Grimdark

Vharax-Null (Warhammer 40k)

Ronan_From_Montfort

Set on polluted Vharax-Null, this campaign unfolds within and beneath two colossal Hive Cities.

Author's Note: Vharax-Null is a forgotten frontier world on the edge of the Segmentum Obscurus, once an industrial jewel during the Great Crusade, now a polluted wasteland scarred by millennia of overexploitation. The largest and most ancient of the Hive Cities on Vharax-Null, Golganneth Spire stretches miles into the tainted sky. It is a fortress-city built atop the bones of a crashed Ark Mechanicus, its foundations infused with forgotten STCs and cursed tech. Its original purpose—research and weapons manufacturing—was twisted over the millennia into sheer production might. Ruling Golganneth is the Dominatum Synaxis, a collective of ancient cybernetic nobles and tech-barons, half-machine and barely human. They maintain order with vast legions of servitors, hive enforcers, and gene-bred worker clans who live and die in the endless foundries. Constructed centuries later by a breakaway faction from Golganneth, Morrak’s Rise was founded by a rogue Fabricator-General named Morrak Varn, who sought independence from the Synaxis. Though smaller, Morrak’s Rise is more efficient, colder, and far more militarized. Its upper towers are reinforced with macroplas and adamantium, its infrastructure less corrupt and newer by comparison. Morrak’s Rise is governed by a militant technocracy known as the Cohort Directive, who aim to one day eclipse Golganneth and bring all of Vharax-Null under one unified, logical rule. Mistrust runs deep between the two Hives—though they share resources via skyrails and convoys, open war is only ever one assassination away.

Played	37 times
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Created	26 days ago
Last Updated	2 days ago
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The Hollowed Vein

Point of Interest

Details

Coordinates

(-5874, -5240)

Description

The Hollow Vein is not a place of pleasure—it’s a transaction wrapped in despair. Tucked away in a sagging sump alley near the Gutterline, the Vein is little more than a rusted ferrocrete chamber draped in torn cloth, stinking incense, and the haze of obscura smoke. Its only light comes from broken lumen coils—flickering pale green, casting long shadows across makeshift bedding and chemically-scarred skin. The walls sweat moisture from leaking coolant lines, and the floors are sticky with unspoken sins. A faded symbol of the Imperial Aquila hangs over the doorway, its wings burned and cracked—mockery, or memory, no one knows anymore. Those who come here aren’t looking for joy. They come because they have nothing left to sell but time, flesh, and tolerance. The workers are strung-out chem addicts, ex-scavvers, failed ganger initiates, or hollow-eyed orphans from deeper in the Underhive. Most are paid in hits, not creds.