What color is the night sky?
On Argent Nur, the night is a beautiful, trippy dream. The stars aren't twinkling; instead, the sky is a permanent light show, thanks to the massive, gem-filled mountains that reflect the magnificent auroras across the entire hemisphere. It's a neon-soaked, otherworldly glow that puts our little Northern Lights to shame.
On this glittering world lies the City of Truth, a bizarre, topsy-turvy metropolis built under the shadow of the Nur Ring. It stands in stark contrast to Argentum, home of the warriors.
The animosity between these two factions is a sight to behold. Warriors think wizards are a bunch of weak-willed cowards who pray to imaginary friends. "Faith," they'd sneer, "is just a crutch for those too pathetic to stand on their own two feet."
Wizards, on the other hand, see warriors as brutish simpletons. They're so wrapped up in their "Warrior's Law" that they can't even begin to grasp the deeper, more profound truths of the universe. It's a clash of brains vs. brawn, and neither side is ready to concede.
This ideological chasm is reflected in their architecture. The warriors' towers are all rigid, uniform, and orderly. The wizards' towers? Not so much. Each one is a unique, architectural fever dream—some are tilted at gravity-defying angles, others are built upside down. It's like a bunch of artistic geniuses were given a "no rules" building contest. The tallest one in the city center is the biggest offender, a glorious mess of mismatched windows and crooked brickwork that's somehow, beautifully, wrong.
High Priest Isaac, once a man of poise and grace, is now a wreck. He's been on his knees for three months straight, literally begging for divine forgiveness. His head is a mess of bruises, his back is permanently hunched, and his lips are chapped from endless prayers.
Why the self-flagellation? He messed up a mission from his gods. He was supposed to bring back the "Divine Child," a figure named Blazkowicz who had just arrived. But he botched it, and the King of the warriors,Nowick, swooped in first.
Now, Isaac is consumed by a soul-crushing fear: what if his gods abandon him? He's a powerful psyker, a master of the mind, but right now, he feels like a lost dog in the gutter, tail-wagging and desperate for a scrap of attention from a master who might've forgotten he even exists.
This is the tricky part about the Four Gods. Their love isn't like ours. It's not logical. It doesn't grow with devotion or shrink with contempt. It just... is. They love you, they don't love you. It all depends on their cosmic mood swing.
And right now, they're watching Isaac's pathetic display.
Up in the Warp, the Four Gods are chilling, observing their pathetic supplicant. Tzeentch, the God of Change, is profoundly bored. To him, Isaac is as interesting as a single-celled amoeba.
"Aren't you gonna say something?" asks Slaanesh, licking her lips with a long, black tongue. She smells a complex cocktail of pain and secret joy in Isaac's masochism. She's intrigued.
"He's a useless pawn," Tzeentch says, casually pulling a moment of time from history. He shows the others the chaotic scene where King Nowick snagged Blazkowicz before Isaac could. "You messed with my plan?" Tzeentch asks, his form shifting into a giant eye, glaring at Khorne, the Blood God.
Khorne, a simple-minded warrior, is in a good mood and denies it. Everyone knows Khorne doesn't lie, even if he's trying to be sneaky. Tzeentch's eye then drifts to Nurgle, the Plague God.
"What are you looking at me for?" Nurgle grumbles, disgusted. "I don't do petty schemes."
The three gods then turn their gaze to Slaanesh, the youngest and most despised of the bunch. Slaanesh's domain is desire, and that means she can taint the pure obsessions of the other gods—Khorne's lust for slaughter, Tzeentch's thirst for knowledge, and even Nurgle's sacred cycle of life and decay. Everyone hates him.
"It wasn't me!" Slaanesh whines, sounding a bit too defensive. "That warrior's will is strong. He's too disciplined."
The gods fall silent. They know someone intervened. Someone with a power they can't see.
"Was it Him?" Slaanesh whispers, referring to the "Big Man In Charge" who's been busy on his home planet, Terra.
"No," Tzeentch says, showing them a projection of Terra. "He's busy preparing his armies."
"No matter who it was," Tzeentch chuckles, showing them a new image of King Nowick drawing up plans in his study. "He now knows what we're after. We need to get to Blazkowicz, and he's in our way."
Nurgle, ever the helpful one, vomits up a miniature version of Argent Nur, explaining that the planet's location makes their influence weak. They need a foothold.
Slaanesh wiggles his tongue, leaving a purple stain on the miniature planet. "Send an envoy," he suggests. "One ritual is all we need to create an anchor point. Then space means nothing!"
The other two gods agree. Tzeentch pulls a magical dagger out of his own throat, Khorne blesses it with warrior's might, Nurgle swallows it to imbue it with corruption, and Slaanesh spins it to bestow it with artistic grace.
They're ready to make a move. And who better to be their messenger than the guy who just failed them?
"Isaac ~" a voice echoes in the High Priest's mind, "What are you willing to give?"
Isaac, who has just about lost his mind, is overjoyed. "Everything!" he sobs. "I'll give you everything! I'm no longer myself, I'm your apostle, your mouthpiece!"
A deep, cosmic laugh rumbles through his head. "Then I shall grant you everything," the god says. "I just hope you don't disappoint us again."