Horus on the Throne: Eh... wat?!

Let's see if we can't get this 40K train back on its tracks... shall we?

A few weeks back a posted a bit of random fluffery which, without context, likely doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.  I wanted to get it ‘down on paper’ so it wasn’t forever relegated to the idea dustbin… forgotten due to my ridiculously short attention span. Re-copied below for reference with (somewhat verbose) perspective after. TLDR crowd skip to the bottom for synopsis.

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.

First off; conscience-driven full disclosure in that the basic premise is not mine. Some time ago I stumbled across a well written short story, one which I can no longer locate, that sets up the concept. Reading that story was one of those “YES!” moments for me, and I ran with it because it meshes so well with the rest of my cheese… er, umm… ‘fluff’. Here’s the overview:

Commonly accepted accounts of the Heresy are relatively accurate, allowing for the passage of eons and random embellishment by transcribers, right up to the final conflict on the bridge of Horus’ battle barge. Horus however was not utterly destroyed by selfless sacrifice of the Emperor of Mankind. In fact, it is the inverse which is wholly accurate. It was Horus who bested and obliterated the Emperor; so swelled with nefarious energy and reinforced by Warp entities that he was neigh unstoppable. The enormous energy expenditure required to combat such an opponent left Horus drained as never before. In this debilitated state, Horus was momentarily vulnerable. The Emperor’s last great act of defiance (conceivably with the assistance of Sanguinus… though this possibility is in dispute as the timeline of Sanguinus’ demise, before or after the Emperor fell, is uncertain) was to lash out with all that was left in him, leaving Horus severely wounded… but far from impotent. Such was the force of Horus’ psychic rage in retaliation that the energy he directed completely annihilated the Emperor’s physical (and potentially, ethereal) form.

Knowing his life essence was slowly leaving him, and left with few options, Horus perpetrated the ultimate deception. The loyalist forces rushing to the aid of their Emperor found a broken, twisted, and unrecognizable form. Through strength of psychic will, Horus clouded their minds and left the faithful convinced he was in fact their beloved and ‘triumphant’ Emperor. Dutifully they conveyed the object of all their hatred back to Terra, and followed his instructions to the letter in the building of the ‘salvation of mankind’, the Golden Throne. Rumors exist that such was the intellect of Malcador the Sigilite he saw through the ruse, but was dispatched by Horus before an alarm could be raised. However, these accounts are anecdotal at best.

Thus did Horus achieve ultimate victory. Adored and sustained by Mankind’s countless billions, his very existence at the core of the Imperium sews discontent, malice, paranoia, fear, and uncertainty… slowly corrupting and crumbling the Imperium from within.

Synopsis:

- Horus drops the Emperor like a bad habit

- Horus convinces the loyalists that he is the Golden Boy

- Loyalists build an infernal machine to Horus’ exacting specifications, and place him in it to be worshiped for all eternity

- Horus wins

I latched onto this premise for a number of reasons, not the least of which is my penchant to be drawn to the antihero archetype. With the above, the Void Spectres get to play both the good guy and bad guy role at the same time, without all that messy chaos complication. They know the ‘truth’ and ain’t havin’ none of it. No… we don’t really want to slaughter those Imperial Fists. Damn shame they have bought into the lie though… tough luck, that.

There are actually a number of background threads throughout canon 40K fluff which (both directly and indirectly) could support the Horus on the Golden Throne theory. Examples:

1) Horus deceived a significant portion of Astartes into betraying everything they hold dear, and consigned them to an eternity of misery and pain in pursuit of his cause. What better target for their never-ending enmity and loathing.  Of course they know the ‘truth’ about the current resident of the Throne, and every self respecting Chaos Space Marine has cried “Death to the False Emperor!”

2) The Golden Throne consumes innumerable souls to sustain the ‘Emperor’. Not exactly benevolent, and even stretches the ‘needs of the many’ concept. Warp entities consume souls. Interesting parallel.

3) Since the internment, the Imperium has been in steady (and sometimes rapid) decline. It could be theorized that the pace of rot is greater even than could be explained by negligence or the absence of a ‘live’ Emperor. Fear, uncertainty, and paranoia are the norm. A vessel through which the Ruinous Powers could work directly, situated at the very heart of the Imperium? Convenient.

