- Date - 792.M30 -
- Location - Segmentum Solar – 200 Light Years from the High Temple of the Machine God (Mars) -
'Recording Device Activated.'"By the Omnissiah, holy in His workings. This unit reports a warp exit near the planet of Noyolea. Further analysis shows evidence of a forced exit from its currents. Requesting permission from the central unit to depart from the Forge World."
Screeches of metal and human muttering were all that could be heard. The air was thick with the stench of rotting flesh, metal shavings, and burning sacred oils. What looked to be an abomination of flesh and metal crudely combined together stood in front of the recording machine. The metal tendrils on its back moved with fervour as they caressed the machine, dripping a mix of oils and candle wax onto its metallic surface.
The recording screen emitted a faint hum before the red recording light turned green. The abomination watched as its transmission was sent to the Fabricator-General of the world. The unit recalled the signs of a ship—or possibly an ancient STC fragment—falling to Noyolea. The already enormous planet, even by Mechanicus standards, had long baffled researchers as to how it didn't collapse under its own weight or get torn apart by its moon and the yellow star that held seven other planets in orbit.
Now, with this possible relic of the Golden Age falling toward the planet, the Mechanicus stationed on the Forge World finally had an excuse to set foot upon its surface. Previous attempts had ended in disaster, as landing ships were torn apart mid-descent. It didn't help that an earlier invasion attempt had been thwarted by impossible, physics-defying creatures—the largest said to rival a Luna-class cruiser. If the records were correct, it had been nearly one hundred and sixty-eight Martian years since that attempt.
Even when Mechanicus ships did not try to land, it was evident that the planet itself was somehow alive, capable of altering its gravity and using the once-stable asteroid rings surrounding it to pummel Mechanicus ark ships. With heavy hearts, the Tech-Priests recorded the loss of two ark ships from Mars in their attempts to study the planet. After this, all approaches within one hundred light-seconds were forbidden by decree of the Fabricator-General, fearing further destruction.
As of this transmission, the unit known as Archer #45 was attempting reactivation protocols to once again request landing permission. Archer #45 believed that if this fragment—what appeared to be part of a once highly advanced facility—could be recovered and studied, it might unlock many of the Omnissiah's gifts and lost knowledge.
The unit designated Archer sent an attached file with its recording, containing data gathered from recovered metal and stone fragments found along the warp entry trail. Measurements aimed at the colossal planet also confirmed more fragments breaking apart, with the largest piece landing in the wastes of Noyolea's second continent.
With the final adjustments made, the unit Archer offered one more prayer, praising the Omnissiah and the machine before him—then transmitted the file and recording to the Fabricator-General.
- Date - 299 AC -
- Location - The Dothraki Sea -
Jorah Mormont stood in shock and awe as two figures faced one another. The woman, standing naked, looked up at the equally unclothed man. Her platinum hair, pale skin, and violet eyes locked onto him as the three serpentine heads on her shoulders hissed and coiled defensively.
The man watched in silence. Though towering over her, the height difference gave the woman not fierceness, but a strange, fragile beauty. Naz's mind began to process what he saw—the small lizard-like creatures circling their mother—and he wondered what they could become.
A voice broke the silence, trembling with fear and confusion. Naz heard it but couldn't understand. The woman, seeing no reaction, switched from the Common Tongue to High Valyrian. Recognizing some similarities in the language, Naz's mind adapted, translating her words so he could understand.
Once again, the woman spoke, anger and fear mingling in her tone as she demanded a response from the man who clearly understood her.
"My name is Daenerys Stormborn, last of the Targaryens, Mother of Dragons, and Khaleesi to the Dothraki people. Who—no, what—are you?"
Naz watched her with quiet understanding. Before he could answer, a sword of ornate make was thrust toward his throat. His body reacted instinctively, dodging the blow and countering with a single punch to the attacker's gut. The man—Jorah—was hurled backward several feet before collapsing to the ground, gasping for breath.
