The Primarch of Liberty

The darkness of the Webway enveloped Franklin Valorian as he stepped through the portal, his boots echoing against crystalline floors that seemed to whisper ancient jokes. The transition from real space to the labyrinthine passages was always disorienting, but what happened next would make that seem perfectly normal by comparison.

A face materialized from the shadows – painted white with dramatic swirls of color, topped with a magnificent hat festooned with bells that somehow managed to jingle silently. The face split into a grin that seemed to exist in more dimensions than strictly necessary.

"WELCOME TO THE BOOK NOOK, PRIMEJESTER!" Cegorach's voice boomed with the authority of someone announcing the galaxy's greatest comedy show.

"SWEET MOTHER OF LIBERTY!" Franklin yelped, his voice breaking just enough to ruin his usual aura of unshakable cool. His hand instinctively flew to The Last Word, and before his brain could catch up, the mighty Primarch unleashed a dazzling symphony of pure, unadulterated panic-shooting.

"BANG! BANG! BANG! FREEDOM BULLETS FOR EVERYONE!" he bellowed, spinning wildly like a malfunctioning turret. Somewhere, a Bald Eagle probably shed a tear of patriotic pride.

Cegorach slipped through the hail of bullets like a shadow in the moonlight, effortlessly avoiding each shot. Every movement was an artful display: a graceful sidestep, a fluid cartwheel, and even a moment where he paused mid-motion to straighten his collar, as if bullets were no more troubling than a passing breeze.

"Your marksmanship is as American as apple pie served with a side of MORE APPLE PIE!" Cegorach declared, somehow ending up in a rocking chair that definitely wasn't there a moment ago. In his hands was a comically oversized book titled "How to Jest: Primarch Edition."

Franklin finally lowered his weapon, recognition dawning on his face. "Oh... OH! It's you! The Laughing God! Cegorach!"

"Mm-hmm" Cegorach rocked back and forth, the chair making absolutely no sound despite its apparent creakiness. "But before we proceed with today's installment of 'Webway Warriors: The Reading Rainbow Edition,' I must ask..." He leaned forward dramatically, bells tinkling in reverse. "Do you have... YOUR LIBRARY CARD?"

On cue, a thunderous applause erupted from everywhere and nowhere, complete with phantom whistles and what sounded suspiciously like a laugh track from M2 sitcoms.

Franklin, catching on to the game, reached into his armor with theatrical flourish and produced the crystalline card Cegorach had given him after their joint webway-breach-sealing adventure. "Why yes, my most jovial of jesters! One Blackarius Librariarius card, certified for all your forbidden knowledge needs!"

Cegorach produced a stamp from his sleeve – a stamp that looked suspiciously like a rubber chicken – and brought it down on the card with all the gravity of an Imperial declaration. "STAMPED AND APPROVED BY THE DEPARTMENT OF WHIMSY AND FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE!"

"Say," Franklin asked, brushing off some sparkly stamp residue, "why do you call me Primejester? Is it because of my incredibly witty battlefield banter? My dashing good looks? My ability to make even Dorn crack a smile? Actually, that last one might be impossible..."

Cegorach's grin somehow managed to grow even wider, defying several laws of facial geometry. "Why did the Primejester cross the Webway?" he asked instead, his voice carrying the weight of ancient cosmic humor.

Franklin, matching Cegorach's tone perfectly, replied: "To get to the other SIDE OF KNOWLEDGE! Because normal roads are too mainstream, and teleporters lack dramatic flair!"

"CORRECT!" Cegorach leapt up, the rocking chair vanishing as if it had never existed. Another round of phantom applause filled the space, this time with the distinct sound of Harlequins crying "Encore! Encore!"

The Laughing God gestured to an ornate door that materialized in the darkness, its surface covered in shifting runes that occasionally arranged themselves into knock-knock jokes. "The Black Library awaits, Primejester! Within its halls lie the secrets you seek – the cure for your red-skinned brother's sons and the knowledge to prevent Magnus from doing EVERYTHING WRONG!"

"Everything wrong?" Franklin chuckled, stepping toward the door. "Like that time he tried to send a psychic message to Terra and ended up redecorating the Imperial Webway in 'Chaos Chic'?"

