Foreword

So this is something a bit different to say the least. As I have become a bit lost when it comes to modern 40k in both editions, rules and mostly the lore I thought about giving up and moving on. I'm a Rogue Trader era player at heart and it was very much a different time and so I thought why not just express myself through an alternative setting? Why tie myself to a lore that no longer appeals to me and drains my creativity when the 40k universe is potentially so huge?

 

So that is what this is, this isn't a direct return to the lore of Rogue Trader but I intend to use the rules and setting as much as possible.

 

The idea is that a man was discovered in the grounds of the Priestly estate in the early 1800s. He was strangely dressed and made little sense so Lord Priestly contacted his good friend Doctor Edward Sinclair who then took him to the Saint Mary Bethlehem Hospital in London known more commonly as Bedlam.

Unknown to any during the clash of unimaginable forces that took place during the final battle between the Emperor and Horus a schism was formed that caused a tear in the fabric of time and space that resulted in the creation of pocket existences. These existences are explored by the Ordo Scientia, a unique cadre of Inquisitors who only exist in a single plain of reality and have no alternate versions of themselves in other realities making them akin to blanks but to reality rather than the warp. This rare ability allows them to travel to these alternate realities to document the specific points of divergency and if possible repair the fractures in time space.

In this instance it is believed that this man has become possessed by a tiny fragment of the soul of Him on Terra driving him insane and showing him incomprehensible visions of an alternate time line of the 41st Millenium.

 

This might get a bit odd...

 

106.0.105.851.M19 - Bedlam Asylum - London 1851

 

 

Within the confines of his dismal cell, Richard found himself caught in a harrowing dance between the present and an elusive future. The year was 1851, of this he knew to be one truth. The walls of the asylum whispered tales of neglect and despair. Richard's fractured mind, a swirling maelstrom of fragmented visions, became the canvas upon which flickers of an unknown and foreboding destiny painted their unsettling strokes.

 

Amid the oppressive gloom that permeated his cell, the air carried the faint scent of dampness and desolation, a haunting reminder of the neglected state of his existence. Dim light filtered through a cracked window, casting feeble rays upon the worn and faded floor, revealing the scars of countless footsteps and a history forgotten.

Richard's body, tightly restrained within the confines of a straitjacket, bore the marks of his physical and psychological torment. The fabric, worn thin with time, strained against his restless movements, leaving faint imprints upon his wrists, akin to the lingering echoes of his inner struggles.

 

Within the modest confines of his cot, Richard's few possessions lay scattered, bearing the weight of scarcity and neglect. A threadbare blanket, its once vibrant colours faded, offered little respite from the chill that seeped through the cracks of the barred windows. The mattress, worn and uneven, provided a meagre barrier between his weary body and the unforgiving wooden slats beneath.

 

As Richard grappled with the fragments of his enigmatic visions, the dilapidated surroundings served as a stark backdrop, a constant reminder of the desolation that enveloped him. The peeling wallpaper, its once intricate patterns now reduced to tattered remnants, bore witness to the ravages of time. The creaking floorboards whispered tales of neglect, their weary sighs echoing the tormented whispers of Richard's restless mind.

 

Dr. Edward Sinclair, his presence marked by heavy footsteps on the decaying floor, regarded Richard with an air of clinical detachment. Unaware of the true depths of Richard's anguish, he conducted his inquiries, his gaze sweeping over the austere conditions as if they were inconsequential details in his pursuit of understanding.

 

Yet, for Richard, the squalor of his surroundings spoke volumes of his torment. The crumbling plaster, the faded furnishings, and the perpetual chill that hung in the air were tangible reminders of his entrapment within a world that mirrored the disarray of his own shattered psyche. The meagre conditions served as an ever-present reminder of the hopelessness that pervaded his existence, casting shadows upon his fragile state of mind.

 

But amidst the bleakness of his reality, Richard's visions pierced through the veil of his tormented consciousness. Within the depths of his fragmented mind, he caught glimpses of towering figures, clad in enigmatic armour, their forms both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Their weapons, imbued with an otherworldly light, hinted at unimaginable power and hinted at a universe engulfed in conflict and chaos.

