1 hour ago
Wargaming obsessions, collected and strewn about randomly
The Emperor is dead. Vanquished millennia ago. His physical form obliterated and his essence cast to the void. Brought low in the cyclopean final struggle with his tainted prodigal son.
Utterly broken, bonding his spirit to his wrecked form though sheer force of will, Horus unleashed a final nefarious gambit. So infused with unfathomable malevolent energies was Horus that the staunchest of Astartes was made to believe through warpcraft that the shattered form laying before them was that of their beloved Emperor. Tears in their eyes, the finest soldiers in the Imperium reverently carried the most heinous creature born of man back to Terra and dutifully followed his instructions in the building of the life-sustaining Golden Throne. So wracked with grief that never did they question the monstrous cost or motivation. And thus did Horus achieve ultimate, treacherous victory. Absolute and unquestioning worship as a living god by every soul in the vast Imperium of Man.
The Imperium crumbles upon itself. The darkness which festers at its core rots it from within. Unfortunate pawns, the mislead dutiful zealously guard and protect the very evil they are forsworn to destroy. Though it pains to bring harm to the virtuous; if enlightenment to the treacherous truth is not possible, the ignorant and the stubborn must be swept aside. Their immortal fate is not ours to decide.
Until the last, never shall rest come until the Golden Throne is torn asunder and the malignancy is ripped from the very heart of the Imperium.