"PRECISELY!" Cegorach cackled, the sound echoing through dimensions that hadn't been invented yet. "Though I must say, his interior decorating skills were rather... MIND-BLOWING!"

As Franklin crossed the threshold into the Black Library, he could have sworn he heard Cegorach humming what sounded suspiciously like the reading rainbow theme song, but with lyrics about forbidden knowledge and cosmic jokes.

The Laughing God's final words followed him in: "Remember, Primejester – the best jokes are the ones that save the galaxy! And always return your books on time, or face the dreaded LATE FEES OF DESTINY!"

The door sealed behind Franklin, leaving him in the vast expanse of the Black Library. Somewhere in the distance, a book about paradoxes fell off its shelf, but only after someone would pick it up later.

"Well," Franklin muttered to himself, straightening his armor, "time to hit the books. Let's see if we can't find something to help Magnus avoid his 'everything wrong' phase. Maybe there's a self-help section: 'So You've Accidentally Doomed the Galaxy: A Primer on Prevention'?"

The Library seemed to chuckle in response, and Franklin could have sworn he saw a book titled exactly that float by on a nearby shelf. Just another day in the life of the Primarch of Liberty, where even the pursuit of knowledge came with a healthy side of cosmic comedy.

----------------------------

The Black Library stretched before Franklin in a way that could only be described as "impossible." Bookshelves floated in absurdly unnatural geometries, some twirling around like cosmic merry-go-rounds, others twisted into Möbius strips of infinite knowledge. It was as though a demented librarian had decided to take the Dewey Decimal System out for a spin, fed it some quantum physics, and left it to do its thing in a reality where physics had forgotten the rules.

"Well," Franklin muttered under his breath, scratching his chin as he surveyed the chaos, "I've seen some weird stuff in my time, but this? This is an all-you-can-eat buffet of madness."

At the front desk, a Harlequin librarian sat motionless like a mannequin, staring ahead with an unsettling, gleaming smile. Before Franklin could even say hello, the Harlequin produced a white cardboard sign that fluttered into view with an elegance that made Franklin briefly wonder if he was hallucinating.

"DON'T LOOK AT ME... I'M JUST A LIBRARIAN..."

Franklin blinked. His jaw hung open for a moment before he snapped it shut. "I'm looking for—"

WHOOSH—a new card materialized in front of him.

"BOOKS? BOOKS OF POWER? BOOKS OF SPELLS? AHA! BOOKS TO PREVENT A BROTHER FROM DOING SOMETHING STUPID?"

"Yes, exactly!" Franklin replied, genuinely impressed. "How did you—?"

FLASH—another card appeared, blocking his sentence entirely:

"SHHH, NO TALKING."

Franklin blinked. He could almost feel his IQ dropping by the second. The Primarch of Liberty, a man who had once faced entire armies and won, was now reduced to an awkward mime act. His eyes darted around until he spotted a whiteboard with a marker beside it. Grabbing both with the enthusiasm of a man finding a treasure chest in the desert, he quickly scribbled a simple: "YES."

The Harlequin librarian's shoulders trembled—was that laughter?—before they flashed another impossibly long card before him. It unfurled like a scroll of doom, or perhaps a magical shopping list.

"SHELF 12432983298398234412, ISLE NUMBER 10293834928429899080976."

"Fuck," Franklin eloquently summarized the situation.

With an entirely too long pause, the librarian waved him away with an air of silent amusement. A silent, eternal amusement.

As Franklin trudged away, feeling a little more foolish with every step, a second Harlequin appeared. This one wore a vest covered in question marks that seemed to rearrange themselves every time Franklin glanced at them. They had a card in hand.

"NEED HELP FINDING SHELVES?"

Franklin, desperate, nodded so vigorously that his armor creaked with the sound of an overworked door hinge.

FLIP—new card:

"WE HAVE A SPECIFIC FACE MASK JUST FOR THIS OCCASION!"

"Where?" Franklin immediately regretted breaking the "No Talking" rule, but the question had slipped out before he could stop himself.

