9, 2025Add bookmark#1It is 990.M41 by Imperial Calendar and Terran Measure. He has no way of knowing that date, but he knows its implications.
He is sitting in a luxuriously comfortable prison cell. It has been seven days since he was first bound to it. The walls are polished marble and the floor is an extinct species of hardwood. The furnishings are bound in gold and studded with jewels, and every surface is draped with silks and luxurious furs.
He is blind, his eyes burned out of their sockets.
There are women in the room with him, silent and watchful. They have not attempted to interact with him once, save to prevent injury, and respond to nothing else he does or says. They wear mechanized armor of plated gold and dye their hair as richly as blood. They have an anti-presence in the world, a muting that causes pains in his chest whenever they get too close. They are his- they are His quiet handmaidens.
The door leading out of the cell is guarded by two giants. Demigods both, standing twice as tall as a normal man and wearing arms and armor wrought from stars and ichor. They shine like golden beacons in even the faintest light, and the gems on their ornamentation catch light with uncanny vibrancy. They have not moved once since he had been locked within, not to shift position, not to stretch, nothing but the faintest flexings required to breathe.
Beyond the room is a grand palace, miles long in all directions, crawling like a megalithic hand pressed down upon a dead-battered world. Nothing lives on the planet, nothing but teething masses of mankind, who dwell in uncountable numbers like locusts swarming long-devoured jungles of petrified redwoods. But there are no locusts, only mankind, and there are no jungles, only tower-cities that start in choked deserts and rose high into smog-strangled skies.
Masses that number more than millions, more than billions, more than trillions. Certainly at least quadrillions, but he wouldn't be surprised to hear Quintillions instead. The planet was never designed to handle this much life of so little variety, bearing the weight of humanity with buckling metal legs and respiring solely with machine-support.
There is gold behind his eyes. In his skull and his brain and down into his heart and lungs and guts and bones. It follows his motions like a phantom and writhes around unsteadily. It is a living gold that flexes with the beating of his heart and straining of his lungs. There is a gold he knows is there, lurking under his skin and coiling and uncoiling and burning.
It is his- His gold.
A gold that he was filled with.
He was a psyker, captured and escorted about on a black starship across a tempestuous galaxy, skipping along a modern hellscape like a rock on water. He followed their instructions dutifully, he did their exercises, their training, without complaint. He was a perfect, model agent- it was far better than a pointless struggle to face even more hardship. A futile resistance for additional pain, even if he knew the torment that was awaiting him at the end.
Because he knew. He knew more than anyone else on that ship did. He knew exactly where he had woken up to, and what was awaiting him.
He was a Psyker in the Imperium of Man. Unbound and unshielded, with whispers in his mind from entities he knew the names and faces to. Whispers from dumb, idiot gods that grew like senseless cancer across the galaxy and made everything worse for everyone, ever.
Anything was preferable to Chaos. He hated those assholes.
It helped that being compliant meant he didn't really suffer anything for the longest time. The worst thing experienced onboard a blackship was chest pains when he got too close to the Sisters of Silence and mediocre food. The rest of it wasn't much different from being back in school again, except with teachers quick to resort to physical punishment.
Then came time for the Soul Binding. Months of fasting and prayer, organized and strictly watched by silent women who click their heels when they walk. Then, in a line of a hundred similar men and women, he was brought before an immense throne and the titanic skeleton that slept upon it.
They were told it was the God-Emperor. It was not the God-Emperor, merely an image for pilgrims and propagandists. The real God-Emperor was further below, the pulsing half-dead heartbeat of the miles-long palace they walked within. The grandeur of the corpse on the throne was still enough to silence them.
Then they were bid to kneel, and the priests prayed for their souls, and bid the God-Emperor to reshape their souls. To make them impervious to the depravations of Chaos.
He knew that it would be painful. A searing, screaming agony as they were briefly touched by the nexus of torment that burned in the heart of the Imperium of Man, the ever-dying, never-dead Master of Mankind. A brief moment of eternal pain that would either render them dead or forever beyond the reach of the Great Enemy currently making reality worse for everyone- because they were assholes like that.
He had not been prepared for the pain- although he had thought himself ready. The pain was not unexpected, in either case.
What was not expected, though he should have anticipated it, was that the Master of Mankind would read his soul.
And know what he knew.
And he, a young psyker, knew what it was like for the God Emperor to look upon your face as you looked upon his.
-A corpse fifty thousand feet tall, with empty eyes that blaze like suns and a voice of fire that shattered rock. His soul is burnished like Auramite and a thousand-thousand layers thick, for he has yoked the wheel and bound himself to it, and looks out upon the edge as its all-burning spoke-
'WE HAVE WORK TO DO.'
"And that asshole told people to not worship him." He muttered, the terrible heat of His Word on his brow as he stared at the table top. Upon the table was a board, and upon the board were a thousand tiny handcrafted figurines, a battle written in miniature. Next to the board and the table top was a deck of cards, each card depicting an important sign of cosmic confluence, the Emperor's own tarot and alleged means of communicating with his followers.
He did not draw from the deck. He already knew what order the cards were in. Months spent training and memorizing what each specific outcome of that stupid set of cards now wasted with prescience great enough to supersede anything gleaned from a reading.
He stared at the table knowing full well that his eyes were burnt and useless, and he wasn't actually looking at anything.
He just knew.
Just like he knew that he was still mostly naked. One of the sheets from his bedding used as an improvised skirt. Improvised clothing that vanished whenever he slept and awoke again, replaced with fresh bedding and a lingering sense of unease.
