Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Within the Immaterium.

An Imperial Rogue Trader vessel, its hull corroded by the taint of the Warp, cut through the tides of the Immaterium like a tarnished spear of auramite.

Its engines belched blue-white flames, struggling to maintain course amidst the roiling sea of damned souls. The thrusters pulsed erratically, like the faltering heartbeat of a dying beast, pushing the ship forward in its desperate bid for survival.

The flickering Geller field wavered between light and shadow, straining to hold back the predatory horrors lurking in the shifting tides. Every surge of Warp energy threatened to pull the vessel further from its course. Eldritch appendages, unseen yet felt, scraped against the protective barrier, seeking to drag the ship into the abyssal depths where no mortal soul could escape.

The ship's captain remained vigilant, his every maneuver an effort to wrest control back from the chaotic forces that sought to claim them. The Navigator, his third eye fixed upon the distant Astronomican, strained to keep their path aligned with the Emperor's distant light—the only beacon of hope in the madness of the Immaterium.

The patriarch of the Trader House studied the Navigator, witnessing his silent agony. The Warp did not wish them to leave.

The Navigator's psychic essence burned as he pushed his abilities to the limit, seeking a way forward through the nightmare realm. The currents of arrogance churned, while waves of greed crashed against the hull. When the surge of avarice loomed, the Navigator cried out for evasive action, knowing full well that such a force could drown the minds of men in insatiable desire.

Beside the wailing engine core, a Tech-Priest whispered binharic hymns to soothe the vessel's wounded machine spirit. He worked tirelessly, incanting prayers of repair while consecrating the fractured circuits.

Then came the storm.

A violent tempest of hatred and malice surged toward them, heralding a greater threat. The Navigator's voice cut through the ship's vox systems, his words laced with psychic urgency.

"The Warp-spawn pursue us! We must escape—now!"

The captain and his first mate sprang into action. With grim determination, the power director wrenched the controls, heedless of the Tech-Priest's protests. The ship shuddered violently, engines howling in protest as they pushed beyond safe limits, tearing free from the psychic mire.

Then came the impact.

A thunderous crash rocked the vessel as something vast and unspeakable struck the Geller field. The protective barrier faltered—then shattered.

And the slaughter began.

Within moments, daemons breached the corridors. The merchant chieftain recognized them immediately—plague fiends of Nurgle.

The daemons poured in like pus from a ruptured wound, shambling forward in their grotesque glory. Rotting flesh sloughed from their corpulent forms, exposing weeping sores teeming with pestilence. Their hollow eyes, clouded with disease, fixed upon the living with cruel intent.

At the vanguard, a Plaguebearer led the charge, its distended belly torn open to reveal writhing corruption within. The droning buzz of daemonic flies filled the air as the creature raised its rusted blade, eager to bestow the Grandfather's gifts upon fresh victims.

The Rogue Trader's guards fought valiantly, their faith in the Emperor steeling their resolve. Priests bellowed holy litanies, their voices rising above the chaos as they brought blessed weapons to bear against the foe.

Flamers roared to life, scorching through the swarming daemon-flies with righteous fury. The stench of burning filth filled the ship's corridors, but it was a small price to pay for purging the unclean.

Yet, for every daemon felled, another took its place. The wounded knew their fate. Those whose armor had been pierced—whose flesh bore the merest scratch—begged for the mercy of a quick death, lest they succumb to the agonizing transformation into plague-ridden thralls.

To be wounded in this battle was to be damned.

The merchant chieftain fought on, his weapon slick with daemonic ichor. He had long since lost count of the fallen. There was no room for grief. Despair would only feed the enemy.

Then, a terrible tremor shook the ship.

"They've breached the command deck!"

Panic rippled through the vox channels, interwoven with the roar of bolter fire and the screams of the dying. The helm crew struggled against the inevitable, their voices edged with desperation.

The bulkheads groaned as another wave of daemons surged forward. The chieftain gritted his teeth, knowing their end was near. He raised his blade once more, ready to meet death with steel in hand.

"For the Emperor! We fight to the last!"

His warriors echoed his cry, standing firm against the tide.

And then, from the depths of the vox, came a voice.

Cold. Resolute. Unyielding.

"We are the blades of humanity. We are the destroyers of the Emperor's enemies."

Hope flared anew. Reinforcements had arrived.

...

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