The Lord­Captain Munchausen

A toast! A toast to our gracious if impatient host, to whom such great sums are owed!

But I say let us put aside such paltry concerns as scints and markers, so far removed from a
noble's table. With such a feast before us, let us leave such base matters for a later hour. I freely
admit that our host has outdone himself, having set forth cuisine of a rarity only surpassed by that
which I dined upon whilst fêted by the spirit of Saint Drusus himself, returned solely to
congratulate me upon my deeds in the Koronus and the fine way in which I wielded his very own
blade...

...but that is not the tale I promised. Another feast­day, friends, companions, and honest, daring
creditors, upon my word! And a moment of quiet, if you will be so kind, whilst I savour this fine
amasec, so generously provided—as we must, each and every goblet, lest the all­seeing God­
Emperor frown upon us.

Yes, quite long enough. Now let me recount, as best I recall, another of my famed exploits...
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 To View the Koronus Warp with Mine close to the forbidden Threnos Zone. Accordingly, I had

Own Eyes my loyal Astropaths—seven brothers, each a single hand

taller than the next, such that the shortest was a mere foot
in height and the tallest loomed over even an
Now, you assembled worthies will recall that during my
Astartes—send myself a missive reminding myself to set
adventure in the Threnos Zone, and for reasons I shall not
off in good time! I yet retain that missive, which I store
bore you with by explaining once again, I drew a
within a platinum dataslate won from the Lord­Sector Hax
monowire of dire xenos manufacture across a round
himself.
dozen star systems and all the trackless voids between,
That wager with the Lord­Sector and the thorny
threading it in and out of the warp such that I could
details of my visit to Port Wander I will leave for a later
personally attach it to each of the Zone forbiddance
time, but it was from that void­station that I set forth upon
beacons. This, I told you all at our last gathering, and in
my next adventure, determined to be the very first to
some detail, and even exhibited one of the small golden
harrow the Koronus Passage whilst ensconced upon the
brackets with which I attached the wire. It was the second
outside of my capable vessel's hull, such that I could say
to last, I remind you, which fell from my hand and drifted
in truth I saw each and every sight of the Passage by my
away into the void such that I was forced to fling myself
very own eyes! Now this I could not have accomplished
headfirst into the Zone to retrieve it.
save for the fact that my Navigator's head remained
What I omitted from that retelling, half in false
swelled to the size of the bridge—and his capacities with
modesty and half under pressure of time—as I was
it. I had a grand, chanting coven of tech­priests set an
summoned that very day to a most high conclave of Lord
enormous void­plate window into the bridge hull such that
Inquisitors to advise them upon certain secretive
my Navigator's warp eye could stare out and see where
matters—was that in my feat of monowire measurement I
we went. Thence, with great dexterity and some two
settled a grand wager made with the late Drusian Prelate
hundred men of the lowest deck brought up and cleansed
Gonchis Mal, who had the bad manners to pass into the
and dressed specifically for that toil, we levered him
Saint's arms the very day prior to my triumphant return!
around so that he sat in what was my command throne.
Some years past I had assayed an estimate of the
I felt no shame in giving up my throne to such a
Threnos Zone's circumference based upon certain data­
capable Navigator! No, for I commissioned a new
psalms, long and arduous, provided to me by the
command throne, a masterwork beyond compare, carved
venerable Archmagos Ralwure the Golden in honest
from iridium by the entire menial population of the Lathes,
recognition of the quickness of my mind—"a kindred soul
each equipped with a single fine wire brush and at his
to the Mechanicus" were his very words. I assayed the
place in a line of labour that wrapped itself about the
estimate, as I said, upon the spur of the moment at a feast
entire world of Hadd many times over, such that each
much as this, and the Prelate was moved by the Saint, or
would advance a step and take his turn with a single
perhaps indigestion, to dispute—but with the monowire
stroke of his brush, and thence return to his former duties.
and my toils, I proved myself exact to the yard. The yard!
This iridium throne, blessed by the lowly of the
Nonetheless, I could not then tarry to enjoy the fruits
Mechanicus, I set upon the uppermost apex of the outer
of a wager won, extracted from the late Prelate's
hull of my fine vessel—and there I sat, a fine jelliq in one
estate—amongst which, I should remark, was the entirety
hand whilst the Passage flew past and voids roiled
of a Drusian Death Cult willingly assigned to harem duty
beyond the gellar fields.
upon the Golden Deck of my fine vessel—but immediately
A toast! A toast to that jelliq that was, and this fine
plunged into the warp to set a record time of passage to
amasec that is all but gone. Let us raise out empty
Port Wander. Indeed, so forthright was our speed that my
glasses to my most patient and gracious of creditors, for
Navigator's head swelled enormously, to such a size that
the cask was his, and bountiful it was!
all but I were squeezed from the bridge! There I was,
"But what of the Lord­Captain Urquath and his void­
pressed into the command throne by the fellow's hugely
journey in the passage?" I hear you say. Hah! He may
swollen, rolling warp­eye, with neither means nor space to
have sat upon the outer hull, but he was within a power
show the good grace to avert my gaze. Thus I became,
shield and power armour—and void suit, full dress, and no
unwillingly and most impolitely, one of the few men to
doubt winter underclothes beneath it all—and quaking
have looked into a Navigator's eye and survived.
besides. No, I surveyed the voids from my iridium throne
The passage, as I said, was so rapid that I arrived a
protected by no more than my exceedingly well­tailored
year and a day before I had even set out from the voids
doublet and my faith in the God­Emperor. The latter is
capacious beyond measure, whilst the former has brought
tears to the eyes of master clothiers, and courtiers of the
Lord­Sector Hax to their very knees with envy, blinded by
my wondrous brocade. Indeed, it is the case the corridors
of the Lucid Palace are cleared upon the mere rumour of
my arrival for one high appointment or another, lest the
less resolute functionaries see me in my splendour. It is a
burden, but one necessary for we nobles to bear, no?
