The Bling of Saint Hesperus

Unofficial fan work. Not affiliated with or endorsed by Games Workshop.

Brother Darius and Brother Malkor of the Blood Ravens stood amid the wreckage of battle, knee-deep in heretic ash and the faint whiff of burnt promethium. Darius, grinning like a lunatic under his helm, hoisted a gaudy relic aloft—a skull-encrusted medallion dangling from a chain so thick it could moor a Titan. The thing was *dripping* in gold paint, half of it flaking off in the breeze.

"Feast your optics, Brother Malkor!" Darius bellowed, swinging it like a hypnotist’s pendulum. "The Bling of Saint Hesperus! Forged in the Emperor’s own blingularity, granting the wearer tactical brilliance so dank even the Primarchs would weep!"

Malkor, his helmeted gaze radiating a silent *‘you’re full of grox dung’*, shifted his weight and crossed arms that could crush a Dreadnought. "Brother… that’s an Ork trinket. I can smell the squig grease from here."

"Preposterous!" Darius snapped, clutching the relic to his chestplate. "Behold the sanctity! The skull! The—" 

"—the fact it says *‘WAAAGH 4 EVA’* in block capitals on the back?" Malkor cut in, voice drier than a tomb world. "Upside down, no less. With a little doodle of a squig smoking a cigar."

Darius flipped it over mid-rant, mid-breath, mid-everything. There it was: jagged Ork scrawl, complete with a cartoon squig puffing a stogie, etched into the ‘sacred’ surface. A bead of sweat visibly rolled down his ceramite pauldron.

"…Well, bugger me sideways with a chainsword," Darius muttered.

A silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant *thump* of an unexploded Ork bomb finally going off. Then, with the subtlety of a Leman Russ tank, Darius shoved the medallion under his armor, the chain clanking like a servitor’s toolbox.

"The Codex Astartes," he declared, puffing out his chest, "says *jack-all* about the Emperor’s swag needing a human pedigree. Maybe He subcontracted the Orks for this one. Ever think of that, huh?"

Malkor’s sigh was so heavy it could’ve powered a plasma generator. He hefted his bolter, muttering, "The Inquisitor’s going to requisition a whole new *Exterminatus* just for your wardrobe."

From the rubble, a lone grot popped up, shaking a tiny fist. "Oi! Gimme back me lucky neck-thing, ya git!"

Darius stomped it flat without looking. "See? Proof of its power. I’m already winning."

Malkor didn’t twitch. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t even register the grot’s squelchy demise under Darius’s boot. He just locked his helm’s lenses on his brother, radiating the kind of judgment usually reserved for a tech-priest finding binary heresy in a toaster.

“Winning what, Darius? The galaxy’s tackiest heretic pageant? Next you’ll be prancing into a firefight in a Slaaneshi thong and a feather boa, claiming it’s ‘blessed by the Throne’s vibes.’”

Darius yanked his helmet off with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a grin so unhinged it could’ve been etched by a warp-spawned dentist. “Mock me all you like, Brother, but this bling resonates. It’s got soul—Machine Spirit with a side of funk!”

He thumped the medallion like it was a vox-unit needing a reboot. It bleeped. Then blooped. Then—

The skull’s ruby eyes flared a noxious green, like two tiny Ork moons mid-Waaagh. A voice screeched out, half Low Gothic, half greenskin gibberish, with a dash of glitchy static: “OI OI, NEW WAAAGH BOSS DETECTED! FANCY HAT MODE: ENGAGED, YA ZOGGIN’ LEGEND!”

Before either Marine could process this, a top hat—black, velvet, and suspiciously singed—blasted out of the medallion with a whoomp of displaced air, smacking onto Darius’s bare head with a cartoonish sproing. A monocle popped out next, glinting as it clamped onto his face like a servo-skull with opinions. From nowhere, a kazoo wailed the Imperial March, off-key and slightly drunk, while a tiny holo-projector in the medallion flickered to life, beaming a pixelated squig doing a jig.

Malkor’s bolter clattered to the ground. Not from shock—just exhaustion. He pivoted with the grace of a Land Raider doing a three-point turn and marched toward the Thunderhawk, vox crackling to life: “Command, this is Malkor. Reassign me. I don’t care where. The Ghoul Stars. A Tyranid’s gullet. Stick me on latrine duty with the Catachan latrine itself. Just get me out.”

Behind him, Darius thrust out his chest, top hat teetering like a drunk sentinel, monocle glinting in the ash-choked light. “Hate me ‘cause you ain’t me, Brother! The Blingularity chooses its champions!”

