And that thought will be: .
am the last thought of a dying heretic, a wet, gurgling whisper lost beneath the crunch of ceramite boots on shattered bone. I am the first vox-scream of a hive world as the shadow falls across its sun, a billion voices crying out as one, then none. In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war, and at the center of that war—that endless, churning, blood-soaked eternity—there is only I .
am the Space Marine. Not a man. Not a weapon. A creed. My gene-seed carries the ghost of a primarch, and my primarch carries the ghost of the Emperor. When I slam my chainsword into the chitin of a Tyranid warrior, when I stand ankle-deep in the ichor of a million orks, when I recite the Litany of Hate as my armor’s life support fails—I am not fighting for glory. I am fighting for the right to say I . The right for humanity to exist as more than prey, more than cattle, more than a footnote in the Great Rift’s endless nightmare.
am the Aeldari farseer. I walk a thousand paths, see a million futures, and in every single one, I am a ghost. My race is dying. My gods are dead. And yet, I weave my runes. I cast my prophecy. Because even a dying I is still an I — a finger raised against the swallowing dark.
am the Ork who believes so hard that my rusty choppa becomes a weapon of reality-slicing power. My I is stupid, glorious, and unstoppable. WAAAGH!
I - Warhammer 40k
And that thought will be: .
am the last thought of a dying heretic, a wet, gurgling whisper lost beneath the crunch of ceramite boots on shattered bone. I am the first vox-scream of a hive world as the shadow falls across its sun, a billion voices crying out as one, then none. In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war, and at the center of that war—that endless, churning, blood-soaked eternity—there is only I . warhammer 40k i
am the Space Marine. Not a man. Not a weapon. A creed. My gene-seed carries the ghost of a primarch, and my primarch carries the ghost of the Emperor. When I slam my chainsword into the chitin of a Tyranid warrior, when I stand ankle-deep in the ichor of a million orks, when I recite the Litany of Hate as my armor’s life support fails—I am not fighting for glory. I am fighting for the right to say I . The right for humanity to exist as more than prey, more than cattle, more than a footnote in the Great Rift’s endless nightmare. And that thought will be:
am the Aeldari farseer. I walk a thousand paths, see a million futures, and in every single one, I am a ghost. My race is dying. My gods are dead. And yet, I weave my runes. I cast my prophecy. Because even a dying I is still an I — a finger raised against the swallowing dark. In the grim darkness of the far future,
am the Ork who believes so hard that my rusty choppa becomes a weapon of reality-slicing power. My I is stupid, glorious, and unstoppable. WAAAGH!