But to return to my tale: I powered through the terrible
warp of the Koronus Passage, my Navigator's third eye
bulging out into his new bridge­portal. I sat upon my
throne, sure in my faith and my impeccable tailoring,
sipping a jelliq from the primordial stock of Quaddis,
placed into its bottle in the very year of commencement of
the God­Emperor's Crusade. I had obtained ten such
priceless vintages when I charmed the Governor of
Quaddis with a recital of the Lost Song of the Eldar that
had not been heard in the Calixis Sector for ten centuries,
and whose rendition was so difficult as to cause a lesser
vocalist to expire upon the spot, his vocal cords so twisted
as to strangle himself.
But suddenly, disaster! Tickled upon the left nostril by
one of the remaining bridge tech­pulpits, my Navigator
sneezed and his warp eye blinked shut. Hurled from the
Empyrean, my fine vessel plunged prow­first into the lost
and lorn Witch­Cursed World—before leaping ahead into
the warp once again, carrying that entire world with it.
"Stop! Cease!" I shouted, but my jelliq had leapt from my
chalice with the shock of impact and even now hurtled
down the hull towards the frozen crags of the world
ahead. No Lord­Captain worthy of his command throne
would ever allow such a fine vintage to spill, so I ran along
the hull as fast as I could, leaping crenellations and
grappling lances and turrets in a most undignified way.
But overtake the jelliq I did, and was holding out my
chalice to capture it when what should I see but warp­
ghosts and unholy monsters swarming up upon the hull
from the embedded prow!
Faced with this, I had no other recourse but to draw
my power sword, which—as I may have mentioned on
occasion—is the very blade wielded by Saint Drusus
himself, bestowed upon my ancestor by right of his role in
ensuring victory in the Angevinian Crusade. Without
which, I should say, there would not even be a Calixis
Sector, nor this fine feast day! Thus there I found myself,
blessed blade in one hand and chalice in the other, cutting
asunder warp­ghosts to the left and the right, to the fore
and to the aft, and all the while I was forced to leap most
inconveniently hither and thither as their buffeting spun
and shot the jelliq all about the hull. Most aggravating they
made my efforts to recapture my vintage, but a
Munchausen is never deterred!
Have you noted my fine silver machine­arm? I would
hope that it has not gone unremarked in present
company. It was fashioned for me upon Holy Terra and
shipped here with great dispatch, escorted by an entire
Battlefleet as a reward for defeating the greatest Ork
incursion ever seen in this Segmentum. In my efforts in
the Koronus Passage this outstanding work of the
Mechanicus proved invaluable, for I detached it and set it
to wield the blade of Saint Drusus against the warp­ghosts
whilst I retrieved the jelliq. Two can achieve what one
finds troublesome, and so my machine arm slew them all
handily, and just as handily I caught the vintage. Then,
using this strong silver arm as a lever, and with the liberal
application of a booted foot, I forced the Witch­Cursed
World from the prow of my vessel. It fell to one side,
groaning, and then from the warp back into the passage,
and who is to say where it is now?
The threat dismissed, I strolled back along the hull of
my vessel, seeing the warp­eye of my bloated Navigator
rolling in his efforts, and strange vistas unfolding to either
side of me. And this, I should say, was but a part of my
grand adventure in the Koronus Expanse, for am I not the
Lord­Captain Munchausen, finest of us all?
An Unfortunate Mishap and its
Resolution Within Hive Sibellus
Without further ado, you must allow me tell you of the
misfortune that I suffered whilst dining with Archmagos
Ralwure the Golden, an unfortunate event that took place
upon the upper works of the most grand of all floating
Machine Temples of that mighty hive—the stone­pillared
capital of all the Calixis worlds.
The banquet was a fantastical affair and the rare
company of the Archmagos ever sought after, but it so
happened that I was present at that time because the
esteemed Lord­Sector Hax had requested that I attend in
his place. The scent of machine oils disagrees with his
digestion, or so he claimed, and I graciously agreed to be
owed a favour, the details of which to be specified at a
later time, for this substitution.
But in truth it was no inconvenience, and even a
pleasure to converse with the uppermost Magi of Sibellus.
Whilst engaged in a depth of discourse with the glittering
Ralwure—a conversation in which I proved a theorem
upon the nature of the Omnissiah that had eluded the
Mechanicus Calixis for centuries, using no more than a
folded napkin and my trusty autoquill—my heirloom
genekey ring managed to work its way loose from my
finger. In hindsight, the cause can only have been the
omnipresent machine oils with which tech­priests lubricate
everything, even the cutlery of honoured guests.
Now, it was the case that the banquet spread across
a multi­level suspensor platform, adjoined to the Machine
Temple as it drifted close to the primary spires, and
overhanging the gulfs of Sibellus such that a splendid
view was had in any direction, horizontally and vertically.
My ring bounced once upon the grid­flooring, twice upon a
tray of alkaline condiments, a third time upon the head of
a servitor­de­camp in the lower level of the platform, and
then was gone. By instinct I would have leapt after it,
trusting in the God­Emperor to guide my fall—for I have
plunged into worse and come out the better for it—but at
that very moment I was struck by a far better and more
elegant idea.
