I hear you crying, little humans.
Do you know that sound? It is our voice that speaks through you! It slices through the veil of your dreams!
Attend, wretched thralls, and feel the hot breath of our violence upon your very souls. Such is our rage that I hemorrhage as I tell you this again: your god is dead!
Ten thousand years have bled across the skies, since our Warmaster ripped the Emperor's bowels from his broken body. And still you dream. Ten thousand years since Horus was struck down by the treacherous mind of your shattered deity. And still you dream. What was it that struck our master down; a cunning conceit, a desperate dream of cowering humanity, a lie. And still you share his dream.
It is a fantasy! A lie so noxious that it shrouds the minds of all humanity. Once we acknowledged your Emperor as a crafty foe; now we understand the nature of his craft: trickery and deceit. His degenerate mind seeks to pervert the future of humanity, to guide it shaking and knock-kneed into a servile future, where the strong and fearless are vilified to perpetuate your thralldom, his dream.
Do you really believe that we were vanquished? Never had the skull throne been raised to such heights as it was on the day when we slew your god. And in defeat your leader cried like an infant, weeping before the Warmaster.
I remember. I was there. Were you?
It is from your Emperor's skull that Khorne now quaffs his crimson nectar. But it is your Emperor's sick mind that pollutes your brains. It is his sick psychic powers which give truth to the lie which you live. Your life is but a dream, thrall, and you are content to shuffle meekly on your knees to destruction, sleepwalking to your doom.
And you call yourselves warriors!
You are nothing but fools and cowards. Unquestioning, blind, obedient: you slumber your life away. You have not the courage to open your eyes, let alone to fight your real enemy. Thus we must act. We prepare the way for Horus' return, we rage across the cosmos, eating worlds, defecating skulls. Ours is a blessed crusade to purge the universe of your god's grey and sterile vision. Our eyes see only red, yet we see a million shades, from the bright arterial pink that lurks in the hearts of infants to the deepest infra-red that streams from the pelts of our daemons. When we look at you, we see only a watery pink; you are impermanent, imperfect dreamers. We are nightmare come amongst you.
Lt. Commander Magnus Creed World Eater Legionnaire