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Primary source is Andy Hoare's "The 13th Black Crusade". Though it should be read with extreme caution as a source of lore, because it is one. The Trove is the biggest open directory of RPG PDFs on the Internet!. The 13th Black Crusade (Warhammer Novels) [Andy Hoare, Marc Gascoigne] on goudzwaard.info *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. A collection of charts, maps.
This is just absurd. I used to download everything from them and gave the thousands of pounds. I won't download from them maybe a novella from time to time and download from bookdepository or site. Shame on you BL. Look at the prices with other publishers and the selling prices on site.
Maybe discounts from downloading from you. Free Shipping on smaller fees. I was curious. The Gauntlet of Sabatine is a sanctified, master-crafted power-fist that is the bane of mutants and will do additional damage to them.
However, the gauntlet was lost on the planet of Polyphemnos when its bearer was overrun by a horde of cannibal Ogryns. It is rumoured that the Gauntlet does not even remain on the planet, but its whereabouts remain unknown. Jump to: Organisation [ edit ] As part of their duties in fortifying the Eye of Terror, the White Consuls have instigated a unusual deviation from the Codex Astartes. Retrieved from " https: Warhammer 40, Imperial Space Marines.
That it was a deity of their own creation only served to magnify the horror. Yet some refused to change. Whether from pride, a sense of deance, or the simple inability to change, some Eldar continued down a path of excess and sensual indulgence and do so to this day. They live each moment knowing it could be their last, not only in mortal life, but in eternal existence.
This heightened feeling of risk, of spending each moment on the edge of a knife, fuels them to indulge in even greater acts of depravity and to push the limits of sensation. They are not, however, the only ones who damn themselves this way. The powers of Chaos hold sway over so many not because they represent some esoteric concept with rare appeal; no, they are so insidious because they are precisely the opposite.
With Khorne, it is the inherent nature of conict and struggle.
For Nurgle, it is the inevitability of death and decay, and to these certainties unto the end. For Tzeentch, it is the ever-changing nature of the universe and the need to feel some measure of control.
These are all base instincts, primal parts of the lives of every living thing. Slaanesh is no different.
His appeal is grounded in such seemingly innocent idealsevery beings pursuit of happiness and the desire to improve. Very little, if anything, holds more sway over the heart of any mortal, no matter the race, than desire in all its forms. It is universal.
All beings want more than they have. They are never content.
Where an Imperial Guardsman seeks glory, he nds Slaanesh. Where a Rogue Trader seeks wealth, he nds Slaanesh. Wherever there are desires, at the end of the quest to sate those desires lies Slaanesh, and utter damnation. Sensation Without Limitations Well of course my people love me.
Only the insane would consider otherwise! Accelerate work on the Grand Hall of Statuary, so all may adore me even when I am not with them. The joy a parent feels when a child is born, the pride a commodore feels when his eet executes a cunning battle plan, the stirring of a lovers heart when in the embrace of a paramour, the heady rush of relief that reminds a soldier how good it feels to be alive after an unexpected skirmishall of these sensations, on some small level, are pleasing to the Master of Delights.
They are not enough. Though the decimation of the Eldar and his pursuit of the remaining few of their race is a source of great joy to Slaanesh, he has much, much grander desires to full.
Every breath is an opportunity to take in a new scent. Each glass raised is a chance to savour a new avour. On every battleeld, each chainsword blow can elicit a never before heard pain-lled scream. From his glittering palace, the Lord of Excess revels in each new sensation discovered. He guides and directs the inhabitants of the galaxy to push ever onwards Jan Sigmar Sigmarson Jacobsen order I: Slaanesh The Path of Temptation I prepared to enter his realm, expecting to encounter guardians who would seek to tear into me with talons and fangs.
At the least I assumed I would nd bastions to bar my progress. I found none. The land before me was open and pristine. Its elds shimmered like gold and its forests bore fruits of sapphires and emeralds. I took a step into this place and instantly knew I was lost just as surely as if I had been impaled on a debtors spike. A god experiences existence on a level far beyond that of which a mortal can ever dare to dream, but that does not mean Slaanesh is content to leave the galaxy to its own devices.
