BASED ON SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 5 DO NOT PASS GO DO NOT COLLECT 500 KOMER, DO NOT PROCEED until you have played chapter 5 to the point you are comfortable with spoilers.
Deltarune fandom I have a fanfic idea:
Yandere Noelle infatuated with the Player and by proxy Kris. Optional if feelings are returned by the player and or Kris.
Because man those vibes by the lake.
I feel like Noelle in this idea would fall more into the stalking and overbearing yandere type than the murdering loved ones type. I wouldn't even go so far as to say she would even purposefully manipulate anyone close to Kris or Kris themself she would just CONSTANTLY be there trying to get or keep Kris' attention or be in the background taking notes on Kris to see how different they act from before and after and to just see the best way to keep Kris' attention.
And of course Kris is just a proxy for the soul, the player, who Noelle is really chasing after the events of chapter 2.
The fact the light is blue (commonly Tzeentch is associated with the color blue) and not golden, suggesting that Tzeentch is highlighting his failure. Chefs kiss.
So we usually assume that the classpect of a character is set in stone (ie. No matter the universe dirk would be a prince of heart) however classes and aspects seem to have a nurture vs nature thing happening where aspects are your nature and classes reflect your nurture (how you were raised). So if the actual question
Considering ultimate dirk, would an ultimate self include every class comb to whatever aspect the character is bound to (dirk also has access to versions of himself that are seers of heart) or would an ultimate self be stuck to the class (dirk can only access other dirks that are princes of heart)
(Full Premise)—tldr; 40k Roboute swaps places with 30k Roboute via Warp shenanigans. Dimension travel fic.
Masterpost
___
Magnus’ day begins well—perhaps even wonderful, if he dares be so blunt.
His Legion is nearing the end of its mandatory resupply and is expected to receive a new assignment within the next few weeks. Their previous one involved exterminating a psychically active xenos race and was… arduous, to say the least.
Alone in his pavilion, Magnus examines the only good attained from that campaign: numerous psychic artifacts.
They float around him lazily, humming and pulsing. Hundreds of them cast his pavilion aglow in a myriad of colors. Thousands more are still stored away.
Their outer appearance is almost unremarkable: tiny, sleek crystals. But where ordinary minerals may be formed by time and pressure underground, these were formed by thought. By emotions. By memories.
According to the texts Magnus has translated, every child of that xenos race would receive a single shard upon starting their education. As they aged, they would nurture it into a crystal with their own minds—to ensure no history would be forgotten, no innovation lost, and no knowledge truly destroyed.
In short, these crystals are vaults of information, carrying all the wisdom of a psychic race. Failsafes reduced to boons for Mankind’s progress.
Many will consider Magnus’ study of them heretical.
But such opinions do not matter. The Imperium already researches and uses xenos technology, regardless of its public stance. It is only right he, a son of the Emperor, may do the same.
With a single gesture, Magnus summons a crystal into his hand. It whispers beneath his fingertips, forever reciting and recalling the memories it was born from—and he has all the time in the galaxy to listen.
But then—
The ethereal fabric of the Immaterium around his Legion shifts. It convulses and contracts tightly, then spits out a great gathering of lights—the familiar pattern of a fleet exiting from the Immaterium.
This should be no cause for concern. No reason to pull away from his studies.
Except…
The fleet is massive—so much so that it can only be another Legion.
But who?
Last Magnus checked, Jaghatai and Perturabo are closest to his location. The Iron Warriors are only a handful of sectors away, currently conquering an upstart xenos race. Meanwhile, the White Scars are battling foes at the nearby borders of Segmentum Obscurus.
His most recent communications with them did not imply a future visit or coordination between their Legions—but perhaps a complication arose in their campaigns? Now they require some assistance from him and his sons?
Frowning, Magnus reluctantly casts the crystal adrift in the air once more. His stylus and piles of notes are also neatly stored away.
Another Legion cannot be ignored, no matter how… inconvenient the timing. At least it will be one of his favored brothers.