There is a heat on his brow that has nothing to do with fever. Gold sitting there, just between and above his eyes, blazing like an invisible star. He could feel it. It was above his skin and also not there at all. There was gold in his soul. Stuffed between layers he didn't know he had and filling him with an energy that made his skin itch and muscles twitch.
There are two silent women behind him, hovering like ghosts in the quiet room. Not once have they attempted to communicate with him and they answered no communication he had attempted in the past several days.
He raised a hand, reaching out slowly in the direction of the one on the left. The hand touched nothing but air, as the woman silently moved out of the way of the hand and continued her noiseless vigil over him. If he couldn't see without seeing, then he'd have no indication that she was ever there. A dark outline where a person should be, the kind that sucked in light and hope and gave nothing back but cold and fear.
"You're probably sassing me in your head right now." He grumbled in her direction, ruined eyes squinting in a blind glare towards the living void.
She did not react, only continuing to stare at him.
He pushed up from the chair, walking away from the table and towards his meal. A perfectly balanced dish made from various scientifically calculated ingredients designed to maximum nutritional benefit, taste, texture, and caloric efficiency. It tasted like heavy baked chicken with a pinch of spice, with a side of mixed greens and a chocolate nutrient bar.
He didn't even really like chocolate.
There were cameras in the corners of the room, staring down at him, watching his every move. There were wires in the walls that transmitted energy throughout the glowing, burning electrical palace. Like a yellow ghost that mirrored the crude matter of the world, thrumming with power drawn from geothermal vents, harvested from the skies, and drawn from the captured decay of rare minerals.
He reached down to the little table, grabbing at the fork while watched by the careful eyes of the living voids behind him, and stabbing the not-chicken. He carried it with him, munching on the cooled meal while he paced around the spacious prison. He couldn't see any of it, but his feet knew exactly where to go.
He could feel the electric thrum in the walls and floor and ceiling. He could follow its paths and trace its signals. He knew that with mastery, he could command it to do his bidding. He knew this as surely as he knew there was gold under his skin.
There was a spiritual superreactor where his soul should be. A form he was familiar with, that he was comfortable with, that He knew about because he knew about it because they were facing each other at the table.
Pawn Promotes to King.
He snarled, raising a fist and smacking his forehead with it, trying to beat his thoughts into something resembling order. He couldn't even explain himself to himself at the moment.
Again, and again, and again, and-
His wrist was caught. Firmly but delicately. His chest throbbed with pain from the contact, and he stopped his frustrated motions at once. The living void gently pushed his hand back down to his side, then let go and stepped away.
As soon as she stepped away, the pain vanished, and the void returned to nothing. Ghostlike and invisible to all but his unnatural senses.
He stared at nothing for some time, for his eyes were ruined, burned away by a Vision of Gold. He glanced down at his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers, watching the wraithmail he was surrounded with. A layer of golden phantoms set in rigid rows like scales, wrapped around his flesh like skin.
He took a quiet bite of his not-chicken, still suspended by fork in his hand. It didn't have any bones, like someone baked a strip instead of breading and frying it.
"Honestly, kinda gross." He muttered through a mouthful, chewing, swallowing, and then taking the final bite to finish it off. He stepped backwards, dropping the fork on the plate again and quickly downing the chalky chocolate bar. With it eaten, he dropped to the floor.
One, two, three…
Pushups. The most primitive and reliable way to build muscle without on-hand equipment. It was about all he could do while blind and imprisoned as he was. It was what he had been told to do. He could do a hundred of them now.
Then squats, then a rigorous round of stretching, then another period of completely silent and still rest. Staring at nothing, speaking to no one.
'YOU ARE NOT YET STRONG ENOUGH.'
He knows- you don't have to keep reminding him.
He would say that he would go insane, sooner or later, but he was pretty sure having a voice in your head already qualified one for insanity.
There was someone new at the door. Several lifetimes older than he should be, supported by a constant influx of cellular treatments and machine-assisted regeneration. He was quickly joined by a second person, just as old as the first and equally sustained by unnatural means. Or perhaps too-natural means?
The giant demigods at the doors did nothing to stop their passing, and the gilded door leading into his prison opened, and the two utterly ancient men stepped into the room. The silent ghosts behind him greeted them with moving hands and wiggled fingers.
They returned the greeting with silent nods, staring down at him upon the floor as he stretched, tips of his fingers hooked around the ends of his toes and blind eyes staring at nothing.
After a few long moments, he finished that stretch and moved onto the next.
"Ordained Psyker. Rise from the floor, if you would." One of the ancient men spoke with a withered drawl.
"I have not completed the stretches He wants." He replied calmly, shifting the position of his hands to stretch out a different section of his ligaments. "You arrived a bit over halfway, I'll be done with the set soon enough."
The ancient men stared down at him. Several long minutes passed before the stretching was complete, and he slumped back on the floor with eyes closed. Then, he huffed and pushed his way up from the floor, looking towards them with blind eyes.
They were ancient in the extreme, heads adored with wires and bodies riddled with tubing beneath ornate robes. They were clad in the badges and iconography of their office, and were taller than him even hunched half over as they were- with how extreme their modifications were beneath their concealing garbs.
"Ordained Psyker, do you have any knowledge of us?" The one on the left asked, head burdened by an immense crown of gold, silk, and jewels. His eyes were partially covered by lethargically drooped brows and his jowls hung low on his face.
"The tarot proclaims you to be lords of great significance, who will shape the course of my fate to follow our meeting." He answered simply, with a small shrug. "In specific though- no. I know not who you are, either of you."
