The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 134: Clowns and Negotiations



Through the twisting currents of the Webway, the Sweet Liberty and her escort fleet carved their path toward the Fourth Shrine. Once a mighty armada of a thousand ships, the fleet had been reduced to only six hundred, a grim indication to the relentless Drukhari attacks. The Dark Eldar's cunning and tenacity had whittled them down, though even the finest fleet of the Imperium could only withstand so much harassment.

From the bridge of the Sweet Liberty, Franklin Valorian watched the latest Drukhari assault unfold with a tactician's eye. The xenos vessels wove between his escort ships with impossible grace, their pilots demonstrating why they were considered the galaxy's most skilled void-farers. Their strategy was as elegant as it was effective - using the escort vessels as shields against the Sweet Liberty's overwhelming firepower.

"You have to admire their tactical prowess," said Henry Cavill, the 3rd Captain, his voice tinged with reluctant respect as he observed the battle. His fingers traced the movements of the ships on the tactical display. "They're using our own formations against us. Every assault is calculated to force us into a position where we either hold our fire or risk hitting our own ships."

Fleet Admiral Koshka, her face bathed in the glow of the holograms, grimaced. "If we shift our formation to clear our firing lanes, we leave the Sweet Liberty exposed. They've trapped us in a perfect zugzwang." Her eyes flicked to a particular ship on the tactical screen. "Though, some of them get... overconfident."

As if on cue, a single Drukhari vessel broke from the coordinated assault, its pilot attempting a series of dizzying maneuvers meant to bait the Sweet Liberty into firing. But the massive Imperial vessel stood still, unflinching, waiting for the perfect shot. The moment the xenos vessel crossed an invisible line, a brief flash of light flared, and what had once been a sleek, deadly craft was now nothing more than azure particles drifting in the void.n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

"Confidence," Franklin muttered with a wry smile, "has always been the downfall of the overzealous."

The battle raged on, but its outcome was never truly in doubt. For every hundred ships the Imperial fleet lost, ten times as many Drukhari vessels were reduced to scrap or vapor. Inside the Sweet Liberty, boarding parties met swift ends in the labyrinthine corridors, their bodies- along with the grotesque creations of their Haemonculi masters-adding further ornamentation to the vessel's already macabre interior.

Reports crackled through the vox. Denzel Washington's voice was firm and clipped: "Port sectors cleared. Those knife-ears brought some nasty toys, but we handled it." Armstrong's report followed: "Starboard's clear. Not really a challlenge."Lastly, Vladimir's psychic voice cut through, thick with a stereotypical Russian stoicism and a hint of icy satisfaction: "Central corridors cleared. Their souls? Redirected. Is problem no more."

When the Sweet Liberty finally reached the Fourth Shrine, the orbital bombardment began with clinical precision. The guns of the Imperial ship roared with the force of human technological supremacy, but the servants of Tzeentch below were no mere mortals. The Changer of Ways had left his mark on the place, and reality itself seemed to twist under the bombardment, resisting the impact of the guns.

"Their psychic defenses are stronger than anticipated," Vladimir reported, his mental tone strained as he and his Technoseers established a psychic firewall around the landing zones. "These aren't your average Tzeentchian cultists. The Greater Daemon here is... sophisticated."

Franklin's response was brief but decisive: "Then let's go introduce ourselves. Properly."

The descent to the shrine's surface was a chaotic swirl of technicolor madness. Tzeentchian sorcery buckled reality, attempting to drag the Monoliths into alternate dimensions or warp them into bizarre, nonsensical shapes. Techno-seer protective wards held-just barely- creating a narrow thread of sanity through the tumult.

Franklin, as ever, made his assault personal. The Lord of Change awaited him in the shrine's central sanctuary, now transformed into a maze of crystalline structures and impossible geometries, eyes watching from every conceivable angle.

The Greater Daemon was a magnificent horror-a nightmare of feathers shimmering with every shade of madness, its staff crackling with energies potent enough to unravel the very fabric of reality. It regarded Franklin with the insufferable smugness that only a creature of the Warp could muster.

