Fabius Bile Quotes

Victory slipped through our fingers the moment Horus chose to reach into the dark and something reached back. We sacrificed our ambitions on the altar of his hubris, and when he fell, he dragged us all down inexorably with him. And not just Horus- Fulgrim as well. And Angron. Magnus. Lorgar. The gods you worship are nothing save lies, hidden behind masks of folklore and superstition. Interdimensional cancers, their mindless hunger confused for sentience amongst the lost and the damned".

Yours is a curious case, brother... Consistently exposing yourself to the extra-dimensional intelligencies that you and our deluded brethren worship has provoked a uniquely malignant form of of schizophrenia to take root within your mind." - Fabius Bile

Win or lose, the gods feast on our deeds. A man pets a stray, and his small pleasure in the act of kindness feeds Slaanesh. A woman strikes her crying child and that awful moment of elation she feels feeds Khorne. A Munitorum drone considers suicide. Nurgle grows fat on his despair. A merciful strategist devises a plan for bloodless victory, and Tzeentch is content. The Word Bearers think the gods crave worship. But the gods care for nothing save filling their bellies with our sorrows. Intentionally or not, we are all meat for the beast. Even you.

Those things you dote on are no more human than the Neverborn in my flasks. They are golems of meat and muscle, no better than the Interex or the Laer. For all your talk, you have only made monsters. That is why the gods exalt you so... You are a fecund womb for outrages and that pleases them greatly.

I am Arsaces, Saha of the - I know who you are. You are a shadow of great warriors past. A mongrel, made out of battlefield leavings. Do not sully this moment by pretending to have a name that is worth remembering. Because I surely will not, come tomorrow.

The gods love you, Fabius. You delivered a Legion to them. You opened the door with your twisted ingenuity, in ways Erebus could not conceive. And you are still opening that door, every time your scalpel draws a red line across flesh. The universe is made of two parts--a knife and a stone. If you do not wield the one, you must lay upon the other. And you wield the knife very well indeed.

Why do you follow him? What can he offer you? Knowledge, child. There is no keener mind in the galaxy than that sour chunk of meat that occupies his skull. He has forgotten more about the inner workings of man and xenos alike than any Apothecary has ever known. I came to him to learn how to craft new and better contagions, so that Grandfather's blessings might be shared more freely. There are secret plagues from Old Night in these containers and virulent infections culled from crumbling bones of long dead aeldari. And with these raw materials and his aid, I have made wonders and horrors undreamt of by even the most glopsome of my brothers. Plagues that would devour even the rubbery flesh of Grandfather's children... Daemons are not susceptible to mortal plagues. No, they are not. And yet I have seen the results myself. That is what he offers me, child. In his shadow, I grow pleasingly feculent. And what does he get out of it? Were you not listening? Plagues, child. Swift plagues that can ravage entire systems at impossible rates. Oh, his mind is a thing of broken beauty. Even Abaddon cannot conceive of genocide on such a scale - it is not war to our Chief Apothecary, but simply...pest control. Imagine it. A great silence, falling all at once across a system. A sector. Every imperfect thing, snuffed out like a candle flame. And then... Ah, and then, a new beginning.

I have never really understood our gene-father's obsession with martial glory. It always seemed to me more efficient to simply eradicate our foes from orbit. Pound the earth flat and build over the ashes. And if they dig in? There are ways. Saboteurs, chemical weapons - there are hundreds of ways of dismantling a world and its population that do not involve orbital insertions and glorious advances into the teeth of enemy fire. Perhaps I overestimate the intelligence of our species. Perhaps we are little more than psychopathic apes, driven to fashion clubs and smash out the brains of our closest neighbours. And here I thought you were the clever one. I figured that out the day of my culling, when my family forced my cousins and me to fight for the honour of joining the Third. War as you describe it would be little more than pest control. What is there for the gods to feed on? Where is the desire for victory, the savagery, the hope and despair? Where is the entertainment? I believe you have made my point for me. No, you are not listening. On my pilgrimage, I learned much. Win or lose, the gods feast on our deeds. A man pets a stray, and his small pleasure in the kindness of the act feeds Slaanesh. A woman strikes her crying child, and that awful moment of elation she feels feeds Khorne. A Munitorum drone considers suicide. Nurgle grows fat on his despair. A merciful strategist devises a plan for bloodless victory, and Tzeentch is content. The Word Bearers believe the gods crave worship. But the gods care for nothing save filling their bellies with our sorrows. Intentionally or not, we are all meat for the beast. Even you, Fabius.