"You have not drawn from the Tarot, not once today, nor any day." The other one spoke with a low and suspicious growl. "You only touch it to shuffle the deck each morning, when you awaken."
"I no longer need to draw from the deck. I already know what the cards will be." He pulled his lips into a frown. "My draw for this occasion would've been the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth cards, if you want to check it yourself." He gestured towards the shuffled but otherwise untouched deck.
The suspicious old man walked over with a careful plod, delicately reaching for the deck and removing the top twelve cards. Then, he drew the next three cards, flipped them around, and placed them on the table in the correct order.
The room was silent for a few moments.
"We are here today to evaluate you, Ordained Psyker, and the event that occurred during your Soul Binding." The one weighed down by the crown explained simply.
"My veracity as a Living Saint and how you might utilize me as a political asset." He cut through the explanation with one that was both blunt and sharp at the same time. Had he more patience, he probably wouldn't have been quite so abrasive.
"We seek only to gather evidence of your nature, young Psyker. It is a delicate process, and we must be sure of these things before any public announcement is made."
He almost replied with a sharp, biting retort, before stopping himself and taking a calming breath. After a few moments, he replied. "Not a Living Saint- the process isn't the same." He shook his head, reaching up to rub at his forehead. "A Living Saint requires death, to unshackle the soul from mortal limits in readiness for its infusion and ascension. I'm still alive." He tapped at his chest with a heavy hand, feeling his heart beating in reassuring patterns.
The patterns were golden.
He shook his head, grimacing. "I'm not a Living Saint- I'm something else."
The two ancient men glanced at each other, then back to him. "You are sure of this? What have you been taught of the nature of Living Saints?"
"Nothing. The church of my home only mentioned them in passing." Ah Necromunda, what a shithole. He was glad he didn't live there anymore. "The Lord Emperor- he put a shard- a fragment in my-" He tapped at his brow insistently, frown deepening as he tried to explain in terms he understood. "There's gold in my soul- between layers I didn't know I had- a presence and words and a reactor."
He cut himself off, staring at nothing before shaking his head. "I can't explain it. I don't have the words for it, and you don't have any reason to believe anything I say anyways."
"...The words. What are they?" The old suspicious man asked, stepping back to his original position and glaring at him.
"Depends on what He's telling me to do." He sighed. "You'll have to be more specific."
"What do they tell you right now?" The old suspicious man clarified with a strengthened glare.
'A SWORD AND THE HAND THAT WIELDS IT.'
He frowned, reaching down to curl his fingers around an invisible hilt.
"He wants me to learn swordplay."
He stared at an unseen blade for a few moments more, then dropped the hand and reached up to point at his ruined eyes.
"Can I get replacement eyes? I'm still blind and I'd really rather not be."Last edited: Oct 9, 2025 Like ReplyReport Reactions:Zeus, SpectreOfChaos, Ph34r_n0_3V1L and 1,937 othersBrosefOct 9, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 2 New View contentBrosefWriterOct 9, 2025NewAdd bookmark#135-990.M41-
-Holy Terra, Sol System-
-The Ordained Psyker-
His new eyes fit smoothly into the old sockets, machine-optics that expanded and contracted with levels of magnification that organics could never match. They glowed a faint blue, and were minimalist in fashion at his own request, not like the much bulkier, more robust, and more effective models that were more often mass produced for soldiers in the field.
In some ways, the further integration made the eye slip into more uncanny territory. With a bulkier optic he could probably at least pretend that he was wearing goggles or similar- with the smaller machine-eyes, he just had to live with gunmetal grey sclera and gloaming irises. He let the irises expand, zooming out his view to encompass the rest of body in the mirror, taking stock of himself once more.
His hair was getting long, straight at the top and growing increasingly curled and twisted at the ends. His torso and arms were beginning to define themselves with faint outlines of muscle on a terribly thin and boney frame. He was still firmly in the awkward stage between boyhood and manhood, with paltry facial hair beginning to creep forth on his jaw, chin, and upper lip. He'd probably make a pretty good Jesus impersonation in a decade.
His skin was a hair more tanned than before, his brow a hair heavier, and his shoulders wider. Changes that should be impossible with mere diet and exercise, and could only be a result of the Gold he could not-see coursing under his skin.
There was a sunburst on his brow, burning a brilliant and terrible shade of gold, just under physical perception. The jewel of an ethereal crown, a thin halo of fire that wrapped around his head, held in place by a gravity unseen. But the jewel and the crown was not there- hidden in the depths of his gilded soul.
He exhaled slowly, turning his head to nod at the man slightly behind and to his right. "The new eyes are lovely, Lord Magos, thank you for your work."
The man was mostly machine by weight, eight feet tall and more similar to a mantis than any human figure. His frame was covered in storage containers, secondary manipulators, needles, tubing, and yet more. A walking medical facility in only semi-human shape, the only handful of biological systems remaining being a scrap of flesh that served as a face, a brain, one terribly misplaced and withered arm, and perhaps a handful of organs somewhere within.
The tech-priest who had been so kind as to sedate him and painlessly replace his burnt-out eyes with replacements. He didn't even wake up woozy after.
The tech-priest inclined his hooded face, glowing optics shining from under the darkness of the hood. "The pleasure is mine, Ordained Psyker. Your minimally-deviant biology was a rare delight you work upon- a canvas unspoiled by rampant mutation."
He didn't know exactly how to respond to that. He nodded. "I'm glad. If I need any further implants in the future, I'll ask for your work."
