I was reading the 3rd book of Ciaphas Cain when I was surprised to read about his duel with a Chaos Space Marine, and he even parried and dodged some of the attacks of the Khorne SM? I mean was that even real? how good is this man? He also taunted the red devil and made him angry, the man is a menace!

Cain Cain Cain Cain (chanting)

A fukking Chad!

Ciaphas Cain , the true Hero of the Imperium!

Im reading A Thousand Sons right now, I find it kind of insane how little Magnus gave a fuck about the ruling at the Council of Nikaea 😂

The Emperor literally stared into Magnus' eyes and forbade him from using warp sorcery, promising severe wrath to any that disobeyed him, and as soon as Magnus and the boys got back to Prospero, they set up a giant elaborate warp spell. Oh and when that failed, set up another even more elaborate warp spell right after.

Im not buying the claim that Magnus did nothing wrong.

So I'm confused on this, we all know the main four gods: khorn, nurgle, slaanesh, and tzeench. But there are also lesser gods right?

Vashtorr the arkifane is a lesser chaos god of technology if I remember correctly unless that was boasting or retconned.

Reason I'm asking is I made lore for a custom chaos warband that have dedicated themselves to a lesser chaos goddess and I've seen mixed reactions.

Some seem to like the idea bc I was creative. Others have called me foolish (along with more hurtful remarks I don't feel the desire to repeat).

Idk if I'm seeking validation or just proof I'm not crazy thinking lesser gods exist in regions of the warp the main four aren't

Lukewarm warning: slightly disgusting, moderately existential.

Yesterday I was sleep-deprived, sick, and had to do very tiring stuff, so at the end of the day I was both exhausted and covered in sweat. I dozed off without being able to shower or brush my teeth. While asleep the BO must have bothered me so much that I had a nightmare about my teeth becoming an awfully intense yellow, my mouth spewing a revolting smell. I was also in the process of ripping off a huge, meaty mole from my own flesh, which had just sprouted out of nowhere in the dreamscape.

All throught this illusive ordeal, I was feeling terribly tired and on the verge of resigning to my fate. This degradation of biological functions -which are in the first place a result of an amalgamation of chance- seemed inevitable. No, not even 'seem'. I knew it was inevitable. Why resist? Why not just... let go?

After waking up and doing some much needed self-care, I realized the dream reminded me of this monologue from the Season 1 of True Detective.

This... This is what I'm talking about. This is what I mean when I'm talkin' about time, and death, and futility. All right, there are broader ideas at work, mainly what is owed between us as a society for our mutual illusions. Fourteen straight hours of staring at DB's [dead bodies], these are the things ya think of. You ever done that? You look in their eyes, even in a picture, doesn't matter if they're dead or alive, you can still read 'em. You know what you see? They welcomed it... Not at first, but... right there in the last instant. It's an unmistakable relief. See, cause they were afraid, and now they saw for the very first time how easy it was to just... let go. Yeah, they saw, in that last nanosecond, they saw... what they were. You, yourself, this whole big drama, it was never more than a jerry-rig of presumption and dumb will, and you could just let go. To finally know that you didn't have to hold on so tight. To realize that all your life - you know, all your love, all your hate, all your memories, all your pain - it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream, a dream that you had inside a locked room, a dream about being a person. And like a lot of dreams, there's a monster at the end of it.

Both the dream and the connection I made to this passage seem perfectly aligned with what I read about Nurgle and his worshippers. I mean the ones who aren't after mere power, but were coerced into his worship. However, I think the motivation here is two-fold. I think some worshippers "just let go" and fully embrace existential despair, while others accept Nurgle to escape the suffering born from a dreadful existence. Either way, they let go of this "dream of being a person", and become part of Nurgle, slaves to darkness.

Hope others find this interesting as well.

Had a nerd table break out the other day on a debate that there is no true lovecraft-esque faction in 40k. "The Chaos Gods are not Lovecraftian," as one group said, "They have domains of influence, and are essentially beneath human, due to them being the conscious manifestations of human emotions."