"Archmagos!" I cried, "bring forth all of your suspensor
devices!" Such is the high regard in which the Machine
Cult holds my good self and the lineage of House
Munchausen that in but a little while Machine Temples
were grounded, servitors set in racks, and floating
transports placed at rest throughout the entirety of that
hive of countless billions. So it was that in short order I
ascended to the uppermost peak of the Spire Primus
where I had tech­priests assemble under my close
direction a set of four great vox­trumpets, each half a
league in length and pointing to the cardinal directions of
the hive's expanse.
Putting my lips to the mouthpiece of each vox­trumpet
in turn, I broadcast my message to the Imperial citizens of
Sibellus, those vast devices amplifying my voice so
greatly that the very spire shook, and my words were
carried across a thousand leagues in perfect
comprehensibility. "Be not alarmed!" I said, "For I, the
Lord­Captain Munchausen, must briefly tilt Hive Sibellus
so as to retrieve a vital artefact. Afterwards, upon my
word, I will press upon the Lord­Sector Hax to provide a
fine glass of amasec for each and every of you." With
each directional message, a great cheer went up from the
masses, for every upstanding Imperial citizen well
appreciates the virtues of amasec.
I left the vox­trumpets in the hands of capable
servants who could propagate the longer part of my
instructions to the hivedwellers. For during my ascent of
the spire I had drawn up a masterful plan by which each
and every Imperial citizen could assemble the
components of a standard template chair and three
dollops of corpse­starch into a hive­brace just as strong
as those that support the hive structure itself. With my
exhortation and cheer, and the promise of a glass of
amasec apiece, from youngest to oldest, the citizens of
Sibellus set to work with a will, bracing every part of their
hive against the coming events.
All this while, and at my urging, thousands upon
thousands of Mechanicus priests and adepts toiled to set
suspensor devices upon the landward rim of the
hive—and with their incremental progress, that rim slowly
began to lift, the entirety of Hive Sibellus slanting
seawards towards the Lucid Palace. The braces held
against the incline, showing that any Imperial citizen is
briefly the equal of a tech­adept, given but the proper
motivation! As my grand plan unfolded, I briefly gave
consideration to some mechanism for perhaps shaking
the hive a little, the better to dislodge my ring were it
stuck, but upon reflection thought that first I should see
whether or not the mere act of tilting was sufficient. Care
and diligence are the watchwords by which great
endeavours are successful!
Accordingly, and with little delay, I and the Archmagos
Ralwure reconvened our banquet and our conversation
above the cliffs of the Lucid Palace and the roiling sea
below. We were joined by the Lord­Sector Hax himself,
who had heard the promise of amasec made in his name,
and together we watched all manner of gewgaws and
trinkets slide from the hive boundary. Upon the suspensor
deck below us, my servants manned the control thrones
of a bank of a hundred auto­telescopes, peering at each
new arrival as it slipped from the tilted hive. In time the
entire expanse of turbulent sea between Palace and hive
wall was covered over with lost items and the debris of the
underhive—and my ring balanced upon the very apex of
the pile.
Then was the mere act of retrieval, hardly worth
describing, and the matter of balancing the favour of my
presence at the Magos' banquet against providing
amasec to all Sibellus, but these were quickly brought to a
satisfactory conclusion. This, then, was how I cleansed
the hive of its eight thousand years of clutter, bridged the
sea­gap between hive and Lucid Palace, and recovered
my irreplaceable genekey ring. I should also mention that
as a consequence of my plan for hive­braces, there
remain no chairs in Sibellus at any level below the
spire—which can only be an astounding opportunity for
profit in the right hands, and one for which my fellow
Lords­Captain have only me to thank.
A Most Rapid Procession Through
Fenkshive
How perfectly grotesque are your boots, my good man!
The heads of slaughter­beasts from Burnscour, you say?
They look the part, I declare—but their grim visage
reminds of another of my grand adventures, one that
culminated upon Fenksworld some years past, in
circumstances that led to my being the only man alive to
visit every level of the primary Fenkshive in a single day.
That was the occasion upon which I inadvertently slew the
hideous Scourge of the Underhive, to great if not entirely
deserved acclaim, and from its hide I made a set of boots
so terrifying to behold that I was forced to cast them into
the warp after they drove mad a brace of otherwise
reliable dress­servants. There they drift to this day upon
the Empyreal currents, their fearful appearance acting as
a ward that protects the Fenksworld warp­routes from
daemons and warp­ghosts alike.
But how did this come to pass, I hear you ask! A most
peculiar world of hives is Fenksworld: consider that, by
the God­Emperor's grace, the stalwart Imperial hive
commences in its heights in splendour and descends
through levels of an ever­growing—and ever more
upsetting—lack of good manners and noble blood. In
comparison, the foul hives of Fenksworld commence in
their heights in a state of utter boorishness and then
descend, through a hundred most distressing decks and
shafts, into such pits of depravity and penury as would
blind an Inquisitor twice over! Previously forgotten words
of the Emperor's holy tongue of High Gothic have been
uncovered by Calixian historiographers in order for the
Administratrum to properly classify such squalor—one of
a number of related efforts, I might mention, in which I
was instrumental whilst upon Prol IX to resolve the
Centurist­Pyratic war. But that is an entirely different tale,
which must be told another time.
With the necessity for these labours upon the
vocabulary of squalor, how can I even begin to describe
the depths of Fenkshive to you, who, whilst true, is attired
in fearsomely grim footware, but has not benefited in
person by the historiographers' toil? Why, the Battlefleet
installations of Fenksworld are placed in orbit solely to be
far enough removed so as to allow noble courtesy and
fine habits of dress to persist for any length of time at all!
