And They Shall Know No Fear (Warhammer 30K-40K Astartes Quest)

[Tinkerer]

GM Note: Time for some lore-building

The Astartes among the first 5000 made are distinguished from their younger brothers in a variety of ways. The first being the psionic ward placed in their minds by the Emperor of Mankind himself. Granting them protection from all mental suggestions and giving those attempting to read their minds vicious headaches that vary in severity based on the psyker's power and the depth they were attempting to reach. (This can range from blinding pain and gushing blood from the nose and mouth to outright psionic detonation of the psyker's cranium.) This is indicated by a soft golden aura that emanates from their being, often intensifying when the Marine is either emboldening his allies or when he is putting his entire will into a heroic effort.

Spoiler: Astartes In MK1 Power Armor during the Unification Wars

Another difference is size, while they initially were the same size as their newer brethren as time went on and they fought in the last days of the Unification Wars and then up until the next generation of Astartes were produced they began to grow in size. Many of them reaching the same size of a Custodes (these being the more recent of the 5000) while the older of the initial creation having grown to be even larger than the Emperor's Custodians. This growth has been noted to be continuing even into the modern day of the Great Crusade, many of the surviving members of the initial creation becoming larger with time, with no known downsides to this process.

This leads to the next difference, quality. While the Emperor's Astartes are definitely without compare in the galaxy those of the original generation put their younger siblings to shame in this regard. Often showing constant improvement physically and mentally far outside the bounds of regular Astartes enhancement. They are faster, stronger, smarter, and more durable than their more common brethren, and this improvement like their size does not seem to have a stopping point. What questions that have been able to be asked of the Emperor state that the original 5000 were directly worked on by the Emperor before even the Primarch Project was an glimmer in his eye, with them being subject to the "full Astartes augmentation process" under his watchful eye as no other geneticist aside from him and the masters of Luna could achieve it. And with the massive growth of the Astartes Legions that it is no longer economical or possible to put that many resources and that much time into the creation of Astartes in order to maintain the proper speed of the Great Crusade.

So, while they may not be as complete as their older brothers the Astartes Legion is still the Emperor's Tip of the Spear in guiding Humanity back into the light.

 

[Tinkerer]

we are sherlock Holmes In Astarte form I expect nothing more

Click to shrink...

Just a heads up, despite not having the temperament for it, Tyrian's education was appropriately classical. As the Emperor had actually been hoarding books and knowledge from different civilization collapses and otherwise. So Tyrian and the others of the 5000 were educated in the classics. From the Bible and Gilgamesh all the way to the modern millenium. Tyrian having been personally tutored by Emps himself due to being picked up for the stabbing incident during the Unification Wars before the Astartes program had gone into practical testing. As such, he got a good classical education before becoming an Astartes and knows when the Emperor is cribbing from history, much to the New Man's chagrin.

 

[Tinkerer]

You are Bazekos, a Drukhari bridge runner. Deemed important enough to pilot the flag ship of the raiding fleet and not expendable enough to be tossed into the Pain Engines like the rest of the slaves. To be honest, this is a pretty simple and cushy job. Fly the ship with your not unnoticeable skill, follow the directions from the bridge master who in turn receives his orders from the raid leader, and don't give your masters reason to find fault in you. Surprisingly enough, the core of this fleet's soldiery and ship crew are unnaturally restrained and professional. Meaning they actually WILL search for fault to execute you rather than for kicks.

They don't even really torture, the weirdoes. Sure, on the more transient ships from other raiding bands that tag along it's business as usual, but on the main ships you're lucky to find even a good old fashion stretching rack! Which according to the rumors among the less permanent members of the crew is because they've found a way to feed off things others than suffering and excess, which is frankly just disgusting!

On the other hand, their almost constantly dead eyes would put anyone on edge. They simply go about their duties silently, barely emoting or reacting to anything not related to said duties. Except when they arrive to battle. *shudder* That's when their eyes light up and the laughing and the joking begins. Bets on whether or not they'll finally get to die this battle in a blaze of glory, or if they'll just have to content themselves with collecting a hefty kill tally, the freaks.

"Pilot, are you abandoning your duties to daydream?" The calm yet infinitely freezing question snaps you back into reality, whereupon you immediately begin attempting to save your own hide. "N-n-no, of course not bridge master Tagaras! Heh." You chuckle nervously. "I was merely calculating the most advantageous flight formula to remain in a superior position to the monkeigh ship." The bridge master's red glowing hell pits he had instead of eyes narrowed within the shadows of his helm's eye slits. You sit there silently sweating in pure terror before he speaks. "Very well, ensure that we do not lose that advantage. Elsewise I will be forced to remove your spine with my bare hands." The ultimatum was most definitely not a bluff, as you had seen the man perform the same maneuver on even True Born who did not display enough respect either to himself, his crew, or his master. You also don't think he even has a body anymore, the last time he had removed his helmet all you could see were two whisps of hellish red psychic energy where his eyes should be and nothing else.