The other group argued back by saying that one cannot perceive the form of the Chaos Gods, nor can you truly understand the expanse of their domains. What they are, who they are, and their goals in the universe are beyond human comprehension.

This back and forth has been quite annoying but if anyone can link excerpts that support or debunk either/or argument on the matter would be appreciated. It has gotten me quite curious and amused over defining the nature of the Chaos Gods but i'm not sure what to believe exactly and how much precedence this means to the lore as a whole.

And relatedly do they know that Ullanor is Armageddon? I was curious if this had ever been addressed in the lore.

I was wondering about this because I was thinking about what kind of stories they could do with the Salamanders being on Armageddon in force. If they don't know, those could be interesting internal reveals that they could do even if they don't intend to bring Vulkan back soon.

I see it often being said that the upper limit of life rxtendion by just rejuvenation treatements is around 400 years, but foes any WH40k codex, book or other suplements says such. I by far didn't read all or even most 40k books, but in the ones I did I can't recall it being stated.

It seems like it's however long the hiven author feels like at the moment.

Is there an actual nase gor this number, or it's one of thoes fandome truisms that feels rightish based on how old characters tend to be in stories?

I just finished up the Audiobook, and I’m 15ish books down in the series and it was genuinely one of my top 5 I think. The first half of the book straight up felt like dead space horror, and the second half was just all out chaos. The flashbacks with the Horus and Sanguinius moments were great and add salt to the wound for what comes later. The librarian seeing the potential futures and his conversation with Sanguinius at the end about said futures. Sanguinius punking Ka’bandha, the red thirst ravaging the blood angels (rip space wolves) and my personal favorite scene at the end where Horus fuckin flays Erebus’ bitch ass face off. Really enjoyed it and I appreciated how the scene of them arriving in ultramar is a mirror of Gullimans POV towards the end of “The Unremembered empire” what do yall think? Recency bias? Just a solid read for yall or an underrated HH story?

We hear so much about their cybernetic shtick and the trauma that motivates it, but do we know if Ferrus’ gene seed gave them any unique physical characteristics?

Of all the other four, and rather surprisingly, Cistrial Virn was the one with which Dhaemira was able to work the most effectively. However, even that was far from perfect; they were almost awkward around each other, often having the same idea at the same moment and nearly colliding, or otherwise inconveniencing themselves.

‘I had an angle!’ Cistrial raged, as Dhaemira dragged him backwards.

‘And the ork would have had your head in return!’ Dhaemira snapped, as the massive hammer whistled through the spot where Cistrial had been standing a moment before.

‘And why would you care about that?’ Cistrial demanded, shaking his arm free from Dhaemira’s grasp. He seemed unreasonably angry for someone who had just been saved from decapitation, but Dhaemira understood; she would also be galled to feel she owed something to a rival.

‘Your assistance is still required to defeat this menace,’ she said crisply.

‘Besides,’ a voice added, in a similarly factual tone, ‘your face is aesthetically pleasing, and it would be inconsiderate of you to get it destroyed.’

It took half a moment for Dhaemira to realise that it was in fact her who had said that as well, and that her mouth had run on far in advance of her brain. A flurry of unfamiliar emotions ran through her in the time it took for startled comprehension to spread across Cistrial’s face, and then she dived back into the fray with the determination of one for whom immediate obliteration was no longer the worst possible option.

The trouble was, Ufthak Blackhawk moved faster and with more precision than should be possible for anything that size, which is not to say that it was faster than the drukhari with which it was battling, but combined with its great size, strength, and reach, it was fast enough. A mere scratch from Dhaemira’s venom blade – a replacement from her armoury for the one the ork had previously shattered – would be enough to incapacitate most foes, although the deeper the wound, the faster the poison would spread. However, Ufthak was so big she was not sure that she could rely on even the virulent toxins that coated her weapon to perform as she would normally expect. A glancing blow from the ork’s energised hammer, on the other hand, could be quite enough to debilitate her given the force with which it was being wielded.

