. Already, two of your kinsmen have walked away as one. I can see the strife within you both." He reached up one hand, reaching towards Hanahanu. He growled and gnashed his teeth at him.

"Sorcerer," he hissed.

"Hanu," An-Ishkur said. "Please." The other warrior turned, his eyes looking unfocused for a number of moments, his face locked into a snarl. It took some effort for him to nod. An-Ishkur's concern only grew.

"Ah. Feisty one. Not an uncommon reaction," Zikar-Sin said. "Well. We should be getting started, now shouldn't we?" He turned his body and gestured to the center of a number of concentric rings. Hanahanu looked apprehensive of them, but An-Ishkur nodded his approval. Once more, there was a pause before he moved, carefully avoiding the salt and chalk that marked them out on the ground. Once he was standing, the Master of Possession made a gesture for him to sit. Hanahanu obeyed. "You may wish to put on your helm. Or don't, it's not very relevant to me," he said to An-Ishkur. An-Ishkur nodded, trying to give his brother a smile one last time.

"I'll see you on the other side, then."

"We'll be made as one," Hanahanu said with a nod. An-Ishkur took the helm at his belt and fit it over his head, taking in the new view behind his jade-colored eye lenses.

"You will be called if you are required," Zikar-Sin told him. "Close the door on the way out, don't pay attention to the whispers, blah blah blah, this is your third time hearing me say this." He made a dismissive gesture towards An-Ishkur as he moved towards the lectern. An-Ishkur was glad the helm could hide his face, so the sorcerer couldn't see his grimace and his eyeroll.

He moved back towards the entrance of the chamber, casting one last look over his shoulder at his brother as he knelt there. Once again, they locked eyes, but instead of only seeing the eyes of the man he'd known for centuries, something else looked back at him, too. With a breath, he left the room, letting the great door creak close behind him.

It was eighty minutes before they opened again.

Eighty long, torturous minutes. Eighty minutes holding a vigil at the door, one hand planted on the pommel of the chansword belted at his side. Eighty minutes left wondering if anything would go wrong, wondering if his brother would be the one to fail. He never had the control his predecessors had over his daemon -- Hersyaf was infamous for his hungers and rages, and notoriously difficult and reluctant to relinquish control -- so would this process even work?

His answer would come to him in a way he had dreaded since Hanahanu had volunteered himself for the process.

A ghastly, snarling howl erupted from the room behind him. An-Ishkur moved, drawing the chainsword as he faced the shut doors. From within he could already smell flesh cooking, and he could hear the chanting of Zikar-Sin within. He stood there, tense and waiting, for fifteen seconds.

+GET IN HERE AND HELP ME!+ a voice thundered through his mind. An-Ishkur doubled over from the force of it, clutching his helm, but he soldiered on and threw the doors open wide, his chainsword revving.

He froze at what he saw.

Within the circles, with blood covering its ragged maw, stood a beast. Its head was lupine in form, with large fangs and teeth that constantly salivated, milky blind eyes, and spines starting from its forehead and continuing down its body. The armor of the beast was the same deep crimson of An-Ishkur's own, though it had been moved and formed into natural armor. Mangled fur sprouted from where the plates had buckled, sitting atop mutated musculature. Its arms were twice as long as they should've been, the hands having grown to triple their natural size and ending with curved and wicked claws. A long, almost serpentine tail, ending in a wicked thagomizer lashed. The legs were armored, wolf-like in form, with claws sprouting from the crimson ceramite boots. One of the circles was pulsing a sickly pattern of red. Zikar-Sin had a trail of blood coming down one side of his face, his clothing a messy ruin. The only other figure was a robed human, who was cowering away in the corner.

The bloodied rag of a robe that laid at the feet of the beast was all that remained of their companion.

The beast let out another ragged howling snarl, its sightless eyes staring into the ceiling.

"What have you done?" An-Ishkur demanded.

"It was not me! The daemon was too strong, it overpowered his soul!" Zikar-Sin shouted. He wiped blood from his forehead, drawing himself up and keeping his hands loose before him. "Thanks to the wonderful thralls provided to me, it was able to breach one of the wards against my distinct command!"

"It seems your thrall has paid the price for it."

"Thank you for stating the obvious, now help me!" Zikar-Sin said with an eyeroll. An-Ishkur approached the raging monster, keeping his weapon leveled at it.

