Unaccustomed to the viscosity of air and the strictures of gravity, the sickly flows congealed quickly into pods and droplets, falling from the sky like mutant rain, lashing into the mountain top with toxic ferocity. The unclean energies sizzled and hissed as they broke through into the air, as though celebrating their liberty.
The sky was weeping with energy, spilling oceans of unearthly fluid from one dimension into another, ripping the fabric of the atmosphere into serrations through which the immaterium could drip, ooze, and flow. In the strobes of visibility, blades shimmered and combat was joined in an odd, staccato rhythm. The discharge of force weapons crackled brightly, sending sparks of blue spraying through the rain. Lightning flashed through the barrage of rain, silhouetting monstrous forms against the heavens.
Clouds roiled and rolled across the sky, spiralling around the peak as though being drawn into an immense tornado.
Slay the spire cultist headpiece cracked#
M38 Sheets of warp energy cracked through the night, bathing the mountain top in dark, purpling light. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants-and worse. 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. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bioengineered super-warriors. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. 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. Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. 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. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. Goto Dawn of War It is the 41st millennium.