With that, he rises from his seat.
Not a moment later, Amon—his quiet but dependable equerry—enters his pavilion. Both his hands raise as he bows.
“My Lord Primarch—”
“Which of my brothers approaches?” Magnus interjects, gliding down from his platform to face Amon. “Jaghatai, or Perturabo? Regardless—I must make his interruption of my studies known.”
His equerry shakes his head. “It is neither the Khan nor the Lord of Iron.”
Magnus raises a brow, intrigued.
“It is…” Amon grimaces—a rare sight. “… the Night Haunter.”
His other brow quickly joins the first.
Konrad Curze? His poor, suffering seer of a brother? Here?
Just to confirm, Magnus sweeps his sight through the Immaterium.
Sure enough, the thundering storm of Curze’s presence is nearby. Surrounding him are the usual shadows and whirlpools of the Night Lords.
And yet… there is an oddity.
Amidst the gales and downpour of Curze’s tumultuous emotions—
—An eye of calm now exists. Such a thing has never been present before, except perhaps for when he first returned to the Imperium and joined the Great Crusade.
Fascinating.
Perhaps his condition has finally improved? Or, better yet, he has gained some control over his foresight?
Pulling away from the Immaterium, Magnus questions his equerry, “Has contact been established?”
“Communication began approximately nine minutes ago,” Amon replies, then hesitates briefly. “The Night Haunter has… urged a meeting with you.”
“… ‘A meeting’,” Magnus can’t help repeating. “That is the reason for his arrival?”
His manic brother—arguably the most manic of them all—wishes for a conversation? Even during his sanest years, this was no common affair.
This is an outlier.
It must be examined. Personally.
“Allow him aboard,” Magnus commands. “Escort him to me.”
For a second, doubt mars Amon’s face. But—
“… As you will it, M’Lord,” he ultimately acquiesces. Then, he bows and makes his exit.
Magnus’ eyes follow him out.
Once his equerry is far from view, he turns and heads for the lounge area of his pavilion. It is a modest arrangement of comfortable divans, daybeds, and tables.
He sits down and opens the drawer of the central table. From it, he pulls out an elegant tea set and tea caddy.
Within minutes, he has steeped a warm, comforting pot of tea.
Two cups are poured. One for himself. One to sit on the table for his brother, though he doubts Curze will appreciate it.
Magnus waits, sipping periodically.
The storm of Curze approaches.
His flagship—the Nightfall—draws close to Magnus’ Photep. It releases a small shuttlecraft, which lands in one of the Photep’s bays.
Curze emerges and wastes no time hurrying for Magnus’ location. He is accompanied by multiple Thousand Sons and only two of his own Night Lords, all of whom exude palpable agitation in the Immaterium.
Soon, his skulking footsteps are audible outside.
The doors to Magnus’ pavilion are slammed open. His guarding sons, the Sekhmet, cannot react in time against a Primarch.
“Lord Curze—!”
His brother stalks inside. As always, he is pale and thin, cloaked in the dark attire of his Legion.
Behind him, the Sekhmet and other Thousand Sons are tense and protesting—until Magnus lifts a hand and waves them back to their posts.
Dark eyes, gleaming with fury, land on him immediately. Chapped lips curl back to reveal sharp teeth and growl out:
“What did you do?!”
Magnus raises a brow and sets down his cup of tea. “Pardon, Brother?”
But Curze doesn’t appear to be listening. Not truly.
Instead, he prowls forward and repeats, “What did you do?! What did you do?!” His words spew forth with such vitriol that clumps of spit follow. “Everything is gone! I can’t see anything! I can’t—!”
Then Curze is weeping.
He crumples onto one of the divans, looking more gaunt and frail than ever before. His hands begin clawing at his neck, his cheeks, and then his eye—
“Curze!”
Cursing, Magnus twists his psychic might into a tendril and uses it to wrench Curze’s hands away before he can harm himself. Then, that tendril wraps around and restrains him further.
