I hear your terrified whimpering, but I drown it with the sound of my own laughter. I catch the stink of your fear, but I erase it with the fragrance of my own Glorious Putrefaction.
Does it hurt your tiny little minds to contemplate the nature of myself and my Chaos brethren? Do not make up children's stories to make you feel safe in your paper-thin walls, little Dante, little Cruentus: ask one who knows. Ask me. I will tell you.
I have lived for 10,000 years. I slaughtered your fathers. I slaughtered your grandfathers. I have slaughtered each generation of your anemic blood-line. I took up arms against your ancestors because they were weak men in thrall to a weakling. Today you are even more feeble than they; at least in those times your leader walked among you. Now you are but snivelling infants enslaved to the Crippled Cannibal that you call Emperor. I challenge you: take your Emperor from his sick-bed, unplug his drip-feeds and colostomy drains, deny him of his daily feast of 1,000 mewling innocents, and then tell me to my face that he is a strong leader. If he is so strong, then have him stand. Have him walk. Have him raise one hand. Have him open one eye. Surely your strong leader can do that much?
My leader had the courage and power to build an empire that would last 10,000 years. If you are too frightened to speak the name of HORUS then it is because it chokes you, it stops your wagging tongues with its power. The magnificence of that name sticks in your throats and renders you speechless, because the mere thought of him reminds you of your own unworthiness. Only by treachery did the Warmaster fall, but know you that your machine-sorcery and electro-necromancy is not the only way to sustain the dead: HORUS is born anew from the Warp. Demons are his parents and kin. We answer his muster, and soon he shall lead us screaming from the Eye of Terror to retake the galaxy that is ours by right.
So sleep well, little Dante, little Cruentus. Creep and whisper in your little play-fort, and tell yourself that I am lying. When our battle-fleet darkens your skies with the banners of the Lord of Decay and his Three Brothers, tell yourself that I am lying. When I tear apart your gates and stride through your halls shouting your names, tell yourself that I am lying. When I find you quivering beneath your beds and drag you feet-first into the Sweet Leprosy of my embrace, tell yourself that I am lying. When your Gloriously Changed bodies follow us back into the sky, when you join with us in exultation as we smash the coffin-chair of your Crippled Cannibal and devour his leathery corpse, tell yourself that I am lying, and I will tell you that I do not lie.
Burn your brief and flickering candles, little men, bleat your desperate prayers to your dead god, and watch for my coming.
Captain Morbus Vilissimus
Mark Morrison, bassst@zikzak.apana.org.au