Turn sent
The end of the millenium approaches, and the streets of Aragon run wild with crowds drunk on the apocalyptic prophecies. "The end is nigh" they cry, alternating between descents into most extreme debauchery, self-mortification, and cries for divine mercy.
As I watch my countless subjects from the balcony of my palace, in the dark crimson twilight of my homeworld's fading sun, I am behest by brooding melancholy, so conductive to dark introspection.
I think of parts of the Empire descending into the chaos of a civil war, refugees streaming from the affected worlds en masse, even as others brandish their swords and their faith, demanding alien blood to flow and cleanse the crusaders' souls of any taint they might ensconce.
I think of honour and tradition trampled under the ceramsteel-clad feet of vengeance and greed. Of knives in the dark, and the kind of mind that orders them to strike.
Dread, anxiety, and suspicion took root in everyone's mind, and appear to be here to stay.
These are times of madness, times of woe. Authority holds little power over crazed minds, and heresy sprouts among the faithful like so many fires that consumed the ancient Rome. Not even the Church's Inquisitors can quell the unrest, their presence merely adding fuel to the raging inferno.
But, just as Rome was rebuilt from the ashes, so will the order return - eventually. The strength of Man lies in his ability to temper himself in the harshest of predicaments, and emerge so much stronger for that.
Or so is my hope.