A Warhammer 40K-ized Fable
Posted: 2004-06-13 12:06am
I was bored, and having recently read The Odyssey, I was in the mood to write something really florid. Enjoy.
A Contest Between Might and Intelligence
-as recorded by Ahriman, Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons.
It is known to all that the Four Venerable Gods of the Empyrean will, on occasion, quarrel and bicker amongst themselves, that they may gain the upper hand for but even a moment. Mighty Khorne, the Great and Powerful God of Warfare and Destruction, shall lash out with unending rage and impatience at the perceived indolence of Slaanesh, the Beautiful and Alluring Prince of Fulfillment. Slaanesh will disparage, with an unending barrage of insults both great and minor, Old Grandfather Nurgle. Lord of Decay and Deterioration, Nurgle shall forever seek to undercut and shame the Wise and Duplicitous Tzeentch. And all the while, Tzeentch, he who embodies Constant and Unending Change, will mock and berate Mighty Khorne for his bloodthirstiness and the crude simplicity of the Blood God's plans. Thus, the circle is unbroken and shall never be.
One might wonder why I would choose to record one of these innumerable disputes, especially once of such insignificant scale and without any known lasting effect. The answer is simple: I believe that we of the so-called 'Traitor Legions' too often shall take the most obvious route to our target, heedless of other possible courses. While this doubtlessly makes our very existence a continued threat to the False Emperor and a terror to those who worship him, it also channels us into a narrow way of thinking. As we fall deeper and deeper into our rut, our enemies both within the Imperium and without shall find us more and more easily defeated. This must never come to pass! I see the signs of it even now, for upon the last occasion of our battles with the servants of the Corpse God, upon a nameless world within the Warp Storm Hippocrene, our venerable brothers plunged into the fray and were wiped out, nearly to the last man, by treacherous barrages of artillery. And these were not the berserkers dedicated to Khorne, who shall always rush into battle heedless of consequence, but plague marines in service of Grandfather Nurgle, men who should have known better.
But I am digressing. The tale recorded within this tome was related to me by Thar'har'khax, a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch, a Lord of Change, and master sorcerer in his own right. I shall give no further introduction but this. Read this tale, my brothers in battle, that you may open your mind to the greater possibilities presented to you, that you may never decide upon a course of action simply for the justification that it is simpler, that you never become predictable in your ways and thus allow yourself to become prey for the servants of the False Emperor and the other enemies of the galaxy.
I begin.
Imagine, if you will, a place that does not and cannot exist. A temple, a sanctuary, and great palace within the Immaterium. A place that serves to house the ancient and venerable Gods of the Warp. Do not imagine this to be some quiet and serene place of contemplation, for nothing could be further from the truth. It is a riotous place populated by many spirits of the Warp. One quarter of the inhabitants endlessly whip and flagellate themselves in the hope that the thirst of the Blood God might be eased for but a moment. One quarter of the inhabitants engage in limitless hedonism and eroticism that Prince Slaanesh would feel their desires and be comforted. One quarter of the inhabitants forever rot in body and mind, the scent of their putrescence satisfying Old Grandfather Nurgle. One quarter of the inhabitants ceaselessly caste and recast spells of unending capability and variety, their goal to keep Lord Tzeentch gratified by their endless progress and the evolution of their great magics.
It was in this place that the tale I speak of began. The Four Gods were gathered, as they shall be when it suits them to gather and speak amongst themselves. Great and powerful Khorne had taken this particular occasion to boast about his warriors' newest victory: the conquest and destruction of the world Lendacius at the northern border of the Imperium. It was with great pleasure that Khorne related each and every detail of the carnage his warriors had brought to the now-lifeless husk.
After some unknown quantity of time had passed, wise and duplicitous Tzeentch grew tired of his brother-god's boasting and spoke. "Your warriors' skill and dedication is indeed commendable," he said amicably to mighty Khorne. "But your short-sightedness I find to be irritating and unacceptable."