He sees the stars, the planets, and indeed the very fabric of reality itself as his plaything, to be poked, prodded, ripped, and tightly bound to his will in order to squeeze out every last sensation there is to enjoy. Those who choose to serve him emulate him as best as they can, limited as they are by mortal form and mortal imagination.
In every corner of the galaxy, worshippers of Slaanesh spend their time inventing new delights and challenging themselves to craft experiences for themselves that no one has ever had before. This can be something as base as eliciting a new reaction to a carnal entwining, or as high minded as creating a master work of art so profound that it brings tears to all who behold it.
The truly inspired, though, have much larger stages to play upon. There are so few that have had the pleasure of seeing entire squads of Space Marines evaporate under the re of a Subjugator Titan.
Fewer still are those who have heard a million voices cry out in fear and then nothing but dripping stillness as nucleic-acid bombs dissolved away esh.
Most lack the vision to create scenarios where these delights can be experienced. It is likely not even possible for the greatest excesses to be achieved in the mortal realm. In the Realm of Chaos, however, all things are possible. Vast armies protect most of these empires from invasion, for not only do the gods constantly try to gain an upper hand on each other, but sometimes mortals are insane enough to attempt intrusion as well.
Slaanesh is unique among his brother-gods. He does not try to keep others out. He invites them in.
Through a series of tests, he defends his gleaming palace against assault. Tales such as that of the Heretic Cardinal describe this Palace of Pleasure as sitting at the centre of the Pain Masters empire, surrounded by six other domains arranged in concentric rings.
Each ring holds different temptations for those who wander through it, imploring them to succumb to the pleasures it offers. Temptation is a weapon just as powerful as a chainsword or boltgun. Traps can be sprung to eliminate the weak and dim. The bodies of those who succumb to the myriad temptations of the Dark Princes realm are consumed by the land itself, or turned into statues that beautify the view for others. The souls of these lost and damned unfortunates feed Slaaneshs insatiable hunger.
He invites them in so that they might sustain him and his realm. Those who pass early tests may catch Slaaneshs eye, giving him some amusement for a time as he watches them resist, only to inevitably lose themselves to one seduction or another. Those rare few who make it to the outer walls of the Palace of Pleasure may be graced by a visit from the Lord of Excess himself. None have ever made it into the Palace itself unless Slaanesh wished it, for all who have looked upon his perfection have fallen to their knees and given themselves over, mind, body, and soul, to his Dark Majesty.
It matters not if these accounts have any basis in real experience or if they are purely mad ravings brought on by fever or drugs. Real or imagined, they are powerful tales for protecting the simpleminded from, among other things, dreams of wealth and the pleasures it can download. All virtue and purity an individual may have once clung to would be cast aside in an instant, replaced by wicked desires for dark and depraved wanton abandon.
A mortal thus enthralled would become a willing participant in every act of debauchery the Lord of Pleasure whispered into his ear. Few would blame a soul so ensnared, for all accounts of Slaanesh describe him as perfection incarnate. Neither male nor female, yet both, the Dark Prince can assume the form most pleasing to his audience, ensuring desire and obedience in an effort to serve Slaanesh. Most often Slaanesh is portrayed as a youthful male, full of life and with an irresistible allure.
This outer beauty masks cruelty and manipulative intent, for Slaanesh is not interested in simple compliments or words of devotion. Worshippers of Slaanesh use promises, guile, beauty, and charm as weapons to get others to do their bidding. They seek to conquer the wills of others in order to further their own goals of exploring sensation, pushing the limits of excess and attaining perfection. These are all ideals of their seductive god, and gods have the power to reach far beyond what a mortal can hope to achieve.
