Three men chewed on boiled human flesh quietly while a furnace hummed behind them, filling the dank room with barely-noticeable warmth. It was a simple task they were assigned to: the protection of a single brother. Granted, he had the favor of the gods, and the three were no less disgruntled at the matter than those who had passed them this unenviable duty.
On the other hand, it was about to end soon.
A single grey sphere clattered to the floor and rolled underneath their table, drawing all three pairs of eyes.
It went off with an ear-piercing shriek that billowed greenish-yellow gas outward in a great fog. The first man began clawing at his legs, ripping bloody gashes into them - worms had begun to eat their way out of his bones, chewing at his meat, oozing acid all over his feet, but only he saw them. The others hurled themselves away from the smoke and scrambled for their rebreathers.
The second, too, began to bawl, rocking back and forth in despair as the Jorak gas took its toll on his mind.
A gas mask snapped to on the final man's face. He snatched his lasgun from its rack and whirled about, ready to launch a searing volley at the door.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Smoking holes materialized in both the wood and his chest.
He collapsed, strings cut.
Logan Howlett pushed the door open quietly with his claws drawn. The two doomed men were granted a mercy they did not deserve - a speedy death, a single thrust to the jugular that painted the floor with crimson, traitorous lifeblood.
The oversized barrel of a large rifle preceded Korramyn Historyk into the room. Their eyes met, and the Ghost waved two fingers forward.
They were in. The icy polar mountains hid many dark secrets and cruel pacts, but for vengeance and redemption, for death and life, for her, Jeremy Hess will die.
We're inseparable, Eme.
Emerson Howlett couldn't help but chuckle at the truth of Hess' promise, all those years ago. Even after turning traitor and somehow escaping death, he had managed to infiltrate her thoughts, dreams and even her deepest desires.
"Sweet Emperor, forgive Your servant," she muttered to herself, turning to face the figure in the doorway.
"Praying won't help you," the blurry silhouette announced, "Not anymore."
Through the doorway came the bastard himself: Jeremy Hess. His Elysian flak armour, once decorated with medals and ribbons of honor, was now an ugly mess of bloody marks - on it were foul insignias oozing black droplets like tears, staining trophies torn from necks and missing their eyes. An eight-pointed star had been carved over the holy Aquila.
"Nothing can help you anymore," he repeated, "But I can! I'm the most powerful being on this planet now. Anything you desire can be yours... if you come with me."
Emerson glared into Jeremy's deep blue eyes. They were a mixture of emotions, but was this what a heretic looked like up close? His cloudy orbs were red with suppressed pain, and he held her gaze steadily, blinking erratically; as if to cement his superiority over her, a chained prisoner, Hess' hand burst into purple flame. She allowed herself a smile.
"Still weak."
Hess' right eye twitched. He walked up to the torture-table and drew his serrated combat knife, letting it hover mere inches from Emerson's throat.
"You think I am weak?! I have become more powerful than that idiotic brother of yours, the Ghosts, or anyone on this miserable rock! Even the gods know my name!"
The knife pressed up against her neck; a bead of blood escaped it, rolling down her skin.
"Had I not already preformed the Ritual, I'd end your pathetic life."
Another man entered the room, panting.
"My lord... They're here." Pausing to catch his breath, the cultist murmured, "They destroyed the first checkpoint. We await your orders. Lord."
"Tell them to stand down." Hess sheathed his blade.
"W-What?"
"You heard me."
The heretic hesitated, then nodded, bolting from the chamber. Emerson managed to roll her eyes.
Still weak.
They descended the hewn staircase wordlessly. Arcane runes mocked them, giggled madly at trials and horrors endured, lost lives glowing like jewels from within twisted lines. Dead languages, the tongues of cruel masters not of this plane, adorned every dark surface.
Wordless as they were, Korramyn met Logan's eyes for a millisecond, and an unspoken pact of understanding arced between them.
It was nearly uninhabited. Either most of the filth Hess had crawling about had been stationed elsewhere, or they had died. The bastard was not one to risk himself for anything.
Unless...
Step into my gardens, said the spider to the fly.
They moved on.
Pain seared his flesh, his core, his soul; it felt good. Power, more! More!
Tendrils of energy coiled about his arms and torso, sparking and bursting, filling him with the dark power so rightly deserved. This was the pinnacle of humanity. This was why the servants of the false Emperor failed - they did not know what true strength was! The Imperium was doomed from the start because they were weak.
Still weak.
Hess gritted his teeth. I'll show you. He slammed his palms together, releasing a spectral sphere of warp energy that shattered all glass objects in his room. It continued blasting out from his body in waves of purple force, overturning furniture, knocking over ornaments; Hess roared, his fists clenched, as the full power of the gods coursed through and exploded from him with a tremendous crack.
Yes, this was true power. He grinned and licked his filed, fanged teeth. Chaos cannot be denied.
Cricking his neck, he barged out of his ruined chambers to face his destiny.
