I always found Mortarion to be an interesting character, in fact I found all the Primarchs to be interesting. I share the feelings of many in WH 40k fandom in that I felt that a lot of the Emperor's sons aren't given enough character development time in the HH series and that there should be more books about the Primarchs themselves. Descent of Angels was an interesting story in that it showed The Lion before he was rediscovered by the Imperium. Anyway, this is a similar story, but based upon the progenitor of the Death Guard. Chapter 1 is a summary of the Warlords' history and how Barbarus became the way it was when Mortarion arrived. Feel free to review, as always I appreciate feedback.

Home World
Chapter 1: Death

Curious, that's how I would describe my now imminent death. All of my brothers have been slain. My shambling hordes slaughtered to the last. My kingdom more or less destroyed. My 'son' lays before me, poisoned and unconscious, while this new comer has his blade sheathed within my flesh. My being begins to sibilate as it burns away from his energized sword.

Energized blades… humans on Barbarus don't possess that kind of technology; but looking upon this… this man, I had no doubts that he wasn't of this world. His tanned features, his dark flowing hair, his ornate, gold armor, he was a being near perfection. I could feel his power, I had felt it a few days ago; it flared in the warp like a star shining light in all directions throughout the void. The only person I've ever met who had similar power was my son. Now I felt that terrible power focus all its attention on me. I looked into his eyes, and I smiled. His expression towards me was one of distaste and indifference. If my lungs hadn't just been sliced open I would have laughed at the irony; I had made that same expression many times before as I executed a foe or slave.

Truly curious, would I have chosen to act differently if I knew this was to be my fate? Looking at Mortarion now, how he has grown, molded by myself to be the very personification of death, I doubt that I'de change my choices. My kind has been rendered incapable of love after centuries of death and war mongering, but I can still feel pride. I feel pride knowing my ways will live on in him, even if he doesn't know it yet…

My kind lived on Barbarus long before the slaves came. In our search for power we chose not to record our history, although I doubt the new regime of this world would keep such records. Better to wipe us out completely I suppose, from reality and history. Even still, our history remains with us through stories past down from generation to generation. The nuclear wars of the Cradle World were devastating to our ancestors. They fled to find a new home, just as so many others had. Unfortunately the true damage of the wars became apparent shortly after they left.

Mutation ran rampant, their once human forms twisting into horrid deviations. As they floated through the void the mutated found comfort with those of similar afflictions. They formed tribes, each prospered despite their cramped surroundings. Within each clan a miniature culture developed. The Cradle World became a distant memory as religion and sorcery replaced science and technology. Tension between the clans caused war, the ancestors forgot their mission as the ships were drenched in the blood of those too twisted and weak to fight. The weak clans' leaders were slain and their women were at the mercy of their conquerors. The different classes of mutants began sharing traits as generation after generation was spawned, culminating in the emergence of the greatest of their number.

Warlords, there was no other name for them; they gained the most powerful and beneficial of their forefathers' abnormalities. The greatest of their gifts were unique to them and them alone though. My ancestors simply called them warlords, others would call them psykers. Some among the clans saw these beings blessed by their tribal gods, and those of the more traditional segment of the population saw them as abominations. When they emerged in full strength they went to work to bring the clans together, and slaughtered any who resisted. Eventually only two human variations remained, the Warlords, who gained everything positive of the ancestors, and those unfortunate souls who gained the less useful adaptations. They were mostly useless at this point, some were balls of limbs and heads who were only capable of simple tasks, others were bestial creatures of poisonous barbs and animal like features that were only slightly better than feral, and some were so ghastly and twisted that they defy description. The Warlords kept the Unfortunates as slaves or in some cases pets while they set out on their most ambitious endeavor yet.

The ships the ancestors had used to flee the Cradle World started with vast stores of supplies to sustain them, but even with intense rationing the caches dwindled. The original mission of their expedition needed to be fulfilled. Under the Warlords' command it only took them a month to find a suitable world, suitable being used lightly. The world was toxic, but through their psychic talents they sensed that this world was their savior. Forgoing normal procedure they crashed their ships into the large, flat valleys. Some were lost due to the damage done to the vessels, but the majority of their population survived. The Warlords soon discovered that not only did the toxic atmosphere of the world not hinder them but it seemed to strengthen them. They forged on and began building their villages in the mountainous regions of the planet, where the toxicity of the atmosphere was most intense. They took to calling the world Barbarus, named for the first of the Warlords. The Unfortunates followed their masters like dutiful dogs, helping them hunt and explore. Unlike the Warlords some of the Unfortunates were unable to survive in their new environment; even so the majority survived.

