The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 70: ORKTOBER!



In the labyrinthine passages of the Webway, a god laughed.

Cegorach, the Laughing God of the Aeldari, observed the ripples in the great ocean of the Warp with growing amusement. Through his ineffable awareness, he watched as a

transformed being carved through the armies of Chaos - not an Aeldari warrior, not one of the ancient race who had served as Khaine's chosen for millennia, but a human. Not just any

human, but a Primarch, one of the Emperor's own sons.

The irony was exquisite. The greatest champion of the Bloody-Handed God was a transhuman warrior from a species the Aeldari once considered little more than talking monkeys. The cosmic joke was so perfect it demanded appreciation.

Cegorach's laughter echoed through the Black Library, causing ancient tomes to flutter their pages in response. His Harlequins, ever-attentive to their master's will, gathered before him in a swirl of color and motion. With a flourish that spoke volumes to his servants, he dispatched them on their mission.

As his gaze fell upon the endangered Craftworld Altansar, his chuckling took on a different tone. The pieces were falling into place in a performance worthy of the greatest cosmic drama.

Meanwhile, in a momentarily quiet corner of the Warp, Franklin Valorian was taking what he called a "tactical pause" - which was really just a fancy military term for catching his breath. "I've got to say," Franklin mused, his transformed armor still smoking slightly from recent combat, "the property values here are terrible, but the workout is amazing."

"Your capacity for frivolous commentary remains undiminished," Khaine observed dryly.

Before Franklin could retort, the air before them shimmered with prismatic light. A troupe of Harlequins materialized, their masks and costumes a riot of colors that somehow managed to be both beautiful and unsettling.

Without preamble, they began to dance.

"Uh..." Franklin watched as the Harlequins performed increasingly elaborate acrobatic movements. "Is this normal? Should I be taking notes? Maybe applauding?"

"It's Cegorach's emissaries," Khaine growled, his tone suggesting an old and complicated relationship. "The Laughing God has noticed you."

"Cool, cool," Franklin nodded, still watching the performance. "Quick question: should I join in? Because I know this great routine from-"

"NO!" Khaine's horror at the suggestion was palpable. "By all that is violent and bloody, do NOT attempt to dance with the Harlequins!"

"Spoilsport," Franklin muttered. "I'll have you know I did very well in the Imperium's Got Talent show. Leman still talks about my moonwalk."

"The damnable Clown is trying to tell us something," Khaine explained with divine exasperation. "Though as always, he and his servants insist on being cryptic and... irritating."

The Harlequins' dance grew more complex, telling a story through motion and gesture that seemed to involve a bird of prey, a sword of fire, and a craftworld in peril.

"You know," Franklin commented, "a simple astropathic message would have worked too. Maybe a quick vox-call? Just saying."

"Cegorach has always had a flair for the dramatic," Khaine grumbled. "In the old days, he once spent

a century telling me about a battle plan through interpretive dance. A CENTURY."

"Sounds rough," Franklin sympathized. "Did you at least get good seats for the performance?"

"This is SERIOUS," Khaine insisted, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone. "The Laughing God doesn't send his Harlequins lightly."

"I'm being serious!" Franklin protested as the dancers continued their elaborate performance. "Look at my serious face!" He paused. "Wait, can you actually see my face in here?"

"Unfortunately, I am aware of your expressions," Khaine sighed. "Including that insufferable grin you're wearing right now, although I do not know how, I am able to know you are grinning with a beak right now but, I know"

The Harlequins' dance reached its crescendo, ending in a tableau that seemed to point in a specific direction through the Warp.

"Well," Franklin said brightly, "I guess we know which way we're going next. Though I have to say, interpretive dance is a pretty inefficient GPS system."

"Just... just follow the direction they indicated," Khaine muttered. "And please, PLEASE don't try to show them any of your dance moves."

"No promises!" Franklin called out cheerfully as the Harlequins began to fade away. "Hey, before you go does anyone know the Electric Slide?"

The last thing they heard was what sounded suspiciously like muffled laughter from behind the Harlequins' masks.

In the heart of Craftworld Altansar, where the psychic crystals pulsed with fading light and the air still hummed with the echoes of battle, a sudden arrival took the weary defenders by surprise. The Harlequins had come, unannounced and unexpected, yet their timing was impeccable as always. Even Maugan Ra, paused to observe their enigmatic entrance, the Harlequins helped them stave off the tides of Daemons flooding in.

