Written by Matt Schubert.

The chaos wastes, endless yet confining. Time never had any meaning in the warp, a minute could feel like a century… a century could fly past in but a minute. It had felt like a century as Archaon had attempted again and again to tame Dorghar, without raising the alarm, without having Agrammon realize what was happening before it were too late. Maybe it was luck that had brought the unholy steed to finally cooperate at the last minute, allowing both champion and daemon to flee the enraged daemon lord. Or maybe it was willpower?

It mattered not, for the future everchosen cared only for results. His daring victory and prized steed had after all brought more and more followers of Slaanesh to his banner. She who thirsts might have been temporaly defeated, though none could truly destroy a god, especially not whilst the Dark Prince still had followers. Though not yet possesing the blessings of the Prince, many a warrior had began to take it for granted. Though not all ended up flocking to him, especially those who served the Blood Wolf, no matter how hard he tried. In their eyes, was he not just a simple nobody? A mere coward who had relied on the gods themselves to get the armor? There was talk among the warhost that some even believed that Archaon had not even EARNED the ruinous armor of Morkar… And even fewer voices whispered that maybe… Archaon had also not earned the Slayer of Kings.

The future everchosen had been quick to secure a strategic underling, choosing Aekold Hellbrass as his lieutenant and together had sought council with Abrax, bloody champion of Khorne. It was so that Archaon had finally discovered his next prize, one that would surely grant him the favor of Khorne and possibly even of the Plague Father himself… the crown of domination. And as the winds of magic howled in the chaotic wastes, did they bring foul whispers to Archaon´s ear, whispers of the first daemon prince of the gods undivided, Be´lakor, the Harbinger. As voices pierced the champion´s mind like icy needles, the first of the dammed granted him a vision, a path to the crown. It felt odd true, for Archaon was sure this vision was not free, for was there not always a catch in deals? So it was that the champion rode forth alone, aiming to conquer the challenge, as he had done with every other challenge before. After all, failure was not an option for the herald of the apocalypse. And thus was it that he chose Aekold to lead in his stead, until the everchosen returned with his prize, or all fell to ruin, until the next future everchosen would rise.

As his new followers became an ever decreasing dot in the distance, the future Everchosen rode north. His goal, the first shrine to chaos, for the crown of domination. There had been those amongst his new following that had warned him against such a quest, after all, were there not other artifacts to be gained first? Archaon cared not for such warnings, such worries… all that mattered was his destiny… the unavoidable destiny that fate had set before him. The very fate that had brought Tzeentch to speed up the process a tad. Morkar had been unworthy, an old relic that should have stayed where it belonged. Allas, now he had another spawn to throw at his enemies, a screaming reminder of what awaited to those who failed the eternal masters.

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How long has it been? Seconds? Minutes? Days? For how long has the burning lands of the chaos wastes become a fetid swamp of corpses? Clear to him was it that a mighty battle had been fought between the plague borne followers of Nurgle and an ork WAAGH, a battle of such catastrophic proportion that the mass of bodies felt like a true ocean. It was then that a shadow had darted from the corner of the everchosen´s eyes, a follower of Khorne perhaps, seeking to slay Archaon and gain the artifacts? Grunting he turned, only for his eyes to widen, the very corpses he had passed undisturbed rising from the ground… maggots, flies, ants and moths fluttering and writhing in rotting muck that were their bodies. Every warrior and even every ork stood around him, surrounding him like an asphyxiating cloud.

The battle raged for eons, the power of Archaon´s foul blade potent enough that one strike sufficed for the magic binding these things to dissipate, the destructive magic of the lore of Tzeentch burning hundreds but… it was not enough. The very proximity to these things filled his heart and lungs with filth and rot, rust and pus. With each foes defeated, ten more appeared before him, with each moment, more contagions plaguing him. With what felt like millenia, the rotten corruption forced the Everchosen to his knees, his body refusing to his feeble commands, despair and terror taking root in his mind. “Give up, end it…”, whispers danced in his ears, frothing with succulent pus. ” End your suffering, false Everchosen. Submit… Submit… Submit… Submit… Submit… Submit… ” Archaon gripped his sword… was this his destiny? To die among the rotten? To one day arise among them to plague the next fool? “Submit… Submit… ” This was the end… a fate like Morkar´s? How… fitting… “Submit…” “NOOOOOOOOOOO!”, the fires of his will flickered, no… this would NOT become his end! He refused this destiny! He refused to die here! Rather would he crawl for all eternity, but he would LIVE and see his destiny through!

The mass of corpses stood still, facing the everchosen and smiled in unision. “Well done, child.”, the mass of corpses chanted before turning to dust.