… And here he’d hoped Curze would be more sane.
Across from him, said brother curls into the pillows and cushions of the divan. Loud, incoherent sobs continue to escape him—until his entire frame is trembling beneath their weight. He looks less like the mighty conqueror their father designed and more like a child caught in a perpetual nightmare.
This is normal.
His mad brother is forever suffering.
Now, Magnus must wait out his rage. Wait for some measure of lucidity to return to him, before any hope for a conversation comes and he may try to alleviate Curze’s pain.
And so, he returns to his tea.
Minutes pass in silence, with him sipping and refilling his cup as it empties. Once. Twice. Thrice. All the while, his brother’s sobs steadily abate.
Until—
“What did you do…?”
Curze’s voice is weaker and softer, hoarse from all his crying. At his side, his arms thrash and wrestle half-heartedly against his invisible restraints.
Magnus sighs. “Brother, I assure you,” he starts, “I have done nothing. Do not listen to what your visions have shown—”
“My visions are gone,” Curze cries out. He curves deeper into the divan, using his limited movement to grasp at the nearest coverlets and pillows. “They are gone! They have been gone for months!”
Magnus’ eyes widen.
What?
Gone? Curze’s visions?
That is impossible. His gift of foresight was hand-crafted by their father, the Emperor Himself. It can’t have simply disappeared on its own. Such a thing occurs only in lesser seers—ones so weak that their gifts fade before they can even be trained.
Instinctively, Magnus blurts out a slew of questions: “When did this anomaly begin? What is its extent? Have you and your Librarius gathered any data?”
Then he pauses and remembers:
This is Curze he’s talking to. Curze. His mad prophet of a brother, long driven to the brink after decades of struggling with his torturous visions.
Answers will not come—
“Sixty-three days ago,” Curze replies, words muffled against a pillow. “That’s when it began. When the future vanished! My Librarius—useless! They couldn’t explain a thing!”
Ah.
So his brother is lucid. Just extremely upset.
Slowly, Magnus undoes the psychic bindings on him. Curze doesn’t seem to care, or at least chooses to remain buried in the divan.
“And so you sought me out?” Magnus questions, voice softened for this specific brother. His cup of tea is set down as he leans forward. “You believed I… caused this anomaly?”
“… Yes,” Curze grumbles. “… But clearly you didn’t.”
“No,” Magnus confirms, “I did not.”
“Then who?” His brother hisses, turning just enough to bare his fangs at him. The sight would be intimidating if he wasn’t clinging to a plethora of pillows and coverlets. “Or what? The future can’t have… vanished without reason!”
Magnus considers. Then, he offers, “We must test your hypothesis—”
“It is no ‘hypothesis’!” Curze snarls, gaze sharpening into a glare. “The future is gone! It is gone! I see nothing!”
“Peace, Brother,” Magnus says, raising his hands appeasingly. “For all we know, this symptommay be limited to you. The future may still exist—”
“—and only I cannot see it?!” His brother’s eyes flicker about frantically, while his fingers stab into the pillows beneath him. “I have always been able to see it! This is not right! This is—”
“Which is why we must conduct a test,” Magnus states, rising from his seat.
Then, he approaches Curze and sits down beside him. After some hesitation, he carefully maneuvers his brother’s head onto his lap. His hands start gently combing through the greasy strands of his ebony hair.
Curze stiffens, breath hitching for a single millisecond, but—thankfully—does not maul him.
“It will provide us data,” Magnus explains, fingers deftly working out the knots of Curze’s hair, “which may lead to answers.”
His brother falls silent, slowly relaxing beneath his touch as the seconds pass.
“… Fine.”
Magnus hums. “I will summon my Rehati.”
A single tug on his psychic bonds with them is all it takes.
Without a moment’s waste, his Rehati—the greatest of all his sons—spill forth into his pavilion.
Two Night Lords follow behind them, ignoring the warnings from the Sekhmet.
All this time, both parties have been anxiously gathered just outside the doors, unwilling to disturb their Primarchs’ discussion till now.