The kazoo hit a crescendo. A nearby Rhino spontaneously combusted, belching purple smoke that vaguely spelled “WAAAGH” before dissipating. The medallion beeped again, chirping, “NEXT UPGRADE: DAKKA TIE. STAY TUNED, YA FLASH GIT!”

Far across the galaxy, on the bridge of the Macragge’s Honour, Roboute Guilliman froze mid-briefing. His quill snapped in his gauntleted fist. A vein pulsed on his noble forehead as he growled, “I felt that. Someone’s defiling my Codex with… millinery.”

Nearby, a servo-skull bobbed closer, whispering, “Lord Primarch, sensors detect a spike in unauthorized swagger on Planet Dustheap-IX.”

Guilliman’s eye twitched. “Prep my armor. And a flamer. No—two flamers.”

Malkor had almost made it to the Thunderhawk’s ramp when Darius’s voice boomed across the battlefield, amplified by what sounded like a looted Ork megaphone. “BROTHER! BEHOLD THE MERCH OF THE BLINGULARITY!”

Malkor stopped dead, not because he wanted to, but because some primal Space Marine instinct told him this was about to get worse. He turned, slowly, to see Darius holding up a black t-shirt with a garish neon design: two Blood Ravens, one swinging a medallion that looked suspiciously like the Bling of Saint Hesperus, the other aiming a bolter with an expression that screamed “I’m done with this.” The shirt glowed under the flickering light of a nearby promethium fire, the neon lines pulsing like a warp rift.

Darius waved the shirt like a battle standard, top hat still wobbling on his head, monocle glinting with unearned pride. “I had the serfs print these while you were sulking! The Blingularity demands branding, Brother! We’ll fund the next crusade with these bad boys—10,000 thrones a pop!”

The medallion on Darius’s chest beeped again, its ruby eyes flashing as it squawked, “MARKETIN’ MODE: ACTIVATED! SLOGAN UNLOCKED—‘WAAAGH YOUR WAGON, JOIN THE FASHION!’” A tiny holo-squig projected from the medallion, now wearing its own miniature top hat and holding a sign that read “BUY NOW OR GET KRUMPED!”

Malkor’s gauntlet twitched toward his bolter, but he restrained himself—barely. “Darius,” he growled, “you’re telling me you diverted Chapter resources… to make t-shirts… for a relic that’s currently playing the Imperial March on a kazoo?”

“Exactly!” Darius beamed, tossing the shirt at Malkor, who caught it on reflex and immediately regretted it. “The Emperor’s light shines through drip, Brother! Imagine it: every Blood Raven rocking this fit, medallions swinging, top hats popping off mid-battle! We’ll be the flashiest Chapter this side of the Eye of Terror!”

The Thunderhawk’s engines roared to life as the pilot, clearly done with this entire scene, voxed, “Brother Malkor, we’re leaving. With or without you. I’ve got a servitor choir rehearsal in an hour.”

Malkor stared at the t-shirt in his hands, then at Darius, who was now striking poses like a hive-world influencer, the medallion’s holo-squig breakdancing beside him. Somewhere in the distance, another Rhino exploded, this time raining confetti that suspiciously matched the neon colors of the shirt.

“I’m burning this,” Malkor muttered, stomping up the ramp. “And then I’m burning you.”

Darius called after him, “You’ll wear it ironically one day, Brother! The Blingularity always wins!”

Far across the galaxy, Guilliman’s flagship received an unsolicited vox-transmission: a holo-ad of Darius modeling the t-shirt, medallion swinging, with the tagline “GET YOUR WAAAGH ON—BLINGULARITY APPROVED!” The Primarch’s scream of frustration was heard three sectors away.

The Blingularity Spreads

Weeks later, on a backwater agri-world, a group of Imperial Guardsmen huddled around a flickering holo-feed during a rare moment of downtime. The vox crackled to life with an ad that had somehow bypassed every security protocol in the Astra Militarum’s network. Darius’s grinning face filled the screen, top hat tilted at a rakish angle, medallion swinging hypnotically. “GET YOUR WAAAGH ON—BLINGULARITY APPROVED!” the ad blared, as the holo-squig moonwalked across the bottom of the feed, waving its “BUY NOW OR GET KRUMPED!” sign.

The Guardsmen stared, slack-jawed. One, a grizzled Cadian veteran with a bionic eye, slowly pulled a black t-shirt from his rucksack—the very same neon design Darius had forced on Malkor. “I… I bought it off a rogue trader,” he mumbled, voice trembling with a mix of shame and awe. “Said it’d make me fight better. Wore it under my flak armor last week. Swear I shot straighter.”