Which brings you back to one of the main reasons you are utterly terrified for your life. The Drukhari seated upon a the command throne just up the set of stairs behind Tagaras. Dressed in an deceptively simple looking suit of power armor forged by the greatest artisans in Comorragh money, favors, and mountains of reputation could buy, its quality could never be doubted. But it was almost completely undecorated, save for a facsimile of a monkeigh skull right above his heart on the breastplate, a small inscription across the skull stating "FOR MY BELOVED NEMESIS."

Sporting a rather handsome face that was currently stuck in the dead eyed stare of purposeless boredom most of his subordinates shared. Sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, aristocratic features with a regal tinge. Completely spotless, save for the gaping hole where his right eye should be. This was the Archon of the band of sociopaths, Zachariah Spiteborn (Also known as the War Glutton). A name he had picked up on a whim after having simply forgotten his noble family name once he was done slaughtering the rest of his family.

Everyone knew the stories, millennia ago, back when he had first been born. He was a True Born Druhkari, though one born rather odd by even by your own races standards. He was incredibly obedient, never plotting against family members, only diverting the few plots levied against him. Yet he always seemed perpetually bored, he didn't take pleasure in torturing captives or slaves, nor did he find joy in the opulence his birth had given him. Nothing seemed to rouse his dead eyes, until one day he simply picked up one of his father's old trophies and proceeded to murder his entire extended family with it. Followed by selling anything remotely valuable in the estate and then setting it on fire. A fire that would proceed to spread to incinerate an entire percent of the Dark City.

Following this rampant act of destruction he would proceed to enter into one of the dark shrines to Khaine to become an Incubi, whereupon he bashed in the head of one of stand Incubi at the time with a rock and took his armor. No one dared argue against that, and it would be after three centuries of service that he would go on a killing spree which would result in the extinction of his own shrine as well as nine other major dark shrines to Khaine. On top of a rather sizeable depopulation of the Incubi who resided in the Great Shrine.

Following that he would form his own Kabal, uncaring whether or not his recruits were vat born or naturally spawned he gathered a following of like-minded Drukhari. All of them sharing the same boredom and uncaring attitude towards their races normal proclivities as he did. Using his inherited wealth, the favors gathered from selling his family's possessions, and the already fierce reputation he had made he would go on to finance a rather deadly ship and high quality armaments for all of his followers.

The commonality between all of them being that they could find no excitement outside of life or death combat, preferably where they died horribly killing everyone around them. But there seemed to be no plots of betrayal between their number, only the comradery of those wanting to die in glorious combat. Zachariah having collected a rather sizeable following from his deeds among both True Born and not would proceed to bring his and his crew's thirst for slaughter out on the galaxy. Something he had been doing for at least seven millennia at this point, though he himself had lost track eons ago.

His gaze sliding onto you being the shock to get you back to focusing on the your stations readings, and the information you were receiving from the psionic broadcasting orb embedded into the center of the bridge. A massive ball of crystal that was formerly a collection of thousands of Eldari soul stones, then all shattered together before being fused into the orb, it projected both likely forecasts as to how a battle may go with constant updates as time progressed, information as to how a combatant may lose and how to prevent it, and if tuned properly live observation of combatants as the battle proceeds.

A small glimpse of something catches the Archon's eye causing him to sit up from his disinterested slump and speak. "Bridge runners, calibrate the orb back to the sight it was just previously viewing, followed by rewinding the forecast." The cold yet quiet command does not brook hesitation nor disobedience. You and your colleagues immediately inputting commands on your consoles, the orb's vision flashing back to the sight of a rather massive Astartes monkeigh butchering part of one of the hanger on Wyche Cults of the raid group in reverses. The sight of the carnage being reversed to its beginning, whereupon the Marine proceeded to butcher eleven Wyches and their leading Hekatrix in a matter of seconds with nothing but a piece of bulk head and whatever weapons he could commandeer off the dead.

This sight seems to spark a mixture of excitement and some other emotion you dare not think about in the Archon's eyes. A maddened grin slowly creeping across his face as he mutters to himself in the barbaric monkeigh tongue High Gothic. "Is this the Mobius Strip the prophetess spoke of? The endless creation of death and blood that will end with our loving embrace into oblivion?"

The Archon rises from his seat in a leap, standing completely straight before his throne. He proceeds to give his bridge master an order. "Tagaras, have the ship set engines to full and head straight toward the Imperial ship, also have my Deathbound ready themselves and proceed to our boarding pod bay where I will meet them." The entire command spoken in a lightly happy tone, a genuine smile on the man's face as he exited through the bridges exit portal.

Targaras nods, whisps of red smoke forming trails from the movement. "It will be done my lord." He speaks before turning towards you and your compatriots. "You heard the Archon! Follow his commands you wretches!" The threatening tone cowing all but one slave. "But Master, if we do that we will come into the monkeigh's gun range and the ship does not have the armor to"-SPLURTHC!

His begging is cut short when a knife his splits his head in two, the top portion falling off to leave the bottom jaw and his tongue flopping in the air followed by the thump of his body. "I will not tolerate disobedience among you slaves, now, OBEY YOUR MASTERS ORDERS!" This demonstration being enough motivation for your group to jump onto accomplishing the bridge master's commands along with yourself.