Then it spoke, its voice reverberating with an absurdity so profound that it momentarily arrested even Franklin's calculating mind: "TESTICULAR TORSION!"

Franklin's counter-spell was instant.

Franklin's brow arched sharply, his smirk curling into something dark and sardonic. With deliberate enunciation and a voice dripping in disdain, he retorted, "You dare use my own spells against me, daemon? How... unimaginative."

The Lord of Change laughed, its voice echoing through dimensions that had no business intersecting with reality. "Your counter is impressive, Hand of Khaine, but futile! I possess no such mortal weaknesses! No human organs to twist!"

Franklin's smile widened, a grin that would have made a Drukhari Archon nervous. "Is that so?" His hand extended towards the Greater Daemon, tapping into the raw energies of the Warp. "CREATE TESTICLES!"

The daemon's expression shifted from superiority to confusion to genuine horror as it suddenly found itself endowed with very specific human anatomy. Franklin's follow-up was swift and inevitable: "TESTICULAR TORSION!"

The resulting shriek of agony from the Lord of Change echoed across several dimensions, a sound never before heard in the galaxy. It was a moment so bizarre that even the Warp itself recoiled. Franklin, however, showed no mercy, his sword flashing in the air and separating the daemon's head from its body, granting it mercy of true death.

the shrine began to collapse, reality slowly reasserting itself, Franklin felt Khaine's presence in his mind. The God of War's voice was a mixture of exasperation and reluctant

amusement.

"In all my eons," Khaine intoned, "in all the battles I have witnessed, that was perhaps the most dishonorable and obnoxious victory I have ever had the displeasure of observing besides you and you're other self a few years ago."

Franklin sheathed his sword, watching the last traces of Tzeentch's corruption fade. "Hey, he started it. Besides, you have to admit it was effective."

"Effective?" Khaine's voice struggled to maintain its usual ancient dignity. "You created reproductive organs on a being of pure Warp energy for the sole purpose of inflicting specific physical trauma."

"Exactly," Franklin replied cheerfully. "Classic problems require creative solutions. And you have to admit, he won't be expecting that trick again."

"No," Khaine conceded, "I don't imagine it can anymore" There was a pause, and Franklin could almost feel the God of War's struggle with his own sense of dignity. "Though I suspect Cegorach is already entertained by this"

As the Liberty Eagles secured the shrine and began the purification process, Franklin couldn't suppress a grin. Sometimes, the best way to handle the galaxy's horrors was to remind them that humanity could be just as creative in its methods of war-if not more so.

"Next time," he promised Khaine, "I'll go for something more traditional. Maybe just turn him into a chicken."

The God of War's only response was a long-suffering sigh, the kind that only the ancient and weary could truly understand. But Franklin could almost feel the God's amusement behind it, a silent acknowledgment of the unconventional brilliance of his victory.

In the aftermath of battle, as reality settled back into its proper shape around the cleansed shrine, Franklin Valorian noticed a curious figure in the distance. The Laughing God, Cegorach, was performing what appeared to be the final steps of an intricate dance, his motley costume shimmering with colors that shouldn't exist as he sewed the last remnants of the Warp breach. The gesture was both precise and theatrical, like a master performer taking

their final bow.

Then, in the way that gods of mischief are wont to do, Cegorach vanished.

"Behind you!" sang a melodious voice that somehow managed to contain both infinite wisdom and the energy of a caffeinated circus performer.

Franklin turned to find the Laughing God lounging impossibly in mid-air, his mask sporting what could only be described as the universe's most self-satisfied grin. His motley shifted and changed with each movement, creating patterns that told jokes in a visual language that hurt the eyes to comprehend.

"Oh good, you're here," Cegorach said, his voice carrying the cadence of someone about to deliver their favorite joke. "Tell me, young champion, what do you call a Primarch in motley

who walks into a library?"

Franklin, who had learned long ago that the best way to deal with divine beings who spoke in riddles was to play along, considered for a moment. "I don't know... a scholarly harlequin?" Cegorach's laugh echoed across several dimensions simultaneously. "A BOOKING AGENT!"

