The bridge of the Imperial cruiser hums with the low, ever-present thrum of its engines, the dim lights flickering in the oppressive silence as the officers gaze at the hololithic display. Before them, magnified many times over yet still awe-inspiring in scale, is the alien construct. The void-black canvas of space is interrupted only by the massive, incandescent glow of the blue giant star. Its fierce light scatters across the display, yet the true focus is the enigmatic structure lurking within the star’s own sunspot.
Even at this vast distance, several astronomical units away, the construct appears monumental, a fusion of bizarre alien craftsmanship and raw, unimaginable power. Its surface is a crystalline lattice, shimmering with the refracted light of the sun it inhabits. Jagged spires of alien crystal rise impossibly from its surface, seemingly disconnected from one another yet linked by arcs of impossible geometry. These connections warp the mind, bending space in ways that shouldn’t be possible. From one angle, they appear perfectly aligned, but shifting ever so slightly reveals a disjointed maze of structures that defy logic, flickering between coherence and chaos. The slightest attempt to understand their layout induces an immediate sense of disorientation, as though the mind itself rebels against comprehending their arrangement.
The crystal surface itself glows faintly, a pale, ethereal radiance that contrasts sharply with the raging sun. Strangely, the construct seems to absorb the fury of the blue giant, its surface shimmering in rippling hues of blue and violet, as though drinking in the solar flares that lash out from the star’s surface. These massive eruptions of stellar fire are caught and twisted into shimmering prisms that dance around the structure, flickering like shards of light.
Some parts of the construct appear solid and stable—angular towers and monolithic spires of translucent, blue-tinged crystal. But other sections seem to phase in and out of existence, as though they exist in multiple dimensions at once, their forms half-present, half-illusory. These sections pulse rhythmically, as though breathing in time with the energy of the star itself. Occasionally, a crackling arc of strange energy flares between these sections, tracing the impossible angles of the structure and forming a lattice of glowing power that connects each separate part in a web of incandescent energy.
At the core of the construct lies a darkened abyss—a shadowed section that seems to pull in all light around it. This heart of the structure is where the strange energy converges, warping space and matter as if something immense and powerful is held within. Raw tides of energy stream between this central point and heart of the sun, as if feeding its collapsing mass and preventing its destruction. The hololithic display struggles to depict the true nature of this central anomaly, with sensors flickering and glitching as they attempt to measure the sheer magnitude of the power contained within.
The closer the vessel approaches, the more the hololithic display distorts, giving a sense of unreality to the scene. The officers feel the weight of something wrong—something deeply, cosmically unnatural. Whispers seem to hum through the display, carried by the currents of strange energy that lace through the construct, the echoes of alien minds long lost but still imprinted on the very fabric of the construct.
The entire scene, viewed from the Imperial bridge, is one of magnificent horror. It is an ancient, impossible construct, a relic of a civilization long gone and of powers best left forgotten. Yet it stands, defying the forces of nature and the will of the warp, a monument to the desperation of a lost race, forever feeding the energy to a dying star.
Approaching the construct
The bridge of the Imperial cruiser is eerily silent, save for the rhythmic hum of strained machinery and the distant wail of alarms. The vast hololithic display at the heart of the command chamber flickers with interference, struggling to maintain a clear image. The ship’s once-mighty shields are strained, barely holding against the violent solar flares from the blue giant star dominating the view. Heat and radiation wash over the vessel with relentless fury, leaving hull plating scorched and systems flickering on the verge of collapse. Time is running short, and the crew’s eyes are fixed on their target at the surface of the sun: the xenos construct.
Magnified on the display, the construct shimmers within the heart of the sunspot, a distant, cryptic beacon of strange architecture. It floats impossibly close to the volatile star, anchored within the swirling maelstrom of plasma and solar fire, its massive crystalline spires glinting in the harsh light. The structure’s impossible geometry defies comprehension, a series of vast, angular towers rising from the core, each connected by thin, ethereal strands of crystalline material. These connections twist and warp the fabric of space itself, bending light and distance into unrecognizable forms.
As the ship inches closer, the construct’s true scale becomes clearer. Enormous towers of gleaming crystal rise like colossal spears, their surfaces faceted and polished, reflecting the furious light of the sun in shimmering hues of violet, azure, and brilliant white. Sunlight refracts through the construct’s prisms, splitting into a kaleidoscope of light that dances across the surface of the ship’s failing viewport screens. These flickers of light pulse with a rhythm, a faint echo of the sun’s wrath, as though the construct itself is alive—breathing, pulsing in time with the collapsing star.
From this distance, several astronomical units away, the officers on the bridge can see the construct’s structure bending the very space around it. The separate crystal spires seem connected by thin, delicate threads of energy, but these threads shift constantly, realigning themselves in ways that defy logic. At times, the spires appear to be adjacent to each other; at other times, they seem miles apart, twisting in and out of view as if space itself is being folded. The mind balks at trying to understand the layout—it is as if the construct exists simultaneously in multiple dimensions, its form phasing between realities.
