The Primarch of Liberty

The night was still, yet it carried an eerie weight, as if the air itself was holding its breath. Franklin Valorian and the Emperor sat around a modest bonfire that flickered against the oppressive darkness of Barbarus. The world around them was a twisted tableau of decay and pestilence, the miasma clinging to the jagged landscape like a living shroud. Yet here, in this small cleared area, the atmosphere was different—three slender Archaeotech pillars, each no taller than a man, radiated a subtle hum, holding back the toxic fog with an invisible barrier. The area was safe, if only temporarily.

The Emperor had taken a more subdued form for this meeting. Gone were the radiant golden aura and the ostentatious displays of authority. Instead, he appeared as a regal, kingly man, his features noble and refined. His eyes, however, retained their piercing intensity, a reminder of his immeasurable power. Opposite him sat Franklin, relaxed and confident, tending to a stick on which he had skewered marshmallows. The crackle of the fire mingled with the occasional hum of the Archaeotech pillars, the only sounds breaking the oppressive silence. The change was deliberate - a father choosing to meet his son as a man rather than an Emperor.

The Emperor's lips curled into a faint smile as he watched Franklin rotate the stick over the fire. "Marshmallows, Franklin? Of all the things to bring to this desolate world, you choose something so… mundane."

Franklin smirked, not looking up from his task. "It's the simplest things, Father, that make life joyful. I'm sure you've learned that in your long, illustrious existence."

The Emperor pondered his son's words, his expression briefly softening. Perhaps, he thought, he had indeed focused too much on grandeur and the monumental tasks before him. "You may have a point," he conceded, though his tone carried a hint of reluctance.

"I often do," Franklin replied with a grin, popping a marshmallow into his mouth.

For a moment, silence settled between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then the Emperor's expression grew serious. "The Ruinous Powers are oddly silent. It's unsettling."

Franklin nodded, his expression growing serious. "Indeed. What brew in their cauldron of malice, I wonder?" The marshmallow stick lowered slightly, forgotten in the gravity of the discussion.

"If they cannot break you directly," the Emperor's voice carried the weight of ancient experience, "they will seek to weaken your position. Your Primeborn - Denzel, Armstrong, the others - they will be targeted. The Powers may attempt to corrupt them, or simply destroy them outright."

Franklin's response was immediate, confident but not arrogant. "I've prepared for such eventualities, Father. Should my Primeborn face danger in my absence, the nearest Eldar Craftworld and Phoenix Lord will render aid." A pause, pregnant with meaning. "And we will do the same for them. Speaking of which - once Khaine is whole again, we mean to attempt Isha's rescue."

The Emperor arched an eyebrow. "The Eldar goddess of life?"

Franklin nodded. "She doesn't belong in Nurgle's clutches. Her freedom could be a boon for humanity as well."

"Do as you will in this matter," he said after a moment's consideration, "but do not jeopardize the Great Crusade."

Franklin's laughter was bright against the dark sky. "When have I ever jeopardized your plans, Father? Every action I take serves humanity's future - both the one we see and the one we must prevent."

"I know, my son. I know." The Emperor's response was soft, carrying an undercurrent of pride.

Franklin's expression turned thoughtful as he stared into the fire. "What do you make of the Overlords here, Father? The xenos ruling this world?"

"Abhumans," the Emperor replied with a trace of disdain. "Too close to the Rotting One's influence."

Franklin nodded. "Nurgle," he said, his tone heavy. "It's a good thing you toned down your usual display of power. Based on… temporal data, your original approach to Mortarion seemed to rub him the wrong way. That, of course, was only part of the problem. The larger issue was his First Captain's betrayal."

The Emperor's gaze darkened. "Explain."

Franklin took a deep breath, his voice steady but grave as he recounted the events. "When the Death Guard's fleet embarked for Terra, Calas Typhon made his move. He had his Grave Wardens frame and kill the Navigators, claiming they were loyal to you. He convinced Mortarion he could guide the fleet through the Warp without them, using his Librarians. Instead, he led them into a trap."