BAZINGAA!!

The god's laughter continued, accompanied by the sound of what might have been a cosmic laugh track. Franklin couldn't help but wonder if somewhere in the multiverse, there was a

studio audience groaning at the pun.

"Get it? Because he's an agent... who's booking... and you're about to..." Cegorach wiped an impossible tear from his mask. "Oh, I've been saving that one since before your father was Alexander the Great!"

Before Franklin could respond, the air beside him began to move in ways that air really shouldn't. A Solitaire materialized, their presence both there and not-there, their movements telling a story of ancient wisdom and cosmic jest. They performed a dance that seemed to

bend space itself, each gesture containing meanings that operated on multiple levels of reality simultaneously.

With a flourish that somehow managed to be both elegant and slightly ridiculous, the Solitaire presented two items to Franklin. The first was a card that seemed to be made of shadows and starlight - a library card for the Black Library, the repository of all Aeldari knowledge about Chaos and then some. The second was a set of garments that could only be described as a Harlequin Troupe Master's outfit, complete with a mask that seemed to be

winking.

Franklin accepted both items, examining the garb with a mixture of curiosity and mild concern. He opened his mouth to ask what exactly he was supposed to do with a cosmic jester's outfit, but the Solitaire had already begun another dance. This one seemed to say, with the eloquence that only interpretive dance can achieve, "The Laughing God awaits you in the library, and yes, he's probably going to make more puns."

The Solitaire's gestures became more specific, pointing to the library card with movements

that somehow managed to convey both cosmic significance and "you might want to hurry before he comes up with more jokes."

As both the Solitaire and the last echoes of Cegorach's laughter faded away, Franklin stood

there holding what amounted to an invitation to the galaxy's most exclusive library and what appeared to be cosmic cosplay attire. Khaine's presence stirred in his mind, and Franklin could have sworn he felt the War God suppress a divine sigh.

"Don't," Franklin said to the sword at his hip, "even start."

The sword pulsed with what might have been amusement. The God of War had opinions about the Laughing God's methods, but even he had to admit that Cegorach's ways, while extraordinarily theatrical, tended to achieve their goals.

Looking at the library card once more, Franklin couldn't help but smile. Somewhere in the

Webway, in a craftworld, the Laughing God was probably already preparing his next round of cosmic dad jokes. And somehow, for reasons that probably made sense only to a being who

treated the universe as his personal comedy club, Franklin had been deemed worthy of being part of the audience.

"Well," he mused, tucking both items away safely, "at least it'll be more entertaining than Tzeentch's idea of humor."

The mask in the bundle seemed to wink at him again, and Franklin made a mental note to check it for actual sentience later. When dealing with gifts from the Laughing God, it was always best to assume everything was either a joke, a test, or both simultaneously. The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor after all. And it was wearing motley.

In the aftermath of battle, amid the lingering scents of ozone and blood, Denzel Washington approached Franklin with his characteristic measured stride. The First Captain's expression carried a hint of bemusement as he delivered his report.

"My lord," Denzel said, "we have an unusual visitor. A Dracon from the Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue requests an audience. He brings an invitation."

Franklin nodded, his massive form still bearing the ethereal traces of his recent battle. "Escort him to me." With deliberate ceremony, he took Anaris and planted it point-down into

the ground before him. The sword's presence sent ripples through reality itself, its divine

essence making even battle-hardened Aspect Warriors, feel a deep, primordial unease. The gathered Primeborn Captains formed a loose semicircle around their Primarch, their armor still bearing fresh marks from the recent combat. Through their midst came the Dracon, his movements carrying the lethal grace typical of his kind. What was not typical, however, was the formal military salute he offered to Franklin - a gesture that drew raised

eyebrows from the assembled Primeborn.

Franklin's gaze fell upon the Dark Eldar envoy, and Naezir felt the full weight of a demigod's

attention. It was like standing before a sun that had learned to think, to judge, and to kill. The Dracon's enhanced physiology registered dozens of threat responses, his body recognizing dangers his conscious mind couldn't fully process.