The tech-priest bowed. He turned from the mirror and walked towards the doorway leading out of the medical theater, followed by two Sisters of Silence, and stepping between two Custodes. Golden-clad guardians and wardens that had been his near constant companions since his Soul Binding.
He stopped between the two giants clad in gold, glancing between them for evaluation. Nine feet tall apiece, with tall helmets and long flowing ornamentation that made them seem even taller. Perhaps unclad he'd reach their navel, but in their armor he was only as tall as their hips, and they loomed with every terrifyingly smooth movement they made.
He glanced back to the Sisters of Silence, clad in similar gold and heads shaved bare save for a single high tail bound in metal. They were of similar height to himself, with much thinner, form-fitting plates and ornamentation. They stared at him with stony expressions, revealing nothing of their thoughts to his eyes.
The Tarot encouraged initiative in unsteady conditions. His lips pulled down into a slightly pained grimace, and he started to walk the steps leading back to his cell.
'SPEAK.'
He closed his new eyes, ignoring how they shifted from blue to gold with the words that resonated through his mind. There were no cameras or audio recorders in the next section of hallway. The Sisters of Silence muted psychic phenomena in their immediate vicinity. This was his first moment actually alone with his guards.
"The revival of Roboute Guilliman is required for the Imperium's long-term survival." He started, almost against his will, speaking calmly and quietly to the demigods he walked between. Their helmets inclined ever so slightly down towards him. "For his revival, two individuals and their retinues must be allowed to cooperate. The Tech-Priest Bellisarius Cawl and the Eldar Eldrad Ulthran."
The giants in gold stared down at him, the only sound made being the near-silent whir of the servos in their armor as they walked. Every step produced little noise, but abundant, bone-shaking vibration through the floor. The stares of the women in gold burned into the back of his head.
"If these conditions are not met, Cadia will be broken, and half the Galaxy will fall into darkness. We have five years before the end begins, and at least ten years before it concludes." Words of doom spoken to four mostly random individuals. Two of the ten-thousand Custodes, and two of the countless unknown of the Sisters of Silence.
The High Lords of Terra, nominal supreme authorities of the Imperium, could not be trusted. At least a third would treasonously oppose the return of Roboute Guilliman, and he wasn't sure which ones they were. They would oppose his return for one simple reason- he was a Primarch, a son of the Emperor, and they were not. Their power would be gravely diminished for his return to power, even if his steady hand was necessary for the tumult to come.
They'd prevent the conditions from being completed even as the Imperium around them collapsed.
The only way to work around their influence was to undercut them. "The Master of Assassins can be trusted. Please relay my words to the Captain-General-" They were approaching a section of hallway that had visual and audio recorders. "-The Lord Emperor demands I learn the martial ways, and I am sure he would know an adequate tutor for someone as pallid and frail as I."
They walked in silence for a few more moments, before one of the golden giants spoke in a low and tremendous rumble. "...We will consider this."
"My thanks. That is all I ask." The Ordained Psyker responded with a low nod of his head, and a return to silence. Several minutes of walking through quiet halls and past occasional others later, and he was returned to his gilded cage. The luxurious room that served as his prison while those with power tried to figure out how to best make use of him.
He lowered himself into his chair again, and stared at the board full of miniature men.
It had been several years since he had been thrown into the future, a freshly young body and terrible whispers a constant presence in his mind. Several years of living on a dystopian planet before having sufficient psychic power to demonstrate himself to the authorities and get off said planet and on a one-way trip to Terra.
As much as the Sisters of Silence were discomforting to be around- they also muted the whispers in his mind, and that was a tremendous relief. It was difficult to explain how blissful a return to actual silence was after so many years in such a noisy megacity.
He imagined most psykers, having no knowledge of what actual quiet was, would be incredibly freaked out by the absence of background noise.
"Thank you for existing." He spoke suddenly and sincerely, angling his head back to address the silent voids in the shape of women behind him. "For being alive and near me. I appreciate it immensely."
They stared at him quietly for a few more moments. Finally, after all this time, they reacted to something he said.
The two women clad in gold exchanged a wordless glance with one another, too brief to notice unless one was looking for it, then turned back to stare at him stonily. He gave a little laugh, shaking his head and turning around again, leaning his head back to stare listlessly at the ceiling.
One exchange of words with the giant demigods outside his room, and he potentially irrevocably changed the course of the galaxy. The thought was making his stomach knot itself up in stress and building a headache behind his brow.
His skin itched, golden spiders under his skin hard at work weaving his soul and flesh.
'TRAIN.'
He grunted, pushing himself up from the chair and walking over to the cleared floor, falling into a series of push-ups against the hardwood floor. One, two, three…
Every moment wasted before the apocalypse was a sin, and all that. A sin that the great golden god in his head glared at and judged him for.
—
His ability to influence the future was both massively broad and incredibly narrow. A thousand potential paths to take, but he was only ever a single man. He could only choose one course of action to pursue, one in a sea of countless possibilities, and endeavor to make that single course of action as influential as possible.
Choice paralysis would get to him if he spent too much time contemplating all potential paths, tying his hands and making him ultimately useless anyways. Perhaps before, when he was just another Astropath-to-be, he could've afforded to just keep his head down and guide ships knowing full well that he'd be one of the most protected assets on any given kilometer-long warmachine. A nice, safe position in middle management.
The gold that filled his soul meant that he absolutely could not afford to simply hang around being useless. At best he'd be turned into a sockpuppet for one faction or another, at worst he'd be turned inside out by Chaos and then murder-fucked until he started singing praises for his captors.
That would be less than ideal.