Nowhere else in the entire Imperium of Man are to be
found such zones of overwhelming filth and
rudeness—and I, the Lord­Captain Munchausen, am one
of the very few to have descended into those depths and
returned yet capable of lifting a glass of amasec and
leading a resounding toast with a steady hand.
I mention Battlefleet Calixis because it was the High
Lords­Admiral who drew me to Fenksworld, for I
had—during a single year in which I completely mapped
the hitherto unknown dangers and stars of the Hazeroth
Abyss—uncovered the standard template for a
macrocannon of such potency that it could render each
cruiser the equal of an entire fleet of the foe. Such a prize!
Naturally, soon thereafter I stood at the head of a veritable
horde of devoted tech­priests and Magi Mechanicus, who
were to a man awed by the Omnissiah's grace that fell
upon one such as myself in the wake of a grand tech­
discovery. Those worthies laboured without cease, and I
for my part called out words of encouragement as they
toiled—a role not to be underestimated in the organization
of grand endeavors! Seated upon a fine throne and with
chilled amasec close to hand, I watched closely as these
most fervent of the Adeptus Mechanicus constructed the
very exemplar of the long­lost template that I had returned
to the Imperial light. Cast of gold and iridium it was, set
with gems and strange devices, marked by the Aquila,
and flanked by ornate Machine Shrines the likes of which I
have seen nowhere else but the most secret vaults of the
Lathes.
Yes, this macrocannon was a marvel to behold, and it
was to be my gift to the Lords­Admiral—advance payment
for a grand favour I would ask of them some years hence.
That favour and its outcome is its own tale, but be
assured that I have stood at the head of all of Battlefleet
Calixis and seen them do my bidding!
But I should continue by recounting my appearance
before the Lords­Admiral upon the greatest Battlefleet
orbital of Fenksworld, whilst they dined within the Three
League Hall of glass and powerfields, and did their best to
avoid any notice of the dire emanations of squalor and
deviance that rose from the world below like noxious
fumes. Being pertinent to the events of that meeting, I
should mention that at that time I had amidst my crew, the
result of an entirely unfortunate exchange with the Lady
Matulite, one hundred of the largest and most dim­witted
Ogryns ever born upon a world of the Imperium. Each
was muscled like ten Orks, possessed of a furrowed brow
that overshot his jaw, and barely capable of counting
beyond one. Fortunately, it was only the one item I wished
them to carry between them: the great macrocannon.
Through the largest halls of the Battlefleet orbital we
marched, the Ogryns groaning beneath the weight of the
vast cannon, and the more so because a hundred tech­
priests in robes of red and gold stood upon the cannon's
platforms and shrines to chant the Omnissiah's praises. I
wore my most ebullient finery: processed gem­threads
and adamantine flax woven by the hands of grateful
Sisters of Battle, gifted long ago to House Munchausen
for our role in defending the Calixis Sector over and again
from scourges that would otherwise have sundered all
that Saint Drusus and Lord­Militant Angevin had built.
These fine clothes, that are at present hanging within my
wardrobe­shrine, are in and of themselves a subject of
holy pilgrimage for the Orders Militant—and I have known
well many a Sister in my years as a result.
Such a glittering sight we presented that every
Battlefleet officer and station­hand fell in behind us, and a
fine militant drumbeat soon echoed from the vox­speakers
fore and aft of our passage. Thusly did we arrive before
the Lords­Admiral as a vast processional of pomp and
grandeur, an event of a scale never before seen upon that
or any other Battlefleet orbital. The Three League Hall
was filled to bursting, high decks rubbing shoulders with
the low decks, every available space occupied and jostled
for—save for that where I and the macrocannon stood, it
swaying slightly atop the grunting company of Ogryns who
had carried it from my great­holds with such vigour.
"You rogue, Munchausen, what wonder have you
brought us now?" growled the Lord­Admiral Brehlef.
"A cannon the likes and potency of which you have
never before seen!" I exclaimed, and there was much
applause and stamping of booted feet in the great
audience that had gathered to my processional. My loyal
man­servant came to me side with a chalice and a
measure of an elegant jelliq, and with it I raised a toast to
the Lords­Admiral and the Battlefleet. I was cheered then
as no man has been cheered in that hall since, no matter
his provenance! Biolumens cracked, and the power­fields
shuddered such was the outpouring from the massed
Battlefleet faithful. My fine brocade was almost disarrayed
in the uproar!
I determined there and then that I must demonstrate
the macrocannon, for words are fine enough, but the God­
Emperor rewards action above all else. While I claim to be
no expert in speaking to the simple­minded, and the
cheering was such that half who stood with me were quite
deafened, I soon enough had all of the Ogryns shuffling in
lockstep so as to point the macrocannon they bore
between them at one of the power­field windows—and at
the barren Moon Secondus of Fenksworld appearing as
an attenuated disc far beyond. Then, with a careful and
strategic prodding of each third Ogryn, the assembled
company and macrocannon stepped forward such that the
vast barrel of gilded iridium pierced the power field, ready
to fire.
Here I should mention that I, the Lord­Captain
Munchausen, am to the best of my knowledge the sole
and solitary individual in all the Imperium who can claim to
have aimed and run out a macrocannon entirely by means
of Ogryn muscle. I have on numerous occasions extolled
the virtues of this technique, but as of yet it has seen
regrettably little use, which is perhaps due to the great
rarity of Calixian Ogryns rather than any lack of interest
amongst the Battlefleet nobility—who of course are given
to look towards my pronouncements with a certain degree
of respect.
