What the fuck was his problem?

>The templar rocked slightly on his armoured knees. It was just him and the God-King, in the holiest place in all the Empire.

>‘You have forsaken me,’ Kastner hissed to himself, his dry lips pronouncing each word slowly within the confines of the hood. The templar looked up at the statue’s proud features. The statue gleamed its goldenness and from the low angle, Sigmar looked like a haughty and disdainful god. ‘I have lived a devout existence. Bettered myself with study, for your good grace. Trained to my limits and served you through the sword. I have honoured you. I have loved you. I have given you everything I have. Yet you have left me lost on a path to I know not where.’

>The templar was bathed in shafts of coloured light from the stained-glass window and felt his harsh whispers rise on the heat of the morning sun.

>‘I am no longer an instrument of your design,’ Kastner said. ‘A yardstick to measure the purity of others, a weapon for you to wield in punishment and a shield to protect your Empire from foes near and far. I am changing. I am changed. I know it. Circumstance has turned me from my purpose, in service of others unknown. Like the warped arrow, I fly untrue, yet hit the mark. I will not be a nothing in your eyes. A dog to be put down in the street. I am not an error. An aberration. I am not history to be re-written. I am not a mistake to be corrected. Speak to me, my lord. My Emperor-of-all. My God-King. Show my heart the way. Lead me back to your light and love. I did all in service of you. Like the arrow shaft, I can be softened and straightened. Like the imperfect blade, I can be re-forged. I beg of you, my lord. Find use for me again.’

Forced consent isn't real consent.

>Kastner rose to his feet. He felt sick to his stomach. His knees felt weak.

>‘Don’t leave me,’ Kastner pleaded with his lord, ‘the plaything of fate. Show me a sign – in this place of all places. Anything, curse you.’ But nothing came. Kastner’s lifetime of devotion and service was rewarded with the kind of monumental silence only a towering statue could deliver.

>‘You speak not,’ Kastner mouthed within the darkness of his helmet, ‘but I hear everything. Silence will be met with silence, God-King. Nothing so singularly personifies the prayer unanswered as a god powerless to save his people. So be it. You will watch your worshippers suffer and die – as I drag down your Empire into the embers of Armageddon. You will hear me then, God-King. You will hear me in the pleading prayers of your people, held under my blade. You will hear me in the ravenous fires – that will eat all you have lived to build. You will hear me in the deafening silence of the End Times, where I will leave your petty Empire no world left to conquer. Though half-blind, I see you for the fraud you have always been. The appealing ramblings of a mad friar. I renounce your false majesty – and will forge a path of my own making. I will champion my undoing and accept allegiance of those that already answer the hatred in my heart. I do this out of hatred for you, my lord. Out of hatred for all the fickle Powers of this world, who play at destiny with men’s souls. With darkness lies a new beginning, as with me lies the end of man and all godkind.’

Who was in the wrong here?

Is it just me, or does his armor look kinda like it has big fat tits in that picture?

>in exchange for sparing her children. how is that rape
I'm not sure how you can find anything qualifying as rape with this approach. So just using force is rape but using a knife and threat of death isn't (because the victim complied to not be killed).

>The shadow was missing from the window. Poor Carla’s corpse had slipped down the wall and her elbow from the shattered glass. The marauder’s armoured boot slammed into the door but it was barred against the storm and held. Viktoria slipped the knife she had been using to gut the fish off the table. She backed towards the fire, the stinking blade behind her. She watched. She waited.

>The third impact splintered the bar in two and the smashed door was battered aside, allowing the maelstrom in. Framed in the doorway, in the flaring storm, in her nightmares, was the marauder. Rain cascaded from his furs and the urchin-like outline of his armour. Where leather, mail and plate failed to contain the northman’s brawn, his flesh was tattooed and scarred. Centred about his heart and crossing one great pectoral muscle, the warrior had a rough tattoo in the shape of an eight-pointed star. Viktoria felt both drawn to and despairing of the symbol but decided that it would be the best place to bury her knife when she had the chance. The warrior’s helm was horned and covered his face. Light was admitted by a number of rough puncture holes in the faceplate that, for all Viktoria knew, afflicted the marauder’s hidden face also. The tempest whipped Carla’s lifeblood and gore from the huge blade of the sword in the marauder’s mailed fist.