"I'd suggest using me as a propaganda piece, Lord Ecclesiarch." The Ordained Psyker suggested calmly, now exercising by a series of lifts from a suspended bar. The ancient Ecclesiarch, grand master of the Imperial Cult, raised one tremendous eye at him from his seat at the table.
"Is that so?" The High Lord calmly replied, slowly turning another aged page in the immense golden book placed upon the table. His eyes trailed across the words, searching for passages to conclusively devise what the Psyker before him was in theory, but most likely just wasting time to evaluate him as an individual longer. "My… what makes you say that, Ordained Psyker?"
"My knowledge of politics extends as far as gang wars and little more- trying to use me as a political lever upon Terra is putting weight upon a fragile beam. Putting me far from your political machinations, and with your agents around me to manipulate the news that comes back about my doings, is far less risky." He could almost do a pull up with a single arm now- but not quite. Whenever he tried he just hung in place uselessly with elbow shaking about.
"Further- if I prove to be troublesome or deviate from Canon too much, my death can be easily explained as enemy action and further your military endeavors against an enemy of your choosing." He dropped from the pole with arms burning, falling back against the hardwood floor and staring up at the ceiling. The Sisters of Silence stared down at him in a nonplussed fashion. "Minimal risk, minimal fuss, moderate benefits, and time to further evaluate me, my abilities, and my inclinations. It's an ideal position to put an unknown variable such as myself into."
He tilted his head to the side. "And should I just happen to die as a martyr by happenstance anyways, you've removed a potential problem with minimal effort."
"A boy your age with such a cynical mind…" The Ecclesiarch muttered with a little shake of his well-wired head, turning another page. "The Emperor Protects, Ordained Psyker. We must have faith in his will, and I must be careful in interpreting his miracles accurately."
He swung his body around on the floor, hooking his feet against the base of the table while crossing his arms over his chest. Then, he began to curl inwards in a series of crunches.
"Hmm… Ordained Psyker. We have only your Black Ship Identification Number… can you tell me your name?" The Ecclesiarch spoke in such a grandfatherly and kindly manner that for a moment one could believe he wouldn't condemn millions to death without a second thought.
"I don't know it yet." The Ordained Psyker replied between repetitions of the exercise.
"...You don't know it yet?" The Ecclesiarch looked down at him, eyes glowing with an electric light.
"My name upon Necromunda was a product of the gang culture that proliferated upon it." The Ordained Psyker explained with a frown. "A name that simply won't be enough for my role to come- the name of… whatever I am, it cannot be gangish or strange. It must resonate with the hearts of those who speak it. It must be the name of a Hero of the Imperium, as much as there are countless many who are more deserving of such a title."
There was silence in the room for a few moments, before the Ecclesiarch slowly nodded in contemplation. "I understand. The position you have been bestowed- you feel obligated to become a man capable of holding it."
"The Lord Emperor demands it of me." He grumbled, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow. "And I especially can't tell Him 'no', not even if I wanted to- I can feel His eyes watching over my shoulder."
"The correct form of address is 'God Emperor', Ordained Psyker." The Ecclesiarch gently corrected, flipping over to another page. "If you are to be in the company of the Orders Militant of the Ecclesiarchy, as you suggest, you must be exacting in your forms of address to Him."
The Ordained Psyker grunted at that, before nodding at his position on the floor. That the Ecclesiarch was even mentioning it in such a fashion was a good sign. One step closer to having the power and freedom to actually help in a significant fashion.
He needed time away from Terra, to build a reputation and followers of his own, otherwise he'd remain a pawn forever.
"Would you like suggestions for a new name, Ordained Psyker?" The Ecclesiarch asked with a calm and wobbling nod. "My memory is not as it used to be, but my knowledge of scripture has yet to fade, and there are a great many names of exceptional significance in the pages of our holy books."
The Ordained Psyker fell back against the floor, chest heaving with the effort of his exercises.
"...I would appreciate such, Lord Ecclesiarch." He eventually replied.
As long as it wasn't something exceptionally silly, he'd probably go with whatever the man ended up suggesting. Out of convenience if nothing else-
"The names of many ancient Terran heroes would prove suitable here- One such hero, Luakin Sky-Walker was renowned for his abilities with the blade. You claimed that the God Emperor desires mastery of such from you, yes?"
"I can't do that name." He replied very bluntly, face falling into a nonplussed expression, a sense of befuddled amusement coming upon him.
"Hm?"
"I can't explain why- but I really can't do that name." He shook his head, clumsily pushing up from the floor and taking a seat on the other side of the table.
The Ecclesiarch raised a brow before nodding slowly and flipping another page. "I see… then perhaps James-Luc Kirkard?"
He considered that for a moment, before bringing his hands up and pinching his brow. There was a war between exasperation and amusement in his heart. "No- that one wouldn't be good either."
"...Leto Atreides."
"...No… that's probably not a good idea."
"...Well, let me hear where your heart lies first. Perhaps that will aid my memory of the holy books." The Ecclesiarch declared, clearly slightly fed up by the quick dismissal of his suggestions without explanation.
He stared at nothing in particular for a few moments, folding his fingers and resting his chin upon them. Would it be slightly heretical or presumptuous to take the name of another empowered champion of a supreme god? The gold thrumming through his led his thoughts in specific directions.
The Tarot advised conviction in the path chosen, whatever that path might be. Hesitance is worse than a bad decision.
"I was thinking of the name 'Joshua'."
The Ecclesiarch raised his brows, before nodding slowly. "A simple name with a long history. One that could feasibly come from almost any world in the Imperium, and means a great many different things to a great many different individuals."
