**... And here we see mournful AKH-Ron, in another closed-and-shut chapter, its planetary orbit a mournful gait along its dying lover-star, AKH. See its dimming light, feel its radiance, burning skin to thus create amber postules on the hottest sands. AKH DUH Ron DYAR-MA. ‘Akh chases Ron next-life.’ Chase brilliance, o’ ye children of Boars. This star ours is the tired lover; the planet pinning after useless; the One Lord true in rule. AKH DUH Ron EPP-KA-Juh DYAR-MA. ‘Akh chases Ron One-Lord-Watches next-life.’

Know these words are without hate, someday treacherous.

**

— Knows-It-All Pah

​

---

*Fireworks across the sky. The jubilations of another year come to a close. The pitter-pattering of a thousand-thousand souls across cobblestone roads, dancing in their chhupas and drinking wine milked from dusty casks—these are a nothing-number, a scarcity in any sane world. Yet here they are: humanity, careless with their laughter and mirth. By their wood-and-mud homes, lanterns in a paper cage, exuding dim light.

AKH-Ron (ACHERON-12 in a galactic map), with its dread desert on one face and treacherous jungle on the other, is some undiscovered Feral World. Officially, that is. Its last known classification was made two millennia ago, before the world was lost again following the War of Who-Cares-To-Remember. Its status is closer to a Feudal World, but even that is inaccurate at best. Such classifications, of course, are unknown by-and-large to the population, divorced from the wider Imperium as it is. For them, AKH-Ron is the lover planet, pining after its diseased star-lover, AKH. That is enough for them.

Of their history, we know little. They’re known as survivors of some ilk—from a time the world was one-faced. Five hundred—some argue six—years did HELL’S TEETH bite upon the supple flesh of the world, the cataclysm burning geometry a-way and ending the water-cycles of trees. Without them, the necessary river-beds and oceans would dry away and doom plantations; so few survived the initial impact that it matters little—those who did met the dread-word known as ‘heresy.’ That was the start of the War of Cares-to-Remember.

Even after its end, there it stands. This spire of rust, wailing siren songs, that drives the mind mad. There, the forgotten star-born technologies lie in text, allowing mad men to send four-wheelers and ‘sun-shooters’ to cull the populace. This power imbalance is kept bearable by the greenskin pests’ war-loving nature, omnipresent as always.

Let us breathe for a moment.

It is a lot. I understand. The scenario itself is lidden with implication—the ‘where’ is just as important as the ‘when.’ Istvaan is heavy with history: a history so unimportant to the people of AKH-Ron that they don’t even know of it. Paradoxically, it is nonetheless important for the one you are to follow, a child with an unwanted ancestor, fell here with Hell’s Teeth.

You are not him. He is not you. Nonetheless, you are the guide, master, and will of his.

Come. Sit closer to the flames. Watch the shadow-play and its puppetry. See its weight in the Immaterium; implicate what happened and will happen.

I am watching with bated breath.

---

Again.

Fireworks across the sky. The jubilations of another year come to a close. The pitter-pattering of a thousand-thousand souls across cobblestone roads, dancing in their chhupas and drinking wine milked from dusty casks—these are a nothing-number, a scarcity in any sane world. Yet here they are: humanity, careless with their laughter and mirth. By their wood-and-mud homes, lanterns in a paper cage, exuding dim light.

But this is not where it is.

In Cibmla, this less dreaded desert just north of where the celebrations occur, a light shines. A campfire, flames colored red. There is a singsong in the air—the plucking of a chordophone’s strings and silent humming. Its owner is a man.

What is his name?

**[] KHAMA-Lan Aut: **The true name. In the language of stars practiced by the Shellfish Temple, ten-paces to the grove that overlooks the Hell’s Teeth, it means ‘Impact, star-loved.’ Your father, Brother Aut, was the kindest person you’ve ever met. You loved him very much. As such, you’ve maintained the first name you’ve ever received, and are closer to the needful Empyrean that empowers your immortality. Your Imperial name is Camolan Innaut.

**[] SHU-Ya Mul: **The machine name. In the nonsense language within the Noosphere, it is roughly known as ‘Steaming, wrathful-God.’ The water-barons search for their needful extensions. Flesh-borne, but in love with the mechanics of the universe, and in turn, their own bodies. They are cold and inhumane, which is their point. But even as their greedyguts claimed oceans to cool their metal guts, their help in replanting the forest of Uk reintroduced the water-cycle. You are closer to the machine-body that empowers this universe and its nature. Your Imperial name is Sula Mulls.

**[] Nu-Nu: **The nameless name. In the code-heavy language of the assassins within Ismi’eli, at the Twin-Horn Fortress, this name is meaningless. These killers were dutiful allies in culling the Chaos-ridden warlords in their heyday. Their leader, Tastes-The-Root, used them as puppets, of course. He was a green thing from beyond the stars, without a true body, thus wielding others for unknowable reasons. He was the only other immortal you’ve met. This went on for centuries. You are among the few to understand what he wanted. You’ve long chosen to forget after killing him. This, too, is the Root. You are closer to shadow and light alike, no stranger to warfare seen and unseen, and a student of other races. You will decide your Imperial name later.