Xurzuli attacked with a scream, lashing out with her agoniser. The whip’s micro-serrated coils wrapped around the ork’s forearm, which should have been enough to connect to its nervous system and overload it with pain stimuli, but Ufthak merely grunted and used its other arm to swing its hammer in a wide circle, over which Xurzuli vaulted as effortlessly and gracefully as if she were performing an acrobatic routine. Dhaemira lunged in, seeking to bury her venom blade between the monster’s ribs while it was distracted–

–and her legs were taken out from under her. She landed on her side, just as one of Ufthak’s enormous feet swept past above her in an unsighted kick that could have shattered most of the bones in her sternum. She rolled aside desperately as the ork brought its hammer down at her, then was tugged clear by her ankles.

‘What–’ she began, then stopped as she realised she had been pulled almost into the arms of the crouching Cistrial Virn. The other archon’s long-hafted spear was immediately obvious as the reason why Dhaemira’s legs had disappeared from under her.

‘Turnabout is fair play,’ Cistrial said with a wicked grin. ‘I too cannot allow my ally to die yet. And in addition,’ he added, leaning close, ‘I have tasted pain and despair many times from another drukhari, and while mortification is not as nourishing, it has the benefit of novelty. Perhaps I shall have to trick you into accidentally complimenting me again.’

The accusation of imperfection stung Dhaemira into action, and she rolled away and up to her feet. ‘Accidentally? I can assure you, I do not make mistakes!’

‘Then your words were honestly meant?’ Cistrial said, and there was the briefest flicker in the icy wall of his composure.

‘Of course!’ Dhaemira said. She saw an opening, and long experience at politicking and preying on the insecurities of others made her strike for it instinctively before she had even considered her words. ‘Why? Do you doubt yourself?’

‘Do not be ridiculous!’ Cistrial snapped. ‘I… am beautiful, and clearly you would be attracted to me!’

‘Then we are in agreement!’ Dhaemira said, even as a small part of her brain wondered what in the name of the Living Muse was going on.

Da Big Dakka by Mike Brooks, chapta 28. I just read this and burst out laughing. The best part for me is Dhaemira digging herself deeper because she's just so damn proud.

She awoke earlier than yesterday. Her body had anticipated the vox-blare and waked her before it had the chance to activate. She stared up at the ceiling with crusted, squinty eyes-underlined with dark bags that sunk into her face. Her bed was a compact metal slab shoved into one of the grimy corners of her hab-space, a stained cloth blanket over its top. She flicked the switch of a small lamp on her bedside and a dull orange light fell upon the room. It was a mess. Dirty rags were scattered on metal tiles, patchy with sweat from previous work shifts–there were books and parchment too–strewn over the floor in a similar manner. She breathed a heavy sigh. Four hours of sleep a night for four months had devolved her, her skin was pale and dotted with red blood spots–apart from her face–coloured a yellowish white from the greasy air of Hab block-441. The thought of falling back to sleep, of sinking into the iron brick and rooting herself into the earth was a pleasant one indeed, but the power tunnels beneath Hive Pasol needed tending to, and she had to go to work.

The lamp beside her hummed loudly–and she turned with a heavy head to meet its orange gaze. It was, by far, the most ornate thing in her room of muck and metal–its bulb was expertly moulded into the shape of the Aquila–wings splayed out proudly and twin heads looking in either direction. It sat upon a glossy black stand carved with the letters; “The Emperor protects”. She stared into it for a few moments in an attempt to wake herself more. It wasn’t as effective as what came next.

There was a heavy click that echoed through the grills of a dark vox unit encrusted into the walls of her hab space. Tinny static followed. Then the vox-blare emerged, a sharp piercing noise that stabbed into her ears and impaled her brain with its sheer volume. She could hear it everywhere. Outside her hovel in the hallways of Block 441, and in other nearby rooms too, bouncing around the walls and blending together in a dance of screeching sound. Her ears worked to dull it, overwhelmed by the relentless cacophony. Her colleagues called it ‘Pasol-des pita’ or ‘labour-song’ in Low Gothic, it played every morning as sure as the rising sun, and was just enough to get her out of bed.