Am I saying this is the One Truth to Rule Them All? No. Pretty sure it isn't. But that’s not going to stop me. Dovetails nicely into The World As Dryw Sees It, and that’s really all that matters.

Right?

…

Oath of the Spectres

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.


...

'Departure'

Intense white-glare of floodlights. Flurry of activity. Showers of sparks amongst brilliant  backlit strobes of plasma welders as framework is broken down and stowed. Metal crates on  pallets pushed via suspensor into bulk lifters to be strapped in place for the out-atmo  journey. Row upon row of crate and box and barrel awaiting transfer. Muddied flakboard  stacked haphazardly. Everywhere there is motion.

The Nephilim are leaving.

The only quiet spot in the manufactured forest clearing. Tall, lithe figures form out of the darkened scrub; not so much coming into view as simply materializing at the clearing’s edge. Raised voices in alarm. Electric whirr of .75 caseless rounds cycling into firing  chambers. Chains on a sword spin at idle. A massive hulk of ebon ceramite pushes through  the perfect double tier pincer which has subconsciously formed. The giant’s lip quivers a  nanosecond faint smile of approval before moving towards the shadowed intruders; eternally  loyal Staff Sergeant Otan steadfastly at his side.

Commander Akkon Sek strolls to within a few meters of the encroachers, apparently unfazed  by the multitude of gracefully aggressive weaponry pointed unwaveringly at his head.

‘You and your kin have become complacent and careless, Witch. How long ago... my life  would be forfeit, and you long gone, before my men knew you were ever here?’

A voice soft and melodic. ‘Not long at all, overconfident Astartes.’

Sek’s eyes widen slightly at the audible click and increasing pitch of shuriken weaponry en masse, activating behind his perfectly formed pincer line. An evilly triumphant smile crosses  the pale, angelic features of the female Eldar. A beat of three, and Sek’s expression morphs as a smile creases his own chiseled face.

‘Bold indeed. And yet, I am not flummoxed. Why is that do you suppose?’

Deeper, more guttural and distinctive hum as a cadre of Spectres step from shadow; a series of compact meltas held at ready and glowing to life. The Witch’s smile fades to a smirk.

‘An impasse, it would seem.’ Surprising humor in her voice.

Sek steps forward a pace, nods respectfully and extends his hand, palm up. ‘You honor us  with your presence, Farseer.’

The Eldar Farseer closes the remaining distance and grasps Sek’s wrist in greeting. ‘The  honor is ours, Sek of Nephilim. Your spark shines true and strong.’

Instantly weapons are lowered and the manufactured tension vanishes. Wrists are grasped, earnest greetings exchanged, and voices are raised in laughter and good-natured ribbing. A moment passes as the two commanders soak in the comradery. Increasingly rare, moments  such as these. As the din abates, the leaders turn towards one another and the Seer’s face  darkens.

‘The Imperial settlement is besieged. My rangers estimate they will hold for no longer than  forty-eight of your Imperial standard hours.’

Anger briefly flashes across Sek’s face. ‘Not my hours, Seer.’

‘Just so. I misspoke. Regardless, the Ruinous Powers have amassed a substantial force. The  settlement is composed of miners, shopkeepers. They are citizens… not soldiers Sek. They  will not survive.’

‘Explain to me in detail how their lack of planning for adequate defense, is an issue of mine Seer? And frankly, why you care even remotely about their fate? I’ll not waste the lives of  my men rescuing sheep who will as soon spit upon us as praise us when our... independence becomes known to them!’

Several tense moments pass. Otan and the Seer’s adjutant stare at the ground.

‘You are leaving.’ A statement. No hint of recrimination.

