None know from where the Heresiarch first came, but all remember the night that it did. It rode down from the bleeding stars on a great serpent, hurling bolts of obsidian lightning that shattered the monuments and capitols of every nation. Its infernal army swept aside the defenses of the mortal empires in a single hour, decimating legions once thought to be the invincible fist of humanity's god-kings.
Faceless priests - each bearing the symbol of the trident - drifted through the fallen cities and scorched villages on a frigid wind, and when they rose to greet the huddled men and women ringed by their festering, bloated dead, they spoke a single, simple offer: worship the Heresiarch or die.
Thousands of crusaders fell tonight so that you might be given this chance. In a last stand that, for the first time, united all of the empires of humanity as brothers and sisters, a way was cleared into an infernal stronghold said to contain a gate to the Heresiarch’s fane. All is silent save for the clangor of distant battle.
Surrounded by grim-faced knights and teary-eyed peasants – their hands clasped in desperate hope – you step through the glowing, churning doorway, knowing there will be no help and likely no return.
Of the Fane of the Heresiarch, little is truly known or even among that which is knowable.
There are five reliable rumors, one is false.
There are five unreliable rumors, one is true.
Weigh thy thoughts upon these words with great import, for they are your salvation.