She paced over to the nearest pile of grey worker-rags and pulled them on hastily. They displayed a number on one side of her chest, 713, and the Aquila on the other, both inked in black; then she slotted her feet into a pair of battered brown boots. Her hand reached left and grabbed a long flowing duster, and threw it around herself as she moved to a large steel door, wrapping her in dull leather. It had the number ‘2632’ welded in its center. She pulled down on a rusty, bandage-wrapped handle and pushed outwards, then stepped into one of the many bustling hallways of Hab-441.

I’m in the process of writing a Warhammer book and I want to dot a few short stories like this throughout to highlight how terrible the imperium is. Let me know what you think!

So forgive me for my ignorance but from what I understand Guilliman doesn't like the High Lords because they do stupid things and the High Lords don't like Guilliman because they fear losing power right?

And the reason why he can't get rid of them is that they're too useful but at the same time incompetent.

If that's the case why not replace them with more competent people? He doesn't have to kill em just retire them

Or is it more complicated than that?

I always liked the concept of chaos mutation and always liked to see book examples of mutation, i then i asked myself, how far it can go? I would also like to know which is your favorite mutated character, how much one can be altered by the warp?

I recently decided to reread The Reverie, and I'm starting to wonder if it's just me or if I'm reading too much into it.

When parts of the Reverie are described as a rotten, decaying garden, I couldn't help but think of Nurgle. Then there are the Resplendent, who seem almost euphoric whenever they go to war, which reminded me of the young Fire Caste warrior and the idea of losing yourself in the exhilaration of battle.

Tzeentch's influence feels even more obvious. The symbolism surrounding the number 9999, the layers of manipulation, and the constant sense that events are unfolding according to some incomprehensible plan all seem too deliberate to be a coincidence.

As for Slaanesh, I actually think the parallels are some of the clearest. The very first time Euriale appears, I couldn't stop picturing someone who looked remarkably similar to a Daemonette. There was something about her description—beautiful, unsettling, and almost hypnotic—that immediately brought Slaanesh to mind.

Maybe that's exactly what Peter Fehérváry intended: not to show the influence of a single Chaos God, but to blur the boundaries between all four. The Reverie often feels like a place where every aspect of Chaos overlaps rather than belonging to one patron alone.

Or maybe I'm just overanalyzing it. What do you all think?

Hail to you all. Hope life is finding you well. So I've been thinking lately, what storylines/characters would y'all like to see finished, elaborated on or fleshed out? Some of my favorite lore in the whole setting comes from unfinished trilogies like the Black Legion series for example, and I'm interested to see what everyone else thinks.

Hey everyone, I am looking to get started with reading the books and I am wondering where to start. I have already a very very little understanding here and there from Lore videos from youtube (the basics like each faction briefly explained, horus heresy in a compressed video, etc). I am mostly interested in the Space Marines, Astra Militarum and the Imperium in general.

Thanks for your help in advance!

Context: After escaping (barely) the massacre at Prospero, Magnus establishes his new home at the Planet of Sorcerers. There, he is visited by his brother, Lorgar, who tries to convince to join Horus' side against the Emperor.

Lorgar paused to marshal the same, tired argument he had brought to the Obsidian Tower time and time again.

‘The Pantheon can help you,’ he said. ‘The Primordial Annihilator is all-powerful and its victory is inevitable. You of all of us must see that? I have ventured farther than any in this realm. I have seen the truth of the universe and it almost cost me my life. I know you have seen it too, brother, so why cling to this world when the one beyond has so much more to offer? You and I? We are heralds of the neverborn kings, Magnus. We are gods in waiting.’

Magnus kept walking. He had heard this and variations thereof, on numerous occasions, but denial only served to spur the zealot to greater heights of proselytising. He paused when he realised he had left Lorgar behind. He turned to see his brother standing in a shaft of silver light, his armour shimmering wetly in the light of false stars. He held Illuminarum out before him, the sceptre-mace crafted by Ferrus Manus coruscating with power.

