The entire Vessel was a Ghost Ship, no sign of life and he could only a sense a faint presence of the one he hunted. He had been here, he had directed the ship but had somehow left, and quite some time ago. Looking out the Bridge Window, Garran knew where he had gone. He was after Balor once more, attempting to seduce the man he knew a lifetime ago. A Bright Flash flared and the ship was rocked by a mysterious Force.

Recovering from the blinding light, Garran looked back up and saw a massive vessel, followed by many smaller craft emerge from Warp Travel. He instinctively recognised the Antagoniser, The Twisted Pride of the Daemon Prince Lord Garathos. In a Brilliant and fearful display of sheer Power, he watch as its countless gun batteries opened fire on the Repenter, smashing her aside as if its bulkheads were paper thin and igniting the onboard munitions. In a matter of seconds, his ship had been reduced to liquid fire and twisted metal. Ignoring the Corrupter, the small armada continued on its journey, disappearing almost as soon as it had arrived. There was no way the traitor could have planned this event to such fine detail and timing. Almost shaking from the loss of his faithful crew, only one word escaped his lips, ‘Balor’.
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The ball clouded and images began to form, knowledge shot painfully into Balor’s mind, invaded it, defiling it. The Black Legion had arrived to claim this newly corrupted world, their drop pods slamming into the citadel grounds and around strategic locations. The image seared itself into his mind. The image faded and was replaced by another one, his brother. Chronos came out of the citadel, his father’s crown upon his head. Arrayed before him were hundreds of armoured warriors and thousands of citizens, despicable stars etched and seared into their flesh. Anger flared in Balor, forming into a primal rage at the betrayal. A massive abomination stepped forwards, half man, half daemon, but all terror. The Winged beast easily stood ten feet tall, dwarfing all that it passed. A voice rang in Balor’s head and a name flashed before his eyes, ‘Lord Garathos’. The Image faded as Chronos knelt before the beast.

Another image formed, an Imperial Fleet arriving, more drop pods landed. Grand silver warriors backed up by Noble Crimson Red marines stepped out, a combined force. One man, their leader seemed familiar, another name, Marcello. Battles flashed before his eyes, great victories and sorrowful losses. Each battle was more furious than the last, each flickering faster than the one before it. The Black warriors fell back to their ships, a retreat, and a hasty withdrawal that left many behind. The short but bloody war was over; the planet was under Imperial control once more.

The ball was slow to show the next vision, another familiar man, yet another name, Polonius. His small well rounded figure could be seen amongst the regiments of Imperial Guard that had landed. Before them was the fallen citizens of Antiga, all herded up. The little man yelled something and the Imperial Guardsmen lifted up their rifles. Another order and the barrels spat death. Balor’s hope faded and was replaced with despair and agony, the will to endure overcame him.

The vision was replaced once more, and Balor watched as his world was sucked dry by the greed of the Imperium, as its natural resources were wasted away. Dirty and pollutant Hive Cities sprang up, as did mining communities, when it was found that Antiga Prime was richer in raw material than previously thought. Each sapped the life out of the planet he loved, the planet he would die for. The blue skies turned black and the trees withered and died, his people forced into slavery unto death. Pure hate consumed him, how many years had he stared into the ball no longer mattered. All that mattered was the destruction of the Imperium. Balor now understood the wisdom of the stranger, and the logic behind his brother’s betrayal. In tolerance with the Imperium, he had received nothing but treachery and Betrayal. It was in that moment that he dammed his soul, and gave up all ties to the Imperium, and it’s false God. After swearing featly to his new deities, Balor embraced chaos itself, each separate aspect would play its part in damning the fools of the corpse God, and each was resourceful in its own way at one time or another.

Balor, still trapped inside his nightmarish cell, was a shadow of his former self. No longer was he tall and proud, but gnarled, twisted and gaunt, some unnatural power had kept him alive while he wasted away watching the ball. More Images flashed before Balor’s eyes, black armoured warriors stalked the wastelands, split into Warbands due to the lack of leadership. The forgotten company that had been left behind had been in hiding. A final image flared more brightly than the rest, the one who brought this upon his Planet, the one who would suffer eternally for his sins, the one he would kill, Garran. The visions stopped and the Ball was no longer jet, but as grey as the stone walls that surrounded him. Balor now knew what he had to do, he knew what had to be done and nothing else remained in his mind, all had been erased. With that, he accepted the task the Dark Wanderer had set for him.

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A searing pain shot through Balor’s body, his muscles burned and blood boiled, veins stressed all over him. Pressure built up in his chest and the clothes on his back began to tear. His hands clutched his head in agony as the transformation took place. Bones shifted and hardened while muscles expanded far beyond their normal capacity. Organs mutated and grew as did the rest of his body. Within minutes, no longer was he man, but a super human in all aspects, Khorne had fulfilled his promise and elevated him to a mighty warrior, standing higher than even than the Space Marines. Without any effort, Balor ripped the steel bars from his cell door and stepped out. He strode through the catacombs and came to the secret entrance that led into the normal jails above. Balor thrust his fist into the wall and the stone gave way, someone had tried in vain to wall him in.

Cries of surprise from the other side changed into wails of agony mid-flight as Balor bashed his way through the secret wall. The jailors clutched their face in pain as their bodies withered away before his eyes, becoming bubbling mounds of puss. The Lord of Decay had cleared a path for his escape. Led by wild and raw emotions, Balor made his way through the citadel, mounds of puss could be seen in every room and corridor. Hate directed him towards an ornate wooden door that somehow seemed familiar, perhaps in another lifetime. With a single front kick, the doors collapsed on themselves, utterly shattered. Inside was an elegant bedroom, and shivering in the corner was a bloated form. A name came to mind, one that had been seared there, Polonius. Balor strode up to the pathetic form and picked it up by the shirt with a single hand, lifting it to meet his gaze. There was recognition in his eyes, but Balor could not remember the man, he only knew that he hated him. The man’s eyes went black as Balor put his fist straight through his chest and out the other side. This creature would not die, but live for an eternity of pain; the Lord of decay had fulfilled its promise.

Revenge now guided Balor through the somehow familiar corridors. His every movement led him to the armoury, its door torn off. Each corridor and turn led him to the same room; they would not let him leave until he entered it. Confusion among other emotions forced him into the room, and he found it defiled beyond any recognition by the ruinous powers of Chaos. In the Centre stood a suit of gleaming power armour, all manner of glyphs and runes depicting chaos had been etched on. By its side stood an arcane weapon, rare among even the loyalist legions and next to that an oversized power fist leaned. Clutching at the armour, he realised that someone had seen this fate and made prepared for his escape, most notable the work of the servants of the Lord of Change.

When Balor emerged from the twisted room, he no longer even resembled a man, but a mighty champion of chaos. Across his shoulders was the tattered remains of the cape he once wore so proudly. Behind his left shoulder, the stranger materialised, removing his cloak once and for all. All at once Balor understood, and everything now fit into place. The mistakes of the past had come full circle, Haunting the present once more, but this time there could be no failure. The Stranger motioned Balor towards him, his huge staff crackling with unholy energies. “Come, tend to your flock, find your sheep and watch over them.” The stranger then held out his hand, and Balor took hold of it. In an instant, they were both gone.