"Yes, something like that would be ideal in this situation." He nodded, hiding his grimace behind his fingers. It certainly felt downright bizarre to all-but declare himself a god-in-flesh like that, but the gold in his blood felt like little else. "Most of humanity would recognize it- it would feel familiar no matter where I walk or where my propaganda is aired."
And maybe it would serve as a constant reminder to stay humble about the unfathomable power lurking in his spirit.
"Hm. In that case, you will almost require a strong name to stand out- a last name and title both, to mark you as distinct among countless others bearing your name." The Ecclesiarch nodded gently. "Perhaps- for one of our many most-ancient heroes of Holy Terra- Pendrarc."
The Ordained Psyker considered that name for a few moments, trying to figure out where he had heard that once before.
Then he stopped and sighed as he recognized the portmanteau of 'Pendragon' and 'D'arc'. "That one is fine, yes." He would've denied it again, but that would probably just get the Ecclesiarch mad at him. Besides, it was more or less unrecognizable from its origin with how mangled it was.
The Ecclesiarch raised a brow at his tired expression, before nodding genially. "Joshua Pendrarc, a most-blessed psyker indeed."
He was almost immediately starting to regret agreeing to the name.Last edited: Oct 9, 2025 Like ReplyReport Reactions:Ph34r_n0_3V1L, Zeus, SpectreOfChaos and 1,648 othersBrosefOct 9, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 3 New View contentBrosefWriterOct 10, 2025NewAdd bookmark#218-990.M41-
-Holy Terra, Sol System-
-Joshua Pendrarc-
"Ordained Psyker Pendrarc, allow me to formally introduce the Prioress of Covenant Prioris, Tryphaena, and the Canoness Superior of the Order of Ebon Chalice, Cleopatra." The Ecclesiarch waved a wrinkled hand to the pair of women, leaned slightly towards him in a patronly manner. The meeting was taking place in a much smaller, private chapel within the halls of the Imperial Palace. This meant it was still an intimidatingly monolithic chamber that would dwarf any church from the Terra of thirty-eight thousand years prior.
If Joshua's memory held true- that was the second and third ranks in the overall command structure of the Sisters of Battle, just below the actual Abbess herself. There must have been a reason that she in particular was missing from this meeting, but he didn't quite remember what it was.
The Prioress was an old woman, with long gray hair tied back in a tight formal bun and one glaring bionic eye. She wore the robes and tights of formality, and stared at him with an inscrutable eye, hands folded tightly before her. Her skin was wrinkled less than he might expect, mostly apparent around the corners of her eyes and lips. Evidence of either a good facial health regime or biological modification.
The Canoness Superior was significantly more martial in general appearance, owing to her position of frontline command. She wore the powered armor of the Sisters of Battle with trails of formal cloth dangling from her arms and waist. Her armor was a deep black, her cloth was white on the exterior and red on the interior, with faint golden trim and ornamentation covering every plate.
The symbol of her Order, a black chalice containing a bright orange flame, was emblazoned across her white skirt and tattooed upon her cheek. Her hair was black, cropped diagonally at the shoulders with two long tails left to dangle.
"Prioress, Canoness." He greeted both in turn, raising his hands in the twin-eagle salute of the Imperium as he nodded his head. "I am honored by this encounter."
"This is he, the not-quite Living Saint, Lord Ecclesiarch?" The Prioress asked, squinting eye glancing towards the ancient bag of luxurious robes and bones that hovered near to him. The Canoness maintained a focused stare upon him, eyes trailing up and down his body, searching for something indeterminate upon him.
He was dressed in the humble robes of a monk, with pale sandy short-robes and pants under a long brown cloak of synthetic burlap. His waist was tied with a simple sash and a series of charms hung from it- most predominately the symbols of the Aquila, the Astropathic Eye, and Skull. Around his neck was a Rosarius- a rare and treasured gift from the Ecclesiarch himself.
It was easily his most valuable possession now- and it was frankly obvious that the Ecclesiarch was trying to endear himself to the new potential political pawn. It was also working- because a Rosarius came with a tiny conversion field generator and Joshua was very glad for the extra protection. It was hard to not appreciate something like this.
Overall, his new outfit made him look like a Jedi, which was half the reason he chose it. A blade-wielding psychic warrior with a penchant for divination? He'd be missing out on a great joke if he didn't play into it at least a little bit.
There was a vague sense of amusement not his own, lurking in the back of his mind. His organs itched with gold.
"Yes… I suppose you must have heard of him already. Rumor travels faster than any ship, after all." The Ecclesiarch nodded, reaching up to rub four fingers across his wrinkled jaw, minding the tubes that emerged from his collar and trailed around over his shoulders. "Brought before the body of our Lord God-Emperor by the Sisters of Silence, to be bound as any other Astropath-to-be, and bestowed with an unmistakably miraculous blessing."
The Ecclesiarch sighed, forming the Aquila with both withered hands. "Were only I there to witness it with my own eyes, rather than the recordings- the body of our God-Emperor, moving."
The eyes of the sisters widened in no small shock, turning to regard him with renewed curiosity. Joshua gave a somewhat awkward smile in return, bowing his head slightly.
The Ecclesiarch continued after a moment of silent prayer. "Moving- his holy visage turning to regard one among a hundred…" The Ecclesiarch turned his ancient head towards him again, a precisely measured look of regard upon his face. "One in a hundred, the only one to survive, enveloped in the Emperor's own golden light for twelve full hours."
Joshua didn't remember much of that period, besides the terrifying visage of a half-living God. The terrible soreness in his throat and body afterwards was evidence enough for him that it happened.