Years went on and they began to flourish in their new home. Their numbers rose and they perfected their society to where basic needs such as food and water could be produced and provided in abundance. They began to research into their psychic talents, developing new ways to harness, enhance, and use them. Some Warlords took on a secular view of their powers, claiming that it was their breeding and genes that provided them. Others thanked their terrible deity, the Lord of Death, for their gifts. Looking into the empyrean with they began to understand their powers more and more. Their renaissance of other worldly learning was cut short by a sudden emergency however.

With a combination of the sensory equipment that remained functional on their ship and reaching out with their warp sight the Warlords learned that another human expedition was hovering above them, just outside of Barbarus' atmosphere. The Warlords feared that these new comers would invade them, or simply turn them into radioactive vapor with the horrid weapons of the past their ancestors spoke of. For seven days the Warlords came together to assault the new comers' with psychic barrages. The humans aboard these ships were of pure gene-stock, untouched by the effects of mutation. While this may have been seen as a blessing by most this left them with relatively little knowledge of the danger of psykers. For seven days mysterious things happened aboard their ships. Men went insane and killed their own comrades, machines were rendered nonfunctional causing dozens of fatal accidents, and bodies were found torn apart by some otherworldly creatures. On the seventh day the engines failed, and the vessels were eventually pulled to the planet's surface. Thousands died, but still many more lived on to survive the cataclysmic crash. What the survivors found on Barbarus was a hellish existence. Unable to survive in the more elevated locations of the planet they set up villages along the many valleys of the world, farming in an attempt to sustain themselves. They soon discovered they were not alone. Every night they would be assaulted by twisted monsters of vaguely human appearance that were led by huge, pallid warriors with unnatural abilities. The survivors tried to defend themselves with the weaponry they had on their ships, but the tenacity of their aggressors was too great.

The Warlords reveled in this new sport. They toyed with the survivors with a sadistic joy, and descended upon the derelicts their ships had become to scavenge technology. The Warlords soon discovered that using their arcane abilities they could raise the dead of the pure humans as slaves and warriors. Each Warlord began to measure their success in life and standing amongst their comrades by how many Unfortunates and undead slaves they had under their thrall. It started as simple competition, but it quickly escalated into feuds. The Warlords became more withdrawn from each other; they abandoned their villages with their servants and began building manors and forts in the mountainous regions, where their power was greatest and they were relatively safe from any upstarts among the human population.

The ships the Warlords' ancestors were still somewhat intact with some functioning systems; they had been used as a sort of capital to their former occupants. As the Warlords began to retreat to their own private grounds they began to take the technology of the ships with them. This erupted into the first war of many; every warlord led his militia to take what he could and to deny his former comrades' of anything useful. Several ships were blown to scrap in the ensuing battle; others were stripped bare and left to become gargantuan, rusting skeletons.

Time went on, and the planet fell into stagnation. The Warlords continued to torment the humans, harvesting them like a crop of grain when their numbers grew. The humans became the most important resource on Barbarus to the Warlords, so important that they were willing to kill each other for them. The technology that had been harvested became scarcer as various tools and equipment were rendered unusable by the passage of time. Soon the simplest of weapons were considered arcane.

Eventually I was born, and to one of the lowest ranking Warlords no less. My ambition was great, I killed my father when I became strong enough and took his servants as my own. For years I battled against the other Warlords and I harvested more than my fair share of the lowly pure bloods, bolstering my forces and my strength. I was regarded with fear and hatred by all on Barbarus. My ambition led me to the fortress of the greatest Warlord of the time, I dispatched him with ease. It was plain to see that I had taken his place as the most powerful of all, but of course there were the malcontents who sought to challenge me.

I prepared my warriors and slaves for the largest battle Barbarus had ever known as several other Warlords began to move towards my domain. It was to be a free for all slaughter, ending only when the strongest stood triumphant over the broken cadavers of his foes. I knew at the time that this battle would be the stage where I presented to Barbarus that I was its overlord, and I had no doubt that I would win. I thought that it would be the defining moment of my life. Little did I suspect that it was what happened after the battle that would change my fate, and that of Barbarus, forever.