Slaanesh is perfect and beautiful, but perfection and beauty are nothing more than tools he employs to bring his darkest, most twisted desires and plans to fruition. Scholars of the Ruinous Powers collate tales of the impossible realms of Pleasure and Pain, and often describe the rst of Slaaneshs treacherous domains as confronting visitors with a spectacle of riches beyond the wildest dreams of even the most avaricious merchants.
They tell of trees, grass, and other plants made from living gold. Gentle breezes cause the grass to shimmer like the waters of an ocean under a noon sun.
As the wind passes over the blades of grass and through the branches and leaves of the trees, it takes on a voice that beckons all to take as much as they want and more.
The mountains that rise up on the horizon reect a glorious warm light, letting all who see them know that they too are formed from gold. Pathways through the elds are paved with cobblestones not of granite or shale, but of ruby and emerald. At the edges of the paths, loose gemstones and gold nuggets sit, waiting for anyone to pick them up and slip them in a pouch. There is always room for one more glittering stone, one more pebble of gold.
Wandering souls ensnared by this domain would do well to recall the legends that say that if those who lined their pockets with these treasures were able to take their eyes off the objects of their desire, they would note that not all they see was shining. Dull bits of bone and other remains are plentiful here as well.
These are all that is left of those who lled their pockets, pouches, sleeves, and boots with so much gold that they collapsed under the weight of it. Unwilling or unable to let the riches go, they died where they fell, smiles on their faces despite their impending ends.
The only other land to be seen is a smattering of pale islands, connected to each other by a network of bridges. The nest wine serves as water in this lake but no cups wait to be lled. The bouquet of the wine is strong, pleasant, and enticing. Words from ery sermons begin to fade in the face of such serenity. Most visitors take very little time before they give up on the idea of cups and fall to their knees to drink directly from the lake.
Heads swimming with delightful intoxication, many continue to drink until they slip into the waters and sink below the surface, never to be seen again. Those who are able to lift their heads from the wine cast their gaze more closely on the islands and see them for what they arehunched giants holding aloft great tables heaped with extravagant feasts. Exotic fruits, rich breads, and meats of every kind are present. Swimming to these islands is perilous, and many whose senses have become wine-addled sink beneath the waves, joining the countless others who have slipped beneath the carmine liquid.
For the ones that make it, the reward is astonishing. Each bite is better than the nest meal they have ever experienced. Each morsel is a decadent delight for the tongue. Faster and faster the wayward consume the food. The voracious eater forces handful after handful down his throat. In his blind need to consume, he does not notice that some of the meat comes from carcasses with an all-too-familiar form. Even if he were to somehow stop forcing food into his own stomach long enough to recognise the fate that awaits him, he could not stop.
Given completely over to gluttonous indulgence, the mortal only stops eating when his body fails and he nally collapses into the feast, awaiting the next hungry diner. Look at me Slaanesh! Let me please you! The heavens are lled with diamonds that seem as if they could be plucked from their place in the sky if one could but reach just a little further. Indeed, many try to do just that, forgetting themselves as they do, not paying attention to their surroundings. Higher and higher they reach, climbing trees made of pure gold, even leaping from the boughs, only to plummet back to the ground, fracturing skulls and rupturing organs when they crash.
The end comes to them then, but it is a joyous one, for in their minds they see only handfuls of glittering jewels. It is a temporary joy, however. In exchange for a eeting moment of false elation, they forfeit their immortal souls. Entire Imperial libraries are lled with tales of lurid corruption on one side and manuals with instructions for ghting it on the other. In his heart, a Preacher knows that his congregation is most likely to fall because of the indulgences of lascivious desire than from any other temptation.
The Dark Prince surely knows this as well, and it is why the legends say he lls the third ring of his domain with visions, scents, and experiences that overload the mind and body of anyone who makes it this far. Rich elds of pleasingly textured grasses ll this ring, lit with teasing, golden hues.
Soft tents made of spun dreamthreads reect visions gleaned from the deep subconscious of those who gaze upon them, forming sinuous corridors so narrow that a traveller cannot help but brush up against them and feel their cloying embrace.