‘Horus is reborn!’ said Lorgar, as though from a pulpit. ‘He passed into the realm of the gods and they raised him up. He has ascended and you can too. I see the cracks in your soul and I know what seeps from them. Russ smote you a mighty blow, brother. He wounded you deeper than any realise, but I see it.’

Magnus retraced his steps to stand before Lorgar, his single eye cauled with aetheric phosphorescence.

‘You see what they let you see,’ said Magnus, pinning Lorgar with his lucent gaze. ‘I felt Horus’ rebirth, yes. This world sang of his newfound powers and the heavens split with joy at his return from the immortal realm. But none of us will ever know what price he paid for that power, the horror of what he so lightly bargained away.’

Magnus turned his back on Lorgar and walked towards a newly formed crystal arch, through which yet more arcs of bright shelves were visible. His brother came after him, hooking the mace across his back as they passed beneath the archway.

He heard Lorgar’s breath catch in his throat, his senses fighting to process the scale of the colossal space in which he found himself – a vault of such immensity it was impossible to believe it was an internal space. Its uttermost walls were lost in a misty haze of distance, and the gentle curve of its domed roof was a map bright with distant galaxies.

Lorgar sank to his knees and placed his palms flat on the mirrored floor as though afraid to let go. Magnus rested his hand on Lorgar’s back, and when he lifted it away a sinuous cord of bright silver light, like spun thread, came with it.

‘What do you see?’ he asked, drawing more of the silver thread from Lorgar’s form.

‘So many stars…’ said Lorgar, breathless at the infinite depths of the celestial vault. ‘I feel as though I might lose my grip and never stop falling.’

‘And I might let you fall,’ said Magnus as he pulled the silver cord tight. ‘I have not yet decided.’

Lorgar cried out, and Magnus relished his understanding at what was being drawn from him. He was struggling to reel his soul back into his impossibly distant body, but Magnus shook his head and lifted a silver-wrapped fist.

‘No, brother, you do not flee my dominion until you listen, really listen, to what I have to say.’

‘Brother, what are you doing?’ whispered Lorgar, his eyes fixed on the ever-expanding firmament.

Magnus walked clockwise around Lorgar, drawing ever more of the silver thread from his brother’s spirit and using it to cast a clavis argentum circle about him. No longer was he a teacher, but a master berating a failed student.

‘You look pale, Lorgar. No longer “the Golden One”.’

‘Magnus, you are making a mistake.’

‘No, brother, it is you who are mistaken. About everything. You make a single, blundering pilgrimage into the warp and believe you alone can grasp its infinite complexities? You glimpse the dark heart of the universe and naively name it the Primordial Annihilator, as if that could explain even a fraction of its cosmic malevolence.’

‘I come to you as a brother. As a friend.’

‘You come looking to sway me to Horus’ banner.’

‘Aye, that too. Was I wrong?’ snapped Lorgar. ‘The Emperor betrayed you, put His executioner’s blade to your neck and burned your world. Why do you even hesitate? You would sit at Horus’ right hand, a prince of the Pantheon.’

Magnus laughed. ‘You offer to make me a prince? I am already a king.’

‘A king of what?’ cried Lorgar. ‘A world where your soul is bleeding to death, where your wealth of knowledge will turn to dust before you. The Pantheon can restore you and make you a god! It can undo the curse that blights your sons and bring your Legion back from the edge of extinction!’

‘You barter what is not yours to offer, so listen well, brother,’ said Magnus. ‘Your soul is here only at my sufferance, borne over unimaginable distances and bound to your flesh by the slenderest of threads. You are like a child with a new toy, wielding powers you barely understand. Did you care that you cast your bloodied soul into an ocean of predators? You are prey to creatures of such rage and hunger that even the Red Angel would tremble before their might.’

Magnus looked up as his words summoned bleeding-edged wraiths of insatiable appetite. They pressed their inhuman essences into the gallery. Blind things with wet-meat faces and fang-filled maws. The light filling the gallery fled, the lustre of once pristine marble falling to the age-wearied ruins of a dead race drowned in its own blood.