Dust and ash swirled in the air from the impact. Seeing the sheer power behind the strike, Daenerys looked on in fear as her bloodriders and the remaining Dothraki began to encircle the stranger. With Jorah unconscious, the brief confidence she had shown vanished. But before she could speak, the stranger did. His voice was deep and gravelly, his accent alien and harsh.
"My name is Nazareth, second Primarch of the Imperium of Man. Son of the God-Emperor."
Daenerys stared, trying to grasp the meaning of his words—Imperium, God-Emperor. Her mind scrambled for explanations. Who was this man of pale skin, platinum hair, and burning red iris trapped within obsidian eyes who had appeared with the comet's descent?
Her dragons hissed and roared at the giant before her, fear and defiance mingling in their cries. Regaining some composure, Daenerys raised a hand toward Nazareth. He took it gently and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. A blush crept across her face as she turned away.
Nazareth looked around, taking in the scene—the ragged, filthy Dothraki surrounding him like feral animals. His mind stirred with fractured memories: the spinning void, the crushing darkness of the prison he had been trapped in for what felt like centuries.
His gaze fell on the man he had struck. Jorah still hadn't moved. A flicker of pity passed through Nazareth's mind—perhaps for the man, or perhaps for his own loss of control. He examined his own body. Taller. Stronger. He could feel again—the ground, the wind, the weight of reality. It almost brought him to tears.
Naz flexed an arm, and the dense muscles rippled like steel over bone. Veins bulged, the air popping faintly from the motion.
Daenerys watched him inspect himself before his obsidian eyes met hers again. Her face reddened as he spoke.
"Daenerys Targaryen, last of the Dragons. It is an honour to meet you at last."
His attention then shifted to the three small creatures perched on her shoulders and head. His voice carried the weight of authority.
"Drogon. Rhaegal. And finally, Viserion. What a pleasure to see you born."
The dragons shrieked in response. Daenerys froze—he had spoken their names, though she had never said them aloud. How could he know what she had only thought?
Jorah, groaning and covered in dust, slowly rose to his feet. Pain shot through his body where Nazareth's strike had landed, but he staggered forward, placing himself protectively between Daenerys and the giant.
"S-Stand b-back, Khaleesi… this thing is no man."
Daenerys placed a calming hand on Jorah's shoulder before stepping forward."Jorah, if this man wanted to harm me or my dragons, he would have done so while you were eating sand."
Jorah had no response. He tried to protest but collapsed, body wracked with pain as he fell convulsing to the ground.
Daenerys gasped, turning toward Nazareth in alarm. The Primarch stepped forward, gently moving her aside as he spoke in his mind. "Mich?"
A glowing prompt appeared before his eyes:
- Dear Naz, First, congratulations on meeting Daenerys Stormborn, a Class-1 figure within this world. However, your arrival has alerted unseen forces—some intend to kill or control you. -
Naz frowned at the message before focusing back on Jorah, whose body still convulsed violently. Inspecting him, Naz noticed the bruising spreading across his abdomen—green, purple, and black, covering nearly a tenth of his body. Kneeling, Nazareth pressed his hands on the injury, holding Jorah still as the man groaned in pain.
Daenerys froze, fear returning as she watched the strange ritual unfold.
Nazareth's hand glowed faintly as he pressed deeper. A strange energy flowed from Jorah into him. The bruise began to fade before their eyes, shrinking rapidly. The Dothraki stepped back, murmuring about demons and dark gods. Within seconds, Jorah's convulsions ceased.
Nazareth withdrew his hand, now darkened as though covered in soot. He blinked—and it returned to its natural pale colour.
Daenerys stared in disbelief as Jorah stirred awake, seeing Nazareth's hand still hovering above him. With a terrified cry, Jorah scrambled away, kicking up more dust.
Nazareth rose to his full height and laughed—a deep, booming sound that echoed across the plains. And in that moment, he wondered just how long, it had been since he last laughed.