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Shadows and mist danced around, a flicker of a memory, the whisper of a desire. Archaon mused this would have been the test of Slaanesh… but with the Dark Prince still in shadow, it needed more time to reform. And still, though severely weakened the grasp of the prince could still be felt. The shadow of luxuries and sweet decadence called him, even now. He felt his heart pounding, his lips wetten, all but his mind BEGGING to get of his steed, to breathe in the mists of pleasure, to rest his weary body. But it was with heavy heart that he continued to ride, pushing every inch of his self to not stop… to watch the dancing forms that hid in the darkness.

“Oh Karl, oh sweet emperor of men, give in… walk once more…”

Archaon turned his gaze to the noise, to shadows that seemed chained… what was this? Was Be´lakor playing tricks on him? No… for now only silence came from the Herald of chaos… But if not Be´lakor, who? “Enough… who ever hides here, I shall NOT BE TEMPTED FROM MY PATH! MY DESTINY! BEGONE OR FACE MY WRATH!” And thus did the mists and shadows dissipate, a cacophany of giggling still echoing upon the dead lands. Archaon let out a heavy sigh, for he knew the Prince would one day test him, though it seemed yet to come.

As the everchosen became but a speck in the distance, the winds of magic blew upon the ground, a white mask in the sands uncovered by winds most foul. It stood there innocently, the hellish fires of the chaos wastes flickering their light on the mask´s smooth surface until an unlikely hand picked it up…

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Archaon opened his eyes with a jolt! Where was he… Where was Dorghar!?!?! As the everchosen took a step it clinked, as if he were walking on ice or… glass… he opened his eyes once more and saw… what did he see? A labyrinth? The endless cosmos of space surrounded him, yet was nowhere near him. Papers and books, screamers and flamers flied endlessly about, without destination, without purpose. Stairs and paths crisscrossed around him, horizontally and vertically, both in and out, on and under. He continued walking, musing on how to get out. “Damnation take it all, I would have thought I was tested by the Changer of Ways already… or am I just being played tricks at, made a fool?”, no one responded for who truly was there now to give answers to this lowly mortal?

Each turn he made, he felt more certain he had been here already… or had he? Winds howled with cackling laughter then died down again. It felt for ever that he wandered, until he saw an opening. He walked in, entering a crystalline room with nothing leading from it. Cursing he turned around only to find the exit gone, trapping him. Cursing more and more he opened his eyes. How many times? Was he dreaming? Was this but an illusion? It was then that he saw it, gasping in disbelief and astonishment. All around him were reflections of himself… but… they were different. Dietrich as a loving husband to a wife and caring father of children, Dietrich burning at the stake for heresy, Dietrich becoming the true champion of Sigmar, Archaon dying by the hands of Morkar, Archaon dying by the hands of Be´lakor, Archaon dying by the mass of corpses… He took a step back, as more and more images of what could have or could have not flashed before his eyes. As the screams of pain, bellows of battle, cries of victory tore into his very being… “Give me control, Everchosen… I shall lead you to the crown…”, the whispers of Be´lakor echoed in his soul… ” No… your help is wanted and not needed, herald… all I care for is for you to be present when I finally am crowned!” “….. Suit yourself, Everchosen…..” The daemon´s presence was gone, but as Archaon turned around he truly wished he were alone. The reflections… all of them sneering and smirking at the Everchosen. Contempt and arrogance in the a million reflected gazes. An amphitheater of lunacy and insanity, a fool surrounded by a jeering audience of broken fates. Eons and legends passed before Archaon took a step forward, then another and another… Crystals shattered under his boots with each step, the mocking laughter becoming louder and and louder, ringing in his ears, stabbing his pride, his mind, HIS SANITY! NO… he HAD to continue, it mattered not it mattered not it mattered not it mattered not Shut up! SHUT UP! I refuse… I will not believe this… you are not real… you… you are lies LIES I TELL YOU! Go… GO AWAY!

Panic took hold of the Everchosen´s stone heart, as the reflections of past, present and future still jeered and mocked him. Knees shaking he began to rip his cloak to shreds, tying it around his face, blinding himself… the laughs, the screams, it all died away. And in the darkness at he saw it. Two paths before him lay, one back to the wastes and one to unknown darkness. In one he saw his warband, he saw cities plundered, southerners slaughtered and in the other… He shook his head, to break one´s mind for what could and could not be mattered NOT… Only the fulfillment of his destiny was what mattered! Archaon gritted his teeth… no he would rather walk in darkness, than to continue with wishful thinking of slaughtered dreams… He took a step for the path to the Abyss and… It was not crystal he stepped on no more, but the black sand of the fiery north once again. Was this finally it? After so many hardships he stood before a gateway, beyond was the crown, sitting upon the first altar to chaos, clutched by a skeleton of unknown origin. And it was before this prize that stood the finale test… the greatest Bloodthirster of Khorne and his next foe.

Archaon the Everchosen knew what needest be done, unsheathing the Slayer of Kings he stepped forward, to his destiny and the destiny of this wretched world,

THE VERY APOCALYPSE OF LIFE!

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End of Chapter.