The bells had been ringing since sunset.

Millions had gathered beneath the Imperial cathedral.

Pilgrims prayed.

Families ate.

Children carried candles.

Veterans wore old medals.

Merchants sold pastries shaped like feathers.

Sean took a bite.

“Bit dry.”

Eljara stared at him.

“We are standing in the middle of a religious procession attended by several million people.”

“Aye.”

“And your first observation concerns the pastry.”

“Somebody has to maintain standards.”

Then the bells changed.

The crowd changed with them.

An immense golden image of Sanguinius appeared between the towers.

Thousands knelt.

Then tens of thousands.

Sean removed his hat.

Eljara noticed.

“You don’t worship Sanguinius.”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Sean watched the procession.

“My grandmother used to stand when funeral processions passed.”

“This isn’t your grandmother’s world.”

“No.”

Pause.

“Still somebody’s funeral.”

The hymn began.

One voice became hundreds.

Hundreds became thousands.

Eljara watched the people rather than the saint.

“They never knew him.”

“No.”

“Their parents never knew him.”

“No.”

“Then what exactly are they remembering?”

Sean looked towards an old woman beside the avenue.

She was lighting candles with her granddaughter.

The old woman pointed towards Sanguinius.

Then touched one candle.

Her chest.

The girl’s chest.

Sean:

“Maybe not him.”

Eljara:

“Then what?”

“Her.”

The girl listened to her grandmother.

Sean:

“One day she might not remember this procession.”

Pause.

“But she’ll remember standing here with her.”

Eljara studied them.

“The child receives the story before she’s old enough to question it.”

“That’s how most stories arrive.”

“Our names.”

“Our language.”

“Our first songs.”

“Who our family is.”

“Where home is.”

Sean looked at her.

“By the time we’re old enough to ask who we are, somebody’s already filled half the bloody page.”

“And that doesn’t concern you?”

“Course it does.”

The Ecclesiarchy had built everything around them.

The calendar.

The procession.

The symbols.

The cathedral.

The authorised story of sacrifice.

Eljara:

“They decide what this means.”

“Yes.”

“They decide which death becomes sacred.”

“Yes.”

“They provide the song.”

“Yes.”

“Then this is power.”

“Yes.”

Nearby, the grandmother took the girl’s hand.

They began singing together.

Badly.

Sean smiled.

“The Ecclesiarchy gave them the song.”

“Yes.”

“But it didn’t put that look on the old woman’s face.”

Eljara turned towards him.

“The emotion can be genuine and still serve the institution.”

“Absolutely.”

“The ritual can create real belonging and still reinforce authority.”

“Yes.”

“The story can comfort people and still teach obedience.”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you arguing?”

Sean smiled.

“Because you keep saying ‘and still’ as though the second thing makes the first one false.”

Then the hymn stopped.

Names began moving through the crowd.

Not Sanguinius.

Other names.

A husband.

A daughter.

A Guardsman.

A mother.

A child.

Eljara listened.

“That isn’t part of the liturgy.”

“Then they added it.”

The ancient martyr had opened a door.

Millions had brought their own dead through it.

A couple nearby held a small pict between them.

No priest watched.

Nobody instructed them.

Sean nodded towards them.

“The institution created the occasion.”

Eljara:

“And they brought their own meaning.”

“Aye.”

The silence ended.

Food returned.

Laughter.

Children running between pilgrims.

Young people dancing.

Soldiers singing something considerably less sacred.

Eljara watched them.

“Now it’s becoming profane.”

Sean:

“Thank God.”

She looked at him.

Sean pointed towards the crowd.

“They’re remembering someone who died.”

Pause.

“By living.”

Eljara said nothing.

Sean continued.

“Maybe a memorial doesn’t have to reproduce the death.”

A child laughed beneath cheap golden wings.

“Maybe sometimes remembering the dead means showing them that life continued.”

The great hymn began again.

Sean listened.

Eljara:

“Why does doing this together make memory stronger?”

Sean:

“If I sing a song alone, I remember something.”

He looked towards thousands singing around them.

“If we all sing it, I know you remember it too.”

“Social confirmation.”

Sean sighed.

“You really can make anything sound miserable.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No.”

Pause.

“But there’s more.”

He touched the guitar across his back.

“My father sings a song.”

“Then I sing it.”

“Maybe someday someone who never knew either of us sings it.”

Eljara:

“The song carries information.”

Sean:

“It carries people.”

That stopped her.

The procession was ending now.

The enormous crowd began breaking apart.

Families collected children.

Workers returned towards transit lines.

Soldiers became soldiers again.

The great sacred “we” slowly became thousands of separate lives.

Eljara watched them.

“The ritual gives them back.”

Sean:

“Does it?”

She looked at him.

“They leave carrying the story.”

“Yes.”

“The symbols.”

“Yes.”

“The emotions.”

“Yes.”

“The loyalties.”

“Yes.”

“So the feast ends.”

Pause.

“But it doesn’t leave them.”

“No.”

Behind them, the bells continued.

Ahead, ordinary hive life had already begun again.

Eljara:

“Then perhaps inheritance isn’t obedience.”

Sean:

“Doesn’t have to be.”

“It means receiving something.”

“Yes.”

“Keeping some of it.”

“Yes.”

“Questioning some.”

“Yes.”

“Changing some.”

“Yes.”

“And passing something onwards.”

Sean nodded.

“If it’s worth passing.”

Eljara:

“And who decides that?”

Sean smiled.

“Now there’s the dangerous bit.”

When a community gives us its stories, rituals and sacred memories, what do we owe the people who gave them to us — preservation, obedience, criticism, change, or the courage to decide for ourselves what deserves to be carried forward?

Game: Warhammer 40,000
System: Wrath & Glory / Imperium Maledictum
Campaign: Mythveil Chronicles
Theme: The Bacchanalia — The Stories We Inherit

PLAY EPIC. FEEL THE STORY.

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Research, philosophy and the living worlds of Mythveil Chronicles:
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