Curdling Armada

The greatest pilgrimages draw from all walks of life; those whose desperation for better things outweighs all other emotions. This is no less true for those dedicated to the fell powers than those followers of more wholesome spiritual paths. Dark armadas are an inevitability in a vicious universe: cancerous gatherings of the weak and strong, all united by the self-loathing of men and women who find themselves too human, too limited, buried too deeply in the bloody coffins of withering flesh. No selfless devotion can be found among those who yearn for power, but a canny god will find favourable bargains to be struck among the hungry flock.

It is impossible to guess which power first brought word to the Vectum region of the re-emergence of the rogue space hulk Feverdream - fallen into the hands of the filthy greenskins - but like a candle in the ancient depths much evil was drawn in to the epicentre of the rumour. Broken peons and fallen Astartes alike swept together, carried on the tides of their crooked dreams of petty vengeance or lordly domination. A mighty host of starfaring ships emerged from the Isolation, tumbling past the startled Invictine Readyfleet. Battle should have ensued, but the sheer mass of the force and its path toward wilderness space discouraged the border guardians from engaging. For seventeen days straight the Isolation disgorged vessels until it seemed that Hell itself had vomited its worst excesses. Hundreds upon thousands of hungry souls fixed their collective gaze on a far distant patch of space, and with the narrowing of hearts which has been repeated uncountable times through history transformed the name of their pilgrimage to something altogether more sinister.

Crusade.

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