But the gods care for nothing save filling their bellies with our sorrows. The Word Bearers believe the gods crave worship. A merciful strategist devises a plan for bloodless victory, and Tzeentch is content. A woman strikes her crying child, and that awful moment of elation she feels feeds Khorne. A man pets a stray, and his small pleasure in the kindness of the act feeds Slaanesh. Win or lose, the gods feast on our deeds. What is there for the gods to feed on? Where is the desire for victory, the savagery, the hope and despair? Where is the entertainment? War as you describe it would be little more than pest control. I figured that out the day of my culling, when my family forced my cousins and me to fight for the honour of joining the Third. Perhaps we are little more than psychopathic apes, driven to fashion clubs and smash out the brains of our closest neighbours.Īnd here I thought you were the clever one. Perhaps I overestimate the intelligence of our species. Saboteurs, chemical weapons - there are hundreds of ways of dismantling a world and its population that do not involve orbital insertions and glorious advances into the teeth of enemy fire. Pound the earth flat and build over the ashes. It always seemed to me more efficient to simply eradicate our foes from orbit. “I have never really understood our gene-father's obsession with martial glory.
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