The 41st Millenium
It is a blemish on a blighted landscape, a tortured mass against the heaviness of the sky.
It's topmost spires reach up to brush the fabric of space, while it's roots dive deep into the planetary core. Twisted gothic arcitechture looms ponderesly against the horizon, blotting out all hope and crushing all thoughts of rebellion.
For miles around, barren, ashen wastes spread in an uneven footprint, waste from the billions of uncounted smokestacks, foundry runoff ports and heat sinks from thermonuclear reactors. The wastes are spotted with skeletal remains; those who thought they could survive outside of the Hive City's smothering, live-giving adamantium skin.
The outside of the Hive City is dotted with acloves, from which Primarchs and angles, Lords and Generals, Space Marines and Admirals stare sightlessly, facing the destitute, damaged wastes with a stoic power that few can match.
Inside, countless trillions work in menial, trudging jobs for one purpose; to serve the Emperor and the Imperium of Man, techpriests and enginseers mantain the mechanisms of the Hive City, Planetary Lords and Governers dally at meaningless jobs. For the grinding beuracracy of the Imperium, and the Hive City, have reached a sort of critical mass; the wheels will continue turning, all ways, because that is how it is done.
This is the future. Inside this twisted nightmare of metal and stone, the future of mankind awaits.
Welcome to the forty-first millenium.
Enjoy your stay.
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