The Harlequin nonchalantly pointed to a chair that, no joke, definitely hadn't been there a moment ago. It looked suspiciously comfortable, like it had been sitting there for centuries waiting for him. Franklin, realizing that the dignity ship had long since sailed, flopped into it with a groan that echoed across the void.

What followed was, undoubtedly, the strangest makeover session in Imperial history. The Harlequin worked with the precision of an artist and the speed of a caffeinated squirrel. Franklin sat still, bewildered and somewhat alarmed, wondering if this was what normal people experienced during armor fittings.

After what felt like an eternity, the Harlequin presented him with a mirror. The Primarch of Liberty stared at his reflection in stunned silence.

His face had been transformed into an absurd clownish masterpiece. White makeup as a base, swirls of blue, red and white accenting his features (at least they matched his Legion's colors), dramatic eyebrows that seemed to defy the laws of gravity, and the pièce de résistance—a brilliant, bulbous, and impossibly red nose that could probably be seen from space.

"Damnit," Franklin muttered in disbelief. As he reached up to touch the nose, he noticed something that made him groan. It was glowing. Glowing. The red sphere pulsed and flickered, and when Franklin turned in certain directions, it seemed to light up the hallway in an almost… directional way.

"A compass," he muttered to himself, blinking. "A cosmic comedy compass."

The Harlequin had already vanished, leaving Franklin to contemplate his newfound absurdity alone. He sighed deeply, adjusting his glowing red beacon of idiocy as he glanced over the bookshelves, which now seemed to rearrange themselves in response to his newly acquired "guide."

The nose glowed brighter when he faced certain directions. Dimmed when he went the wrong way. Occasionally, it honked loudly, which—surprisingly—seemed to send nearby Harlequins into fits of silent, shuddering laughter. Franklin wasn't sure if he was offended or just… tired of being this ridiculous.

"This is going in my memoir," Franklin declared to absolutely no one in particular. "Chapter title: 'Red Nose, Red Magnus: A Tale of Two Directories.'"

And so, Franklin wandered deeper into the infinite labyrinth of knowledge, guided by his constantly illuminating nose. Every book seemed to have a name so convoluted that even the letters seemed to get confused. One shelf was labeled in an infinite string of pi digits that only contained the ones that had appeared in knock-knock jokes. Another shelf constantly changed its number every time Franklin blinked. He blinked, the shelf was different. He blinked again, and it was the same as it had been five seconds ago.

A Harlequin librarian floated by on a ladder that was somehow sideways. They held up a thumbs-up before flashing a card that read:

"THE NOSE KNOWS!"

Franklin stopped, narrowing his eyes as he looked down at his ridiculous red beacon. He thought for a moment, his mind reaching a profound conclusion that felt like the cosmos had just clicked into place.

"Maybe," he mused, "this is why Magnus had so many problems. He tried to categorize everything logically. You can't navigate the impossible with 'possible' thinking. You have to embrace the absurd."

The nose gleamed brighter. It was almost like it was applauding his newfound philosophy.

As Franklin continued down the endless halls, with gravity shifting every third step and bookshelves rearranging themselves to mock him, he couldn't help but feel a little bit of admiration for the sheer genius of it all. In a place where reality itself bent and twisted, where knowledge so vast it could drive a normal person mad was hidden, what better way to secure it than by forcing someone to abandon their entire understanding of how things were supposed to work?

"Note to self," Franklin mumbled, as his nose began to lead him toward a shelf marked with symbols that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking. "Suggest clown college for Liberty Eagles officer training. Might improve their ability to think outside the box… or inside the box that's actually outside another box that only exists on Thursdays."

Franklin's glowing red nose led him through the impossible geometry of the Black Library, occasionally honking when he made wrong turns. As he navigated the labyrinthine shelves, his attention was caught by a rather peculiar collection of books that seemed to be actively trying to get his attention.

The first volume that caught his eye was bound in what appeared to be leather (though he desperately hoped it wasn't what it looked like). In gaudy golden letters, the title proclaimed: "The Chaos Gods' Favorite Recipes."

"Well, this should be interesting," Franklin muttered, carefully opening the tome.