And mighty Khorne replied, "You mock my victory? My warriors have decimated a world in my name. What have you accomplished since we last met, word-former and endless plotter?"
And Tzeentch replied, "I do not mock your victory, Khorne. It is you that I mock. You and your simple-minded boasting."
Alluring Slaanesh could not help but laugh at his rival's fury. A baleful look from Khorne silenced him, but did not whither the smile upon his features. "Explain yourself, spellcaster and backstabber, else find my hands closed around your worthless throat."
Wise and duplicitous Tzeentch calmly rose from his throne and magnificently strode to stand before Khorne upon the middle-ground that divided the palace. "Lendacius was a world not unknown to me, god of brutes and battlecries," he said, his words flowing as smoothly as water. "It was weak, a world barely settled by mortals, and even they knew it was so. For is it not true that Lendacius was possessed of what amounted to something that could barely be called a token defense?"
"Meaningless," replied mighty Khorne, his voice a dangerous growl.
"Indeed, for that is not the crux of my mockery," wise Tzeentch said. "Rather it was the roughshod way in which your warriors conducted themselves. They paid no heed to strategy nor formation and stormed aimlessly over the planet. In the end, they lost nearly one third of their number to a planet backward in its ways and meaningless even to the fragile empires of the mortal realm. Is it not so, Slaanesh?"
"Aye," replied alluring Slaanesh languidly. "You speak truly, Changer of Ways."
"Which in itself is a rarity!" mighty Khorne thundered. "But it comes in the middle of a foolish and irksome attack upon my warriors! You are a mighty sorcerer and a powerful speaker, Tzeentch, I shall acknowledge that much. But you are not a warrior, so do not presume to lecture me upon how a battle is to be conducted!"
Secretive Tzeentch lifted himself haughtily. "A warrior I may not be, Blood God, but even I can see wasted effort! Lendacius would have given itself gratefully to my followers, had I chosen to bring the planet to my side."
"You speak of certainty, Lord of Change," mighty Khorne replied. "Another subject about which you know nothing."
Old Grandfather Nurgle shifted in his own throne. "I find this endless wrangling tiresome," said he. "And I, for one, would see it ended as soon as possible. Can we not solve this dispute in a way other than hurling words at each other for time immemorial?"
"Yes, yes!" said alluring Slaanesh as he sat forward in his throne, his eyes bright with eagerness. "A contest! We shall see which is better, the great force of a warrior, or the whispered promises of an orator! Come, Grandfather Nurgle, and we shall engineer just such a test! Then we shall see which is the greater!"
And thus both Nurgle and Slaanesh retired to speak between themselves. In the interim, destructive Khorne and manipulative Tzeentch returned to their thrones and sat, their burning gazes each piercing the eyes of the other.
In time, Grandfather Nurgle returned and bid them follow. They flew through the Empyrean with speed and grace unknown to mortals until they found alluring Slaanesh perched happily upon the edge of rise within the warp. Grandfather Nurgle pointed and the two rivals saw that they overlooked a planet brimming with life. "That is the world known to mortals as Massus," Nurgle said. "Look closer." They did, following patient Nurgle's pointed finger until they focused in upon a mortal human traversing the plains of the world. He wore a thick coat of fur. "You shall each endeavor to take that man's coat from him," ancient Nurgle said. "You shall not kill him in the process, nor shall you expose him to the warp. Do so and I declare the contest void. Khorne, it is you who shall make the attempt first."
"Then I shall be the first to declare victory and claim my rightful glory!" laughed the mighty god. Eagerly, he thrust out one powerful arm towards Massus and the man who did not know he was now a plaything of the gods.
Mighty Khorne touched the planet and forced the spirits of its air to blow past the man. He wrapped his arms around himself and did say "Whew! The wind is fierce today!" Faster and harder did Khorne make the wind blow. The man's coat billowed and fluttered in the grip of the breezes, but the man clutched it ever tighter and took shelter beneath a tree, clutching the trunk of it with both hands. "Would that I could stop this gale!" he said.
