Year 0000, Before The Imperium
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The Drum Beats of War
A heavy downpour enveloped the entire valley, with each raindrop striking the ground like tiny spears hurled from the heavens. The clouds above were dark and ominous; they seemed to share in the bloodlust that permeated the air below.
There stood a man with a solemn visage, his regal face weathered by countless battles. He was overlooking a formation of heavy steel, a congregation of battle-hardened veterans who had survived the crucible of war with him. The formation reflected in his cerulean blue eyes, the same eyes that spoke of a sea of blood and madness that had brought many men to their knees.
The scars that adorned his face were not marks of defeat but testaments to his resilience, each telling its own tale of survival against insurmountable odds. Though he was a man, he was also a god. A demi-god, in fact. Any scar could have been easily healed with the regenerative power of his genes, but those scars he left remained as a reminder that he had chosen the mortal's path. It had been such a long time since he had been born, and his age as a demi-god differed from that of mortals.
Yet to him, the rhythmic sound of the men and women he called his brethren banging their spears, swords, and axes against their shields was comforting. This cacophony of metal against metal was his lullaby, his twisted sense of peace in a world of death and chaos. It was the familiar symphony that resonated through his bones, one that awakened something primal within his soul: the instinct of a victor, of a conqueror, a liberator of mankind, whom he called his own.
Around him stood his twenty remaining confidants, the most loyal to him, the ones he called friends. They now stood as commanders of the millions of men and women who had been with him since the first blood was spilled in their bloody campaign.
Their armor, once pristine, now bore the marks of countless battles. There were dents and scratches that told stories of narrow escapes from defeat, death's embrace, and countless glorious victories as they followed the man standing in front of them. Some of them even wore cloaks of deep crimson red, stained darker in places where the blood had soaked the longest. It was the blood of their fallen enemies and even that of their comrades.
Others in the line displayed trophies of war: necklaces of teeth, bangles of bone, all of which were grim reminders of those who had stood against them and had fallen.
It was barbaric and seemingly uncharacteristic, but war would twist something inside you the longer it went on.
Even so, they all stood with great pride and conviction, long etched into their faces. In their eyes, you could see it burning with a fervor that could only be tempered by the heat of battle; even the current downpour of rain didn't seem to quench its heat. These were warriors who had seen the worst of humanity and had become something more, perhaps something less human but undeniably more deadly.
They had become judges of others, especially those they had found guilty of crimes committed against their people of Elms. They had become the executors of their own justice. Justice that they had sought for so long, only to have it ignored by many. And now they had become the grim reapers of their enemies' lives, all for the purpose of victory, of liberation, a freedom they had long sought.
Without a doubt, they were his most trusted companions, not just those twenty who stood by his side but those in front of him as well, for they had all been forged in the same fires of conflict and bound by the blood they had shed and spilled together.
Soon, upon their triumphant victory, they would hold the highest positions in his Empire, the Empire of the man they called their King, their Emperor, their friend, their liberator, the man who had been prophesied as the one to free them from their slavery and the worst of humanity's cruelties.
They would soon rule over lands yet to be conquered, lands retaken from those who had treated them worse than peasants. They had already claimed in their hearts that they would rule over their freed brethren, guiding them and securing their futures from those who had oppressed them.
Each of the twenty commanders who stood by the man embodied a different aspect of war: the brilliant strategist whose mind saw patterns in chaos; the berserker whose eternal rage was a weapon unto itself; the shadow whose blade found enemies in their sleep; the shield who had saved their leader countless times at great personal cost.
Their leader turned around and gazed upon their faces one by one, acknowledging the bond that had already transcended mere loyalty. This was a covenant written in scars and sealed with the lives of those they had sent to the afterlife. His voice, though it was clearly not raised, carried power that silenced even the howling wind and the downpour of the heavy storm as he spoke a solemn vow.
"We march to war, my friends," he declared, his words cutting through the rain like a blade. "And we will be victorious. Not by the grace of gods or the favor of fate, but by the strength of our arms and the fire in our hearts. The final hurdle is in front of us."
A massive bolt of lightning crackled and split the sky asunder, illuminating the army below for one brilliant moment: hundreds of thousands of warriors standing in perfect formation, their weapons at the ready, their discipline unbroken despite the deluge that threatened to drown the world. They soaked in the cries of the heavens, the cries of their fallen who were pleading with them for vengeance.
The Emperor spoke to the assembled force beneath him.
"We shall forge, in the blood of our people and our enemies, the foundation of our New Empire. An empire where strength is rewarded and weakness is purged, where our children will never know the humiliation our ancestors suffered. I will lead you to the fire, to death and ruin. Follow me, and we shall greet our enemies with Fire and Fury!"
He drew and raised a rather simple yet regal steel sword, its edge gleaming despite the absence of sunlight. It had been forged by his personal blacksmith just a week prior, the metal taken from the weapons of the defeated enemy commanders.
It was kept simple in its design but perfect in balance. It represented everything he stood for: function over form, substance over spectacle, deadly purpose over ornate pretension.
Looking down upon the valley, he beheld his army. They were not just typical warriors born and bred in the training fields or on the barracks training ground. They were farmers who had abandoned their plows, hunters who had set aside their bows, craftsmen who had traded their tools for weapons.