Franklin paused, his eyes narrowing. "The fleet was becalmed in the Warp, helpless against Chaos. The Destroyer Plague struck, and the Death Guard were consumed by its horrors. Typhon embraced Nurgle's gifts, becoming Typhus, Herald of Nurgle. Mortarion held out as long as he could, but eventually, he was forced to submit to save his sons from eternal torment. Nurgle remade them all into his Plague Marines."

The Emperor was silent for a long moment, his face unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured. "Fear not the enemy with swords in front but the friend with a dagger behind your back."

As they spoke, the oppressive miasma beyond the Archaeotech's barrier seemed to shift, heralding the approach of another. Franklin glanced toward the edge of the clearing, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "It seems our guest is finally arriving."

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The night on Barbarus was a cold, poisonous one, the air thick with the miasma that clung to the peaks like a shroud. Mortarion, the grim champion of this blighted world, moved with purpose through the darkness. He had walked these paths countless times, his steps sure and steady even in the treacherous terrain. But tonight, something felt different. There was an anomaly ahead, a pocket of clarity where the ever-present miasma seemed to retreat. From a distance, he could see a faint glow—a fire. And silhouetted against it were two figures, unmistakably out of place in this desolate land.

Mortarion paused, his keen eyes narrowing. He turned to his First Captain. "Calas! Lead the men back to the headquarters. I will investigate this alone."

Typhon - the man who in another timeline would become the architect of his Legion's damnation - nodded and took command of the troops. Their armored forms disappeared into the swirling toxins, leaving Mortarion alone with his suspicions and his curiosity.

Three devices, unlike anything crafted by the tech-smiths of Barbarus, stood in perfect triangulation around the cleared area. Their surfaces bore markings that spoke of forgotten centuries, their quiet hum suggesting power beyond the comprehension of this poisoned world. Mortarion's mind immediately grasped their significance - technology that could push back the miasma itself was worth more than mountains of precious metals.

As he approached the fire, two figures resolved themselves from shadow and flame. One sat with casual ease that bordered on irreverence, wearing clothes more suited to a peaceful world's leisure than the deadly peaks of Barbarus. His face bore a perpetual hint of amusement, as if privy to some cosmic jest. The other... the other carried nobility like a cloak, regality etched into every line of his being. Neither showed the pallid weakness of Barbarus-born humans, their healthy complexions marking them as outsiders as surely as their strange technology.

"The miasma bites hard tonight," the amused one called out, his voice carrying easily through the cleared air. "Care to join us? There's room by the fire."

Mortarion's hand drifted to his weapon, decades of survival instinct warring with an inexplicable sense of recognition. "I don't know who you are," he stated, each word measured and cautious. "Few travel these peaks unscathed. Fewer still sit idle by a fire."

The casual one - Franklin, though Mortarion did not yet know this name - chuckled with genuine warmth. "True enough. But we're not like the others. Let's just say we have... an interest in this world's future. And its rightful champion."

The noble one spoke then, his voice carrying undertones of command that bypassed conscious thought and resonated in the deepest chambers of Mortarion's enhanced mind. "The Overlords have ruled long enough. Their time ends soon, one way or another. We are here to observe and—if fate allows—aid their undoing."

Their words carried weight beyond their surface meaning, hinting at knowledge that should be impossible for outsiders to possess. Mortarion found himself drawn closer to the fire, his enhanced senses detecting no trace of the usual poisons in the air within the devices' influence.

Franklin rose and reached for a satchel that lay beside him. From it, he produced a device that spoke of technologies far beyond anything Mortarion had seen, even in the highest spires of his enemies. "We're not here to fight your battles for you," Franklin explained, holding out the device, "but sometimes a little help doesn't hurt. Consider this a gift—for the people who suffer under their rule."

Mortarion hesitated, his gaze shifting between the device and the man's open, unguarded expression. Despite himself, he felt the stirrings of curiosity and something else—a faint, unfamiliar sense of trust. "What is it?" he asked.

"A storage device," the man replied. "Blueprints, schematics, strategies and your own Power Armor. Tools to help you in your fight. Use them wisely."

Mortarion's eyes narrowed behind his rebreather. Years of brutal survival had taught him to distrust freely offered gifts. "What do you gain from this?" he demanded. "No one gives without expecting something in return."