His sergeant, a Catachan with biceps bigger than a grot’s dreams, snatched the shirt and held it up to the light. The neon Blood Ravens glowed ominously. “This is heretical nonsense,” he growled, but his eyes lingered on the holo-squig’s dance moves. “...How much was it?”

Meanwhile, in the warp, Tzeentch paused mid-scheme, a thousand eyes narrowing as he sensed a new thread of chaos weaving through the galaxy. “What… is this blingularity?” the Changer of Ways hissed, his kaleidoscopic form flickering with intrigue. “I did not plan this. And yet… I like it.” A single tendril of warp energy snaked out, ordering a crate of t-shirts to be delivered to his labyrinthine realm.

Back on the Macragge’s Honour, Roboute Guilliman stood on the bridge, clad in full armor, a flamer in each hand. His normally stoic face was a mask of barely contained fury. “I’ve tracked the source of this… fashion contagion,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Planet Dustheap-IX. We make for it at once. No one defiles my Codex with kazoo music and lives.”

A servo-skull floated up, its vox-unit crackling. “Lord Primarch, urgent update: the Blood Ravens have reported a new… recruitment surge. Astartes candidates are arriving wearing top hats and demanding ‘bling upgrades.’ Also, the Orks of Dustheap-IX have declared a ‘Fancy Waaagh’ in your honor.”

Guilliman’s flamers roared to life, the flames casting an ominous glow across the bridge. “I’m ending this. Now.”

Somewhere, in the depths of the warp, the Emperor of Mankind—still seated on the Golden Throne—felt a faint tremor of amusement ripple through his fractured psyche. A single thought echoed through the Immaterium: My sons… never change.

And on Dustheap-IX, Darius stood atop a pile of Ork corpses, medallion gleaming, top hat somehow still intact. He raised a freshly printed t-shirt to the sky, the neon design catching the light of a burning hive city. “FOR THE EMPEROR AND THE BLINGULARITY!” he roared, as the kazoo played on, eternal and unyielding.

The Blingularity Crusade: Galaxy’s Flashiest Heresy

Months after the Dustheap-IX incident, the Blingularity had metastasized into a full-blown phenomenon, spreading faster than a Nurgle plague but with better beats. Darius, now self-proclaimed “High Swagmaster of the Blingularity,” had turned his t-shirt empire into a crusade that defied all Imperial logic. His latest scheme? A galaxy-wide tour to “spread the Emperor’s drip,” complete with a mobile stage built from the wreckage of a looted Baneblade, painted gold and rigged with speakers the size of Dreadnoughts.

At the heart of this madness was Mixmaster Ferrum, a rogue Tech-Priest who’d abandoned the Omnissiah’s binary hymns for the thumping bass of what he called “mek-beats.” Ferrum had once been a respected member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, but after encountering Darius’s medallion—and surviving its kazoo rendition of the Imperial March—he’d had a revelation. “The Machine God craves rhythm,” Ferrum declared, his mechadendrites now fitted with turntables and strobe lights. He stood at the Baneblade’s helm, spinning tracks that mixed binaric chants with Orkish war drums, the bass so heavy it caused minor seismic activity on every planet they visited.

Darius’s crusade had also attracted a breakaway Ecclesiarchy sect, the Order of the Trap Litany. Clad in gilded robes with chainmail hoodies, these priests chanted hymns that sounded suspiciously like hive-world rap. “For the Emperor, we flex! For the Throne, we bless!” they roared, waving incense burners that doubled as subwoofers. Their leader, Sister Cardi-Maria, claimed the Blingularity was a divine sign that the Emperor wanted His faithful to “get lit for the Golden Throne.” Her sermons ended with mosh pits that left even hardened Space Marines dizzy.

The crusade’s antics hadn’t gone unnoticed in the warp. On a pleasure world in the Segmentum Obscurus, a daemon prince of Slaanesh named Luxxion the Resplendent seethed with jealousy. Luxxion had spent millennia perfecting his aesthetic—peacock feathers, mirrored armor, a voice that could seduce a hive fleet—but Darius was stealing his spotlight. “More likes?!” Luxxion screeched, scrolling a corrupted data-slate that showed Darius’s latest vox-cast: a holo of him dabbing in front of a burning Ork warboss, captioned “WAAAGH YOUR WAGON, STAY FLASHIN’.” Luxxion’s six arms crossed in a huff. “I’ll show that mortal what true excess looks like. Summon my legion—we’re crashing this… this tour!”