They were his people, transformed by necessity and hardened by purpose. Now they had come here to join him in his crusade. No, it was right to say that it was their collective crusade for liberation!
The man was yet to be crowned emperor, but the people below him already spoke of him with such reverence. In their eyes, he was an Emperor, a god of war, the chosen savior, and their liberator.
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A War Cry of a King…
He bellowed his war cry, a single word that contained within it all the rage and determination of a people who had been pushed too far for too long. His war cry wasn't his own, but it echoed in the countless others who were no longer among the living.
"WAR!"
In unison, the warriors below echoed his cry, their voices reverberating throughout the valley, bouncing off the mountainsides and returning amplified, as if the very land had joined in their declaration of death and victory.
"WAAAARRRRRR!!!!!!!"
"WAAAARRRRRR!!!!!!!"
The sound that was created was deafening. It was primal. It was a challenge they hurled at the gates of their enemies and at the heavens themselves, toward the very fate and destiny that had brought their people great suffering.
The birds that rested in nearby trees from the rain took flight toward distant trees, startled by the sudden eruption of human fury. The animals and beasts did the same.
The rain seemed to fall harder, as though the sky itself wept at what was to come next.
For a moment, he stood still, with his eyes closed, listening to the voices of the warriors who stood before him. He felt every plea in their cries as they echoed through the valley. They were pleas for justice, for vengeance, for an end to suffering.
Each voice carried the weight of personal tragedy, of loved ones lost, of dignity stripped away. In their unified cry, he heard the voices of the dead demanding retribution.
So he held his sword high, pointing directly toward where the sun would be if it were not obscured by storm clouds, until the roar of his people had gradually faded into an expectant silence. The only sounds remaining were the persistent drumming of rain on armor and the occasional rumble of distant thunder.
Then he spoke once more, his voice carrying far beyond what seemed possible for a mortal man.
"People of Elms! Noble Sons and Daughters of Arkanus! My brothers and sisters! Today, we shall be one, united against our common enemy. No longer divided by clan or creed, by old feuds or ancient grudges. We will be the conquerors of our fate, the architects of a new age written in the blood of those who sought and continue to enslave us."
His words sparked a fire that not even the torrential pour of heavy rain could extinguish, and the warriors banged their shields so loudly that the sound echoed across the valley like war drums played by giants.
"The Gods have willed it!" he proclaimed, though whether he truly believed in divine guidance or merely used it to inspire his fellow warriors and followers remained his secret. "They have tested us with suffering, tempered us with pain, and now they watch to see if we are worthy of the glory that awaits! For blood and honor! To WAR!!!"
The army once more roared their undivided approval, their faith in him absolute and unquestioning.
"We shall conquer this last bastion of our enemies," he continued, his voice growing in power with each word. "They who have mistreated and trampled upon our people for eons. They who have taken our children as slaves, our women as playthings, our men as fodder for their cruel games! I say no more!"
His grip tightened on his sword as memories of atrocities he had personally witnessed in his travels flooded his mind, fueling his words with genuine rage.
"No more! For they who have committed acts so vile and inhumane shall pay the price with the blood of their own people! Their cities will burn, their temples will crumble, their gods will abandon them as they cry out for mercy that will not come."
Lightning flashed again, casting harsh shadows across his face that made him appear momentarily inhuman. At that moment, he was an avatar of vengeance rather than a man.
"Only then can this madness and blood feud we have endured for so long come to an end. Only then, when they meet our blades and our ancestors in the next life, will we forgive them. And even then, only after they have begged for centuries on their knees will our anger be quenched!"
The warriors struck their shields again, some crying openly now, tears mixing with rainwater as they remembered all they had lost in this generational conflict.
"Long have we suffered, and long have we endured! Our ancestors' cries will be heard! And they will bellow through you! Through your blades and your arrows, through your fists and your courage, they will have their vengeance at last!"
He swept his sword in an arc before him, symbolically cutting down the invisible enemies that stood between his people and their destiny.
"We shall slaughter them to the last kin, leave none behind, not their shadow nor their echoes! Their bloodlines will end by our hand, their names forgotten by history, their achievements erased from memory. Spare no one in our path! Age will not protect them, wealth will not shield them, pleading will not move us in our cause!"
The warriors banged their shields, their feet trembling against the ground beneath them with such force that small stones bounced and shivered. The earth itself seemed to quake with their collective fury.
"WITH ME!" he roared, turning his horse toward the enemy lands that lay beyond the valley. "WE MARCH TO WAR!!!!!!!!"
As one entity, the army moved forward, hundreds of thousands of feet stepping in perfect unison. The rain continued to fall, but now it seemed to strengthen rather than hinder them, washing away their final hesitations and baptizing them into a new and terrible purpose.
From the vantage point of the distant mountains, an observer might have seen something remarkable: the army moving as a single organism, a dark tide flowing across the valley floor with inexorable purpose. And at its head, a man whose ambition would reshape the world around him, whose name would one day be spoken with both reverence and terror in equal measure.
The Imperium was about to be born within the anvils of blood and fire.