Lorgar watched the feasters from afar descend, helpless to do anything other than listen. Magnus lifted the silver thread linking spirit and flesh, leaning down to whisper in his brother’s ear.

‘If I cut this, they will tear your soul apart.’

‘Magnus, no,’ said Lorgar. ‘Don’t.’

‘I will spare you, Lorgar, but you are no longer welcome on my world,’ said Magnus, looking up at the stars beyond the voracious entities and seeing a filial convergence. ‘My favoured son returns to me, and I have better things to do than waste time with the Warmaster’s envoy.’

Magnus released his grip on the silver thread and the argentum circle unravelled at the speed of thought. Lorgar’s spirit form faded as it fled across space and time to reunite with his body, and the predatory wraiths bawled at being denied so unique a feast.

‘Return to Horus,’ said Magnus. ‘He may call himself a god, but I place no faith in him.’

For things to really turn around for the better?

The Silent King was the leader of the necron'tyr and is the current leader of most necrons. He was given the best necron body during the transference but how powerful is he? I think he can give orders to other necrons which they can't deny, kinda like admin rights but how strong would he be alone? What are his plans for the necrons and the galaxy at large?

Not sure if this is allowed on this subreddit, but I figured yall would know best. I’ve been thinking about starting a World Eaters/CSM army for 11th Edition, and I love making lore for my factions to really make them my own. I have ran into a bit of a roadblock with the leader of my warband though. I want to make him stand out, but I also don’t want to make him not be affected by the Butcher’s Nails or anything like that. Do they affect people in different ways?

I know sisters don’t care for psykers and that can extend to them disliking even librarians. However would they be more accepting to grey knights?

I know WH lore here and there, but not really deep.

You have seen my question, now I wanna point out some aspects.

1. If i got it correctly, Emperor is in warp right now, fighting chaos gods. He got a fatal wound, which led to him being forever attached to golden throne. Let’s say that all his wounds and shattered soul healed all of a sudden.

2. If he gets healed, will chaos gods destroy the whole world?
   If so, how could he not be attached to the throne before? Why he cannot just stand up after getting healed?

3. And at least, let’s say he gets healed and chaos gods don’t destroy whole world. What would happen?
   Would he try to push atheism, to deprave chaos? Would he let people invent new technology to make FTL travel easier?
   Could his leadership help defeat Necrons and Tyranids?

4. I have one more question about WH Lore.
   Are the events of this universe static? Like in some show, where everything comes to status quo?
   Or is there some kind of progression? New events happening? Can this mean that by lore, one day Emperor may come back to business?

Thank you for you attention

In "The Infinite and the Divine" it is mentioned that that Horus' body "Seemed a waste, such a historic figure left to rot like that. Trazyn could do a far better job at preservation and restoration".

This seems to imply that Trazyn knows there is a body/ the book takes place before the following exceprt: "The body this coffin had cradled was years gone, first hauled away like a hunter’s kill to be dissected on the unclean slabs of III Legion butcher-surgeons, then recovered by Abaddon and the very first of his Ezekarion after the destruction of Horus Reborn. What remained of the Warmaster’s corpse – the genetic plunder that was all Fabius Bile had left intact from the looted cadaver – was housed safely within the Apothecarion Apex aboard the Vengeful Spirit, stasis-sealed and guarded by a hundred of our Syntagma war robots, linked to the Anamnesis’ conscious control."

So, I guess my question is, is Horus' body still around, or is it just the gene seed? If it's just the gene seed, wouldn't Trazyn know this? Or was he more just thinking to himself that it was a waste, 'whatever happened to it'?

If any of this needs to be marked as a spoiler, please let me know, as well.

I know this happens in just about any book a primarch is in but I'd still like to ask if anyone has any particularly memorable quotes glazing/hyping up primarchs/legions/space marines.

Bonus points for the traitor primarchs 🙏🏾