>He entered. Slowly. Like his knife had the girl outside. His sea-drenched boots carried him calmly across the hovel. There was no frenzied attack. Nothing like the butchery behind him as marauders moved through the village like a pack of wolves, slashing, tearing and sharing. Viktoria picked up a plate and threw it, and another, but they bounced uselessly off the marauder’s chest. He kept coming. Slow. Deliberate. His blade held in casual readiness. He reached out for her but she retreated, grabbing the pot of fish broth by one burning handle and flinging it awkwardly at the warrior. As the heavy pot clattered to the floor, the boiling broth steamed off the marauder’s scalded flesh and armour. If he felt pain, the warrior didn’t show it.

>Viktoria backed away. She felt a sob erupt from her. Futility and frustration. She was about to die and she knew it. At the sound the boys beneath the fishing net stifled their own terror, as the marauder’s helm drew around to the corner of the hovel. The action turned Viktoria’s stomach to stone. She reached into the fire for a partially burning log. She would torch the northerner. His mailed fist snapped around her wrist like vice. She strained but the warrior held her there. She felt his balance change. The tip of his sword was up and resting on her stomach. He intended to skewer her like he had Carla.

>And the marauder would have done, but Viktoria brought the knife from behind her back with her other hand and thrust the blade at the tattoo of the star across the monster’s heart. The tip of the knife punctured the skin and slipped partly into the warrior’s flesh. The marauder was no fish, however. Muscle, bone and whatever protection the unholy symbol offered barred the way to his heart. As Viktoria stood there, frozen with horror, an instant of dark connection was made between their two souls, their two bodies. Shocked and sickened, she released her grip on the weapon, and tried to pull away.

Thanks, user, but I don't read shitty BL books even if posted as greentext on Veeky Forums

I can't wait to do the same with Be'lakor. Or just pelt him with rocks.

>He looked down at the knife protruding from his flesh, then back at Viktoria. She thought she saw his eyes, the light of the fire penetrating the helmet and revealing the jaundiced, bloodshot peace of his gaze. He released her wrist but backhanded her away from the fire. The mailed palm took several of the fishwife’s teeth and she hit the wall with an ugly, head-gashing crack. The children squealed from beneath the netting.

>‘Stay where you are,’ Viktoria called to them. ‘Mummy’s all right.’

>The knife clanged to the floor as the marauder swept his own weapon around, smashing the handle down and the blade tip from his flesh. He turned towards the mound of nets but Viktoria called, ‘No’. She spat blood. She sobbed. ‘Here. Here.’

>She backed into the hovel’s only other room. The bedroom. She was crying. The marauder stopped. He considered. Finally he slid his sword slowly back its scabbard. The marauder advanced. Viktoria retreated. She cried out as the back of her legs hit the bed. She fell back into the blankets. The marauder entered. In his armour and helm he seemed to fill the tiny room. Thunder crashed.

>The wind moaned. The skies wept.

>Viktoria lifted her back from the covers.

>‘No,’ she wept.

>The marauder brought his mail fist up to the helm and extended a finger. ‘Sssshhhhhhh,’ he told her.

>Someone was behind him. The warrior went for his sword and turned. The boat hook smashed through the side of both his helm and skull. Roald Rothschild held him there for a moment, the fisherman’s weapon keeping the marauder in place as he began to tremble and shake. Rothschild had no warrior skill. He had been fortunate in both his approach and the hook’s destination. Fear had driven him on. A husband’s wrath had carried him through doubt. The ungainly wickedness of his improvised weapon had done the rest. Lowering the warrior to his armoured knees, Roald shook the hook loose from the twisted metal of the helm and allowed his victim to fall. The marauder crashed onto the floor and fell into a brief fit, the insides of his head leaking out of the side of the helmet, before finally falling silent and still.