The performance space transformed through a masterful combination of holofields and psychic projections. The very air seemed to ripple and tear, revealing glimpses of the Warp beyond. Shadows danced and writhed, taking on daemonic forms before dissolving into mist. The lighting shifted between deep, oppressive darkness and sudden bursts of bloody red, each transition perfectly timed to the movements of the dancers.

"Witness," called the lead shadowseer, her voice echoing with otherworldly resonance, "the tale of shattered divinity and renewed purpose."

A blood-red hue bathed the stage, and a single Harlequin emerged, wearing the mask of Khaine—his face twisted in a horrific expression of divine wrath and eternal conflict. His every movement radiated violence and destruction, as though Khaine himself stalked the battlefield. Younger Aeldari instinctively shrank back, feeling the raw power of their war god being invoked before their very eyes.

Dancers clothed in shimmering lights and illusory flames emerged next, representing the ancient foes of Khaine-Chaos Gods and their daemonic minions. The dance became a war, with the Khaine-dancer's fierce strikes leaving trails of psychic fire in the air. The audience watched as the god-dancer fought with primal fury until, at the climax, Khaine was shattered. His form broke apart into splintering shards of light, each fragment representing a part of the fractured god, scattered across the battlefield of time.

The stage changed, becoming a swirling nightmare of the Warp-a place of impossible shapes and violent energies. Amid this, a new figure emerged: tall, proud, and distinctly non- Aeldari. His mask was a blend of mortal features and godly majesty, a warrior stepping into his own legend. The audience recognized that this figure was no Aeldari hero, yet his movements echoed the strength and grace of one.

The dancer fought his way through daemons, the twisted dancers lunging with wild abandon. His early movements were hesitant, but with every foe defeated, his strikes grew stronger and more assured. As the dance continued, his actions took on avian qualities—his arms spread like wings, his strikes diving from above with the sharpness of an eagle's talons.

The dancer faced four daemon-lords in turn, each more fearsome than the last, their masks distorted into horrendous forms:

Four elite Death Jesters took the stage, each representing one of the greatest Greater Daemons. The first, Skarbrand, moved with berserker fury, axes whirling - only to be outmaneuvered and struck down. Kairos Fateweaver, portrayed by a performer wielding staff and scrolls, fell next, his futures shattered by unyielding might. Scabeiathrax brought plague and corruption, but could not withstand the purifying flame. Finally, Shalaxi Hellsbane's graceful deadliness proved insufficient against superior skill.

Each battle was a mini-performance within the greater whole, showing how the dancer, standing as the symbol of human and divine fusion, overcame the Ruinous Powers itself. The performance reached new heights as the dancer's figure underwent a metamorphosis. Through clever use of holofields and psychic illusion, great wings of molten metal seemed to burst from the performer's back. Each movement left trails of fire in the air, creating patterns that lingered like burning afterimages.

The performer soared above the stage, suspended by techniques known only to the Harlequins, diving and striking with eagle-like precision. Every swoop ended in a killing blow, every ascension carried the weight of divine purpose.

Wherever he strode, reality bent and burned, yielding to his mastery over both the physical and the immaterial. He soared above the stage, wings cutting through the air, striking down enemies as he became something far more than mortal.

The Khaine-dancer returned, though now ghostly and transparent. The two figures-Khaine and the Primarch-moved in perfect synchronization, their motions a reflection of each other. They became indistinguishable, the line between god and mortal blurred as they exchanged a sword, a weapon that seemed to consume the light around it.

The Human figure emerged transformed, wielding a weapon that shifted between sword, spear, and axe - the Wailing Doom made manifest through artistry. His hands appeared to drip with molten blood, an echo of Khaine's own mark, while his wings spread wide enough to cast shadows across the entire gathering.

The stage erupted in a maelstrom of color and sound, depicting a war-torn battlefield where daemons fell by the thousands before the transformed warrior. The performer moved with impossible speed, each gesture bringing down scores of enemies, while wings of burning

metal smote foes.

As the dance reached its conclusion, the figure stood triumphant atop a mountain of fallen

daemons, wings spread wide, the Wailing Doom raised high. The lighting caught him in a moment of perfect clarity - neither fully human nor fully divine, but something new

altogether,

The Shadowseer stepped forward, her mask shifting between expressions of hope and

warning as she addressed the audience:

"The threads of fate weave strange patterns,

Where human strength and Aeldari art combine.

The Hand of Khaine rises anew,

Neither fully god nor fully man, But perhaps, precisely what both require."