Meanwhile, on the Baneblade-turned-stage, Darius was mid-performance, swinging his medallion like a pendulum while Mixmaster Ferrum dropped a beat that made the ground shake. The medallion, now upgraded with “DAKKA TIE MODE,” had sprouted a neon-green tie that fired tiny las-bolts in time with the music. “FOR THE EMPEROR’S SWAG!” Darius bellowed, as the Order of the Trap Litany hyped up the crowd of awestruck Imperial citizens, Guardsmen, and even a few confused Orks who’d joined because they liked the “shiny gubbinz.”

Malkor, who’d been forcibly dragged along after his reassignment request was denied (“The Chapter needs you to keep an eye on him,” the Captain had said, with a tone that screamed I’m sorry), stood at the edge of the stage, arms crossed, bolter in hand. He’d spent weeks muttering threats to burn Darius, the t-shirts, the medallion—everything. But the relentless absurdity had worn him down. The kazoo. The explosions. The holo-squig’s dance moves. Sister Cardi-Maria offering him a chainmail hoodie “for the vibes.” It was too much.

And then, it happened.

Malkor snapped.

But not in the way anyone expected.

With a roar that could’ve shattered a Land Raider, Malkor tore off his helmet, revealing a face twisted not with rage, but with… acceptance. “FINE!” he bellowed, storming onto the stage. The crowd gasped as he snatched a t-shirt from a nearby serf, yanked it over his armor, and grabbed a mic from Mixmaster Ferrum. “If I can’t stop this madness, I’ll lead it! FOR THE EMPEROR AND THE BLINGULARITY!”

Darius froze mid-dab, monocle falling off in shock. “Brother… you’re in?”

Malkor turned to the crowd, his voice booming over Ferrum’s beat. “I’m done resisting. The Codex Astartes didn’t prepare me for this, but the Emperor clearly wants us to flex! So let’s flex harder! Who’s with me?!”

The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers and confused Orkish roars. Sister Cardi-Maria started a new chant: “MALKOR SPITS BARS, MALKOR SPITS BARS!” Mixmaster Ferrum cranked the bass, and the medallion’s holo-squig projected a hologram of Malkor breakdancing—a sight so surreal that a nearby Tech-Priest fainted.

Far across the galaxy, Guilliman’s flagship shuddered as the Primarch sensed another spike in unauthorized swagger. “They’ve… recruited Malkor,” he whispered, flamers trembling in his hands. “This ends now.”

But in the warp, Tzeentch leaned back on his throne of ever-shifting schemes, a crate of Blingularity t-shirts at his side. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” he purred, as Luxxion’s legion descended on the crusade, ready to out-dazzle Darius once and for all.

The Blingularity vs. The Resplendent: A Fashion War for the Ages

The Blingularity Crusade’s tour had reached the hive world of Glitterspire Primus, a planet known for its towering spires of reflective crystal that caught the light of its twin suns in a dazzling display. It was the perfect stage for Darius’s latest performance, and the Baneblade-turned-party-tank was parked atop the highest spire, its speakers blaring Mixmaster Ferrum’s latest track—a remix of the Litany of Fury with a trap beat so heavy it cracked the crystal beneath. The Order of the Trap Litany swayed in their chainmail hoodies, chanting “FOR THE THRONE, WE SHINE!” as Darius strutted across the stage, medallion swinging, DAKKA TIE firing las-bolts in rhythm with the music.

Malkor, now fully committed to the madness, had taken to his new role with terrifying zeal. He’d swapped his bolter for a mic, spitting bars over Ferrum’s beat: “Blood Ravens in the house, we don’t play! Blingularity droppin’ heat every day!” The crowd—thousands of hive-worlders, Guardsmen, and even a few Orks who’d snuck in for the “shiny bitz”—roared in approval, waving t-shirts and glow-sticks looted from a nearby manufactorum. Sister Cardi-Maria led a mosh pit that was starting to look dangerously like a new Imperial ritual.

But the party was about to get a lot flashier.

A rift tore open in the sky above Glitterspire Primus, a kaleidoscope of pinks, purples, and silvers that screamed Slaanesh’s influence. Out stepped Luxxion the Resplendent, daemon prince of excess, his mirrored armor reflecting the twin suns in a blinding display. Peacock feathers fanned out behind him, each one glittering with warp-forged jewels, and his six arms held an array of ostentatious accessories: a diamond-encrusted scepter, a gilded vox-caster, a mirror that whispered compliments, and a data-slate open to his warp-feed stats (he was still losing likes to Darius). His legion of daemonettes followed, each one draped in silks that shimmered with hypnotic patterns, their claws clutching bouquets of roses that screamed when thrown.