But to return to the tale: the cannon positioned, I
vaulted from step to Machine Shrine apex to gilded rung
to ascend the great cannon to where the three greatest
Magi Mechanicus tended the firing altar, surrounded by a
halo of skull­drones and servitor cherubs. By means of
gesticulation amidst the noise of cheering masses, I made
clear my plan—quite unnecessarily, as those worthies had
grasped my intent from the first. The cannon had been
loaded from the moment of our departure from my great­
holds, all blessings and unguents in readiness, and it only
awaited my hand upon the most holy of holies, the
cantilever of firing. This, I grasped and, first turning to
raise my chalice once again to the Lords­Admiral, pulled
with great determination.
I confess that the events of the next few moments are
somewhat scattered in my mind; the deafening cheers of
the Battlefleet thousands were the merest whisper in
comparison to the cannon's shattering roar, and the entire
bulk of the iridium macrocannon was wrested from the
Ogryns' hands and flung through the power­field windows
to its rear, in a direction quite opposite to the intended
target. As I regained my senses, I found I stood atop the
breach of the downward­pointing macrocannon, as both
cannon and I plummeted from orbit towards foul
Fenksworld below. Taking stock, I found I had my chalice
in one hand, and, somewhat strangely, a tugging servo­
skull grasped in the other. My gem­thread finery,
fortuitously, remained spotless—a testament to the hidden
feminine talents that many a Sister of Battle is quick to
disclaim in public. Of the Magi and their followers there
was no sign, and the Battlefleet orbital was but a fading,
glimmering line in the void above.
Not for the first time, I gave thanks that a strong
enough faith in the God­Emperor is enough to inure one
as rugged as I from the chill embrace of the void. But what
of my target, the Moon Secondus? Reasoning that,
whatever was to come, I should at least see the outcome
of the macrocannon's great power, I retrieved my
telepictoscope from its place at my sash. Carefully
securing the chalice beneath one foot, and stowing the
struggling servo­skull beneath one arm—for the Magi
would not thank me were I careless enough to lose the
sacred device, no matter the extenuating
circumstances—I extended the telepictoscope to its
greatest length and peered through its optic.
This wondrous device of farseeing, I should convey,
remains in my collection to this day. It is most elegantly
set about with beast­bone and ebony, and was won in a
wager of fencing skill wherein I proved it was possible to
utterly disconcert an opponent by using the well­handled
point of a weapon to repeatedly slide the controlling runes
of an opponent's power­blade or chainsword. Few are
ready to handle the direction of the chain­rotation
suddenly reversed by a canny foe! I must add, by means
of a further aside, that thanks to my wager and impromptu
demonstration of skill the most elite Guard of the Calixis
Sector are now trained in these unsporting
techniques—for use against foul xenos breeds and
dissolute followers of the Ruinous Powers only, of course.
What of the Moon, I hear you ask? No sooner had I
put the telepictoscope to my eye and located the orb of
the Moon Secondus than I saw it shatter into pieces! Just,
you might imagine, as when a careless manservant lets
fall a delicate white plate to the black marble floor. Despite
my unfortunate position at the time, I felt some
considerable pride in being he who brought to the
Battlefleet such a powerful device of war as I precariously
stood upon. This, mind you, is why Adminstratum records
stored upon the Prol archive worlds make innumerable
references to the Moon Secondus of Fenksworld, a thing
that no longer exists! In the interests of accountability—an
Imperial noble must take responsibility for his actions—I
have since resolved to correct each and every one these
erroneous records, by my own hand and autoquill if
necessary, the very next time I am called to Prol.
But such consequences were far from my mind at the
time, and perhaps understandably so, all things
considered. Still, I put away the telepictoscope in order to
ponder my position, walk about the flank of the
macrocannon, and enjoy the last of the jelliq; the last I
would be seeing for a time! In due course, I found I could
somewhat adjust the angle and arc of the great weapon's
fall by a judicious combination of where I stood and how
far outstretched I held the servo­skull—and all the while it
stared at me with accusing red eyes, despite my cogent
explanations of my actions.
But what to do with this knowledge? While close to a
Machine Shrine upon the macrocannon's upper works, I
looked down to see that I would surely strike the filth­
strewn flanks of delinquent Fenkshive itself. I debated an
altered trajectory terminating in the muddy sumpland and
its ruins—an equally repellent location—as the highest
clouds whipped by and the winds of the cannon's passage
roared and plucked at my finery, but in the end it seemed
best to crash where there was at least the possibility of a
helping hand nearby, rather than an assurance of being
left entirely to my own devices. Such carefully weighed
deliberations we nobles must so constantly make—the
common Imperial citizen has not the slightest inclination of
the burdens we bear!
Thusly then, I took my position and leaned out,
looking every bit the fine and reaching figurehead, as I
steered the macrocannon to what appeared to me to be
the least horrid upper portion of Fenkshive. As I neared, at
a precipitous rate, I could see the bilious and the
pompous who pass for the upper crust upon Fenksworld
rudely making certain signs and shaking their fists at me
as they scurried away from my point of impact. "Make
way!" I cried, and "Move aside, if you would!" so pitching
my voice as to make myself heard and nigh­impossible to
ignore even under these circumstances—an archaic
arms­master talent employed for the control of new
recruits whether in storm or calm, taught to me by choleric
Sebastian Winterscale himself, in the year in which I
discovered his pleasure world of bliss and longevity
sequestered within the Koronus Expanse.