"Hanahanu Elil!" he spoke, keeping his voice as strong as he could. "I know you are in there, brother. Hear me! Come back to us! We shall try again at a different time!"

"We are not using that weakling's name!" the beast spoke, resting its weight on its hands. Its tail lashed.

"You can speak?" An-Ishkur asked, lowering his weapon. He glanced to Zikar-Sin. "What shall we call you?"

"I am HERSYSAF!" he roared. "WE shall be HERSYAF! Not a weakling, soul-bound MORTAL!"

"Where is my brother?"

"I am your brother now, Captain An-Ishkur," Hersyaf practically purred. It came down to rest its weight on its hands. "The bitter whelp is going to be sleeping for a while. But I like him enough to not destroy him entirely. Not yet. He feeds me well." The two locked eyes. Through the milky film, An-Ishkur could swear he saw the same old tawny eyes of his oldest friend looking back. Hidden. Repressed. Pleading. The creature grinned, and An-Ishkur turned on Zikar-Sin.

"You have explaining to do. Lots of it." He revved his weapon, anger clear in his voice and in his posture as he stalked over to the sorcerer. "Start talking, or I'll rend you open myself. What have you done?"

"Those are questions best left answered for me, Captain," said a dangerous and deceptively soft voice from the doorway. Both An-Ishkur and Zikar-Sin diverted their eyes to the floor. An-Ishkur dropped to a knee.

"My Apostle," he practically whispered.

"Captain. You may look up, your obedience has been recognized." Eyes of flint locked onto the robed Master of Possession. "Zikar-Sin. I sensed that something had become altered," said the newcomer. "Look at me."

"Yes, lord," said the sorcerer, his voice actually sounding shaken, for once. Both looked up to see the unarmored form of the Dark Apostle of the Host, flanked by four members of the Annointed. Even Hersyaf seemed to be attentive, his nose sniffing at the air. A soft whine came from him.

"We shall discuss the ramifications of this failure and you shall discuss how this happened with me," the Apostle stated.

"Aposte Ans'ar, I-"

"You," he said, shifting his attention. "Captain."

"Yes, lord?"

"You know the brother whom we have lost?"

"Not yet lost," An-Ishkur said quickly. "I-I can still see him, my lord, though he has been pushed down. I think I can help save him."

"Do you?" His head was gently cocked to one side, his eyes intense and searching. He glanced back at the creature stuck beyond the wards.

"I do, Apostle." An-Ishkur nodded. There was silence. The tension was palpable. He could hear Hersyaf clawing at the ground.

"Then he shall be put under your command, if we decide he is to live." Ans'ar crossed his arms, making a gesture to one of the heavy-plated Terminators behind him. "Zikar-Sin, you are to come with us. You will explain what blasphemies you have created."

"Yes, Apostle," Zikar-Sin replied. The two Annointed came forward, with one seizing his arms and putting them behind his back.

"As for you," the Apostle once more looked to An-Ishkur. "You and your coterie may begin the rites of mourning. The Legion will join you." He turned to leave, but the captain's voice stopped him.

"Apostle, if I may?"

The Apostle stopped. "Speak, Captain."

"Please, let him live. Hanahanu and I have been together since we were aspirants. I know I can reach him. I know he's still in there. I can deal with Hersyaf. I promised him I would help him, no matter what happened."

The silence that followed made him feel as though he was balancing on the blade of a knife.

"Very well," the Apostle said with a small sigh. "If this is what you wish to pursue."

"It is."

"I can reverse this!" Zikar-Sin called as he was being taken away.

"Silence, sorcerer," Ans'ar called after him. "Then he shall be considered a member of your coterie. If he acts in a way that puts the Legion at jeopardy, he will be punished."

"As would any of us," An-Ishkur said quickly.

"Indeed," the Apostle agreed. He turned once more, making another gesture as he walked out with the Annointed, leaving An-Ishkur alone with Hersyaf in the circle.

"He wanted union," Hersyaf said in a snarling whisper. "He wanted the two to become one. And, well..." he grinned. His acidic saliva splattered and hissed on the salt making up the wards. "This is what our unity looks like."

An-Ishkur watched his Apostle leave, standing and facing Hersyaf. "Hanu never would've wanted this. But I swore to him I would help him no matter what."

"When did I ever say it was he who desired this unity?" the daemon asked with an all-too-knowing grin.

