I headcanon that all the Imperium planets based on some real world culture happened by complete coincidence---not because that culture colonized space or because colonists learned some history and thought it was cool. Every few millennia, humans just reinvent the Mongols and that's how we got Chogoris and the White Scars. Nobody on Krieg knows who Otto von Bismarck or Kaiser Wilhelm are, WW1 Germany just happened there.
Although they will be confused enough to mix German vocabulary with French military uniforms, apparently
☽ ♝ ☾ // --
The chamber was darkened save for a skylight window that radiated a beam illuminating the chambers centre. It was within this centre upon a slightly raised platform that Ysbryd did sit, a table beside her with a round dish and a collection of runic dice. Next to her was an enchanted quill working tirelessly to scroll what she dictated to in upon a piece of parchment.
The chamber itself was modestly decorated, simple star patterns painted on the walls were the only flourish that adorned the otherwise oppressive room. This was however by design. With little to distract her it was the perfect place for Ysbryd to work through each vision as she saw it. It was peaceful and quiet... it was quiet until armoured footsteps did break her concentration. A sigh passed the sorceresses lips as azure hues tore themselves away from the dice and over to the door way as two heavily armoured female guards entered, an individual with a sack over their head between them, their hands bound in chains.
It didn’t take much for the sorceress to realise the bindings were specifically etched into for capturing mages. Whomever was being brought to her was gifted in the manipulation of the winds of magic to some degree, now this peaked her interest.
“ Pray tell my dear ladies, what have you brought me?”
Without further prompt one of the guards removed the sack upon the head of the human mage. Ysbryd cocked her own head to the side before rising from her seat to approach and inspect the captive.
“ A new Slave? Where did you find this one? “
She murmured, her hand gently gripping under the chin of the mage to pull his gaze up for her to inspect.
“Yes M’lady. We found him skulking around the coast on the most recent raid. He insists he’s a mage.” one of the guards informs.
“ Which explains why he’s been brought to me. Thank you.
And as for you Mage... your name? “
In high orbit above a warring planet, the Sorcerer stood on the bridge as reports were coming in from the battle below. A few other Traitor Astartes and several Chaos-converted officers analyzed the data holograms projecting from the war-table, discussing the situation and debating their next move. Outside the window the Thousand Son was looking through, large lasers and explosions lit-up the planet's surface like it was a colorful fireworks display.
"Enjoying the show?" Asked the Hangwoman
She strode up almost noiselessly behind her companion with a satisfied smirk adorning her helmetless features. A good blooding never failed to warm her hearts, especially when she got to hear their screams. Her little brothers on the surface were, unfortunately, the only ones who were enjoying the tortured music, as Freyja had to represent their interests for their new-found allies.
Writing Prompt: Perturabo, now ruler of Olympia, reflects on his childhood before planning for the future (before Emps pops up and stops that immediately)
So here it goes: my very first writing prompt. I apologize in advance, I’m not far enough into the Horus Heresy series to have reached Perturabo yet, So I hope that my lore-video-informed rendition of him portrays both the way I see him and something close to how he is in cannon.
I also may have deviated from the original prompt just a bit by rule-of-cool (in my opinion), so please forgive me for that.
The grinding of metal. The scent of ash, of blackened wood, stone, and flesh. The din of voices; shouts, screams, howls of fury and howls of terror. The soft thudding trudge of feet pounding earth, freshly turned by the grinding cogs and treads of machinery. The acrid fug of black smoke; the output of engines turning fuel into fumes. Of blood dripping into shining pools like sheets of liquid sliver in the moonlight. Coating weapons. Coating machines.
Coating men.
The sensory symphony of war radiated from what was left of the city-state, though to the man known as Perturabo it might as well have been the low whine of insects during the warmer seasons. The city had lost his interest from the moment it fell over five hours ago. The moment he grasped its warlord by the throat and hurled him, thrashing and screaming, from the tower window. The luckless mortal’s body would break on the iron-piked ramparts below in a spectacular fashion, but the demigod had already disappeared from the window-ledge. The old tyrant had a desk with blank paper, with potential, and Perturabo had plans that needed to be drawn up. He had no interest in watching his own spectacle.
What he did have interest in was the fact that finally, finally, he’d done it. This world, the world that had brought him up, had seen him grow, and had seen him hardened, was unified. This was the last bastion. The last bulwark standing in the way of this ironclad warlord and his goal of global unity. It was finally over.
It is finally time to start doing something about this unsightly morass of a civilization, Perturabo thought to himself, now that some semblance of order exists here.
Or would exist here, once his men, the men from his home city-state of Lochos, finished corralling and executing those civilians who would not bend the knee. He would risk no dissidence. If he truly planned to build a utopia, he could not afford to suffer even the potential for disloyalty. They would be tried, questioned, tortured if necessary, but every man, woman and child would bend the knee to Lochos. Or they would be removed.
Am I just going to sit here, patting myself on the back for the death of thousands, or am I going to actually do something with my night?