 

Yet, Richard could not grasp the true nature of these visions. They slipped through his fingers like ethereal mist, leaving him yearning for comprehension. The flickers of the future tantalized him with glimpses of a war-torn cosmos, where humanity fought against unfathomable horrors, their existence hanging by a thread.

The glimpses of his future, though vivid, remained elusive and enigmatic. Richard's mind, trapped within the confines of his tormented soul, struggled to make sense of the fragments. The towering figures, the cosmic battles, and the ominous undertones both fascinated and terrified him, leaving him in a perpetual state of unease.

 

Dr. Edward Sinclair, his analytical gaze fixed upon Richard leaned forward, his curiosity piqued by the fragmented accounts of the tormented patient. "Richard," he requested, his voice tinged with more than a hint of professional scepticism, "elucidate upon these disturbing spectacles that invade your consciousness. Describe to me the fantastical horrors you claim to witness, as if conjured from the depths of a fevered dream."

 

Richard, his voice quivering with a mix of fear and wonder, struggled to convey the nightmarish scenes that unfolded within his fractured mind. "Doctor," he whispered, his words laced with trepidation, "I bear witness to a colossal campaign, a tumultuous clash between forces that surpass mortal comprehension. It is an inferno of warfare, where enigmatic warriors donned in unfamiliar armour engage in desperate combat against... against abominations of grotesque visage."

 

Dr. Sinclair, maintaining his usual detached demeanour, pressed further, his scepticism colouring his inquiry. "And these warriors, Richard, in their remarkable guise, what compels them to confront these monstrous adversaries in such a ferocious manner?"

 

Richard, his voice quavering under the weight of his visions, continued, his words laced with a sense of dread. "They... they are clad in gleaming armour, Doctor," he stammered. "Their towering presence on the battlefield surpasses that of ordinary men, evoking a sense of both dread and awe. Their weapons... they unleash devastation, as if harnessed from realms beyond. But the creatures they face, Doctor... they are abhorrent, savage entities. Their guttural roars reverberate through the chaos, their horde seemingly endless."

 

Dr. Sinclair struggled to reconcile the fantastical nature of Richard's accounts with the confines of his own rationality. The patient's descriptions, steeped in fear and vivid imagery, seemed more akin to the ramblings of a fevered mind than a reflection of reality. Yet, within the walls of this place, Richard's torment remained an enigma, his visions a twisted tapestry that defied conventional understanding.

 

Dr. Edward Sinclair probed further, eager to unravel the depths of Richard's enigmatic visions.

 

"Richard," he inquired, his tone laced with a calculated detachment, "elucidate upon the vast dominion you claim to witness. Describe the spread of this enigmatic force that occupies your distorted perceptions."

 

Richard, his voice trembling with uncertainty, grappled with the complexities of his fragmented visions. "Doctor," he uttered, his words hesitant, "I bear witness to a vast expanse, an empire that stretches across celestial realms. It is a dominion forged in the fires of conquest, where worlds are subjugated by an indomitable force. They spread like ripples upon a cosmic pond, their influence felt across the vastness of space."

 

Dr. Sinclair, his analytical mind piecing together the fragments of Richard's description, probed deeper, his scepticism giving way to a begrudging curiosity. "And these worlds, Richard, these celestial territories... what drives this enigmatic force to claim dominion over them?"

 

Richard, his limited understanding of space and the cosmos shining through his explanation, continued, his voice tinged with an air of wonder.

 

"Doctor, it is as if these conquerors seek to unite the stars themselves," he mused. "Their armadas traverse the void, their vessels like chariots of the heavens. They descend upon unsuspecting planets, their influence spreading like tendrils, shaping cultures, and imposing their order upon the chaos. It is a realm of exploration and subjugation, a cosmic dance of conquest and control."

