{{Quote|<i>It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.</i>}}
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==Background==
==Background==
Revision as of 03:28, 27 November 2022
“
They shall be my finest warriors, these men who give themselves to me. Like clay I shall mould them and in the furnace of war forge them. They will be of iron will and steely muscle. In great armour shall I clad them and with the mightiest guns will they be armed. They will be untouched by plague or disease, no sickness will blight them. They will have tactics, strategies and machines such that no foe can best them in battle. They are my bulwark against the Terror. They are the Defenders of Humanity. They are my Space Marines and they shall know no fear.
„
~ The Emperor of Mankind on his Space Marines
“
The universe has many horrors yet to throw at us. This is not the end of our struggle. This is just the beginning of our crusade to save Humanity. Be faithful! Be strong! Be vigilant!
„
“
No world shall be beyond my rule; no enemy shall be beyond my wrath.
„
“
It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
Name: Emperor of Mankind (True name unknown), God-Emperor of Mankind, the God-Emperor, the Emperor, Master of Mankind, Revelation, the Anathema, Neoth, the Master of the Lines, the Omnissiah, the Allfather, Him On Earth, along with countless other titles
Status:Other (After the Horus Heresy, the Emperor of Mankind was greatly wounded and his body has decayed over 10,000 years. His mind is still intact, fighting off the forces of chaos in the warp)
Alignment:Lawful Neutral (The Emperor of Mankind protects mankind and wants it to rule all, being extremely xenophobic and seeks the death of all other races. His will to protect mankind is strong enough that he doesn't succumb to death despite his mass suffering due to his status. The Emperor also condemns all religion, specifically in an attempt to weaken the Chaos Gods)
↑The First Heretic: Sight returned, banishing the grotesque feeling of helplessness. Such emotion was anathema, prickling at Argel Tal’s skin with a thousand insect legs. He managed to look through his dimmed visor, seeing a towering figure deep in a corona of agonising white light. Around the figure, cloaked and gold-armoured warriors hefted unique spears with practiced ease. Each one was the size of an Astartes, and no Astartes could fail to recognise them. ‘Custodes,’ he managed to speak through teeth gritted at the light’s intensity. ‘It’s…’ Xaphen stammered. ‘It’s the…’ ‘I know who it is,’ Argel Tal exhaled the words through clenched teeth. And that’s when the voice hit him, hit them all, in a wave of invisible force. +Kneel+ it whispered with the power of a hammer to the forehead. There was no resisting. Muscles acted instantly, no matter that many hearts fought not to obey. Argel Tal was one of them. This was not fealty, nor worship, nor service. This was slavery, and his instincts rebelled at the enforced devotion even as he obeyed it. One hundred thousand Word Bearers kneeled in the dust of the perfect city, rendered prone by Imperial decree. A Legion was on its knees.
↑The First Heretic: +LORGAR+ The voice came with a wall of pressure now, dense and all too tactile. It pounded into Argel Tal like a miasma of engine wash, heating his armour and throwing him to the ground. Around him, he could see his brothers sent sprawling, their armour skidding across the dust. Defiant in the cyclone of unseen energy, scrolls of scripture ripping from his armour, Lorgar raised his hand to point at his father. ‘You are a god. Say the words and end the lie.’ The Emperor shook his head, not in defeat, but calm defiance. ‘You are blind, my son. You cling to ancient perceptions, and endanger us all with them. Let this end, Lorgar. Let this end with you heeding my words.’ The psychic wind died with a peal of thunder. Lorgar stood where he was, trembling for reasons his warriors couldn’t discern. Blood ran from one ear, running in a slow trail down his tattooed neck. I am listening, father,’ he said.