“My Lord,” his Rehati greet him in unison, bowing or saluting.
They all cast dubious looks at the Night Haunter—then double-take once they notice exactly where he is: on their gene-father’s lap, having his hair patiently groomed.
The two Night Lords also blink at the sight repeatedly. If Magnus recalls correctly, one is Jago Sevatarion and the other is Talos Valcoran, two members of his brother’s miniscule inner circle.
After a moment of staring, his Chief Librarian—Ahriman—steps forward.
“You requested our presence, Father?”
“Yes,” Magnus replies. “You will assist me in conducting and recording a divination ritual.” Then, he gestures around them. “Make preparations now.”
“By your will.”
Excusing themselves, his Rehati disperse. Some leave to gather materials, while others begin selecting the optimal location in his pavilion for the ritual.
With that, Magnus shifts his gaze toward Talos, who stiffens immediately. Even Night Lords are not immune to the stare of a Primarch, for all that he is exalted as a scholar.
“You,” he utters, removing one hand from Curze’s hair just to point at Talos. “You are a psyker, yes? A seer?”
He already knows the answers—from the ripples of the Immaterium and what few previous encounters he’s had with his brother’s Legion. His true question is this:
“Have your visions also vanished?”
Data must be collected, and a perfect subject stands before him.
Talos swallows, then nods curtly. “Yes.”
“At the same time as Curze’s?”
“… Yes.”
“Describe,” Magnus orders as his hands resume combing through his brother’s hair. “Is there usually a schedule to your visions? Or any manner of pattern? Is that how you noticed their loss?”
Though foresight is often considered a chaotic art, it can adhere to a few norms—even without proper training. One such variable is timing. Some seers only dream their visions. Others receive them while awake. Hybrids also exist, capable of experiencing visions at any time of day.
Before him, Talos does not speak. He is stalled by worry of not only his Primarch’s opinion but also the First Captain’s.
It nearly makes Magnus sigh.
Why must so many of his brothers and their Legions despise the psychic arts so greatly? Twist a gift into a curse? At the detriment of their own ranks?
Such a tragedy.
“Speak,” he says in a softer tone. “To diagnose this anomaly, I require reliable information.”
At that, the hesitation in Talos slowly fades. “Between my visions…” His jaw clenches. “…I often have migraines. Nosebleeds. Blackouts.”
Undoubtedly bleedover from the severity of his visions when they do occur. Not an uncommon trait in powerful seers.
“Those stopped,” Magnus surmises.
Talos nods. “Yes. There was… no warning.”
“I see.”
Magnus’ eyes narrow.
Then, he turns to Sevatarion. If more data is available, it must be acquired.
“Lord Captain,” he declares. “Have your Librarius and all the seers of your Legion been questioned?”
The Captain straightens. “Aye. It was our Primarch’s first act.”
Of true lucidity. In years.
The thought is not spoken but unknowingly projected into the Immaterium, allowing Magnus to sense it. Accompanying it are waves of discomfort and disbelief. If he wasn’t such a horribly repressed psyker, this would not be occurring.
“The results were… unfavorable,” Sevatarion goes on. He glances at his Primarch, who is half-curled on Magnus’ lap by now and possibly dissociating.
Curze promptly twitches. A thread of upset—thorny and jittery—grows taut at the reminder of his failed attempts for answers, only to be soothed by Magnus’ mind before it can snap.
Magnus furrows his brow.
All evidence shows that this anomaly is not limited to Curze. No psyker of the Night Lords has seen the future in months.
However…
It is possible that this is a gene-flaw—albeit an odd one. For an unknown reason, Curze’s abilities failed, casting ripples through his gene-sons. Then, the Legion’s visions were destablized as a whole.
But this is just one theory. Curze has been adamant that the entire future has lost coherency, rather than himself and his Legion merely losing sight of it.
The full scope of this disturbance is yet to be understood, much less its catalyst. It must be studied further for conclusive answers.