Finally, patient Nurgle did raise his hand and speak. "Khorne," said he. "Your time is up. It is clear that you have failed in this undertaking." Khorne did lower his own arm and mutter darkly, for failure did not please him. Then the ancient Nurgle did speak to Tzeentch. "Your turn begins now," he said.
Wise and duplicitous Tzeentch gently stretched out his hand. With soothing tones he did speak to the spirits of the air, calming and pacifying them until the wind had stopped. He willed them to take the clouds away and let the sun shine brightly down upon the man. "Well!" he did say. "It has gotten warm all of a sudden! I shan't be needing this heavy coat now!" And with no further bidding, he did remove his coat and place it on the ground. Tzeentch did continued to work his influence, and when the man stepped away from the tree, he did leave his coat there and continued his journey without it.
Secretive Tzeentch did lower his arm and open his eyes to the not unwelcome sight of Khorne looking utterly and completely helpless with rage. "And thus it is that I mock your victory," he said calmly. "For it is empty and meaningless. My followers do not come with great force of arms, for they do not need to. They speak peacefully to those they find. They break them of their pettier following and deliver to me a world not filled with hate, but with love and awe. And that is a far greater gift than the charred cinder to which you have reduced Lendacius."
Khorne stepped forward to riposte, but patient Nurgle bid him stay. "It is clear to all of us that Tzeentch has won this day," he said. "Calm yourself, for doubtless you will win one of your own soon enough. But he shall have this."
Mighty Khorne slowly brought his rage under control. "Very well," he said. "If there is nothing else, then I shall retire."
"Indeed," said alluring Slaanesh. "I, too, wish to return to my own followers."
"Then it is clear that there is nothing left for us to speak upon," wise and secretive Tzeentch replied. "But before we again disperse, I say this." He looked each of his fellows directly in their eyes, his gaze burning with intelligence and will. "Never forget this day. I say that not to disparage you, mighty Khorne, but to illustrate a simple fact. Violence and force have their place, but it is not always the best way to victory. Think upon it, and I shall see you all upon the next time of our meeting."
And so the tale ends.
A Contest Between Might and Intelligence
-as recorded by Ahriman, Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons.
It is known to all that the Four Venerable Gods of the Empyrean will, on occasion, quarrel and bicker amongst themselves, that they may gain the upper hand for but even a moment. Mighty Khorne, the Great and Powerful God of Warfare and Destruction, shall lash out with unending rage and impatience at the perceived indolence of Slaanesh, the Beautiful and Alluring Prince of Fulfillment. Slaanesh will disparage, with an unending barrage of insults both great and minor, Old Grandfather Nurgle. Lord of Decay and Deterioration, Nurgle shall forever seek to undercut and shame the Wise and Duplicitous Tzeentch. And all the while, Tzeentch, he who embodies Constant and Unending Change, will mock and berate Mighty Khorne for his bloodthirstiness and the crude simplicity of the Blood God's plans. Thus, the circle is unbroken and shall never be.
One might wonder why I would choose to record one of these innumerable disputes, especially once of such insignificant scale and without any known lasting effect. The answer is simple: I believe that we of the so-called 'Traitor Legions' too often shall take the most obvious route to our target, heedless of other possible courses. While this doubtlessly makes our very existence a continued threat to the False Emperor and a terror to those who worship him, it also channels us into a narrow way of thinking. As we fall deeper and deeper into our rut, our enemies both within the Imperium and without shall find us more and more easily defeated. This must never come to pass! I see the signs of it even now, for upon the last occasion of our battles with the servants of the Corpse God, upon a nameless world within the Warp Storm Hippocrene, our venerable brothers plunged into the fray and were wiped out, nearly to the last man, by treacherous barrages of artillery. And these were not the berserkers dedicated to Khorne, who shall always rush into battle heedless of consequence, but plague marines in service of Grandfather Nurgle, men who should have known better.