The table of contents read like a fever dream of a cooking show gone horribly wrong:

Slaanesh's Sensual Soufflé (Warning: May cause inappropriate feelings toward baked goods)

Khorne's Bloody Mary Special (Now with real blood! Supply your own skulls)

Tzeentch's Ever-Changing Casserole (Recipe changes while you cook it)

Nurgle's Garden Fresh Soup (Definition of 'fresh' may vary)

"I'm pretty sure this violates several Imperial health codes," Franklin commented, hastily closing the book when he noticed the pages were slightly moist.

Next to the cookbook sat a bright yellow volume with cartoonish illustrations that practically screamed "user-friendly." Its title, "A Beginner's Guide to Warp Energy for Dummies," was accompanied by a subtitle: "Because Everyone Makes Mistakes (Looking at you, Magnus)."

Just as Franklin reached for it, a holographic librarian materialized – looking suspiciously like an ancient Windows assistant.

"Did you mean: Defeating Chaos?" the flickering figure asked helpfully.

"No, I was actually looking for–"

"Have you tried turning the Warp off and on again?"

"That's not how the Warp–"

"Error 404: Reality not found. Please contact your local Chaos God for assistance."

Franklin pinched the bridge of his nose – careful not to disturb his glowing navigation apparatus – and sighed. "I'm starting to regret diving into this."

A slim volume caught his eye: "What Really Happened to the Squats." As his hand approached it, the book literally burst into flames, leaving behind a small note that read: "Nice try. - The Management"

"Well, that's just rude," Franklin muttered, brushing ash off his armor.

Finding another reception desk (or perhaps it was the same one that had moved), Franklin approached with his most winning smile – which probably looked ridiculous given his current facial decoration.

"I'm looking for information about how to cure Flesh Change," he began.

The Harlequin librarian flashed a card: "For advanced knowledge, ask again in 1000 years..."

"But I'm a Primarch!"

New note: "Fine. 999 years."

Among the shifting shelves, a particular book seemed to call out to him: "Forbidden Knowledge That Should Not Be Read." The cover even had a little sign saying "Definitely don't open this, especially if you're a curious Primarch with a red nose."

"Well, now I have to," Franklin declared, opening the book.

The pages immediately began assaulting his dignity:

"Your hairline is receding faster than the Imperium's borders!"

"Nice nose, did Cegorach pick that out for you?"

"You call those tactical decisions? I've seen Orks with better strategy!"

"Your Legion's color scheme looks like it was chosen by a color-blind Slaaneshi cultist!"

Finally reaching the last page, Franklin found the promised "Ultimate Forbidden Knowledge" – a collection of ancient Terran "memes" adapted for the 41st millennium. The first showed a small yellow rodent with his lasgun, captioned: "When you face the Tyranids but your lasgun runs out of flashlight batteries."

The next pages contained an increasingly anxiety-inducing sequence about a Planetary Governor's worst day ever, complete with animated picts showing the gradual descent into absolute chaos: Kriegsmen arriving en masse, Inquisitors showing up uninvited, the Imperial Fists enacting the Last Wall Protocol, the Custodes leaving Terra (never a good sign), Primarchs returning, Orks offering alliance, the Silent King dropping by with his entire race, and finally – the Astronomicon going dark.

"I should probably warn that guy," Franklin mused, before remembering this was probably just a joke. Probably.

As he continued his exploration, Franklin encountered the infamous shifting bookshelf. Each time he blinked, the contents completely changed. His first grab yielded "The Complete History of the Eldar, by Ulthwe's Historian" – a surprisingly thin volume containing only one chapter: "We Don't Talk About The Fall."

The books began changing faster and faster, until suddenly one caught his eye: "A Study of Franklin Valorian's Smile: A Photographic History."

"Well, I'll be damned," Franklin chuckled, flipping through the pages. "The photographer really got all my good sides. Though I question the chapter titled 'Smirking Through Successful Logistics Operations' – that seems oddly specific."

As Franklin continued his journey through the stacks, he couldn't help but notice the increasingly self-aware nature of the library's contents. One shelf contained nothing but books about books about books, while another seemed to be dedicated entirely to theoretical works about theoretical works.