The display zooms in further, revealing the flickering prisms hovering in orbit around the construct. These shimmering crystalline fragments float in the turbulent space, catching and distorting the light from the sun in myriad ways. They rotate slowly, casting bizarre shadows across the vast, jagged spires. These prisms act as both mirrors and shields, refracting the star’s devastating flares and bending them around the construct in a display of dazzling light. Yet, the prisms are unstable—constantly flickering, their forms twisting and dissolving in an unnerving display of impermanence.
Within this kaleidoscopic storm of light and energy, a faint opening appears—a narrow passage between two towering crystal formations. It is a delicate corridor in the storm, a razor-thin gap that seems to offer a pathway deeper into the construct’s core. But the space around it is fraught with danger. The prisms shift erratically, their movements unpredictable, like the jaws of a great crystalline beast waiting to snap shut at the slightest provocation. Navigating through such a treacherous path requires precise calculation—one wrong move could result in the ship being torn apart by the collapsing spatial distortions.
As the cruiser approaches the threshold of the construct, the display flickers once more, revealing the heart of the crystalline entity. Here, at the very center, is the focal point of the construct’s immense energy. A massive crystal core glows with an inner light, its surface a deep, pulsating violet. Surrounding it are thin, delicate tendrils of energy, winding and spiraling outward, linking the core to the massive spires. From this central nexus, a faint aura of power spreads outward, and the sun’s relentless fury seems to be drawn toward it, like a moth to a flame. It is here, in this swirling, chaotic center, that the construct exerts its true influence—stabilizing the collapsing star, preventing the supernova that would destroy the sector.
But there is something else within the core. Deep within the pulsating crystal, barely visible through the layers of refracted light and psychic energy, a presence looms. A faint, ominous glow emanates from the very center of the construct, flickering with malevolent energy. It is not merely a machine of alien design—something far older and darker is bound within, its essence tethered to the heart of the star itself. The officers can almost feel the weight of it pressing down on their minds, a distant, whispering threat tugging at the edges of their consciousness.
The display falters for a moment as another solar flare bursts from the star, bathing the ship in a wave of blinding radiation. Systems flicker, sparks fly from damaged consoles, and the shields groan in protest. The construct absorbs the brunt of the flare, its prisms bending the solar fire away from the cruiser, but the ship is on borrowed time. They must find a way inside the construct, to shelter within its strange, alien embrace.
The officers on the bridge remain silent, their gaze locked on the shifting crystalline labyrinth that lies ahead. The construct is their only hope of survival, yet it exudes a palpable sense of dread. The ship inches closer to the jagged crystalline spires, the path ahead narrowing, the light from the sun warping and bending through the prisms like a haunting, otherworldly dance.
Entering the construct
The bridge of the Imperial cruiser is bathed in crimson, the harsh glow of emergency lighting casting long shadows across the faces of the crew. Alarms wail in an endless cacophony, and every console flashes with urgent warnings: Critical damage to the core. Reactor shutdown imminent. Hull breaches in multiple sectors. The once-mighty ship has been dealt a fatal blow, its innards torn apart by the sun’s rage and the crystalline labyrinth it so daringly navigated. The air feels thin, heavy with the tension of looming catastrophe.
On the hololithic display, the alien construct looms closer, its massive crystalline spires flickering with otherworldly light. The ship has passed through the maze of drifting prisms and jagged crystals with the skill of its pilot, but it has not escaped unscathed. A final, unpredictable shift in the prisms—a sudden, jarring twist of geometry—strikes the cruiser a crippling blow. The ship lurches violently, and now its core teeters on the brink of disaster. The power systems are barely holding, thrumming with the last dregs of energy, and now, in a desperate attempt to prevent a catastrophic explosion, the core is being shut down.
The hololithic display flickers again, and the twisted scene before the ship becomes clearer through the haze of malfunctioning systems. There, hanging in the void like a specter of doom, is another Imperial vessel—the Golden Fury. The raider-class ship drifts listlessly near the base of one of the construct’s largest crystal formations, a charred and burned wreck. Its hull is blackened, scorched by the same solar flares that threatened to destroy the cruiser. Great gashes have been ripped into the ship’s sides, exposing the skeletal remains of its internal structure to the vacuum of space.
Around the Golden Fury, a cloud of death floats. Thousands of frozen corpses drift in a grim halo, their bodies scattered in all directions. They wear no void suits, no protection against the relentless cold of the vacuum. Pale, contorted faces stare blankly into the abyss, their expressions locked in the eternal silence of death. Limbs twist unnaturally, some bodies spinning slowly, others drifting aimlessly through the void. Their clothing, little more than tattered remnants of uniforms, flutters in the dead of space as they float in a loose orbit around the ruined ship. The frozen dead have become a macabre sea, their bodies mingling with shards of broken hull plating and twisted wreckage.
The Golden Fury itself is no less haunting. Its prow, once proud and bristling with weapons, is shattered and deformed. The ship’s markings are barely visible beneath the layers of ash and burn scars, but the name still glints faintly through the destruction. Its command tower is twisted and bent, the bridge windows blown out, leaving gaping holes that reveal the blackness of space beyond. Every sensor reading is dead; the ship is devoid of life, a ghost ship drifting beside the alien construct like an offering to some ancient, unknown power.