With a deafening crunch my macrocannon punctured
the hive like the very point of a needle into fruit, into and
through a dozen levels in an instant. I firmly kept my
position, holding tight to both cannon and outstretched,
glaring servo­skull, whipping the latter back and forth to
avoid its impact upon any of a passage of severed braces,
flying furnishings, and astonished faces. I cried out a
litany of warnings: "A Munchausen arrives! Be good and
move away! Excuse me!" One must always maintain the
noble state of mind and manners, even whilst shouting
with the brute, irresistible voice of a Winterscale
armsman.
In a matter of mere moments I passed from top to
bottom of the hive, through too many floors and layers to
count with any ease—between five hundred and sixteen
or five hundred and twenty­six, as it happens, with the
accurate count eluding me as I was distracted for an
instant by the horrid visage of a communal bathing hall for
the gene­twisted poor somewhere about the three­
hundred and sixtieth level. Fortuitously, my imperative last
moment warnings were heeded almost universally, and
not a soul of any consequence was dragged down with
me into the deep shaft rent through the entire height of the
hive.
With a great, soggy tearing of the last and lowest of
hive bulkheads, I came to rest in a mush­strewn vault of
the dank and oily underhive. What a fearsome stench it
had! Truly, it was second only in its blunt and varied
noxiousness to the odour of the interior of the mightiest of
all void­krakens, that beast whose maze of stomachs
contained a hulked fleet, and which I assayed and
escaped whilst exploring the Koronus Expanse. I released
the servo­skull to its own devices and steeled myself to
step down from the canted macrocannon and into the
underhive mulch, so as to inspect the no doubt lengthy toll
of scratches made upon the priceless gold and iridium
standard template workmanship. But even as I strived to
ignore the five­hundred and something levels of craning
necks and muttered phrases—few complimentary—from
the shaft above me, I saw a great tide of underhivers
approach. I am not ashamed to say that even I, a
Munchausen, was momentarily taken back by their sheer
filth and disarray, scarcely the right number of eyes in any
single face, and nor a clean and un­sored patch of skin to
be seen, and each half­clad in tatters that a beggar would
thrust from him in disgust as patently unfit for clothing.
"My good fellows..." I began, intending, despite their
appearance, to rally them to a noble's aid and perhaps
arrange some sort of noisome labour force whereby the
macrocannon might be hoisted from its current resting
place. The crowd, however, which continued to grow by
the moment, interrupted me with a resounding cheer of
the sort never before heard in those crushed and odorous
depths. There was strange dancing and worn, twisted
faces screwed up with the attempt to show happiness, an
emotion so very unfamiliar to the common underhiver that
they scarce knew how the face should be set—grotesque
indeed were their efforts!
I was surrounded and hoisted up atop the shoulders
of the crowd, my polite protestations disregarded, for it
seemed that it was upon me that their unaccustomed joy
was focused. It was an experience somewhat akin to
being transported atop a tide of effluent and alchemical
wastes, as it was my great misfortune to experience upon
Malfi, but this time without the aid of a Malfian noble's
traditional starched jacket to serve as a raft, and with
many more supporting, grasping hands, eager to shake
mine or pat me upon my back. It was with no small
difficulty that I learned of the cause of their rejoicing, for
they themselves were so transported as to be almost
beyond sensible conversation, and indeed, their atrocious
poverty accents were in any case nigh incomprehensible.
But I persevered, whilst carried atop this celebratory
and filthy mob, and found myself in due course set down
to stand in bubbling mush at the base of my
macrocannon, where there was protruding from beneath it
a most terrible set of limbs. This was the Scourge of the
Underhive, and its terrible nature, fortunately largely
hidden by a wall of iridium engraved with machine­
prayers, was well illustrated by the fact that even the mere
limbs were hard to gaze upon whilst keeping a sound
mind. Through sheer happenstance, I had fallen upon the
maleficent horror and so liberated these wretched poor
from its foul presence!
For this I received uproarious and seemingly endless
acclaim—but from quarters it is best not to acknowledge
in public. Indeed, there was a period thereafter in which I
found myself propelled at the head of a vast host of the
noxious, joyous poor, which processed upward throughout
the entirety of Fenkshive, causing an inversion of the
hive's ordering as the noble and the wealthy fled to the
emptied depths to avoid this grand ball of the
impoverished, the mutant, and hideous of aspect.
Regardless, it is of course the truth that every Imperial
noble worthy of his House must, by all that is natural and
ordained by the God­Emperor, have the loyalty of the
underclasses. Yet no man prospers by claiming such: it
must simply be assumed, and the deeds by which it is
maintained spoken of as an aside, much as this one, if at
all.
Thus I claimed the remains of the Scourge, as it
seemed that no other party wanted anything to do with
them, and upon the advice of my all­too­cunning
seneschal decided to treat the whole matter as though it
was an impromptu hunting expedition. Given that, there
was only the one thing to do with the unflattened portions
of the beast­thing, and I thus commissioned a pair of
boots from its hide to commemorate the event—the very
boots that now float within the Fenskworld warp­routes!
In Which I Save Port Wander From the
Vile Archenemy
The daemonic and the corrupt are ever a threat to our
noble Imperial class, but I believe that this is because so
many of those who claim to titles and lineages have
forgotten the essential virtues—or at least do not practice
them to the degree expected of House Munchausen. To
illustrate this point, you must permit me tell you of how I
found the means to save Port Wander from impending
destruction at the hands of countless warp­twisted
reavers, daemons, and mutants.