"He matches no prior Living Saint, and yet an exceptionally blessed individual he clearly remains." The Ecclesiarch continued, rubbing at his lower face once more. "And more- he reports commandments booming through his mind, and in these moments his eyes fill with a golden light."
The immense chamber was silent, save the distant chiming of bells and the songs of a neverending choir. Song never ended upon Terra, even if that song was accompanied by horrors that only man could make.
"...What- what do they tell you..?" The Canoness softly asked, a fanatical gaze burning into him, searchingly.
Joshua regarded her with a small amount of apprehension, wondering what he should even say. The Tarot advised caution when surrounded by strangers.
"The first thing I remember them saying…" He spoke slowly, steadily as not to stutter or fumble. "...A booming voice that deafened me to all else, saying 'We have work to do'." He nodded slowly. "The words are infrequent, and almost always come in short phrases."
"Lord Ecclesiarch, You believe him to be possessed by the spirit of the God-Emperor?" The Prioress asked the Ecclesiarch sharply.
The Ecclesiarch nodded his head back and forth in an indeterminate manner. "In truth, I am unsure. These things require a great deal of careful evaluation and consideration, and it would be remiss of my duty to the God-Emperor to be needlessly hasty when making judgement." He nodded much more firmly. "Yet it is doubtless that, whatever the nature of his blessing, the young man is well-blessed indeed. For this reason, I believe it would be best for him to travel alongside your Order."
The Ecclesiarch reached out a careful hand to rest upon his shoulder, patting it firmly. "The voice commands him to wield a sword, after all, and there is no better place for him to wield such a sword than among the Orders Militant." The Ecclesiarch smiled gently, heavy brows lifting slightly. "None would I trust with this task more than the Order of Ebon Chalice."
"And with the ban of Men under Arms, Lord Ecclesiarch?" The Prioress asked carefully.
"I've already spoken with the other High Lords on the matter- they recognize well the exceptional nature of the circumstances." The Ecclesiarch smiled and nodded, patting him on the shoulder once more before letting his hand fall. "He will need to be trained, of course, and outfitted with good arms and armor. The coffers of the Ecclesiarchy will cover all expenses related, so long as the good Sisters can organize and requisition the required assets for his development."
The Prioress nodded slowly. "It will be done, Lord Ecclesiarch… although…" She grimaced as she regarded him. "He is still a Psyker, yes?"
The Ecclesiarch raised a brow, glancing towards him to answer. Joshua nodded, and spoke. "I was trained upon the Black Ships as an Astropath for six months, Lady Prioress. Before that I grew up upon Hiveworld Necromunda, learning my letters and scripture from a small local Chapel."
She nodded slowly, brows furrowed. "Six months? The time for Astropaths to be trained is normally measured in years, is it not?"
Here he gave a small shrug. "I was given an accelerated course, for reasons unknown to me. You'd have to inquire with my instructors aboard Black Ship Misery."
"We will need to requisition a tutor for psykery then as well, Lord Ecclesiarch. Heretical witchcraft remains an everpresent danger, especially to a half-trained Astropath." The Prioress crossed her arms before her chest. "Regardless of how blessed he may be."
God knows he'd appreciate it.
Or should he be thinking 'God-Emperor knows he'd appreciate it'?
A faint warming of irritation grew in the back of his mind. He almost gave an amused smirk, barely keeping in mind the deeply suspicious people around him and strangling the expression before it appeared.
It would be embarrassing if he got all this way and then got executed for making a stupid smile at an inappropriate moment.
—
As he had been anticipating, they were almost immediately ordered to make for their ships and depart. Suspiciously quickly, with the Sisters bringing up concerns over armament and preparation for the upcoming patrol that were dismissed in a grandfatherly manner by the ancient Ecclesiarch.
Joshua was almost certain that the reason was to prevent easy interference in his handling by any parties outside of the Ecclesiarchy. If he was gone on a ship and off Terra before any other interested party could assign a member to watch over him, then the Ecclesiarchy would have uncontested authority over him. It wouldn't be ideal, for certain, but there was very little he could do to actually stop this.
He needed time to grow and expand his influence before he could start making any moves or countermoves of his own. All the personal power in the world meant nothing if someone decided to drop an army on his head- even the greatest champions are eventually felled by sufficiently large conventional forces, and he was not exactly a great champion yet.
The Prioress walked with them to see them off, the trip to the transport taking nearly ten minutes of walking. He was bid to enter, and the Canoness Superior slid in after him, and the Prioress took her own seat near the front of the passenger space. It was not a small transport, by any means, with an interior large enough to fit most tanks and covered in the lush fineries of extraordinary wealth. The Canoness sitting so close to him when there were other seats available was fairly awkward.
"Bring us to the docks, pilot." The Prioress ordered through the door leading to the front of the craft. Several moments passed as the transport shuttle warmed to lift. Several more, much more awkward seconds passed as the transport did not move. The Prioress raised her brow and lip in an annoyed sneer. "Pilot, what is the delay?"
"Air Command is delaying our permission to fly, Lady Prioress." A beleaguered voice called back. A male by the sounds of it, and disturbingly more British in accent than he was anticipating. "Lifting off without it and they'd be in rights to blow us out of the sky."
"Ask them why we're being delayed." The Prioress responded back with the tone of condescension that only an old woman used to getting her way could muster.