But I am digressing. The tale recorded within this tome was related to me by Thar'har'khax, a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch, a Lord of Change, and master sorcerer in his own right. I shall give no further introduction but this. Read this tale, my brothers in battle, that you may open your mind to the greater possibilities presented to you, that you may never decide upon a course of action simply for the justification that it is simpler, that you never become predictable in your ways and thus allow yourself to become prey for the servants of the False Emperor and the other enemies of the galaxy.
I begin.
Imagine, if you will, a place that does not and cannot exist. A temple, a sanctuary, and great palace within the Immaterium. A place that serves to house the ancient and venerable Gods of the Warp. Do not imagine this to be some quiet and serene place of contemplation, for nothing could be further from the truth. It is a riotous place populated by many spirits of the Warp. One quarter of the inhabitants endlessly whip and flagellate themselves in the hope that the thirst of the Blood God might be eased for but a moment. One quarter of the inhabitants engage in limitless hedonism and eroticism that Prince Slaanesh would feel their desires and be comforted. One quarter of the inhabitants forever rot in body and mind, the scent of their putrescence satisfying Old Grandfather Nurgle. One quarter of the inhabitants ceaselessly caste and recast spells of unending capability and variety, their goal to keep Lord Tzeentch gratified by their endless progress and the evolution of their great magics.
It was in this place that the tale I speak of began. The Four Gods were gathered, as they shall be when it suits them to gather and speak amongst themselves. Great and powerful Khorne had taken this particular occasion to boast about his warriors' newest victory: the conquest and destruction of the world Lendacius at the northern border of the Imperium. It was with great pleasure that Khorne related each and every detail of the carnage his warriors had brought to the now-lifeless husk.
After some unknown quantity of time had passed, wise and duplicitous Tzeentch grew tired of his brother-god's boasting and spoke. "Your warriors' skill and dedication is indeed commendable," he said amicably to mighty Khorne. "But your short-sightedness I find to be irritating and unacceptable."
And mighty Khorne replied, "You mock my victory? My warriors have decimated a world in my name. What have you accomplished since we last met, word-former and endless plotter?"
And Tzeentch replied, "I do not mock your victory, Khorne. It is you that I mock. You and your simple-minded boasting."
Alluring Slaanesh could not help but laugh at his rival's fury. A baleful look from Khorne silenced him, but did not whither the smile upon his features. "Explain yourself, spellcaster and backstabber, else find my hands closed around your worthless throat."
Wise and duplicitous Tzeentch calmly rose from his throne and magnificently strode to stand before Khorne upon the middle-ground that divided the palace. "Lendacius was a world not unknown to me, god of brutes and battlecries," he said, his words flowing as smoothly as water. "It was weak, a world barely settled by mortals, and even they knew it was so. For is it not true that Lendacius was possessed of what amounted to something that could barely be called a token defense?"
"Meaningless," replied mighty Khorne, his voice a dangerous growl.
"Indeed, for that is not the crux of my mockery," wise Tzeentch said. "Rather it was the roughshod way in which your warriors conducted themselves. They paid no heed to strategy nor formation and stormed aimlessly over the planet. In the end, they lost nearly one third of their number to a planet backward in its ways and meaningless even to the fragile empires of the mortal realm. Is it not so, Slaanesh?"
"Aye," replied alluring Slaanesh languidly. "You speak truly, Changer of Ways."
"Which in itself is a rarity!" mighty Khorne thundered. "But it comes in the middle of a foolish and irksome attack upon my warriors! You are a mighty sorcerer and a powerful speaker, Tzeentch, I shall acknowledge that much. But you are not a warrior, so do not presume to lecture me upon how a battle is to be conducted!"
Secretive Tzeentch lifted himself haughtily. "A warrior I may not be, Blood God, but even I can see wasted effort! Lendacius would have given itself gratefully to my followers, had I chosen to bring the planet to my side."
"You speak of certainty, Lord of Change," mighty Khorne replied. "Another subject about which you know nothing."