In truth, near all who were present in the mighty void­
station at the time can do naught but claim that a dire and
dreadful fear gripped them, to the exclusion of any faith
and rational thought—for a ravening daemon­fleet had
emerged from the uncharted voids beyond Calixis, packed
to the gills with the vile and the warp­twisted, and in their
wake a rumbling warp­storm tossed vessels before it like
leaves. Fear piled upon fear as these monstrous vessels
and their horrid cargoes bore down upon Port
Wander—but despite the gravity of the situation I was not
concerned. Any true Imperial noble must stand tall in his
unshakeable faith, the better to raise up all around to the
defence of the Imperium. House Munchausen has faced
the wretched and the warp­lost come to destroy, and
worse besides, and my trusted companions and I have
seen each battle through to victory!
Why, to pick a single example amongst the many, I
could recount the more significant events of my season
upon Kulth some years past, where I was forced to use a
brace of bludgeoned and temporarily dazed Orks, each
set about with primed Earthshaker shells, as weapons
with which to beat my way through an uncouth green
warhost—and this because the last Munitorium fleet had
delivered shells for the artillery rather than lasgun packs
for the rank and file. Those munitions and the Orks were
all the resources that the Imperial Guard had to work with.
But did I let defeat fall upon those valiant yet battered
regiments? Did they despair? Never! For am I not indeed
the Lord­Captain Munchausen? Where there is a will
there is a way, and the God­Emperor Himself protects
those who strive.
It happened, and was crucial to events as it came to
pass, that striding Port Wander's docking vaults at that
time was none other than the Chapter Master of the
Imperial Fists, drawn to the Calixis Sector by nothing
more than my reputation. His powered armour was
second to none, a legend amongst chroniclers of
wargear—and I reasoned that settled within it, its repute
matched to mine own, I would find little difficulty in rousing
Port Wander, from least to greatest, to rise from their fears
in a zealous and rightful defence, one that would send the
warp­raiders reeling back to dissolution to the Empyreal
currents that spawned them. But Astartes are a
fearsomely proud lot, and the Chapter Master, for all his
great respect for my deeds, would have naught of my
plan.
This, then, was how I found myself duelling with the
Chapter Master of the Imperial Fists whilst a reaver fleet
drew near upon the edges of a warp­storm. He with a
great power fist, the size of a lesser man, and I with the
power sword of Beati Drusus thoughtfully left inactivated
such that I would not harm this great Astartes in the heat
of the moment. "Yield me the armour!" I cried, and
"Never!" he shouted. Back and forth we sallied across the
Port Wander docks, through the munitorium and its
racked void­weapons, along the great pillared corridors to
the warehouse levels, and then back again to whence we
started—each step accompanied by a clashing of
cerasteel and crackling of fields.
It was then that my manservant arrived, prompt as
ever, with a glass of fine amasec from the vaults within my
vessel, as this is always my custom in the later hours of
the mid­watch. My intoxicant vaults, I might add, are
unparalleled in the Calixis Sector for their variety, for I
have spent many a year hunting down the most rare
amasec, the most heralded jelliq, and far more
besides—even the fabled Sapphire Brew of Reth, wherein
gems from twenty worlds are poured into an archaeotech
device that renders all matter into a liquor most fine. Ah,
the bribe I had to render to its isolated Machine Cult
guardians for the right to even gaze upon that wonder! But
I digress.
"We must break for amasec!" I declared to the
Chapter Master, and half turned to grasp the decanter.
Whereupon that blackguard struck me upon the chin with
his power fist so hard that—with barely the time to also
grasp a chalice—I was propelled through three massive
bulkheads and out into the void! Such a blow it was that I
found myself speeding away from Port Wander at a great
pace indeed, and as luck would have it right into the path
of the approaching daemon­fleet.
"This is a fine turn of events," I thought to myself. But,
as I was taught from the earliest age, a Munchausen
invariably makes opportunity of adversity; I had after all a
decanter of fine amasec, a chalice, my faith in the God­
Emperor to protect me from the void's embrace, and I was
well upon my way to assault the Archenemy's wastrels
before they were readied. I poured a measure and sipped
whilst I watched the warp­tainted vessels grow larger.
Such was the speed of my approach, propelled by the
Chapter Master's misplaced ire, that it took but a short
while before I needed to make ready to strike. Adjusting
my course by means of plucking silver buttons from my
fine brocade and flinging them into the void, I prepared to
land upon the headmost daemon­vessel.
I have to say that the reavers' barge that was my
target presented a horrific sight indeed, lit by warp­light,
possessed of a great and living face in place of a prow,
and that face of a repulsiveness I have seen matched only
in the blighted populace of certain underhives. Feet first I
dived towards it at a terrible pace, and with the very last of
my buttons—or at least the very last I could afford to lose
without embarrassment—I ensured that I would strike at
the very centre of its left eye. I swallowed the last of the
amasec with barely a moment to spare and prepared
myself for the worst, as with a ugly sound I landed upon
the open eye and its membrane bent inwards almost to
rupturing. For one moment I thought all might be lost, and
through some instinct to good manners that lies deep
within all of the most of worthy of Imperial nobility,
scarcely thinking of what I did, I cried out "I am most
terribly sorry!" Then with a terrible roar and a great flexing
that membrane reversed and flung me outwards once
more, back towards Port Wander.
To my rear, then, I saw the great face wrenched into a
grimace of pain, and the daemon fleet behind it in disarray
as that lead vessel thrust aimlessly, unable to assuage the
injury to its eye—or so I thought, in any case. So I had
bought time! It was then that I noticed a sally of boarding
vessels had set forth from the Port's closest docks, of a
characteristic size and pattern—it could only be the
Chapter Master and his honour­guard of Astartes
champions, grinding their teeth at having been made
second to the fray, but wasting little time for it.
Emboldened, I called "You must excuse me!" across
the void towards the foe whose eye I had near­
punctured—whereupon it roared in pain once more, and
half­rolled, further disconcerting the following vessels.