 

Dr. Sinclair, his scepticism waning, recognized the genuine bewilderment in Richard's voice. The patient's limited comprehension of the vast tapestry he witnessed, his struggle to understand the scope and purpose of this sprawling dominion, lent a certain authenticity to his visions. Within the realm of Richard's tortured mind, a vast empire expanded, unbound by the constraints of known reality, its true identity concealed in the depths of his fractured psyche.

Dr. Edward Sinclair, captivated by the perplexing visions that plagued Richard's tormented mind, maintained a clinical distance as he delved deeper into the details of his patient's otherworldly experiences. "Richard," he inquired "attempt to describe these supposed machines you claim to see. As a professional, I seek to understand the psychological implications of your vivid imagination."

 

Richard, a simple and frightened man with limited education, struggled to convey the terrifying spectacles that haunted his tormented psyche. "Doctor," he stammered, his voice tinged with apprehension, "in my visions, I witness these monstrous contraptions, like colossal iron beasts. They stand immense, defying all reason. Their movements are beyond comprehension, shaking the very ground beneath them, leaving me filled with dread."

 

Dr. Sinclair, employing his clinical expertise, probed Richard's descriptions for potential psychological insights. "And what can we draw from these vivid depictions, Richard? The presence of colossal machines and armed individuals may speak to deeper fears and anxieties residing within your subconscious."

 

Richard, his mind clouded by fear and uncertainty, continued to share his fragmented impressions, his voice filled with a mix of awe and trepidation. "Doctor, atop these metal monstrosities, I discern structures resembling shelters, and armed men peering out suggest a state of perpetual war. Their perceived invincibility and the foreboding atmosphere surrounding them reflect a deep-seated apprehension within me."

 

Dr. Sinclair, utilizing his clinical expertise, attempted to make sense of Richard's vivid experiences, carefully considering the psychological underpinnings. "Richard, these visions of colossal machines and armed figures may symbolize a sense of powerlessness or impending danger you feel in your daily life. The juxtaposition of immense strength and an air of invincibility may represent your struggle to overcome perceived obstacles or fears."

 

Richard, caught in the tumultuous grip of his visions, struggled to differentiate between the present reality and the distorted fragments of his tortured mind. As he described the harrowing sights that unfolded before him, he inadvertently painted a perplexing image of Dr. Edward Sinclair, blurring the lines of identity.

 

"Doctor," Richard began, his voice quivering with uncertainty, "I see you there, amidst the chaos and uncertainty. But it is as if you are someone else entirely. Your countenance morphs into a figure of authority, commanding respect and radiating an aura of power that surpasses your usual demeanour."

 

Dr. Sinclair, intrigued, listened intently, fully aware of the nature of Richard's condition. He remained an impartial observer, compelled to extract meaning from the fragments of a troubled mind. "Please, Richard," he implored, his tone professional, "try to convey to me the essence of this alternate perception. What characteristics or qualities do you attribute to this altered manifestation of my presence?"

 

Richard, struggling to find the words, continued with hesitance. "This other you, Doctor, exudes an air of wisdom and knowledge far beyond what I have known. It is as though you possess an understanding of the intricacies of the world, reaching depths that elude my grasp. Your demeanour commands attention, and in your eyes, I glimpse a glimmer of something greater, something beyond the ordinary."

 

Dr. Sinclair, acutely aware of the need to maintain his professional stance, acknowledged the significance of Richard's distorted perception. While fully cognizant that it was a product of Richard's tormented mind, he couldn't help but contemplate the deeper psychological implications.

 

"I see, Richard," Dr. Sinclair replied, his tone measured and clinical. "This altered perception of my presence suggests a longing for guidance and enlightenment, a yearning for a figure of authority who possesses profound insights and understanding. Your mind, lost in the labyrinth of your visions, seeks solace and meaning in the enigmatic guise of the world around you."

Richard's distorted perception of Dr. Sinclair served as a poignant reminder of the fragile boundaries between reality and the fragments of an afflicted mind. It provided Dr. Sinclair with valuable insights into the depths of Richard's psychological turmoil, highlighting the importance of compassion and empathy in guiding him toward the path of healing.