“Mortals!” Luxxion’s voice boomed, a seductive purr that made half the crowd swoon and the other half reach for their lasguns. “I am Luxxion the Resplendent, true icon of excess! Your… Blingularity”—he spat the word like it was a personal insult—“is a cheap imitation of my perfection. Surrender your stage, or I’ll redecorate this hive with your entrails—tastefully, of course.”

Darius paused mid-strut, top hat tilting as he sized up the daemon prince. “Well, well, well,” he said, swinging his medallion with a smirk. “Looks like someone’s mad they didn’t get an invite to the tour. Sorry, mate—VIP list only. But I’ll give you a free shirt if you chill.” He tossed a Blingularity t-shirt at Luxxion, the neon design catching the light as it sailed through the air.

Luxxion caught it with one clawed hand, stared at it, and shrieked, “This… this garment is an affront to fashion! Neon? On black? And what is this slogan—‘WAAAGH YOUR WAGON’?! I’ve seen hive-scum with better taste!” He shredded the shirt with a flick of his claws, the pieces fluttering down like heretical confetti.

Malkor stepped forward, mic still in hand, his voice a low growl. “You talk a big game, daemon, but can you spit bars?” The crowd gasped—Malkor was challenging a daemon prince to a rap battle. Mixmaster Ferrum grinned with his augmetic jaw, cranking the beat as Malkor started his verse: “You’re a Slaanesh reject, all flash, no class! I’ll melt your feathers with my lyrical blast!”

Luxxion’s eyes narrowed, but a smirk curled his lips. “Oh, I love a challenge.” He snapped his fingers, and his daemonettes formed a backup dance crew, their movements so fluid they seemed to defy gravity. Luxxion’s vox-caster crackled to life, amplifying his voice as he dropped his own bars: “I’m the prince of excess, your bling’s a disgrace! I’ll outshine your crusade and melt your face!”

The rap battle escalated, the crowd going wild as Darius and Malkor traded verses with Luxxion, Ferrum’s beats shaking the spire. The medallion joined in, its holo-squig projecting a breakdance routine while chanting, “DISS MODE: ACTIVATED! ROAST ‘EM, BOSS!” Sister Cardi-Maria and the Order of the Trap Litany started a new hymn: “BURN THE DAEMON WITH SICK FLOWS, EMPEROR KNOWS!”

But the battle was cut short by a new arrival. A golden light split the sky as a drop pod slammed into the spire, the impact sending crystal shards flying. Out stepped Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, his armor gleaming, flamers in both hands, and a look of pure, unadulterated fury on his face. Behind him marched a company of Ultramarines, their bolters trained on the stage.

“ENOUGH!” Guilliman roared, his voice shaking the hive. “Darius. Malkor. You’ve defiled the Codex Astartes, the Imperium’s honor, and my sanity with this… this Blingularity! And now you’re battling a daemon prince with… poetry?!”

Darius, unfazed, tipped his top hat. “Lord Primarch! Glad you could make it to the show. Want a t-shirt? We’ve got your size—extra stoic.”

Guilliman’s eye twitched. “I’m burning it all,” he said, flamers roaring to life. “The stage. The shirts. The medallion. You. Everything.”

Luxxion, sensing an opportunity, sidled up to Guilliman. “Primarch, darling, let’s team up. I can’t stand these tacky mortals either. We can make this hive a monument to true excess—my treat.”

Guilliman turned his flamers on Luxxion without a word, the daemon prince shrieking as he dove back into the warp, his peacock feathers singed. “I’ll deal with you later,” Guilliman growled, then turned back to Darius and Malkor. “As for you—”

But before he could finish, the medallion beeped, its ruby eyes glowing brighter than ever. “ULTIMATE MODE: UNLOCKED!” it screeched, and a wave of neon light erupted from it, engulfing the spire. When the light faded, every single person on Glitterspire Primus—Guilliman included—was wearing a Blingularity t-shirt, top hat, and monocle. Even the Ultramarines. Even the daemonettes, who’d stuck around to watch. Even the crystal spires, somehow.

Darius grinned, throwing an arm around Malkor. “Told you, Brother—the Blingularity always wins.”

Guilliman stared at his reflection in a nearby crystal, the neon t-shirt glowing under his armor, the top hat perched on his head. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. For the first time in millennia, the Primarch had no words.

Somewhere in the warp, Tzeentch doubled over laughing, his crate of t-shirts glowing with approval. “Best. Crusade. Ever.”

Disclaimer: This is a fan-made, unofficial parody work inspired by the Warhammer 40K universe. It is not affiliated with, endorsed by, or associated with Games Workshop or its subsidiaries. All rights to the original Warhammer 40K intellectual property belong to their respective owners. This project is distributed for free, purely as an act of fandom and satire.