The divination ritual with his Rehati remains necessary.
Precisely on time, Ahriman approaches.
“Preparations are complete, M’Lord,” he reports, motioning toward another section of the pavilion. “All runes and artifacts are in place, as well as the Rehati. We wait only for you.”
“Good,” Magnus says. He runs a final hand down Curze’s scalp, before lightly tapping his shoulder—not his side; he would react horribly—and beckoning him to rise.
“Will our guests be observing the ritual?” Ahriman eyes Curze and the Night Lords dubiously.
“If they wish.”
Magnus raises a brow at his brother, who has sat up and released his assortment of pillows and coverlets.
In response, Curze flashes his fangs. Then, in a move more reminiscent of their dramatic brother Fulgrim, he pointedly pushes off the divan and onto his feet before Magnus can. There is ridicule and even faint sarcasm on his face, but no true anger or violence.
Sevatarion and Talos flank their gene-father—though only after sharing momentary looks of… surprise between themselves.
Masking his own shock and even faint amusement, Magnus rises soon after.
“Lead us,” he orders Ahriman.
His Chief Librarian bows and complies with a swift pivot of his heel.
Magnus follows, as do Curze and his sons.
With each step, they drift farther and farther away from the lounge area. Closer to the ritual site, which has been arranged near the very center of the pavilion.
Soon, runes and sigils—of protection, truth, and sight—decorate the floor beneath their feet. All have been precisely inscribed into simple circles, overlapping endlessly to birth a massive geometric array. At each intersection, where control must be exerted most, sits a Rehati.
Magnus nods to his sons in approval of their work. They, in turn, straighten their backs.
As they near the center of the ritual, Ahriman murmurs a quiet, “M’Lord”, and leaves to take his own place.
The rest of them continue walking.
Ahead lies the final layer of runes.
Just before they can cross it, Magnus looks over his shoulder.
“Remain here,” he orders. “The energy required for this ritual will be immense and dangerous. This is as close as you may be.”
Curze scowls but obediently halts in his steps. His sons do the same.
With that, Magnus marches onward. Alone.
He slows to a stop once he enters the very heart of the array.
Here, the runes are strongest and thickest. They must be if they are to withstand and contain the energies of the Immaterium. Manual scrying is a difficult and costly task—but nothing he cannot achieve.
Finally—
“Let the ritual commence!” Magnus calls out.
Immediately, his sons begin to chant, their voices rising and resounding through the pavilion. Their minds also unite and reach out to his, steadying and strengthening him.
A deep breath.
Then, Magnus extends his senses into the Immaterium.
His sole eye glazes over.
Into the sea he goes.
Through unrelenting waves.
Over rapid currents.
Past twisting tides.
Until—
What once was is found.
At its fringes, what will be.
It is a river with no end.
Magnus grabs onto it.
If he were attempting to change it, to divert it, to actively meddle… it would scream and rage. Would sink its claws into his very soul and carve a canyon of misery into him.
But he is not.
Just a single shadow—a mere echo—is all he wishes for. To see, not touch.
And so, a single wisp of what will be descends into reality.
Around him, mists form. Blowing into his face. Curling around his feet. Spreading out, only to slam into the walls formed by the array.
Usually, the future emerges from these mists with ease.
Sometimes, it takes the form of an endless tapestry, always in a state of being done and undone. But still legible and coherent, if one has the strength to parse through it.
Other times, it is a great towering tree, whose countless branches and leaves can be touched and viewed.
Always, there is something. Anything.
But not anymore.
Now—
No new threads are being spun or woven into the tapestry.
Now—
The tree’s trunk has been struck by a violent wound. All its growth and greenery has fallen to the floor, unable to ever be retrieved or restored to life.
Now—
The mists obscure everything. Birth nothing.
“No…”
Magnus subconsciously retreats, breath hitching and mind reeling.
“No, no, no…”
Around him, his sons are staring and gasping in similar shock, only keeping the array upright through sheer discipline and experience. Even Curze and his Night Lords realize what this confirms, their faces dour.