Through the fractured view-screens of the cruiser’s bridge, the officers can see the surreal, crystalline landscape beyond—the massive spires of the construct rising like the bones of a long-dead giant, shimmering with the reflected light of the star. The prisms still dance and flicker, casting strange, unnatural shadows across the dead hulk of the Golden Fury and the field of frozen corpses. Light refracts in bizarre patterns, twisting through the void, making it seem as though the dead are illuminated in flashes of violet and blue, like spectral apparitions.
The ship’s systems continue to scream out warnings, but the bridge remains unnervingly calm. Everyone knows there is nothing more to be done. The core is shut down, the energy bleeding out of the ship. Consoles dim one by one as power is rerouted to keep life support functional for just a few moments longer. The thrumming of the engines has ceased entirely, leaving an oppressive silence broken only by the alarms and the heavy breathing of the officers. On the bridge they sit motionless, their eyes fixed on the hololithic display as the scene unfolds before them—death, ruin, and the cold inevitability of the void.
Outside, the corpses continue to drift, their movements slow and dreamlike, as though they are part of the constructs’s own fiery dance. Occasionally, one catches the light of the it’s prisms, casting strange reflections that make the dead seem to shimmer for a moment before returning to their cold, silent state.
Meeting Judge Mordechai
Ave Imperator! The harsh voice of Judge Mordechai booms, cutting through the vox like a blade. As he steps forward, the distant gleam of the crystal construct casts jagged, prismatic shadows around him, lending an almost otherworldly edge to his presence. He stands tall, his posture rigid and unwavering, a towering figure of grim authority before the players. His sanctified carapace armor gleams with a precise, sanctified sheen—deep black with sigils of gold etched into its surface, each marking a symbol of Imperial law and divine judgment. The armor, while battle-worn, bears no stains of blood; it is pristine, as though cleansed by ritual and prayer after every violent decree.
Behind him is the Icon of Just—a back banner adorned with the twin scales of judgment, emblazoned with the aquila of the Imperium. The banner’s cloth is scorched at the edges, a testament to the countless battles he has waged in the Emperor’s name, yet it stands tall and resolute, much like the man himself. Its dark fabric flickers with each gust, casting a shifting shadow across his armored form.
Strapped to his side, glinting in the strange refracted light of the crystal structure, is a massive, belt-fed bolt pistol—a beast of a weapon, its belt of explosive rounds coiling around his waist like a serpent of destruction. The weapon’s surface is adorned with the litanies of faith, carved into the metal with painstaking precision, and it hums with the faint power of its machine-spirit, as though eager to be unleashed. In his other hand, gripped with grim intent, hangs a chainsword—the teeth of the blade still slick with oil and the remnants of battle. Each link in its chain glints like fangs ready to bite, and it growls softly, as if hungry for blood.
“Do you stand in the Emperor’s light?” his voice is cold and biting, filled with the weight of accusation and the certainty of one who has delivered judgment countless times. He raises his chainsword, pointing the blade toward you with a slow, deliberate motion. “Are you true servants of His will? Or are you slaves of darkness, unfit to draw breath beneath the stars He has illuminated?”
Meeting Martyn the Sane
In the heart of the sun, where the furious light of the blue giant sears everything in its reach, Saint Martyn kneels in eternal prayer, his form bathed in the blinding fire of the star. His hands are clasped tightly together, his eyes closed in serene devotion, lips whispering the sacred litanies of faith. Around him, the inferno rages, the solar plasma licking at his skin, turning the very air into a furnace of unbearable heat. His armor, once shining with the glory of the Emperor, has long since melted and fused to his body, a twisted mass of metal and flesh. Yet still, he prays, undeterred by the agony that washes over him.
As the sun’s fury reaches its peak, the flames surge, and Martyn’s body begins to break apart, incinerated by the unimaginable heat. His flesh blackens, cracks, and peels away, leaving only charred bones beneath. His hair is consumed in an instant, and his eyes boil away, but even as his body is reduced to little more than a burning husk, his voice never falters. His words, though lost to the roar of the solar storm, echo in the immaterial realms, calling out to the Emperor with unwavering faith.
In the moment of his incineration, just as the last of his skin is about to turn to ash, the air around him ripples with a malevolent energy. The burning flames of the sun twist, and from within them, a dark, twisted presence emerges—a demonic entity, ancient and insidious, bound to the heart of the star.
Where the flames had consumed him, the demon’s dark energy pours in, healing his charred flesh in a grotesque display of regeneration. The blackened bones are encased once again in fresh muscle and sinew, the blistered skin knitting itself together in a grotesque reversal of death. His eyes, hollow and melted, are restored, glowing with an unnatural light. His lungs, scorched and lifeless, fill with air once more, and with them, his voice returns to the prayers, as if nothing had changed.
This cycle of burning and rebirth continues in a cruel loop. As soon as his body is restored, the flames surge again, reducing him once more to ash. His prayers ever defiant as the fire consumes him again and again, and each time, the demon waits at the threshold of death, pulling him back from the brink. There is no end to the torment, no escape from the fiery crucible in which Saint Martyn is trapped.
Ignis Aeternus WH 40K campaign notes 