Old Grandfather Nurgle shifted in his own throne. "I find this endless wrangling tiresome," said he. "And I, for one, would see it ended as soon as possible. Can we not solve this dispute in a way other than hurling words at each other for time immemorial?"
"Yes, yes!" said alluring Slaanesh as he sat forward in his throne, his eyes bright with eagerness. "A contest! We shall see which is better, the great force of a warrior, or the whispered promises of an orator! Come, Grandfather Nurgle, and we shall engineer just such a test! Then we shall see which is the greater!"
And thus both Nurgle and Slaanesh retired to speak between themselves. In the interim, destructive Khorne and manipulative Tzeentch returned to their thrones and sat, their burning gazes each piercing the eyes of the other.
In time, Grandfather Nurgle returned and bid them follow. They flew through the Empyrean with speed and grace unknown to mortals until they found alluring Slaanesh perched happily upon the edge of rise within the warp. Grandfather Nurgle pointed and the two rivals saw that they overlooked a planet brimming with life. "That is the world known to mortals as Massus," Nurgle said. "Look closer." They did, following patient Nurgle's pointed finger until they focused in upon a mortal human traversing the plains of the world. He wore a thick coat of fur. "You shall each endeavor to take that man's coat from him," ancient Nurgle said. "You shall not kill him in the process, nor shall you expose him to the warp. Do so and I declare the contest void. Khorne, it is you who shall make the attempt first."
"Then I shall be the first to declare victory and claim my rightful glory!" laughed the mighty god. Eagerly, he thrust out one powerful arm towards Massus and the man who did not know he was now a plaything of the gods.
Mighty Khorne touched the planet and forced the spirits of its air to blow past the man. He wrapped his arms around himself and did say "Whew! The wind is fierce today!" Faster and harder did Khorne make the wind blow. The man's coat billowed and fluttered in the grip of the breezes, but the man clutched it ever tighter and took shelter beneath a tree, clutching the trunk of it with both hands. "Would that I could stop this gale!" he said.
Finally, patient Nurgle did raise his hand and speak. "Khorne," said he. "Your time is up. It is clear that you have failed in this undertaking." Khorne did lower his own arm and mutter darkly, for failure did not please him. Then the ancient Nurgle did speak to Tzeentch. "Your turn begins now," he said.
Wise and duplicitous Tzeentch gently stretched out his hand. With soothing tones he did speak to the spirits of the air, calming and pacifying them until the wind had stopped. He willed them to take the clouds away and let the sun shine brightly down upon the man. "Well!" he did say. "It has gotten warm all of a sudden! I shan't be needing this heavy coat now!" And with no further bidding, he did remove his coat and place it on the ground. Tzeentch did continued to work his influence, and when the man stepped away from the tree, he did leave his coat there and continued his journey without it.
Secretive Tzeentch did lower his arm and open his eyes to the not unwelcome sight of Khorne looking utterly and completely helpless with rage. "And thus it is that I mock your victory," he said calmly. "For it is empty and meaningless. My followers do not come with great force of arms, for they do not need to. They speak peacefully to those they find. They break them of their pettier following and deliver to me a world not filled with hate, but with love and awe. And that is a far greater gift than the charred cinder to which you have reduced Lendacius."
Khorne stepped forward to riposte, but patient Nurgle bid him stay. "It is clear to all of us that Tzeentch has won this day," he said. "Calm yourself, for doubtless you will win one of your own soon enough. But he shall have this."
Mighty Khorne slowly brought his rage under control. "Very well," he said. "If there is nothing else, then I shall retire."
"Indeed," said alluring Slaanesh. "I, too, wish to return to my own followers."
"Then it is clear that there is nothing left for us to speak upon," wise and secretive Tzeentch replied. "But before we again disperse, I say this." He looked each of his fellows directly in their eyes, his gaze burning with intelligence and will. "Never forget this day. I say that not to disparage you, mighty Khorne, but to illustrate a simple fact. Violence and force have their place, but it is not always the best way to victory. Think upon it, and I shall see you all upon the next time of our meeting."
And so the tale ends.