" We gotta make you like 2 meters smaller before going to meet your brother buddy. "
" ... What The Fu—
" And remove those chaos cables, and get you some pants. Hey, do you like suits?"
100% Digital Handmade Comic, done on Ibispaint X, etc etc, 2250x3000 Panels, Just draw The Thing dude, OH HOW I WISH TUMBLR WOULD LET ME POST MORE THAN 10 DRAWINGS
The reblog chain is one of the things that makes Tumblr unlike anywhere else. All the notes on reblogs are attributed to the original post, no matter which branch people actually liked or reblogged. We want to keep encouraging conversations, and give contributors the recognition they deserve.
Soon, you'll be able to like, reblog, or reply to any part of a reblog chain, and that note will go to that reblog's author. Each reblog will have its own counts, instead of one aggregated number from every version of the post. And yes, you’ll be able to like multiple posts in one chain.
If a reblog doesn't add anything, the love flows up to the last person in the chain who did. Your post doesn't lose notes just because people spread it quietly.
Past notes will stay on the original post — we're only changing what happens from here on out. Retroactively re-attributing all of them would be... a lot.
This is just the beginning. More changes are coming as we keep building this out – stay tuned!
It’s very clear that you all have strong feelings about Tumblr and about this change. We hear you. The passion people have for how Tumblr works is one of the things that makes this place special.
As this rolls out over the next few days and you explore it, we’ll keep reading your replies and reblogs, so please keep sharing your questions, concerns, and ideas.
Your creativity has always been the heart of Tumblr, whether you’re the original poster or adding something brilliant in the reblogs, and nothing about this change is meant to limit that.
If you’d like to talk directly beyond the comments, leave a reply and we’ll follow up with as many of you as we can. We want to work with you to make Tumblr better.
"Lol," said the author, "lamo," turning their head to the map of how to fix perturabo with the first point being to involve Dorn and him in a game of sburb.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 3/10
Fandom: Warhammer 40.000, Homestuck
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Fulgrim & Ferrus Manus, Horus Lupercal & Leman Russ, Horus Lupercal & Sanguinius, Corvus Corax & Vulkan, Angron & Lorgar Aurelian, Magnus the Red & Perturabo (Warhammer 40.000), Roboute Guilliman & Rogal Dorn, Roboute Guilliman & Sanguinius
Characters: The Primarchs (Warhammer 40.000), Lion El'Jonson, Fulgrim (Warhammer 40.000), Perturabo (Warhammer 40.000), Jaghatai Khan, Leman Russ, Rogal Dorn, Konrad Curze, Sanguinius (Warhammer 40.000), Ferrus Manus, Angron (Warhammer 40.000), Roboute Guilliman, Mortarion (Warhammer 40.000), Magnus the Red (Warhammer 40.000), Horus Lupercal, Lorgar Aurelian, Corvus Corax, Alpharius (Warhammer 40.000), Omegon (Warhammer 40.000)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - SBURB Fusion, Fix-It of Sorts, Pre-Horus Heresy Civil War (Warhammer 40.000), Kernelsprite Shenanigans, Prototyping Mistakes, sibling dynamics, Archaeology, Texting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Typing Quirks (Homestuck), Readable might suffer due to previous tag
Series: Part 1 of WarStuck
Summary:
On Chemos, a strange ruin is being investigated due to an order from Roboute Guilliman himself.
From this temple a game is created, and Roboute spreads this game to his brothers and prepares to play it as a bonding exercise between all of them.
_____________________________________________
What if we threw the primarchs into the hyperbolic time chamber that makes people in it get along or die?
______________________________________________ NEVER TRUST A PERSON CLAIMING ONE MAN CAN’T CRANK OUT THREE CHAPTERS IN A 24 HOUR PERIOD BECAUSE THEY ARE LIARS!!!!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
discoholicmusic
germansingergirl
kianamaiart
jacobvanloon
tangentwithtanner
amandla
pixelskylines