>All Viktoria could see was her husband. His beard hid the grimness on his lips. Dietfried, Otto and Lutz were suddenly about his legs, crying. He put his finger to his lips and bid them be quiet before extending a hand to his wife. Viktoria took it and the family fled the hovel, heading into the storm – Roald’s fishing boat waiting for them, a little way up the rain-lashed beach.

Was it really rape, though?

Why do you assume it was just about you. I posted it so all can analyse the scene and figure out what just happened.

>Who was in the wrong here?
Archaon the weak-willed shitter

>You would consign fate, crafted in flesh and blood, to the depths? The gifts of Chaos are not to be refused. They are not demanded or earned, they are visited upon mortals at the pleasure of Dark Gods and the princes of ruin.

>This story cannot be untold. The will of daemons cannot be undone. It is decided. Doom lives on. Damnation endures. From the darkness of the depths to the darkness of the womb, the gift shall be returned.

>And so I petition the moons and turn back the tide. The black depths reject that which has been rejected. Once more the fruit is swollen with the seed of doom. This child shall live and in doing so bring about the death of all the world. Consider this already done. Done in the name of god-thwarted Be’lakor.

This is Be'lakor's speech after Archaon's mother gave birth to him and then drowned him in the sea. Be'lakor reset time and this time wrote in reality that Archaon's mother would die giving birth. That's her punishment for being a murderous bitch.

Be'lakor best dad or bestest dad?

Only slightly more embarassing than him getting defeated by a kick in the balls by Grimgor.

This kind of shit litteraly killed WHFB.

>Why do you assume it was just about you
Because you replied to me instead of just posting it?

A wounded Archaon was cheapshotted by Grimgor. Wow!

You want to know how much of a weakling Grimgor is? He was stalemated by a guy that Archaon literally beat with one had behind his back, Just bashed him around with his shield for a minute. Grimgor is bitch back then and is a bitch now after Archaon beheaded him.

Not you to all the guys talking about the incident. Yours was the lowest post and I didn't want to take more post space by linking all of them. Sheesh, center of the world much?

>kick in the balls by Grimgor
How? I thought Archaon has no balls?

>Sheesh, center of the world much?
I prefer to be called Chaos

The writer.

Who was in the wrong here?

Nagash. He forced Mannfred's habd.

To be fair, it was GRIMGOR FUCKING IRONHIDE who kicked him

well yeah, thats why i said embarassing.
Not after that i bet.

It wasn't. Archaon fought 2 great warriors and was overrun unexpectedly by another dude who has no business being there since his army scored what was it fifth or fourth?

And it was a headbutt.

>The Lord of All enjoys the songs, the chanting of children at play, holding hands and dancing around. They sing of flowers, of his plagues that sweep through the land and the ashes of bodies burned. They celebrate this life of death, for he is both the cause of their suffering and he who would save them from it. He defines the times with the pain and fear he brings into mortal lives. Though they would not know it, they sing and dance to the tune of the Great Pestilence’s calling.

>He takes so many souls in this way. Like the harvest, they are weighed and measured. They are his tithe. His reward for the architecture of agony that is his contribution to their mortal failing.

>Like the scythe, the Lord of All does not choose between the one stalk and the other. With so many souls feeding his eternal appetite for affliction and end, he will not miss the one stalk. Does the mill miss the single grain? The bread bereft of flour that dusts the floor with its forgotten bounty? The mouth the crumb that falls from the lip?

>He will not miss the one soul unpromised to him. The one soul destined for more than his plague or pestilence. For this one grain re-planted will yield a reaper’s harvest. A celebration of death and suffering the like of which the world has never known. He will be a scourge, a disease all of his own. A plague from which the world will never recover. And so I release this soul from its suffering and send it back so that it might be a worm in the rotting carcass of the world. And not a carcass in itself.

