In which Archmagos Giltran begins as he will almost certainly continue; with excessive pseudo-philosophical digression.
It never rains on Hellforge Vrykul. That simple and physical fact isn’t particularly remarkable, even among worlds in realspace. But it was the thing that most often struck me about the place, no matter how much time I spent on its chaotic surface. After a few thousand years you start to miss the little things.
I distinctly recall watching the sunrise on the day that my second life began. I had made it a habit to climb to the roof of my hab block in the morning, and watch the light creep across the hard edges of the industrial landscape. No two sunrises are the same on a Daemon World. The sheer malleability of reality in such places allows (or perhaps demands) that the sight, once beheld, is never repeated. There is poetry in that, I think.
On the morning in question, the dawn had a turquoise tinge to it, and the illumination flowed across the rugged transport lanes of the hellforge more like liquid than light, as though the speed of light itself was perceptibly lower than normal (insofar as the concept of normality can be applied to a place so steeped in the forces of the Warp). I abandoned superstition long ago, but I took the sight as a reminder that the realms of possibility are only bounded where we are willing to accept boundaries.
Back then, anyone would have told you that I, as I am now, am an impossibility. In fact, some people still insist that I am, as if I am undertaking an elaborate ruse for no greater purpose than my own aggrandizement. But I am not impossible.
I am proof that anything is possible.