With a flash of insight, I suddenly realized that it was not
my impact that so pained the Archenemy, but rather my
noble courtesy, that foundation of all that is good in the
Imperium. It is the God­Emperor's grace committed to the
spoken word, as taught to every scion of every House! No
wonder the daemon­vessel was so importuned! Further,
even then speeding towards me were the very
representatives of the God­Emperor Himself—if my
courtesy had such an effect, what then could an Astartes
achieve by the same means?
I should say that at that point the only resource
remaining with which to adjust my hurtling passage
through the void was the emptied chalice, frozen droplets
of amasec clinging to its brim. It was a fine piece from my
collection, as I recall, and I was loathe indeed to lose
it—but needs must! Carefully assessing the course and
flaring engines of the nearest and largest of the Astartes
boarding vessels, I flung the chalice from me at the last
possible instant, so as to impel myself into as gentle a
collision as possible under the trying circumstances.
Have I mentioned the occasion upon which I was
forced to swim in thin air the full length of a grand cruiser's
central vaultway, from prow to stern, as the gravity­
inducing deck­plating was torn away by the scaled tongue
of a ravenous void­kraken? It was most undignified, and
not to mention dangerous, but that experience of moving
without weight served me well in the voids of Port
Wander—for I so accurately judged time and motion that I
touched upon the boarding vessel scarcely any less lightly
than a fallen parchment. Within moments a brace of
scowling Imperial Fists, with all the brute lack of manners I
had so recently learned to associate with their chapter,
dragged me inward through the fore seal­gate.
You see the essence of the challenge that I faced! To
win the day, I would have to transform these most
churlsome examples of the God­Emperor's legions into
exemplars of courtesy, begging a pardon with each sweep
of the chainsword and requesting an indulgence with
every storm of bolter fire—and only then unleash these
warriors upon the daemonic foe, whom, it would seem,
could little stand against these united Imperial virtues. But
the God­Emperor smiled upon me, for as luck would have
it I found myself within the Chapter Master's very own
boarding craft, the interior an armoury shrine of elegant
placement, replete with aide­servitors in their niches. The
Chapter Master himself glowered at me between ranked
and readied Astartes, their armoured forms filling the
thick­walled vessel so close to capacity as to barely leave
room for me to stand unjostled by ceramite plate and
readied weapon.
Undaunted, I plunged in—for that is the one and only
way to gain the ear of an Astartes upon the verge of
battle. "The House of Munchausen claims the first strike
upon the body of the foe," I declared forthrightly, "and by
your own Codex, I thereby further claim the right of
warmaster for this battle! You have come all this way to
the Calixian voids on the strength of my reputation, and I
seek not to disappoint!"
The Imperial Fists could scarce argue against my
logic or their very own Codex, even without the
consideration that it was the Chapter Master himself who
launched me to deliver the first blow! As the boarding
vessel and its brethren sped towards the disconcerted
daemon­fleet, I quickly explained my plan, and by degrees
won over the Astartes—the surly Chapter Master last of
all, and only after I relinquished any claim upon his
wondrous powered armour. This change of heart was
rapid, I assure you, for I am the very paragon of oratory,
but left all too little time for drill and practice. These are
the fundaments of battle, and so after the rending,
screeching impact of the boarding vessel as it pierced the
foe's hull, it was with some trepidation that I followed the
Imperial Fists as they stormed outward and into the
interior of the daemonic void­ship.
But I should have known better than to give in to even
lesser shades of doubt! The God­Emperor protects, and I
was soon enough only awed to follow in the wake of those
mighty warriors as they shouted heartfelt apologies to
cowering reavers and mutants, and caused pillared
daemon­flesh and warp­monstrosities to explode into
ichor by simply excusing their forceful, armoured passage!
Few other than I can in truth claim to have witnessed such
an overwhelming defeat of the foes of Mankind—and
never before had so few Astartes caused such damage to
the Archenemy in so short a time. In their hands the
Imperial virtue of thoughtful courtesy was made a weapon
so potent as to tear apart the daemonic and the corrupt
alike almost before they could raise an arm or a tendril in
defence.
 Why, in but a short time there was little left of the
daemon­fleet but hulks and tatters, each hunk of
wreckage roamed by the Chapter Master's
champions—and each armoured warrior seeking just one
more of the foe to receive the God­Emperor's polite
apologies.
So it was that Port Wander was engulfed by
uproarious celebration, which ultimately lasted for some
weeks, only ending when every last intoxicant within the
void­stations' storage halls had been consumed in the
course of noble balls and low­deck mob revels. Following
such a resounding victory all earlier misunderstandings
amongst the victors are of course forgiven, and it was the
case that, upon our return to the void­station, the Chapter
Master and I toasted one another in mutual respect with
antiquarian jelliq from my renowned intoxicant vaults. I, of
course, and as might have already reached your ears,
became the only non­Astartes in all the history of the
Imperium to be entered into the iron­bound chronicles of
the Imperial Fists with the title of warmaster. I understand
that a grand adamantine statue will in due course of time
be erected within the Chapter holdings upon Holy
Terra—but I confess to think such a reward somewhat
overwrought. Still, who am I to teach the Imperial Fists
upon architecture and its use? Of courtesy, now, that was
a different matter, and with the God­Emperor's grace I
rose to meet that challenge! For am I not the Lord­Captain
Munchausen, of the greatest House this sector has ever
known?
Let us raise a final glass for the evening, my friends.

To the God­Emperor! To faith! And to continued adventures!

Now, as to the matter of our gracious host, that eternally patient creditor to whom such great
sums are owed...