Sek’s shoulders noticeably sink. For the briefest of moments, his great age is laid bare. ‘A history repeated, Seer. Variations on a tired theme. Cheer as we liberate, and scorn when it becomes apparent we hold their lauded corpse-god in contempt. It is not sustainable for my men. I owe them more than this’

The Farseer nods and speaks with genuine sympathy in her hushed tone. ‘Though it would be a singular honor to fight these dark forces alongside you once again, I understand… my Lost One. I truly do. Your chosen path is a difficult one. You must follow destiny’s call for you and  yours. ‘

Taken aback by the Farseer’s overtly familiar interaction with his commander, Otan glances away uncomfortably. Well aware of the mutual respect the two hold for each other, he  marvels silently. Surely nothing more?

Noting Otan’s discomfort, the Farseer resumes her regal demeanor. ‘My exarch thirst for the blood of this ruinous throng. I must appease their spirits.’ Several rapid hand gestures and her escorts melt back into the shadowed foliage. She herself turns to depart. Prior to being swallowed by the shadows, she pauses. Her graceful profile illuminated by the camp’s  floodlights.

‘Commander? The path you choose should be your own, and would that I not dare attempt to manipulate that crossing. You do not seek to justify yourself in the eyes of those  who turn their back on you, this I know. But the Way inquires… if you yourself do not show  them the truth, how will they ever know?’

And with this, she is gone.

Sek inclines his head slightly and exhales. Otan silently watches his commander. An eternity of seconds passes. Centuries, Otan has known his commander. The intent is clear. Without a word from his senior, Otan spins on his heels to face the warriors who have resumed takedown of the encampment.

‘Desist and attend! Spectres! I require eyes-on topographical auspex and tactical analysis of  the settlement by 0300. Transport! Give me ingress route by same, complete prep of our rides no later than 0345 for mount-up at 0430. Tac! Full weapon inspect and readiness drill  by 0400… I expect a status report prior to mount-up! Move your collective asses, you sons  of whores! Edge and in-line! And Raptors?! You hot-charge those turbines again, and it is my  oath to you that I will pulp your skull with that same jump pack! Now, move! ’

Immediately, activity in the encampment becomes frenetic. Weapons are oiled and cycled. Crates of ammunition and medical supplies are hefted into Rhinos, whose grumbling engines sympathetically throb with anticipation. Armorers dote on miniscule adjustments to power  feeds and neural interfaces. Helmet comms are activated and tested. Movement is constant  and determined. The Spectres set out on foot to reconnoiter the settlement. Fluid and silent,  they vanish into the night.

With a slight nod of approval to his second, Sek turns and walks with purpose along the flakboard walkways towards his quarters. A singular motion, he draws his sidearm, checks  the load and reholsters. Before he passes from sight, Otan sees him make a gesture of an outstretched and closed fist to one of the younger Tac initiates in a show of encouragement.  The Marine returns the gesture and moves off with notably increased vigor in his step.

Otan nods, and smiles grimly. A good day to die.

...

Combat Pharmacuticals

Category:  Background & Fluff


Prime - Stimulates nerve endings in an electric wave of intense agony. Ingestor is rendered exceptionally awake and alert. Narrows concentration to a highly focused point and eliminates strenuous emotion, causing the user to become extremely cold and rational. Side effects include an astute awareness of pain, occasionally lending itself to low pain tolerance with excessive/unchecked dosing.

Substitute for MoS (Mark of Slaanesh): +1 initiative characteristic.

HVOF (High-Velocity Oxy-Fuel) Plasma Sprayer

Category:  Background & Fluff


[Counts-As: Noise Marine Doom Siren]


A mixture of hydrogen/methane fuel and oxygen is fed into a high-focus magnetic-contained combustion chamber, where the combined gases are arc-ionized, ignited, and combusted continuously upon activation. The resultant superheated gas (20000 °C) at extremely high pressure emanates through a diverging nozzle at a velocity exceeding 1000m/sec.

Mk. VII-x Advanced Prototype Bolt Weapon

Category:  Background & Fluff

[Counts-As: Noise Marine Sonic Blaster]

The Mk. VII-x Bolt Weapon is the evolutional advancement of the ubiquitous Astartes Mk. Vb – Godwyn Pattern Bolter. The VII-x specifically addresses multiple inherent limitations of the Godwyn; providing superior performance and fire mobility at the expense of increased maintenance and manufacture complexity.