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| "Order is no constant, only Chaos fills that role..." |
The Void - Hostile Forces.
Space.
A realm in which the laughter
Of forces unknown
Echoes through all the known dimensions
Shattering resolve, breaking will
Entire nations quake in fear, whole empires orchestrate
Their fall at the hand of these ruinous powers
That came before all, and will last longer still
Order is no constant, only Chaos fills that role
What they are, no-one knows, their intentions an enigma
They are anathema to all life - in this twisted
Existence, they are masters of their fate
And perhaps your fate
And the fates of all.
There is no escape
No escape
From your destiny here.
Nothing is ever still, save for four constants
Four collections of emotion that linger in the hearts
Of every man and beast in the galaxy
Yet sit outside of our realm, imprisoned and shackled
All still fully capable of bringing harm to us all.
The first, a blood-crazed barbarian, thirsting for war
Sitting atop his realm on a throne of skulls and blood
Dripping with the misery of thousands of lost souls
He is the embodiment of war, the personification of rage
His demons are filled with blood-lust, forever mad, forever angry
Looking to ravage and dominate in conflicts galore
The realm they reside in is a crimson wonderland
Filled with the screams of the wrathful and the corpses
Of those too weak to withstand the tempest
Of Rancor and Rage, two fuels of war
And anger and scathing fury
Sating mortals' primitive need for violence
Or perhaps exacerbating it? One can never be sure
Of the boons one can find when lost in jet-black rage
The curses are many, yet hordes still leap
And jump and vie for the chance to wreak havoc
To let loose on a world so cold, so indifferent
Their battle-cry inspires fear in the hearts of all
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!"
Second lies the Architect, the Weaver of Fates
Always changing, never constant
Spinning and weaving plots that span across the ages
That encapsulate everything and everyone, even the Weaver
Himself, who embodies hope and change
Two things which drive all the mortal races
Stasis is despised, an aberration left out
Only change will do, whether good or bad
Sustained by this desire, the Changer of the Ways
Manipulates and tempts ordinary men towards dark, dark futures
All whilst furthering his own twisted, convoluted schemes
His realm, oh, it is madness personified!
An ever-changing landscape of all nine dimensions
Colors of every form, alien and natural, shine through in this
Madman's dream, this eldritch nightmare
Uninhabitable for all except daemons
Distorting senses, driving many to insanity
At the center of this realm, lies an Impossible Fortress
Warping and twisting and changing, unassailable
Reflecting misery and hope, dreams and nightmares
And at the very center, you'll find the Changer himself
"Your fate is his to command, your doom already foretold."
The third, a herald of death and decay
Perhaps the oldest of this twisted, Chaotic quartet
Following in life's footsteps since the birth of all living things
Forming the ruins of tomorrow, the despair that sits
In all men's hearts
Strengthening, galvanizing the Plague Father
A precursor of all, the shadow that looms over
Man's dying breath, feeding on the rot
That plagues all living and all dead
His realm, a mockery of all that lives
A foul cesspit of disease and filth
The very air carries with it the stench of death
The ground, covered in corpses old and new
Blooming with pox, pandemics forged not in fire
But in the process of entropy, a profane practice
Which brings about caricatures of life, foul, hideous beings
Cloaked in misery, embellished with all manner of blights
Bloated with corruption, wearing necrotic skin
True, undying filth, but rather than wallow in misery
This realm is jovial, happy, just like those who cling to life
Pestilence is seen as a gift, plagues are hearty boons
To those that follow the Fly Lord, his modus operandi
Booming across the land
"The hope of a moment is but the foundation stone
Of everlasting regret."
Lust and hedonism, the precursors to the last
Nightmare to rise from the depths of darkness
Created by depravities unknown, as an empire fell
Into vile, vile deeds, acts forever foul and demonic
That tore worlds apart, that birthed a new god
Her screams, unearthly, her form, angelic
All but a guise to lure innocent souls
To slake her hunger, for She Who Thirsts
Is never content, is always thirsting for more
Indulging in the profane, dabbling in heresy
Sinking further and further to new heights of depravity
Nothing is sacred, nothing is safe
From this quest for pleasure, this journey of lust
That leads one to the Palace of Pleasure
Surrounded by six rings, each representing a different
Woe - or blessing, depending on how you view this realm
Avidity, Gluttony and Carnality come first, a slew of
Greed, promises of wealth and untold riches
All the best wines and foods from across the frontier
Carnal hopes blossom, testing one's true desires
Paramountcy the fourth, bringing with it
Cries of adulation, granting absolute power
Vainglory, the home of your perfect self-image
Should you feel any ounce of pride, this realm becomes your home
And finally, Indolence, where one second's sleep
Adds another soul to dusty bone beaches
For all eternity, yet, the benefits are clear:
"An eternal life of unrestricted pleasure and hedonism."
Beware, weary traveler, for should you be coaxed
Into mad blood-lust, falling into rancor and fire
Or the always-changing tides of Fate, twisting and warping
Maybe even the deathly plagues that the Father gifts
Or the rampant aftermath of one race's hedonism
Shield your mind from all these, and perhaps your soul
Will not be forfeit to these foul creations of all.
Source of Chaos logo image: http://warhammer40k.wikia.com/wiki/Chaos
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