"I am Naezir," he managed, his voice remarkably steady despite the pressure, "Dracon in

service to Lady Aurelia Malys."

"Malys?" Franklin's voice carried genuine curiosity. "What does Vect's consort want with

me?"

Something in Naezir's posture shifted, and despite the overwhelming presence before him, he found himself compelled to correct the Primarch. "My lady is not a consort to Asdrubael

Vect, lord Primarch."

Understanding flickered across Franklin's features. The butterfly effects of his actions in this timeline continued to surprise him. "My apologies," he offered, though the words did little to ease Naezir's discomfort.

The Dracon could feel his soul being inexorably drawn toward Anaris, the sword's hunger unmistakable. The weapon wasn't just a blade - it was a door through which divinity peered into reality, and that divinity had a particular appetite for Eldar souls. Naezir forced himself

to focus on his mission.

"Lady Malys would have you dictate the location of the meeting, lord Primarch," he said quickly, the words tumbling out as he fought against the sword's pull.

A smirk played across Franklin's features. "Even if I set the meeting place on Terra? Or Nova

Libertas itself?"

Naezir nodded, maintaining his composure through sheer force of will. "My lady would attend regardless of the location."

Franklin's laugh carried genuine appreciation. "I doubt that, given the society you Drukhari

live in. But let's say she would come - having me dictate the meeting place is quite the power

move." He studied the Dracon with renewed interest. "Either Lady Malys is fearless or

foolish. Either way, I respect the gall it takes to invite your most terrible enemy to a negotiation table."

The Primarch seemed to come to a decision. "The meeting will take place on Atlantis, a Libertan pleasure world at the border between the Imperium and the Independence Sector. It's currently private, not yet open for business - completely neutral ground." Then, with casual grace that belied the gruesomeness of the gesture, Franklin presented

several severed heads - the remains of Archons and Incubi he had personally slain in single combat. "A gift, for not quivering in fear in the mere presence of Khaine and myself." At the mention of Khaine's name, reality shuddered. Behind Naezir, the air ignited into divine flames, coalescing into the manifested form of the Eldar God of War and Murder. A bloody hand descended onto the Dracon's shoulder, leaving a crimson imprint that sizzled against his armor - the mark of a god's touch, a blessing that felt more like a curse. Naezir's training, his enhanced physiology, and every survival instinct bred into his kind over

millennia screamed at him to flee. Yet he held his ground, fighting against the primal terror that came with standing between a Primarch and a god. His hands trembled slightly as he accepted the grisly gifts, but he managed to maintain enough dignity to bow before making

his departure - though his pace as he walked away betrayed his desperate desire to escape. Franklin watched the Dracon's hasty retreat with amusement, turning to the still-manifested form of Khaine. "You didn't have to scare the poor bastard like that."

The God of War and Murder's response was a simple snicker, the sound carrying echoes of

ancient battlefields and countless duels. Then, with an almost casual malice, Khaine added, "Fear makes a Drukhari soul spicier."

The Primeborn Captains watched the exchange between their Primarch and the manifested god with a mixture of awe and bemusement. It was moments like these that reminded them that their gene-father was not just a supreme military commander or a leader of unprecedented capability - he was something more, something that straddled the line

between humanity and divinity, capable of bantering with gods while coordinating galactic warfare.

As Khaine's manifestation faded back into the divine fires from which it had emerged, Franklin cast one last look in the direction the Dracon had departed. The upcoming meeting with Lady Malys promised to be interesting - a meeting of diplomacy between powers that understood the art of both war and manipulation. The fact that she had chosen such a bold

opening move suggested she was either supremely confident or had already set plans in motion that he couldn't yet see.

Either way, Franklin mused, it would make a welcome change from the straightforward brutality of their recent battles. Sometimes the most dangerous games were played not with swords and guns, but with words and calculated gestures. And in those games, even the gods themselves were sometimes merely pieces on the board.