Franklin's shrug was almost theatrical in its casualness. "We gain nothing—except the satisfaction of seeing a tyrant fall. That's reason enough for us." The sincerity in his voice was matched by something in his eyes - a knowledge and understanding that made Mortarion's usual suspicions falter.

The noble one - the Emperor, though that truth lay hours of conversation away - spoke again, his words cutting through Mortarion's defenses like a power sword through flak armor: "The poison of this world has shaped you—but it has not broken you. Few can say the same."

The statement struck Mortarion like a physical blow. How could this stranger understand so perfectly the crucible that had forged him? How could he know of the countless times Mortarion had faced the poisons, had fallen, had risen again?

"If you have the strength to walk these peaks," Mortarion challenged, "why not fight beside me?"

"Because this is your fight, Mortarion," came the response, laden with meaning yet unspoken. "But we'll be watching—and when the time comes, you'll know who we are."

The regal man's gaze softened ever so slightly, as if he saw something in Mortarion that even the Primarch himself could not. "The Overlords' reign is ending," he said. "What comes next will depend on you."

The conversation continued long into the night, touching on battles fought and lost, the nature of strength and survival, and the burdens of leadership. Mortarion found himself speaking more openly than he ever had, drawn out by the enigmatic warmth of the smirking man and the measured wisdom of the regal one. Hours passed unnoticed, the fire burning steadily as the miasma loomed just beyond the clearing.

As dawn broke, Mortarion heard voices calling his name. His men had returned, their worry evident. He turned to assure them he was fine, but when he looked back at the fire, the two men were gone. The bonfire remained, as did the strange devices, but there was no trace of the strangers. They had vanished like ghosts in the wind, leaving Mortarion unsettled yet oddly resolute.

He gathered the three devices, their purpose and potential seared into his mind. As the miasma began to reclaim the clearing, Mortarion walked away, his thoughts heavy with the weight of the encounter. These men—whoever they were—had changed something within him. The path ahead was clearer now, though no less treacherous. And as he descended toward the headquarters, the words of the regal man echoed in his mind: "What comes next will depend on you."

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Months had passed since Mortarion's encounter with the two enigmatic strangers who had so drastically altered the course of his campaign. The gifts they had left behind—the miraculous pillars that cleared the miasma and the seemingly indestructible power armor now known as the Barbaran Plate—had proven invaluable. Mortarion's hand lingered on his chestplate, fingers tracing its intricate grooves as if trying to decipher the mystery of its origin. How had they known him so well? The armor felt tailored for him, a second skin designed to endure the harshest poisons and most corrosive environments of Barbarus.

To test its limits, Mortarion had submerged himself in the most venomous lakes and braved the densest clouds of miasma. The armor remained unscathed. Later, he would learn that Franklin had forged the Barbaran Plate using Tyranimite, a substance harvested from the carapace of Tyranids. This particular Tyranimite had been extracted from a Tyranid uniquely immune to all poisons, making it exceptionally resistant to venoms of every kind. For now, its resilience was a source of quiet confidence.

Mortarion's forces surged forward, his warriors emboldened by their leader's unyielding resolve and the newfound strength of their equipment. The disposable lasguns, despite their rudimentary construction, had proven devastating against the undead legions and massive golems deployed by the Overlords. Each shriek of a fallen overlord echoed their impending victory. Mortarion stood at the forefront, his gaze fixed on the towering palace of Necare, the High Overlord of Barbarus, perched atop the highest peak. He raised his voice, rallying his men.

"One last remains! One more tyrant to fall, and we are free!"

Weeks later, the foot of Necare's mountain was a graveyard of broken golems and burnt corpses. The Death Guard - for that was what his forces had become - advanced steadily upward, claiming each blood-soaked meter with disciplined determination. At a wide plateau just before the black iron walls, Mortarion called a halt. His men needed rest before the final assault, and he needed to scout the defenses personally.

As he moved forward through the particularly dense miasma surrounding Necare's fortress, familiar figures materialized from the poison-laden air. 

And there they were again.

