#sun serpent

There were those who persisted, and when the Sun Serpent raised itself from its nest upon the Ashen Tree, hood unfurled to bathe the earth in its light, it passed over the Southern Wastes and granted those lingering people with a terrible gift - the blessing of Memory.

And the people decorated themselves in gold to honor the blessing of the Sun Serpent and in red as the Serpent enjoined them, to Remember the earth that had been lost to the Vine.

And the lingering peoples practiced lost arts. They Remembered, and scribed the Memory of the living so that it would not be lost to Time, and wove the Memory of the land—of the Wastes and before the Wastes—so that it would not be lost to the Vine. They became the Atlas-Bearers, ever creating and ever guided by their books and their woven cloth. Legends carried dutifully in their hands. Maps draped reverently upon their bodies. Ever wandering. Never lost. Always, always seeking to reclaim fragments of home from the Vine.

And among the Atlas-Bearing Folk there were those who were afflicted by the gold and the red to even deeper Memory. In dreams, in sudden insights, in visions unbidden they Remembered that which was no longer known. Remembered that which had not yet been. Some say prophecy tainted the very blood of the people of the Southern Wastes, others that it was inflicted by the Sun Serpent’s passage.

Among the astartes of the Sun Serpents none of more feared for the sheer frenzied, blood-crazed slaughter that they bring to the battlefield than the warrior known only as the Crimson Sunset. A figure of shame and fury this space marines committed crimes so heinous that he was stripped of his name, history and right to belong to any of the Sun Serpent’s 12 companies. Even outside in wider imperium the children of Ce Acatl refuse to acknowledge him as a brother. Having taken a Vow of Blood the Crimson Sunset must either die or bring great and heroic slaughter to the enemy before he earns the right to become a Sun Serpent again.

In the beginning there was a tree, and in the tree there lived a serpent. The tree was lush and verdant and the serpent basked in its wide branches. Thriving in the embrace of warmth the serpent spread its hood.

The warmth turned to inferno and the tree burst into flames. The serpent, to save what it could of its home, took the inferno within itself. What remained of the tree was an ashen husk. What remained of the snake was searing light and heat.

The sky was dark, and the land was cold, and what once had thrived soon fell to waitful slumber. The serpent grew restless and arose from the Ashen Tree, writhing across the sky and unfurling its hood to bathe the land in light and warmth.

Searing brightness and flames followed in its wake, and the life burned, the land baked, and what once had been a gentle land turned to waste. Angered, the serpent continued to coil across the sky, shedding inferno like molted scales and Waste in its wake.

From the realm of the sky came great flocks of ravens and vultures, drawn by the serpent's anger and its burning wake. Each vulture pecked a morsel of inferno and devoured it, each raven shed midnight feathers and their wings darkened the sky.

The serpent traversed the world, a legion of dark wings cloaking its passage, seeking respite. Seeking safety. Seeking home. Thrashing a furrow of Waste in its wake.

After a time the serpent came back around to the Ashen Tree, and curled itself back inside the burned out trunk that used to be its home. Night descended, and the great flock dispersed.