The Harlequins held their final positions, forming a living tableau of prophecy. Then, in unison, their voices rang out, echoing from both past and future:

"Through the crucible of stars,

Wings of molten light shall soar.

What was scattered shall be gathered,

When Liberty's son bears Murder's sword.

The Eagle of Five Wounds shall rise,

Where even gods fear to tread. The Hand of Khaine returns at last,

To wake the god from sleeping death."

The performance ended with characteristic Harlequin mystery. The dancers seemed to fade

like smoke, their forms becoming indistinct until only their masks remained visible, floating

in the darkness. Then these too vanished, leaving the gathered Aeldari in contemplative

silence.

The implications were clear to all present: the prophesied Hand of Khaine was not just another human, but a being of significant power who had earned the blessing of their god of war. This revelation would send ripples through Altansar's population, sparking debate and discussion about the role this transformed Primarch might play in their fate.

Franklin perched atop what appeared to be a mountain made of screaming faces (standard

Warp decoration, really) as he caught his breath after dispatching another wave of daemons. "You know," he said to Khaine, wiping daemon ichor from his talons, "this is getting a bit repetitive. Slice, dice, repeat. Could use some entertainment."

The Immaterium, ever accommodating, promptly answered his request by beginning to shake violently. Two massive green figures burst through reality itself, locked in what could

only be described as the universe's most violent brotherly wrestling match.

"OI! YOU'Z BEIN' KUNNIN' BUT NOT BRUTAL!" shouted one. "NAH! YOU'Z BEIN' BRUTAL BUT NOT KUNNIN'!" responded the other.

"Holy throne," Franklin muttered, "are those who I think they are?" "The Ork gods," Khaine confirmed, somehow managing to sound both disgusted and impressed. "Gork and Mork."

The divine scuffle carried the two massive green deities straight through several layers of

reality and directly into Khorne's domain. Their trajectory ended with Gork hurling Mork in a perfect arc that sent him crashing into the Brass Throne - and more importantly, its occupant.

"Oh shit!" Franklin exclaimed, his wings instinctively spreading in preparation for a quick escape if needed. "This is about to get good!"

The Blood God rose from his throne, radiating fury that would have driven entire systems

insane. Khorne, in all his apocalyptic glory, looked down at the two Ork gods who had just interrupted his brooding.

"BLOOD FOR THE-OOF!" Khorne's traditional battle cry was cut short as Mork delivered what in any other context would be called a sucker punch.

"NOW DAT'S PROPPA KUNNIN'!" Mork declared proudly.

Gork, not to be outdone, charged straight at Khorne with all the subtlety of an Ork WAAAGH!

"AN' DIS IS PROPPA BRUTAL!"

The Blood God recovered quickly, grabbing his massive axe and meeting Gork's charge head-

on. The clash sent shockwaves through the Warp that probably created several new colors in

realspace.

Franklin, still watching from his perch "This is better than movie night at the Imperial

Palace!"

The divine wrestling match escalated as Mork snuck up behind Khorne (how something that large could 'sneak' was a mystery) and kicked him in what would have been a very unsportsmanlike location - if any of them had been bound by mortal anatomy. "DAT'Z WHY I'Z DA KUNNIN' ONE!" Mork declared.

Khorne roared in rage (more than usual) and spun around, his axe describing an arc that would

have bisected several planets. Gork took advantage of the distraction to deliver a headbutt

that probably registered on psychic sensors across the galaxy.

"AN' DAT'Z WHY I'Z DA BRUTAL ONE!" Gork added.

The Blood God, demonstrating why he held his position in the pantheon of Chaos, responded

by grabbing Mork and using him as an improvised weapon against Gork. The sight of one Ork god being used to bludgeon the other caused Franklin to cackle in delight.

"This is... undignified," Khaine commented.

"Are you kidding? This is amazing!" Franklin replied. "We need to start selling tickets ton/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

this!"

The divine brawl reached new heights when Mork, showing surprising tactical acumen for an embodiment of brutal cunning (or was it cunning brutality?), managed to get behind Khorne's throne.

"BY THE EMPEROR, MORK'S GOT A BRASS CHAIR!" Franklin shouted, his helm's eyes blazing

with excitement.

The Brass Throne, ancient symbol of Khorne's authority, was lifted high above Mork's head

while Gork had the Blood God distracted with what appeared to be a combination of a bear hug and an attempt to headbutt him into next Tuesday.

"DIS IS GUNNA BE DEAD KILLY!" Mork declared, charging forward with his improvised

weapon.