Do you remember Prospero? The world? Yes. When Russ and his curs burned it, a wealth of knowledge unequalled in the galaxy burned with it. I have always held that Magnus's greatest sin was not what he did to his sons or to his world, but that he allowed the Space Wolves to erase all that wisdom from the universe.

The discipline of the Third had once been without equal. Now, it had collapsed entirely, leaving only ambitious barbarism in its wake. Overeager savages scrabbling for influence among the ashes. Grudgingly, he included himself among their number.

You are not the disease. You are but the symptom. Mankind was on the cusp of greatness, Kasperos, and we yanked it away on the advice of a shared delusion.

Do not play me false, Fabius. I know deceit when I smell it, and the odour grows thick here. If you attempt to cheat me of my destiny, I will rip your ossified spine from your reeking carcass and beat you to death with it.

I am come, finally. The final curtain and the last song. And I will burn this half-world and clothe myself in its ashes before I am done. Children of the Emperor! Death to His foes!

We were created to guide mankind into the future. To oversee the birth of a new race. One which will outstrip even our accomplishments. We do not set the fire so that we might rule the ashes, my brothers...no, we set it so that the old might give way before the new. Take comfort, my brothers. It is a battle we cannot lose, for we have already won.

Perhaps I overestimate the intelligence of our species. Perhaps we are little more than psychopathic apes, driven to fashion clubs and smash out the brains of our closest neighbours.

You will not interfere with me? No. Well, I'm glad that's settled. Now I don't have to crack open your skull and claim the eldar did it.

Would you be immortal, Master?' I would live long enough to see my work completed. True immortality is a burden, and I scarcely have need of another of those. Upon my back rests the weight of the future. But all things must end, to have any purpose at all. True beauty is found in beauty's end. A saying our gene-father was fond of, once upon a time. Before he lost sight of things.

The day will come, my dear, when your children's children stride the galactic rim as the kings and queens of all they survey. But first, you — we — must teach them how to survive, until that moment. In your generation, there were five hundred. Of them all, I kept only you and your closest siblings. The rest are scattered across the galaxy, burrowed into the flesh of a dying empire, so that they might best guide it to its well-deserved and long overdue grave. They, and their children, carry on my teachings into the dark. Generation upon generation, their strength breeding true. As mankind dies, so it nurtures its own replacement, all unknowing. But you are different. You and your kin are to be my hand on the throat of the future. For my brothers will not surrender to fate with dignity. Those who remain, after that final hour, will fight one another for the right to rule the ashes. And in that moment, you and yours shall assert yourselves, for the first time and the last. You will hunt angels, in the days to come, and make a new kingdom from their bones". ‘And where will you be?’ she asked softly. Fabius stepped back. ‘I imagine I will be first among the foundations, my dear.’ He smiled thinly. ‘There will be no place for me in the paradise to come.’ He laughed. Behind them, the entrance to the laboratorium whined open, and someone entered. Fabius ignored the newcomer, even as Igori stiffened. ‘But until then, I persist. Until my work is done.

The gods you worship are nothing save lies, hidden behind masks of folklore and superstition. Interdimensional cancers, their mindless hunger confused for sentience by the lost and the damned.

It is the height of folly to attribute motive to a random confluence of phenomena,

The galaxy was in flames and crowded with pyromaniacs eager to claim possession of the ashes. Bile had no interest in the conflagration, its cause or celebrants. Let the galaxy burn. From its ashes would rise a new future. One created by him.