Air Command around the Imperial Palace… the only two factions he'd be aware of to have that particular authority would be either the Navy or the Custodians, and he wasn't quite certain which…
"They say we need to wait for additional passengers, Lady Prioress." The beleaguered pilot responded with a cautious scowl clearly communicated through his tone. The Prioress' eye narrowed into a sharp slit, and she cast a brief glance towards the Canoness. The Canoness' hand drifted down to her sidearm, a Boltgun strapped to her thigh.
The Tarot advised patience in uncertain circumstances.
He laced his fingers in his lap and maintained a cautiously calm expression.
A minute or so passed in tense atmosphere, with the Prioress stepping forwards into the cockpit to personally speak to Air Command. He and the Canoness sat quietly in the spacious transport hold, eyes looking out the reinforced windows and to the surrounding liftoff chamber.
The faintest sensation of an approaching void and rolling thunder came about him. His eyes narrowed, and his head tilted as if listening to something.
'MY FAITHFUL TALONS.'
The Canoness was looking out the window, and missed the flash of gold in his machine-eyes.
"Lady Prioress, they approach." She spoke quickly, the Prioress returning from the cockpit and stepping over to the window on the far side of the transport. Her bionic red eye glared out of the reinforced glass, then she let out a huff and leaned back. "Open the transport door, pilot."
The large transport door opened up again, as two golden-clad figures appeared. One towering nine feet, clad in heavy plates and lush black cloth, a massive shield mounted upon one arm in the fashion of a joust, and a sword as long as Joshua was tall strapped to his waist. The other, slightly smaller than himself, with head shaved bald save for one bright red tail, and a distinctly feminine form. She carried an overlarge handgun at her waist, and one gauntlet was equipped with a distinctly intimidating drill and array of needles.
A Custodian and Sister of Silence.
"Prioress, you almost left without us." The Custodian rumbled at the opened door, the bulk of his frame almost too large to fit through the passageway.
"Custodian, Sister… Why are you here?" The Prioress asked with a distinctly uncomfortable but professional sneer on her face.
"The Captain-General and Sister-Commander were in full agreement- a detachment to aid in the guarding and protection of the Blessed-Psyker. Unto this, the two of us were commanded to fulfill this obligation." The Custodian explained with the simple, kindly arrogance of a demigod speaking to a mortal. He tilted his head forwards. "It would shame our duty to the Lord Emperor to not invest even a token force to the task."
The Prioress looked extremely reluctant to step aside and allow them passage onto the transport. She looked even more reluctant to defy one of the ten-thousand most-trusted and honored warriors in the whole of the Imperium. With a sour expression, she bowed her head slightly and stepped back, allowing the massive Custodian to bend and squeeze his way into the immense transport, followed shortly by the Sister of Silence.
The Sister of Silence immediately stepped forwards, taking a seat next to him and preventing the Canoness Superior from reclaiming it. The Custodian loomed in the center of the transport, dominating the space with his mere immensity. He turned a helmet down and towards Joshua, before inclining his head in slight satisfaction.
Joshua gave a slight nod of greeting in turn.
"...We have permission to fly now, Lady Prioress." The pilot called out from the cockpit.
The Prioress and Canoness both looked distinctly ill at the presence of the two figures clad in heavy gold. The Prioress recovered with a sniff. "Close the doors and lift- the Ecclesiarch called for as few delays as possible in the Canoness' return to regular patrols." The obvious exposition in the statement was a clear poke at their unexpected guests, which the Custodian bore with statue-like countenance.
Silently, the Canoness took a seat opposite to him, and across the bulk of the transport, burning a suspicious glare into both himself and the silent woman next to him. About as close to him as she could be without also being within brawling range of the Sister of Silence, he noted.
Soon, the transport lifted off from the ground with the rolling rumble of antigrav engines, and made its way out of the liftoff chamber with smooth machine grace. It began to move up, picking up speed that he could only notice through the increased velocity of exterior sights, and how rapidly the manifold spires of Terra began to pass and disappear into the distance.
They rose faster and faster, breeching into a layer of choking smog and greenhouse gasses that gave Holy Terra its signature golden glow when viewed from space. The acceleration was more immense than any conventional craft he had experience with, and yet the systems within the vehicle ensured he felt none of it.
"Approaching the Exorcist-Class Grand Cruiser Miracle of Suffering now." The pilot called out. Joshua would call the name fairly worrying, but that was how almost every Imperial ship was named. Grandiose declarations of how awesome their violence was.
It was, admittedly, pretty dang cool most of the time.
"Your earlier request for a martial educator was forwarded to Captain-General Valoris, and subsequently approved." The giant Custodian rumbled down at him, before nodding a head towards the Canoness. "Worry not for his bladesmanship, Canoness, I will personally oversee it."
"You have yet to introduce yourself, Honored Custodian." The Canoness spoke bluntly.
"Indeed." The Custodian replied. A silence lingered for a moment, to emphasize the gulf that existed between them, and then he spoke. "My proper name would take eight minutes to speak in full, for the sake of expediency, you may refer to me as Hercule, Shield Captain of the Sentinel Guard. My companion is Denaira, Knight-Vestal."
Meaning a 'giant guy with shield' and 'medic with antimagic aura' in terms of actual battlefield roles. A very obvious and pragmatic set of bodyguards to have.
As an instructor…
Joshua felt no small amount of worried anticipation as they pulled into dock at the Grand Cruiser. A ship the size of a city, like most standard ships of the Imperium, large enough to lose entire generations of people in its depths.
The Miracle of Suffering greeted him with a charmingly masochistic techno-psychic impression.Last edited: Oct 11, 2025 Like ReplyReport Reactions:Ph34r_n0_3V1L, SpectreOfChaos, Kappsa and 1,656 others