This is Be'lakor's speech about the time Archaon as kid died to one of Nurgle's diseases. Be'lakor plucked his soul from an inattentive Nurgle and reset the timeline so his son would live.

Someone give him best dad mug.

>Accident. Chance. Providence. Doom. These are one and the same. How many heroes have been crafted of the misfortunes that befell them? But for the roll of a die, the flip of a coin or the turn of a card they would be happy nothings to the world. All gods – those of light and of darkness – operate in the enormity of these mere moments. They are in the quiver of the string that sends the arrow wide and the glance of the sword that fails to meet its mark.

>I have saved my pawn, my small piece in a larger game, from a hundred such deaths. What is life but the journey of hapless mortals through the myriad dangers of their miserable existence? It is the tedious curse of princes such as I to watch the tangled deathtraps of entwined lives form knots before me. Sometimes I cut the skein free, damning all to whom it is attached. To mortals these are the battles, massacres and disasters of the world. The labyrinthine circumstances into which the doomed have been inescapably placed. Sometimes, however, I take the time to unravel the threads of existence and free the living of their present doom. This I do when I have investment in the game. This I do for my pawn. I set him free knowing that he will similarly set me free of fate – bonds no less intricate or inescapable. And so my pawn, I release you from a death ordinary and unknown. You are meant for greater deeds.

And this is the speech that Be'lakor gave wen he reset the timeline after teenage Archaon had his head caved in by a horse's kick.

I am gonna make a complete count of all of Archaon's on screen deaths. So far it's 3!

>There are many who would mean you harm, shadow-of-mine. Many wretched gods and their misguided servants. The weakling God-King of the Empire. Ulric of Wolves and Winter. Even the merciful maiden Shallya, who would harm as much as she heals with her potions and instruments. They will cut you with their steel. They will burn you with their faith.

>You are claimed, shadow-of-mine. You were begot of havoc. Orphaned in a world you will destroy. Baptised in the susceptibilities of your enemies. You have the attention of the Dark Gods. They look down on you as I do. With dread. With hope. With possibility. You cannot deny what you are. My gift to the world. Flesh, bone and the spirit that drives it on. A living doom.

>In order to realise your terrible purpose, however, you must live, my creation. Live, shadow-of-mine. The Dark Gods know you now. Show them what you can do. Give them a glimpse of the calamity to come.

And that makes four. Murdered by priestess of Shallya pretending to help.

>But fate is not what you make it, shadow-of-mine. Fate is as inescapable as I choose to make it. Your fate is tied to my own and I will not let us fail. You cannot give away what isn’t yours. Your soul may flee this mortal vessel at my command. When I am ready to assume the Everchosen’s anointed flesh. When I am once again ready to rule a world ripe for ruin. No coward’s noose will deny me my eternity.

>You think it took an indomitable will to deny me? To flee your mortality and consign your flesh to corruption? No, shadow-of-mine. It takes an indomitable will to bend, nay break, the very laws of existence. It takes an indomitable will to wrestle the reins of runaway fate and yoke destiny – that tramples even gods – like a beast of my burdens. It takes an indomitable will to send you back to redress your failures and begin again. To live in ignorance and do my daemon bidding. My indomitable will.

Templar Archaon hung himself to escape his fate but Be'lakor erased this and dialed back time. FIVE. Can we go higher?

His horse died and then he went mental.