#3k words on the dot #hello this account exists lmao #will be shilling on main and other side blog #moonclaw writes #legion lore

[fides-regnat-aeterna]

Dramatis Personae

Dark Apostle Ans'ar

Ans'ar has been the Apostle for the Host for millennia. Hailing from Colchis and walking alongside his primarch before the arrival of the Emperor, Ans'ar is dedicated to the Legion and the Powers first and foremost. Brotherhood and unity are what he desires most, alongside eschewing the influences of Erebus and Kor Phaeron in his Legion. His ways are considered unorthodox by many, especially since he has brought in warriors not of the XVII Legion under his banner in recent centuries.

The Apostle has recently lost his First Acolyte Tammuz, and is currently seeking a replacement. Several warriors show promise, but he wants to find one who shares in his ideals. The 17th Host must persist long enough for the primarch to return and for the Word Bearers to become a proper Legion once more. No more hidden blades and agendas, no more discord and bile. Ans'ar wants to have his warriors be an example to all other Hosts of the Legion. After all, they were able to embrace a Salamander and a Thousand Son into their ranks easily enough.

Coryphaus Gibil

A very unique addition to the Host, the Coryphaus is a former Salamander who has since embraced the ways of the Word. He is a more somber figure, understanding that his newfound brothers may not embrace him fully, but still willing to prove himself nonetheless. Gibil's conversion to the Legion is something more recent that happened about five centuries ago, although his ascension to the title of Coryphaus happened just over three centuries hence.

Ans'ar has been a kind and uplifting friend of his ever since he was first found and recovered, and although he is not a true son of Lorgar, he seeks to bring glory in his name nonetheless and bring glory to the Four.

Master of Possession Zikar-Sin

Another recent addition to the Host, Zikar-Sin is a Legionnaire who was once a member of the Thousand Sons and has been able to see himself installed as the Host's chief diabolist. After his warband had been shattered and scattered, the 17th came across him hiding out on a lone world, trying to find a way back to Sortiarius. Ans'ar and Zikar-Sin do have some history together, as Zikar-Sin had his secondment with the Word Bearers during the Crusade and was under the command of the Apostle when he was still training to be a Chaplain. Both shared a fondness for knowledge and had some very intense debates back in the day, but a friendship was formed and mostly maintained until the fall of Prospero.

That same kinship was ignited when the two crossed paths, and after showing how he was still an arrogant bastard with skills to match, Ans'ar offered him the position. Ever since then, he has proven a valuable asset to the Host, even if he does always do everything with a smirk and snarky comment on his lips.

Captain An-Ishkur

The captain of the 135th coterie of the Host is most often dealing with his unruly possessed brother and the newer inductees and neophytes to the Legion than actual, seasoned warriors. He is usually seen wearing a look between exasperated, annoyed, and disgusted, however he does have a good heart in him. Recently he had been charged with looking over the new neophytes to the Legion, and he has taken it upon himself to see them transformed into new havocs. All but one, anyway, as a neophyte named Lacertes has been put under the command and watch of a different brother.

Otherwise, he is constantly keeping an eye on Hersyaf and looking for ways to bring him back to who he once was. He holds some resentment towards Zikar-Sin for being somewhat responsible for his brother's condition, but tries not to voice it too often.

Vakrah Jal Hersyaf

Hersyaf was once a warrior known as Hanahanu Elil, a calm and dedicated warrior of the XVII and a close friend of An-Ishkur. After an attempt to reach true symbiosis with the daemon within him, he has since been absent, and the lupine, destructive daemon known as Hersyaf is what remains.

A snarling, blind beast, Hersyaf is always looking for his next battle. His temperament is usually unbalanced and he can be quick to be angered without An-Ishkur at his side to calm him. Anyone who dares speaks the name of the warrior that was is usually made to never speak it again. He is unknowing of the rumors to bring him back into balance, to try and stifle him. If he knew, then the ritual may not work, and it could lead to the destruction of Hanahanu.

Neophyte Lacertes

Lacertes is a very young member of the Host, being no older than approximately 23 years of age. He is still very hesitant and uncertain about many aspects of himself an the Host at large, but is eager to learn and to try and better himself as a devout warrior. He was set to become a havoc, but after being placed under the command and teachings of his brother Merrick, that path has become less certain.

Nonetheless, Lacertes shows much promise and is happy to learn more of the Word and the ways of the Legion from any who would teach him.

#warriors of the host #blog revamp #was debating adding lacertes #did it because fun