The thought entered his mind like a blade, cutting through his ambition and sense of accomplishment both. The thought was his own; who else could it be from? But the emotion it brought with it… …the sense of dread… …Perturabo stole a glance at the window.
The Star Maelstrom hung lazily in the sky, perfectly framed in the shattered remains of the window frame, staring down at him like a terrible eye. But now…
...It was dark out! How many hours had he spent sitting at this desk, just staring at a blank sheet of paper? He should be planning structures. Drawing up diagrams for how to turn this place and the many other conquered fortresses into bastilles of beauty and strength. He should be planning to implement his many creations, to improve the everyday lives of the Olympian people. This was what he always wanted, yes? So how much time had he wasted sitting here, brooding and staring at a blank sheet of paper in a tower that wasn’t even his own?
Too much.
The cluster of stars did not speak. It did not move. I did not do anything other than just make its presence known to him, but its scrutiny was unmistakable. That was how it had always been, even from his earliest memory. Halfway up a cliff in a rainstorm, Perturabo had come to consciousness and lifted his head just to see the hateful thing staring down upon him. From that moment he knew, for whatever reason, he had been abandoned on that cliff face.
A child. Something had abandoned a child on a cliff face in the middle of a rainstorm. He had been left with that starry hateful eye. It was there the day he entered the court of Dammekos, tyrant lord of Lochos. It was there the day he slew the champion fighter of another tyrant lord in his new lord’s honor, securing that trade agreement for him. It was there each and every day as he sat being educated by the so-called “wise men” of Olympia. It was there the day his adoptive sister, Calliphone, was taken by assassins. It was there the day he started this war of unification.
It was always there, and it judged him. Judged him for every failure, every success, everything. It soured him.
Oh yes, it soured me? Try again Perturabo; I’ve always been sour. Was it the Star Maelstrom that made me throw a childish tantrum at Dammekos when he entered my study to look at my creations? Was it the Star Maelstrom that made me curse and spit in the eyes of every wise man and teacher I humiliated? Was it the Star Maelstrom that made me break Andos’s statue?
Perturabo still remembered the competition between himself and his adopted brother, Andos. How he’d bullied and pushed his brother in competition after competition, hoping he would rise to the occasion and for once offer an actual challenge to the young demigod in some fashion. And the one time he succeeded; the one time Perturabo had lost, he had been happy. Genuinely happy. It had been refreshing and actually satisfying, in a way.
But then night fell, and the voices and distractions of the day fell away. He was left, once again, all alone. Alone with the Star Maelstrom.
How could I have possibly thought that wine would spare me in any way?
Nobody had seen him. He was way too clever for that. Too skilled, even while intoxicated. But he knew. They knew. Everybody knew. That night the vortex of lights in the sky and his own thoughts drove him to sneak down into the grand hall and destroy the two statues. It was so obvious, especially since he hadn’t even had the good sense to pummel each equally; Andos’s was left a pile of rubble, while Perturabo had left his own statue at least slightly intact.
The shame. Not only could I handle a petty, meaningless defeat, I couldn’t even cover my own damn tracks. Didn’t I want a brother? Didn’t I want someone I could match my skills against? And what did I do? Ruin everything. Same as it ever was.
As if on cue a clap of thunder shocked the demigod out of his brooding, and he realized that he’d been staring into the Star Maelstrom this entire time. Worse still, he’d been slowly moving towards it. One more step and he would have followed the old tyrant onto the ramparts below.
No, stop! I have to stop! The demigod reeled back from the window ledge as if the rain was acid on his skin. This isn’t right. This isn’t me! I can’t be brooding like this. What’s done is done and I have to move forward. I have to make this place better. I have to lead these people. I can make up for it if I just…
…no Perturabo. We want to build a perfect society? We want to make a Utopia? Foolish. How can one craft perfection if oneself is not perfect? And let us face it, Perturabo, we are the farthest thing from perfect. We are a monster. A cold beast of iron that will grind this world and many more to dust.
“No!” he bellowed at nothing. At the Star Maelstrom. At himself. “That is you! That is not me. I am Perturabo. I am a scholar, an artist, a philosopher, an inventor! I will take this world and I will make of it something wonderful, so that when my father, my true father comes, he will see my works and I they will astound him! I will be perfect for him.”
The clocktower finally struck 12; the time of Extermination had come once again. Demons and sinners all over Hell were either already locked tight inside, or desperately trying to find a last minute shelter to hide from their impending doom. Although most knew that if a sinner was still out at this unfortunate time, they were guaranteed to meet their second death tonight.
Serenity had luckily found her shelter months ago; the Princess’s rehabilitation hotel she had checked into well before the Extermination date was upon them. The little demoness was curled up with a blanket in her room, coving her ears with a pillow to try and drown out the blood-curdling cries for help outside.
Screaming. She never liked the screaming. It was only her second Extermination since coming down to Hell, not that the anticipation would make her experience any better. She didn’t think it ever would. Some demons relished in other’s pain, Serenity clearly did not.