 

 

 

The Dreadnought

 

Richard, his voice quivering with fear and uncertainty, struggled to find the words to describe the bizarre apparition that haunted his visions. With his unkempt hair hanging over his face, he began to recount the enigmatic creature to the sceptical doctor.

 

"Doctor, there's... there's this... this monstrous being I see in my mind. It's like a man, but not like any man I've ever known. It's... encased in some kind of Armor, doctor. The metal is polished and gleaming, but also marred by the scars of battle. I can sense its age, like it's been fighting for centuries."

 

He paused, trying to gather his thoughts, before continuing in a hushed tone. "The size of it... it's immense, doctor. Taller and broader than any man I've ever encountered. It towers over the battlefield, casting a dark shadow that instils terror in the hearts of all who dare to face it."

 

Richard's eyes widened as he struggled to convey the sheer magnitude of his visions. "The Armor, doctor, it's... it's like nothing I've ever seen. It's as if it's been crafted by some divine force, beyond the reach of mortal hands. The plates are adorned with strange symbols, and there are weapons, mighty weapons, jutting out from its shoulders and arms."

 

His voice trembled with a mix of fascination and dread. "The weapons, doctor... they're unlike anything I could ever imagine. They roar and unleash destruction, tearing through enemies with an unholy fury. I feel the ground shake beneath the weight of its steps, and the air is filled with the acrid scent of war."

 

Richard's gaze turned distant, as though he were reliving the visions in real-time. "And there's this... this energy, doctor. It pulsates from within the Armor, radiating power and purpose. I sense a presence, a warrior encased within the metal shell, fused with the machine. It's like a blend of man and monster, driven by a relentless devotion to some unknown cause."

 

He looked at the doctor with a mixture of desperation and pleading. "Doctor, I don't understand what I'm seeing. These visions... they torment me, they consume me. The terror I feel, the magnitude of it all... it's beyond my comprehension. I... I fear I'm losing my mind."

 

The doctor listened intently to Richard's words, piecing together the fragments of his troubled mind. Yet, he remained guarded, seeking to uncover the truth behind these visions that both fascinated and disturbed his patient.

 

In this reality the Imperium has stagnated to the extreme. It is a dark age, there is no innovation, everyone and everything is utterly consumed by superstation and religious dogma, there is no progress, only the inevitable tole of endless war.  Anything beyond the few STC template designs that exist can no longer be produced and that which exists beyond can barely be maintained. The Adeptus Mechanicus have long since succumb to madness their endless pursuit of becoming one with the Omnisiah stifling any pursuit of knowledge. The truth be known the minds of many of their kind have simply become corrupted by the long march of time and fallen into a state of disrepair.

 

The Contemptor pattern dreadnought is one such STC that still exists in widespread use among the Imperial Army, Legiones Astartes and the few remaining households of the Rogue Traders and the Navigator Guilds. Available in several variations this is the standard Astartes pattern where the pilot is entombed within the machine suspended in a bag of amniotic fluid. This practice is uncommon amongst the other branches of the Imperium where mind impulse links or conventional piloting are used but those methods lack the speed, precision and control of the Astartes Dreadnoughts.

 

This dreadnought belongs to the chapter known as the Rainbow Warriors and while it is possible to manufacture new complete machines they have proven difficult to maintain meaning that often battlefield salvage from fallen machines will be used to keep units operational in warzones. This particular model has had it's paint fade and erode in places due to continued operational use.

 

 

 

So this guy is the first of a small army of Rainbow warriors that I am putting together. The general idea for them is that they will look worn and eroded and generally pretty grimy. In this conjured reality the Astartes do not recruit children but take fully grown adult males from the prison and death worlds who are then mindwiped, augmented and reprogrammed to be warriors of the chapter. They are not the noble warriors of the existing Imperium but brutish obedient thugs that exist to carry out the Emperor's will. All chapters are uniform distinguished only by their chapter designation and colours.

If there were ever any Primarchs they have been long since forgotten, there is no mention of the Heresy, Great Crusade or Unification Wars. It's not known if the Emperor is still alive, no one questions his lack of instructions for thousands of years, the universe just is as it is.