>Perhaps I chose unwisely? There is time. There is time, before the end. To start again. To twist the destinies of men unborn and create calamities of my own making. Perhaps the failure is in my blood, forever to repeat itself. Ambition that is blind unto itself. Treachery. Murder. The service of the Ruinous Powers accomplished through the service of the self? The dark nectar of the gods. But in whose service is my pawn? My gods? My daemon need? Doom, plain and simple it seems. His own. And the doom of all else. What kind of corruption is this? What kind of perversity? Nothing I slipped into the ripe fruit of his soul. No blessing he was given by my abyssal overlords. Not my patrons. Not my princely foes. It is a kind of mortal madness. What kind of man lives not for the gifts of greed – for power, for supremacy and eternity? What kind of man exists only to end all other forms of existence? Cannot a man’s future be corralled? Must it buck the saddle, the chains and halters of fate? This soul must be tamed. But not by me. As we all come to learn, the best lessons are those taught to us by our enemies.

And six. Stabbed a Slaaneshi Dark Elf in the throat.

Archaon and be'lakor are shit characters.

Go back to reading naruto fanfiction Be'lacucks

>a loving father and his son are shitty characters

Daddy issues much?

>Defending shitty writing because much daddy

Only one person has issues here.

>Was it really rape, though?
Yes? She essentially lead him there as a last ditch effort to get him to leave her children alone. That's a form of coercion, and thus it's not consent.

Though if I was her husband I would've run that fish hook through her skull too.

Small penis

Archaon the pussy.

Sigmar says in the end times that it was a test of faith which he failed

>You think you are the first?

>Blood of my infernal blood? Flesh of my damned flesh? You think you are the first fool to challenge me? I was slaughtering turncoats and traitors at the dawn of time, you miserable cur.

>am Be’lakor. First of the daemon princes. A monster given form before histories were written and the degenerate races of this world came to know their capabilities. I was a warlord like no other. Primitive. Powerful. Pure of dark purpose. Before your rat-warren cities and delusions of civilisation. Before your mongrel God-King and the fall of his hammer, the tribes of men looked to the greatest of their mortal kind to lead them. To unite the barbarian and the savage. To conquer. To kill. To create.

>The degenerate legions of man were spoiling fruit in my claw. They erected great monuments to my majesty– primitive stone structures of insanity and slavish ambition. With numbers beyond counting, the base and bloodthirsty rallied to my banners of flayed skin. They butchered their own in my honour– the weak of mind, of faith and flesh– and brought death and destruction to the lesser races.

>Those that hid in the great forests of the world, those that took to the depths and those who thought themselves safe in far lands beyond broad oceans. The world was mine– as it will be again. Under my leadership– nay, my sponsorship– champions rose from the raging deluge of barbaric butchery that was my horde. Swine like you, Archaon of the North. Living weapons I honed to a razor’s edge. Minds to which I had introduced pride, belief and ambition. Men of traitorous heart, in whose veins treachery ran free.

>Some say this was my own doing. My mistake alone. That I had underestimated how deep the rot ran in men’s souls. That with my dark example, I had inspired a generation of chieftains and champions. Dread warriors of growing skill, supremacy and influence, who came to be known to the gods.

Since we can a daemon prince rewind fucking time?

>Those that know better lay blame at the feet of the Changer of Ways. The foetid god, Tzeentch, all supreme in his understanding of the world, its people and princes. Patron of the ascended. Plague of the prideful.

>The horror of mortal hope and fear. It was from him that such aspirant warlords and warriors learned of their power. From him they learned the arts of conspiracy and how to catch the eye of a god. Tzeentch, the betrayer. Tzeentch, the great wheel of the world that turns. Tzeentch, the bane of all existence– but one of many. Tzeentch, the doom of Be’lakor.

>He saw the Dark Pantheon’s faith diluted. Their trust spread between my dark champions and chieftains of their individual choosing. Soon I was a prince among many. The first among equals. I hunted down and slaughtered those that had betrayed me or intended to do so. Their appetite for power rivalled my own. So many hungered for a dominion of their own. So many followed such fools into oblivion. I was abandoned by my hordes. Robbed of my gifts. Drained of the power fed by our dread faith.

