Warhammer: Start with a dog

"What's wrong with him?" A voice said softly in a vague and hissing voice, "Even though...he has been away from us for fifty-five nights, this still seems unusual. "

——This man’s pronunciation method with this combination of guttural sounds and many voiceless syllables is just like the one outside his window...

What's outside the window?

Where's the window?

Who is he?

Who is thinking in his head?

Who is speaking in his head?

Mixed and painful thoughts were twitching and beating in the biochemical tissue under his skull, and he realized that he was exhausted and in a bad state.

My Su-Ann meninges were not starting up, someone was stopping it from doing what it was supposed to do.

An idea suddenly breaks in, like a bright reminder scroll bar floating in the haze.

And another thought came even more suddenly along with the black lightning that he didn't want to look at again: they were coming. They are coming. We're coming.

who?

Who is coming?

Is this another prophetic dream and epileptic seizure? How long had he been away from his brothers this time?

By the way, did someone just say "Fifty-five nights?"

He heard the soft but vicious whispers of the dead warband think tank in his ears, the unique accent of Nostramo like the sound that saliva mixed with acid would make when it eats away at human flesh. .

Then he recalled the visions and conversations in his broken dream just now.

It seemed to be the last layer of illusion before returning to reality from the cursed talent deep in the soul.

Lewin was unlikable, short-sighted and unintelligent when he was alive, but in his death - especially since his body, missing below the pelvis, is now nailed to the bridge of his ship, he has become After the empty skull sight ornament across from his throne, the brother was noticeably smarter and more organized in his speech.

He remembered their exchanges on the false bridge, and the meaning of their Legion—Dominion—Fear—Order—Humanity—Fight—and everything.

Those seemed to have been conveyed many times through the will of their Primarch ten thousand years ago.

On the farthest eastern border, beyond the radiance of the Star Torch, lies the world of carrion, Thessaguarsa, the last palace built by living humans and obsidian, as well as the dark ultimate art of the Eighth Legion's genius.

There is only madness and the pain caused by madness deep in the bone marrow, running through all defenses. Nothing can resist it, and no one can help.

"What are you going to do in the end?" The Primarch's long hair, as black as the night of Nostramo where there has never been sunlight, has now become dry and fragile. Talos stood there, together with the company commanders. , amidst the endless wailing of countless carefully maintained living faces on the floor, saw the ominous frost and snow that represented exhaustion and abandonment dyeing the temples of the Primarch, who had become thinner, white.

"My children, my son," he sat on a throne made of the bones of countless innocent people. He was surrounded by castles made of corpses or living corpses of men, women, old and young. There was still life in the corridor outside the throne. The stitched faces on the floor were wailing endlessly toward the ceiling.

"If I leave, what will you do? In the end? Will the killer who has never seen the light of day turn into a cockroach that avoids the sun? When the light shines on it, it will disperse in a rush. It only eats to survive and eats scavenging for a living, even if it is a claw. Sharp, still scary, but it doesn’t mean anything.”

This sent a chill running down the spines and nerve knots of almost everyone in the throne room.

The Prince of the Night whispered, holding his head, and his long claw-like fingers casually tied his long hair into a knot behind his head, so that his face could be revealed.

The Primarch was getting up.

Those wails began to turn into screams of true terror as the Primarch slowly rose from the throne room like a black, gaunt tower.

"Armor me, she is coming, my ordained death. Sevatar." He hissed softly, "Come to me. I want you to watch."

The voice of a company commander broke the invisible fear in the room, "My lord, Sevatar is dead."

"What?"

The Lord of the Night, with his snow-white temples, turned sideways towards the officers. His eyes were dim and dull, and the black pupils were dilated to the extreme. There was only night, like a dark ocean.

"Chief Captain Severtalion has passed away a long time ago, my highness."

The Primarch of the Night Lords roared angrily in the dim throne room, baring his fangs ground like shark teeth, as if to question the rest of his loyal heirs, his Prince of Crows, his First Chief The company commander dared to die before him when, where and how.

There should be more questions and answers and past battles to follow, but the memories that were not so far away to him but flashed across the Milky Way ten thousand years ago began to split from the edges of his retinas, like ice caps from a continental shelf. Like an iceberg that breaks apart, it falls, drifts, and gradually melts.

Just like the Eighth Legion gradually lost every leader and every trustworthy brother in the drifting battles and massacres.

In the end they all obeyed the Primarch's orders, and every Night Lord present knew when and where their father would die.

They followed the wishes of the Gene Father and built the final black palace for his growing decline and eventual death.

None of them disobeyed their father's orders, and they all made way for the assassins.

They were silent, and not one of them raised their weapons against the daughter of Callidus.

They witnessed the final moment when the Assassin entered the dark throne room and the Primarch rose from the Throne of Bones and advanced.

The copy that Vandrod incarnated as the "Supreme" called on the Night Lords to obtain from the Temple of Callidus has been copied many times since it was obtained, and has been circulated among the large and small warbands that the Legion has split into. The children of the night carry it with them.

Each viewing leaves a new imprint on their souls.

"Good. Now, at least I have control over my death."

? !

No? !

wrong! !

wrong! ! That's not what the Primarch said at the time! That's not what he said!

What was he talking about? ! What did he originally, should he, should have said? !

"Death is nothing, compared to..."

—————————

The prophet twitched and exhaled on his command throne, and the iron chains that bound his neck, waist, and limbs rattled as his body stiffened.

The mortal crew around them who were trying to focus on their work did not even dare to breathe lightly. In the bridge, where only the auspicious auspicious light and the data panel were dimly illuminated, hundreds of eyes reflecting the glimmer of light were observing furtively. Command what happens on the throne deck.

The pharmacist's voice was urgent and sharp.

"Press him down! His heart can't stand it anymore! Both of them!"

Talos's eyes were bloodshot under his helmet, and he began to roll his eyes white, and psychic blue lightning crackled around him.

"damn it!"