The two strangers sat casually on a rocky outcrop, the miasma held at bay by an unseen force. The perpetual smirk of the first man, Franklin, was as disarming as it was enigmatic. Beside him sat the regal figure of the Emperor, exuding an air of authority that seemed to command the very air around them.

"Good to see you, Mortarion," Franklin said, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of genuine regard. "I see you're about to make your move on the final overlord."

Mortarion approached cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the pair. "You again. Why are you here this time?"

The Emperor's gaze was steady. "We came to observe your progress and, perhaps, to offer guidance."

"Guidance?" Mortarion's voice was tinged with suspicion. "What more do you intend to give me? You've already armed me with tools I did not ask for, tools that have… proven effective, I admit. But I don't trust charity. No one gives without expecting something in return."

Franklin's smirk deepened. "Ah, a pragmatist. I respect that."

The Emperor's eyes showed approval at how Mortarion had employed their gifts, but his words carried warning: "Necare dwells in the most poisonous reaches of Barbarus. But it is not only the toxins that make him dangerous. He is a psyker."

"A what?" Mortarion's question was sharp with suspicion.

Franklin's ever-present smile took on a serious edge. "One who can conjure effects with thought alone. What you would call a witch."

"A witch." Mortarion's tone hardened with hatred. "No matter. He will fall like the others."

"Be wary," the Emperor cautioned. "Necare has the eyes of his god upon him. You can kill him, yes, but he could kill you just as easily." A pause, heavy with significance. "Unless you were to embrace your own psychic gifts."

Mortarion's reaction was immediate and vehement. "I am no witch," he spat. "Nor will I ever be."

Franklin sighed, reaching into his robes to produce a weapon - a bolter of extraordinary craftsmanship. "Then we offer an alternative. This weapon contains seven rounds of psyk-out ammunition. Each shot will disrupt a psyker's powers, regardless of their strength." He held out the weapon. "Since you refuse your inherent gifts, this may prove necessary."

Mortarion took the weapon, feeling its perfect balance. "You speak as if you know my future."

"We know possibilities," the Emperor replied. "Which become reality depends on choices yet unmade."

"Why help me?" Mortarion demanded. "Why provide these gifts, this knowledge?"

Franklin's smile returned, enigmatic as ever. "Because every child deserves the chance to surpass their father, well adoptive...fathers"

The Emperor's gaze swept across the poison-shrouded battlefield. "You have led your people well, Mortarion. The next steps of your journey will determine not just your fate, but theirs as well."

"You still speak in riddles," Mortarion observed, checking the bolter's mechanism with practiced ease.

"Some truths must be earned through victory," Franklin responded. "Defeat Necare, and many mysteries will become clear."

The Emperor added a final warning: "Remember - it is not weakness to use every weapon at your disposal. Pride can be as deadly as poison."

Mortarion looked down at the psyk-out bolter, then back at his mysterious advisors. "After this battle... will I see you again?"

"Sooner than you think," Franklin's words carried promise and prophecy in equal measure. "The galaxy is vast, but destiny has a way of bringing family together."

The word 'family' caught Mortarion's attention, but before he could question it, a horn sounded from his forces' position. His men were ready for the final assault.

When he turned back, the two figures had vanished once more, leaving him alone with their gifts and their warnings. The psyk-out bolter felt heavy with purpose in his hands - seven shots to change destiny.

He gazed up at the black iron walls of Necare's fortress, where toxic clouds writhed with unnatural purpose. His adopted father waited above, wielding powers Mortarion despised. Yet here he stood, accepting a weapon that countered those same powers, provided by strangers who seemed to know his past and future with equal clarity.

"No witch," he muttered, securing the bolter to his armor, "but no fool either."

The Death Lord turned back toward his waiting forces, his Barbaran Plate shedding toxins like water off a duck's back. Victory awaited above, and with it, perhaps, answers to the questions these strange encounters had seeded in his mind.

Behind him, unseen in the poisoned air, Franklin and the Emperor watched their son and brother begin his final ascent.

"He accepts the weapon," the Emperor observed, "but not the truth of his nature."

Franklin's smile carried a hint of sadness. "Some truths take time, Father. At least this time, he faces Necare with more than just hatred and determination."