>I see the same in you, Archaon of the North, as I see the Great Changer’s hand in this. His poison drips from your ear. His lies guide your hand and the blade within it. Archaon– blood of my infernal blood, flesh of my damned flesh, living legend of my dark craft– you will not be the Great Changer’s puppet. You will not be the double edged sword that wounds he who wields it. You will be Archaon, Everchosen of Chaos– blood of Be’lakor’s blood and flesh of Be’lakor’s flesh– or you will be destroyed. Destroyed. A thousand times, destroyed.

SEVEN. Be'lakor cut Archaon in half!

>archaon's such a retard he needs daddy's help 24/7

kek, what a fucking pussy

>There is no life for you, my son-in-shadow. No existence to call your own. No flicker of hope, like the flame of a guttering candle before a storm. I brought you into wretched existence. Your flesh is mine to do with as I will. To desecrate with claw, steel or flame, if I choose. To extinguish or exalt. You can be Archaon of the North. A doom of my creation. Kill. Raze. Destroy. All in the name of shadow. Enjoy the power I have given you. Relish the corporal delights of the flesh while it is still yours. Blood. Greed. Lust. Women to carry new life. Men to suffer at your command. Men to die at your hand. Collect the dark treasures of our calling. Inspire the strong to fight at our side– for only they are worthy of the End Times to come. Thin our ranks of the weak and undeserving– let your wrath be their judge. Swell the horde and the bellies of harlots with our future. Sons on a dark path, champions in the making, loyal lieutenants to fight at my side.

>There are others. There will always be others. Sons whose hearts beat beneath my rising star. Ruinous champions of our purpose if not our blood. They will see this done if you will not, shadow-son of mine. On with your dark quest. North, Archaon. North. The Southern Wastes have given up their treasures. For the last two– the two that will mark you as the Everchosen of the Chaos gods and Lord of the End Times to come– you must return to the top of the world. Hear me, son of shadow. Let my words be remembered. Let them guide your black heart. Let them stay with your sorry soul. To return to the top of the world you must walk in the shadow of the gods themselves, along a path with no bearing that winds through a world beyond your own. It is a mad man’s path and you would have to be insane to take it– but take it you must.

The only good father son duo are melek and chypset.

>The End Times are coming and we are their Harbinger. Go up by going down… out by going in… north by going south. As far south as south will go. There you will find the gateway to our darkest dreams. Whatever is left of you, Archaon, shall pass through a north no mortal man has known. Beyond that is the north that tempered your Ruinous flesh and beyond that the north that will be no more. There you will find what you seek and in doing so you will realise both our destinies. You shall wear the Crown of Domination as I shall wear you. Your form shall become mine. Your soul will be but a dimming bauble in the howling darkness of your being. A memory of our time together. No man nor god shall stop me. The legions of hell shall answer to my call and the world will be mine to destroy once again. This you will do for me, Archaon of the North, for you have… no… choice.

Eight deaths. Be'lakor smashed the pillars of the Fortess of the Forsaken which caused tonnes of rock to fall on Archaon and crush him. Unless I missed some this is the total times that Archaon died on screen. Though, Be'lakor claimed that he reset hundreds of Archaon's deaths.

Archaon...stay determined!

youtube.com/watch?v=6S21ZSsC21U

Shitty writing and daddy issues.

Why is tegee filled with such bitter people with daddy issues? Literally getting mad at a character for having a caring father.

Don't deflect when people point out your own father complex.

I don't have a father complex though.

>‘To think, they believed that you could save them,’ Archaon said.

>‘To think, I once thought you might do that yourself,’ Sigmar said. Archaon hesitated. Sigmar smiled sadly. ‘Diederick Kastner, son of a daughter of the Empire. You could have been the sword that swept my land free of Chaos forever. In a better world, perhaps you have. But here and now, you are nothing more than another petty warlord.’

>‘You know nothing about me,’ Archaon said, still holding his sword aloft.

>know you. I saw you born and I saw you die, again and again. I saw your soul twisted all out of shape by the honeyed words of daemons, and I saw you turn your back on me. I saw and I wept, for you, and for what I knew you would do.’