From one vista to the next, visitors travel through a series of decadent tableaus, each more twisted and inviting than the one before it. The crude esh dens of the underhives or the elegant shadowed parlours of the spires cannot present anything close to what the Lord of Endless Delights offers. Daemon and mortal bodies entwine until they become one. Forms so beautiful they are difcult to look at lie couchant, beckoning. Resisting is all but impossible. The sights and sounds of the offered pleasures are sufcient to enthral most who see and hear them.
The assault on the senses does not end with these things, though. The air hangs heavy with an intoxicating musk so rich and pervasive that it penetrates the esh of all who pass through it, quickening the heart and opening the senses further than thought possible.
Thus stimulated, esh becomes hyper sensitive to even the most gentle breath of air or tender caress. Scents waft from braziers in which smoulder the embers of an incense that triggers memories of amorous encounters of the past. A mortal in this state is easy prey for the purveyors of delights that surround them. Closing in on their now-willing victims, Daemonettes offer comforts with softly voluptuous esh, kisses from razor-fanged mouths, and embraces from piercing claws.
Troops are motivated to achieve more than they believe they can by speeches from commanders who exhort the ranks onward to glorious victory. When battles are won, the returning heroes are held high and showered with praise and adoration. This effect on the hero can be profound. More is possible, he thinks. More can be achieved.
More glory can be his. Insidiously, this can also lead to fears of letting it all slip away, of failure and derision. In these thoughts, a path to Slaanesh is laid at the feet of the hero.
This path is not restricted to the military. Leaders of government, churches, and cults all seek approval as well.
Even fathers want their children to look up to them. The path described in the Heretic Cardinals confession is crowded with wayward soulsa path that leads to the fourth circle of The Dark Princes domain.
For each visitor here, the experience is unique, though there are commonalities for many. Massed throngs may greet a soldier, cheering his name and erecting statues in his honour.
Planetary governors may see themselves establishing such complete order that they gain control of an entire system. Whatever the scenario presented to him, the victim of these visions nds it incredibly difcult to pull himself out of the dream. Unlike the dreams experienced when a person sleeps, these illusions do nothing to seem impossible.
A soldier has seen others elevated and has been trained for acts of glory. Histories are lled with tales of governors who have carved out greater realms among the stars. These and more offer solidity to the visions encountered, drawing the dreamer farther and farther into illusionary depths.
Only self-doubt gnaws at some, and these are the ones who break free. When they do, the dream shatters, revealing, if only for an instant, a vast plain of black soot. Upon it heaps of bones are buried beneath the bodies of millions of others, standing and lying in the burned ashes, still trapped in their individual delusions. The unsettling image ashes by in an instant and the traveller is confronted by the traps of the next circle.
Jan Sigmar Sigmarson Jacobsen order I: Slaanesh The lord sat on a collection of tasselled pillows, utterly spellbound as always. His favourite dancer was at work, her scented candles already burning low after exquisite hours of enticing undulations around his recumbent form.
Shalla danced, and each pass had left another piece of silken cloth draped about him. Each length was infused with a mix of sweat and perfume, but it was the texture that made him sigh. It was impossibly soft and flowed like water, yet would catch against flesh in an indescribable way he could not find in anything else.
He could only rub each against his skin, knowing and dreading that after she left the material would never feel the same as it did while she danced. He had scoured the hive, raided the oblique markets, implored Rogue Traders, but nothing would compare. Her dance was coming to a close, and he began to weep. He gathered the material around him, seeking to draw all the sensation he could before the completion. She looked at him with eyes that caressed him like her silks.
Ah, my lord, do not cry so, her words cloying and thick. Shalla has danced for many before you, and knows how to achieve the full embrace of my fabrics. She moved to him, one hand behind her back.
You need to feel it completely. Nothing can exist between you and it. She drew forth a thin, glistening blade and put it in his eager hand.