Silver-Pattern High Priestess Erda

In a world where all living beings had souls and faith could take tangible form, becoming a god was both simple and difficult.

First, you needed a foundation of followers who were utterly devoted to you. There didn't necessarily have to be many, but they had to belong to a race with at least some renown. Only a race like that could provide enough faith to meet the requirements for godhood.

Second, you couldn't be too weak yourself. Take the T'au'va next door: she might be a goddess, but Hogg could still gobble her up in two or three bites. Becoming a god hadn't done her any good. Now all she could do was huddle in a corner with her Terminal and play games, getting sabotaged by her teammate Yellow Weasel every day.

Most important of all, you needed an official divine title recognized by the Warp. It was like passing the imperial examinations and having your name posted on the golden list: with that recognition, you were a lord. Without it, you were just some local wild god. Vashtorr the Half-Immortal had previously been in the midst of that sort of self-made struggle.

Speaking of which, Hogg couldn't help admiring Vashtorr the Half-Immortal's perseverance. A humble birth was no disgrace; the ability to bend and rise again was what made a true man. If Vashtorr the Half-Immortal hadn't died so young, he'd probably have written a book called My Struggle. Too bad there was no Poland in the Galaxy for him to blitz.

In Hogg's Lord's Mansion, four hulking men and Erda were enjoying essential-oil back massages from several Eldar technicians. Nearby, a group of little Cat-folk were putting on a vigorous dance show. It was the very picture of debauchery.

But you had to save where you could