So, here it finally is. Concieved and written pretty much purely for catharsis. Yay.
Spoiler
WARHAMMER 40,000/WORLD OF WARCRAFT
A Spear From Heaven
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-784.48.21
In a great tower overlooking a coastal city, a woman tosses and turns in her sleep.
She is pale haired, beautiful by the standards of her people. Right now they would fear to see her, skin drenched in sweat and lips pulled back from white teeth in a silent snarl. The silk sheets and soft pillows of her bed are no comfort to her.
She has long been used to bad dreams. She is a woman with much responsibility. And she has always had a particular ability. A sensitivity, some call it. A talent.
Right now it seems more a curse.
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Halfway around the world, a dark-haired man dressed in fine crimson robes sets down his fork.
The light lunch before him sits on its plate, a mere few bites taken from it. The food is exquisite, but holds no appeal for him. Instead he folds his hands and simply looks down at it.
He cannot identify the odd disquiet that hangs over him. All he knows is that if he forces himself to eat any more, he'll likely see it again in a few minutes.
With a narrowing of his green eyes, he shoves the plate away in annoyance and rises.
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His footsteps slap against the stone floor as he runs toward the sound of screaming. He has always been a light sleeper - he needs to be, in his profession. His favorite spear is held in one thick-fingered hand.
The shaman's quarters lie before him. The wolves are agitated, ears flicking as they circle about and whine. The shaman lies in his bed - not by choice, but because a trio of attendants hold him down as he thrashes and spits. Each of them is a warrior, green hides marked by scars. The shaman is ancient and frail, blind eyes covered by a dark strip of cloth.
And yet it takes all three to keep the old man from harming himself as he spasms and spits.
"What's happening?" roars the captain as he drops his spear and moves to help.
"We think it's a vision," replies one of the trio.
The two share a knowing look. Both remember what happened the last time the shaman had a vision of such magnitude.
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-784.45.34
It is a myth that space is dark.
Without atmosphere to hide their existence, without a nearby parent sun to outshine them, the void is full of stars in every direction. Distant nebulae can be seen amongst the innumerable points of light. Absolute silence fills the world.
In a word, it is perfect.
Something moves within the endless vista, like the ripples of a pond as something moves just beneath the surface. If someone could be there to watch, the empty void would seem to contort, to shift, to expand like the forming of a bubble.
Then it tears.
It is soundless, and yet it sounds like the crash of thunder. Cracks form through which shines a colorless light that seems to flash and crackle insensibly. The opening of the veil is accompanied by a sound like the noise of a whetstone against a blade, magnified a hundred thousand times.
Something emerges from the hole in reality. A broad, armored bow followed by a crenelated hull. A cluster of engines adorn its stern. The vessel's outer plating glows as if white-hot as it passes through the open tear, streamers of light lashing against a half-glimpsed sphere that surrounds the ship as though whatever lurks beyond is reluctant to release its prize.
The ship is over a kilometer long, its hull a brilliant shade of blue. It bristles with weapons along both sides, a cannon of immense size slung beneath the armoring of its prow. Upon either side of the vessel can be seen a great insignia: it starts with a golden bird of prey, its beak turned to the right and wings spread to their limit. In its claws it clutches at a more arcane symbol. The ignorant would call it a horseshoe, for it has that shape about it - a large, bowed U, its ends topped by short, classical stops. A pair of golden lines extend horizontally out from the sides of the U-shape.
Beneath the symbol is stark white lettering set against the ship's cerulean hull. If one can read the language, they spell out the word "Bellator." There is more such lettering below this, in much smaller writing. From left to right it proceeds: "272.136.M31 - Calth - Imperator Rex."
The Bellator's mighty engines roar soundlessly in the void of space as they pull it clear of the hole in reality. As the vessel emerges it alters trajectory in subtle fashion, yawing and pitching subtly to starboard as if hurrying to fall out of direct line with that rip in space. Behind it, the cracks torn amongst the veil of stars shift and squirm as they slowly recede, the light beyond flaring one last time as if in outrage before it closes up entirely, leaving the armored ship alone in the void.
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-784.37.22
"Translation complete at nineteen minutes," a voice announces on the bridge of the strike cruiser. Moments later there's a muffled grinding sound as hidden gears turn between decks, retracting a series of blast shields from the bridge windows so that the crew may look upon the stars beyond.
"Very good, Magos," replies a tall, lantern-jawed man that stands at the central lectern. His uniform is tightly-pressed, the shoulders hung with brocade. A pair of white lines mark the outside of his pant legs - a signifier that he has served at his post for a span of time no less than twenty years.
"No complications reported, captain," the ship's flag-lieutenant says a few moments later. He speaks to the man at the lectern, but as he does so his eyes flock over towards another pair of figures. Each is an armored giant of a man, one standing, one sitting. This creates the illusion that the shorter of the two is taller than his companion.
"There's a piece of good news," the shipmaster replies. "Mister Beech, that's your cue."
"Yes sir," the sensori replies smartly. "Beginning stellar triangulation."
"Belay that," a deep and resonant voice interrupts. It is the first time the seated giant has spoken in the better part of an hour. "Orient by planetary position alone."
There is a pause before the acknowledgement of the order. It is an odd one. Normally when exiting warpspace a ship will immediately determine its location by mapping the position of the stars around itself. Warp travel being as imprecise as it is, a vessel may arrive at the wrong star when moving through densely-packed clusters, or think itself in the wrong system when in fact it has arrived at the correct one.
Despite that, the sensori is a professional man, and though briefly thrown he rallies quickly. "Yes milord," he says.
As the man goes to work, the smaller of the two armored figures turns to glance at his companion. The brief look is not returned. The seated man holds a dataslate in one hand, an armored thumb tapping occasionally at the keys. The thing seems absurdly small in his massive gauntlet.
Both men are covered, from the soles of their feet to the level of their throat by suits of auto-reactive plates of ceramite steel. Like the ship within which they travel, their armor is painted a bright shade of blue. Their shoulderguards are edged in blue, the left marked by the same bowed 'U' symbol.
The smaller of the two men has minute symbols painted on his gorget. It looks like meaningless symbols to anyone that does not know their purpose - XIII-LXIV. To those enlightened, the symbols declare that he is a man of the 13th Legion, and the Sixty-Fourth Company within that legion. His right shoulderguard is painstakingly decorated with further markings that declare his rank as Captain. His features are craggy, marked by a scar that traverses his chin starting from the left side of his mouth. His close-cropped hair is an iron grey, a shade nearly to match his eyes. His name is Lucien Valtis.
The other man wears no heraldry upon his armor - neither rank nor personal. He needs none. His noble features- square jaw, aquiline nose, aquamarine eyes, and neatly made golden hair - are known throughout the galaxy. His age is indeterminate. Age matters little to a being like him, anyway.
He is the Primarch of the XIII Legion, better known as the Ultramarines.
His name is Roboute Guilliman.