>Archaon lowered his blade. ‘No…’

>‘You made yourself a pawn of prophecy,’ Sigmar said. ‘You set your feet on this path. The daemons helped, but it was you who walked into the darkness. It was you who fled the light, Diederick.’

>‘You are not Sigmar. The gods are all dead, and he was a lie,’ Archaon grated.

>‘Are they dead, or are they a lie? Make up your mind,’ Sigmar said. He could see Ghal Maraz’s haft, just out of the corner of his eye. He stretched a hand towards it.

>‘You are lying,’ Archaon roared. He lifted his sword, but before he could bring it down, there was a flash of white fur, and then Wendel Volker was there. Axe and sword connected with a screech, and the former exploded in its owner’s hands. Volker staggered, and Archaon’s sword chopped down, through his shoulder and into his chest. Archaon tore his blade free and the Reiksguard fell. Sigmar rolled over and reached for the hammer, but Archaon kicked it aside. ‘No! No more distractions. No more lies,’ Archaon howled. ‘You die now, and your Empire dies with you.’

Was Sigmar speaking the truth or was he just messing with Archaon? Indeed, who was in the wrong will never be known.

Cuz you don't have a father

>Entire argument for liking a character is based on his dad reviving him over and over

Good Lord, Archaeon is just some dude save-scumming his way to victory.

Seriously though, what's with this new generation of BL writers making every story about foster daddies. Seems like a pretty specific issue to have among such a small group.

I like Archaon for his philosophy and deeds, though. Childhood is idolizing Sigmar, adulthood is realizing that Archaon makes the most sense,

Don't pretend you didn't do the same in WHTW.

I blame the break down of the family unit in Western Europe.

>I like him for his edge
That's even worse, you chuuni.

I refer you to the motto of humans everywhere.
"It's OK when WE do it!"

Cringe

Like it or not, Archaon's is the only character with a working plan to end Chaos once and for all.

Imagine a video of him just screaming while crushed under rocks for 10 hours

incapable of striking back because wings on infantry heroes are merely decorative

Dude, I read the WD. Where the fuck does it say that unnamed random daemon prince screamed?

>working plan

>I'm going to kill the world so the next will be free from gods
>no archaon, you're also god
>and then archaon was AoS

>I read the WD.
Then reread it.

>Childhood is idolizing Sigmar, teenage crisis is realizing that Archaon makes the most sense, adulthood is realizing that Sigmar was right all along
ftfy

No, point me where.

here >[white dwarf]

Actually, it's pretty blatant he's just lying, or using his little power to see alternative timelines to manipulate Archaon.

Carnac just takes the Words of the shadowlord with face value and it's adorable.

>I'll destroy the world
>Destroys the world
>Chaos just as evil as ever and laugh in his ear again and again

Ohhh...it was in the guys commentary and not the narrative piece. God you are useless.

He's a huge jerk.

Actually, Josh Reynolds in his answer.fm and also Sander's interviews say that Be'lakor was rewriting reality.

What's adorable is you trying to dead canon away the power of the Dark Master.

Why would I need to be of any use for you.

Aren't you incapable of doing stuff without daddy's help?
Do you want me to be your daddy?

>BL writers
>Mattering at all.

So Be'lakor can rewrite Reality, yet he's still chained to being the basic bitch of Chaos and every plan, every outcome of his scheming has ended in him getting slapped in the cock.

Mordheim? Failure
Albion? Failure
End Times? Double Failure because it ends with be'lakor killed and trapped in a Gem, and he's never shown up in fluff since.

If Be'Lakor was this masterful warper of reality, why is he literally the biggest jobber since N'Kari?

>writers confirm what the writer wanted the reader to believe

Stop the fucking presses everyone!

To be fair, Archaon did not know about the warhammer cycle and the multiverse when he started out. He, like many anons here, thought that the Chaos Gods were bonded to the Old World. It's typical medieval thinking, not understanding that their world is but a grain of sand in the shore of eternity endlessly being smashed against by the ocean of infinity known as KY-OS.