A small note attached to a nearby shelf read: "Warning: The contents of this shelf may contain recursive humor. Side effects may include existential crises, temporal paradoxes, and the uncontrollable urge to make dad jokes."

"Now they tell me," Franklin muttered, already feeling the urge to make a pun about library cataloging systems.

Franklin's glowing nose cast a gentle crimson light on the dusty shelves of the Black Library as he was drawn to a plain, brown tome nestled between a grimoire pulsating with ominous energy and a book whispering forbidden truths in binary. This one, however, was conspicuously unremarkable. Its title, faintly embossed and smudged with time, read: "The Book of Unflinching Logic: By Someone Who's Had Enough of This Nonsense."

"Well, this promises to be interesting," Franklin murmured, picking it up. The book exuded an aura of resigned practicality, as though its sole purpose was to exist as the most reasonable object in an otherwise insane universe. He opened the cover and was greeted by a table of contents that didn't bother with riddles or mysticism. The brutally honest chapter titles made him pause:

Being an 8ft Tall Demigod is Cool,But It's Awkward in Spaceships

Space Elves are Cool, But Nobody Buys the Merchandise

The Real Problem with Genetically Engineered Supersoldiers: They Can't Communicate

Tyranids: The Galaxy's Most Unemployed Ecosystem

Franklin flipped to the first chapter, chuckling as the text wasted no time cutting through pretension.

"Sure, you're a towering figure of might and majesty, but try squeezing into a cockpit designed for beings with more reasonable proportions. Hope you enjoy hunching, because that's your life now. And don't even get us started on armor weight. Congratulations, you're a walking tank that can't fit through most doorways."

He sighed, nodding as if the book had reached into his soul. "Finally, someone gets it," he muttered, recalling the countless times he'd left Primarch-sized dents in supposedly reinforced walls. "I should send a copy of this to Armstrong."

Turning the page, he found the next chapter on Space Elves.

"Their aesthetic is unparalleled, their lore is deep and mystifying… but James Workshop says their merchandise sales are underwhelming. Result? Plot irrelevance. They're like that cool band no one listens to because the lead singer uses too many metaphors."

"James Workshop?" Franklin mused, raising an eyebrow. The name sparked a faint memory from Old Terra, though what it referred to exactly eluded him. "Probably some ancient profiteer who knew his audience."

The chapter on genetically engineered supersoldiers hit a little too close to home.

"They're perfect warriors, disciplined and loyal. But let's face it, their dialogue skills are limited to yelling in battle or ominously quoting their rulebook. It's like trying to bond with a brick wall that occasionally chants 'For the Emperor!' "

He winced but couldn't help laughing. "I'm going to need to implement some communication workshops in the Liberty Eagles."

Further along, the book tackled the Tyranids with a level of irreverence that made him laugh out loud.

"What's the endgame here? You eat everything in the galaxy. Great. Now what? Open a restaurant? Evolve taste buds? Maybe the real galactic apex predator is existential boredom."

Scattered footnotes seemed to argue with each other, their tone veering between sardonic and bizarrely insightful. One read:

"The universe's absurdity is its own defense mechanism. Don't question it too hard unless you want to implode."

Its counterpoint immediately followed:

"Implosion might be the most logical reaction to all of this nonsense."

Franklin's grin widened as he stumbled upon a margin note scribbled in jagged handwriting:

"If you're reading this, congratulations! You've found the only sane text in an insane galaxy. Or have you? - Definitely Not Cegorach."

He groaned. "Of course. Who else could be behind this?" He glanced around, half-expecting a Harlequin to pop out and applaud.

The final chapter left him with a statement that lingered in his mind long after he read it:

"You know," Franklin said to no one in particular, "maybe the real logic was the absurdity we found along the way."

His nose honked softly in what felt like agreement. Closing the book, Franklin carefully returned it to its place, resisting the urge to open it again when the title momentarily shifted to: "How to Outwit a Primarch, Vol. 1."

He stared at it for a moment before shaking his head. "Not today," he muttered.

As Franklin continued deeper into the Black Library, his red nose glowed faintly brighter, casting light on his smirk. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of laughter echoed, but whether it was from the library or his own mind, he couldn't be sure.