Khorne, locked in Gork's grip, managed a split-second of realization as the throne came

crashing down with the force of a collapsing star.

CRUNCH

The throne exploded into a thousand splintering shards, flying in all directions. Reality itself quivered from the impact. Even the usually bloodthirsty daemons watching from the sidelines winced as Khorne took the full brunt of Mork's makeshift weapon. Franklin nearly fell off his perch, laughing, popcorn scattering everywhere. "Did you see that?

He just he smashed him with his own throne!"

Mork stood triumphantly in the debris, fist raised in celebration. "DAT'Z HOW YA DO IT,

GORK! KUNNIN' AN' BRUTAL!"

But Gork, never one to let his brother steal the spotlight, headbutted Khorne one more time

for good measure. The Blood God stumbled back, massive horns dented from the repeated assaults. His rage was palpable now-an apocalyptic fury that sent waves of psychic terror rippling through the Immaterium. Entire daemonic legions cowered, several collapsing into puddles of ichor.

Khorne, recovering from the onslaught, let out a deafening roar that shook the very fabric of the Warp. His hand clenched around his massive axe, the blade crackling with the bloodlust of

countless slain souls. With a mighty swing, he freed himself from Gork's grasp, sending the brutal god staggering backward.

"ENOUGH!" Khorne bellowed, his voice like thunder on a planet-wide scale. "YOU THINK THIS IS A GAME?!"

"OI, YOU'Z JUST MAD 'CAUSE WE'Z WINNIN'!" Mork taunted, hopping around in a way that

would have been ridiculous if not for his titanic size.

Khorne, with his fury reaching an inferno-level intensity, grabbed Mork by the ankle before Mork could react. With a massive heave, he hurled Mork straight at Gork, sending the two green gods crashing together in a heap of flailing limbs.

"Oh, this is priceless. They're like squabbling grox cubs!" "Undignified," Khaine muttered. "Typical behavior for those barbarians."

"Shh, you're ruining it!" Franklin hissed back.

Gork Charged,

Khorne was ready this time. With Godly Speed, he sidestepped Mork's charge, grabbed the

hulking god by the neck, and with a roar that reverberated through the very fabric of the

Immaterium, hurled him through the air.

"OI! GORK, 'E GOT ME GOOD!" Mork shouted as he soared through reality like an oversized,

green comet.

"CAN'T LET YA 'AVE ALL DA FUN!" Gork charged Khorne again, but the Blood God was having none of it.

With a powerful swing of his mighty axe, Khorne brought the flat side crashing into Gork's skull, sending the other god flying in the same direction as Mork. The force of the strike was

so immense that it ripped through the barriers of reality, sending the Ork gods tumbling toward a gaping portal shimmering in the air. "What's that?" Franklin asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the portal. Khaine tilted his head, a hint of interest creeping into his normally detached tone. "That," he

said, "is the entrance to the remnants of the Aeldari Pantheon. A place that could, theoretically, teleport the two of them to the farthest edges of the Warp, the one I told you to

be precise lest you get teleported"

"YOU CAN'T BE BRUTAL AND CUNNING IF YOU'RE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WARP!"

Khorne bellowed, and with a final mighty kick, he sent both Gork and Mork hurtling directly into the glowing portal.

Franklin, shook his head in disbelief. "So, the solution to Gork and Mork is just... teleporting

them?" "Teleported to the other side of the Warp," Khaine corrected, brushing some imaginary dust from his armor. "It's an old trick. They'll find their way back eventually, but it'll take them some time."

Khorne stood victorious, the remnants of the Brass Throne crumbling around him. He looked about ready to launch into his next bloodthirsty proclamation when he caught sight of Franklin still perched on his mountain of screaming faces, casually watching the entire

spectacle.

The Blood God's fiery gaze locked onto Franklin. "YOU!" Franklin's wings spread instantly, ready for a hasty exit. "Well, would you look at the time,

Khaine. I think it's about time for us to... exit stage left, yeah?"

Before Khorne could charge, Franklin took off with a powerful beat of his wings, his laughter

echoing as he vanished into the Warp, leaving the Blood God standing amidst the remains of

his domain.

As Franklin disappeared.

"Hey, that was entertainment!" Franklin said, his voice fading as he flew away. "Next time,

I'm selling tickets for sure!"

Behind them, Khorne stood among the debris, his fury still burning, but for now-for now- he had his victory. The Ork gods would be back, as they always were, but until then, Khorne would relish in this small moment of peace... if it could ever be called that in the Warp.

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