When the truth was revealed to him at last, Archaon realized that he was thinking too small. To defeat Chaos, the entire multiverse must be dragged to oblivion. And by his dark will he will see it down, a universe at a time until there is nothing left for Chaos to torment and consume.

There is no logic that can refute Archaon's. He is in the right.

>I gotta destroy everything so Chaos gets destroyed.

Why not just.... Destroy Chaos?

>Inplying nihilism is even remotely right
and you like archaon for his philosophy?
when did your mind stop growing?

>Why not just.... Destroy Chaos?
This

Sigmar proved he can wound a chaos god with a bunch of mary sues

if it bleeds it can die

>I am against Chaos I will destroy it
>When Sigmar is on the kusp of stopping chaos, Archaon stands in his way every time

I don't believe you. Archaon is just another Slave to Darkness.

>well yeah, thats why i said embarassing.
The whole conclusion was embarassing for everyone, I'd say.

Well, like Be'lakor said in novel, Be'lakor can subtlety rewrite reality for one soul without the Chaos Gods noticing. What is a single soul to the Chaos Gods? Archaon was supposed to be his secret plan to undermine the Chaos Gods own plan to destroy the world. Be'lakor from the shadows raised up Archaon to the notice of the Chaos Gods. It was Be'lakor's hope that when Archaon is finally crowned, he would possess Archaon's flesh and usurp the destiny planned for him by the Chaos Gods. Using his new vessel he would flip off the Chaos Gods and use the worlds destruction as the engine of his rebirth as the fifth Chaos God.

However, that was not meant to be. While the other gods were blind to Be'lakor's manipulation of the timeline, Tzeentch took notice. Ever the enemy of Be'lakor, Tzeentch saw that Be'lakor's plan come to failure and that Archaon would serve the Pantheon's will as it meant to be, not Be'lakor's.

>Ill end chaos by having the world be swallowed by chaos and everyone be tortured in hell for eternity just so the cahos gods chuckle for a second and continue doing the same thing to countless other worlds

Was Archaon just a straight up retard? Maybe he was just dumb. Maybe he deluded himself to avoid facing the thing he became

So Be'lakor is simple a puppet used and abused by the Chaos Gods, but he just pretends he's the one manipulating fate?

Like I said. Be'lakor is nothing but a master of Shadows and Lies.

I think that's the thing, he just screeches autistically when called out on his bullshit.

>Be'lakor thought he could outsmart tzeentch

Be'lakor is just a jobbing joke character who even with "HURR JUST REWIND TIME LOL" still shits the bed, he makes mannfred look cool

who likes this fag anyway

Chaos cannot be destroyed by anything less than that. It's the only way. You will thank him later.

>Below him, he could see the darkness returning in the wake of the light’s ascent. He could hear the enraged bellows of a consciousness as old as the stars. Neither Nurgle nor his garden could be so easily destroyed. But they could be hurt. They could be reminded of why they had once feared the storm. And should do so again.

You can harm them but destroying them is beyond the abilities of even the gods of the Stormcasts.

Cusp? Sigmar was going to shutdown the third vortex from unmaking the world. It wouldn't have stopped Chaos. It would have prolonged the suffering of the world.

I mean it's pretty hilarious how Be'lakor has literally never succeeded in any single one of his tiny plans.

He even failed in Mordheim, where literally nobody important was there to stop him.

>Chaos can only be destroyed by the destruction of everything.

If you destroy everything, whats the point of destroying chaos?

>but he just pretends he's the one manipulating fate?

No, he did manipulate fate. His actions ensured the end of the world.

However, his sire Tzeentch undid him like he has done before. Be'lakor might be adept at fate manipulation but Tzeentch is the god of fate.

Be'lakor has gods on his ass thwarting him at every turn. It's impressive he got that far.