As you punch in commands and begin directing engineering crews to fully activate the engines you can't help but wonder whether you'll die someday for failure or if you'll survive to become like your superiors. You'd honestly prefer the first option, She Who Thirsts be damned.

 

[Tinkerer]

After having finished executing the invaders outside your quarters and the lengthy process of donning your power armor followed by arming yourself you make your way rapidly towards the bridge. Your armored feet beating a staccato rhythm into the metal of the floor, both of your hearts pounding in your chest as you push your superhuman biology to its limit to speed up your progression.
Completely unaware that you are putting countless foot shaped dents into the metal.
Countless battles flash by you as you run, Imperial soldiers managing to corner a single Eldar who simply takes their bayonet charge and proceeds to stab their blade through the soldiers even as it dies with a joyful smile on its face.

A strange reflection in the corpse of one of your younger brothers held up by ten Eldar spears through his power armored torso. The Astartes body in a standing position, the owners of said spears either on the floor seemingly hugging the corpses feet like a lover or with their arms wrapped around his torso. All of them with wounds that indicate he did not die alone, and of those with intact faces, all of them share the same joyous smile in death.
They do not seek diversion or temporary satisfaction. But instead a drink with a much more permanent and bitter aftertaste.
But these sights do not stop your dash. Automatic doors that react too slow to your movement (many of them) are simply bulled through, your speed and weight punching through the metal with minimal difficulty. An unfortunate xeno ends up in front of one these doors, and needless to say you did not know they could turn into crimson mist when hit like that. The rest of his squad doesn't have the time to react before you've already smashed your way through their number and continued on your path.

You come to a stop in one of the centers of the ship's corridor highways, countless hallway openings covering the circle that makes up the room. The room bears the remnants of a previous battle. Fifteen of your brothers lie dead, some of their bodies in multiple pieces almost as if they had been forced through a net until it cut through them. Others bare small punctures around the gorget of their armor or a singular hole through the visors of their armor. But they appeared to have reaped a tally among the enemy as payment for the spilled blood. for every one of your brothers you count there is at least three of the xenos dead around him.
"We may die here brothers, BUT WE WILL HAVE A HANDSOME PRICE FOR OUR LIVES! STRIKE FOR THE IMPERIUM! STRIKE FOR YOUR BROTHERS! STRIKE FOR THE LEGION MASTER!" """"""""""""""FOR TYRIAN!""""""""""""""

You switch the vox castor in your helmet on, connecting to the main frequency for the ship. You are immediately inundated by the sheer amount of chatter. "THEY'RE COMING AROUND THE SIDE! PERKINS, SWING THE TURRET THAT WAY! GIVE THEM A TASTE OF HEAVY PLASMA!" "This is Apothecary Tiberius! The Eldar have pinned my squad down in Medical Bay B and are attempting to capture our patients and poison our medical supplies! Any Imperial forces, if able, we require reinforcements or we will be unable to hold for more than an hour!" "This is Tactician Aventus, you will have your reinforcements Tiberius! A squad of veterans is heading your way!" "Understood, will maintain defense until they arrive." "I DON"T WANNA DIE PLEA"-SPLORTCH! "Heh, pitiful monkeigh."

You isolate Aventus's broadcast before connecting to it and speaking. "Aventus, this Legion Master Tyrian. How does the battle fare?" Your second-in-command is quick to reply back to you, even as you hear rapid typing over his vox. "It fares poorly Lord Commander. Multiple hull breaches have been detected, with hostile forces having been detected in those areas soon after." He reports before continuing. "Reports tell me that there have been concerted efforts to cripple our engines and our life support. While those sections have been able to fend off the xenos assaults so far something has to change or that will not continue."

You process this before asking a question. "What do you know of the enemy." His response just worsens matters. "While they match the data referring to Eldar in our database, there are differences. Many of them seem to dressed in apparel covered in jagged metal or cruel looking instruments. They appear to be heavily armed, with weaponry that fires an energy field in the shape of a net. If it catches something it will proceed to wrap around its target before slicing them into pieces. They also have rifles that seem to fire high speed shards of metal that monomolecularly sharp, while our armor can resist it pinpoint strikes are devastating and Imperial army armor is useless against it."

A breath. "There is some good news, the enemy appears to be divided into two feuding bands. One is incredibly undisciplined, though still incredibly dangerous. They seemed focused on causing as much pain as possible and in capturing wounded soldiers as prisoners. Most of them seem focused on our medical bays and a make shift infirmary that has been established." Your response is short. "And the other?"

"The other group is extremely experienced and trained, exhibiting near telepathic understanding of each other. Able to break off from their main group individually to pick off strategic targets such as officers or sergeants before seamlessly retaking their positions in their groups. They do not seem to need to vocalize commands, as those without helmets have been shown to automatically respond to body cues meaning apparent orders the same as their helmeted brethren. What sensors we have state it to not be psychic in nature."

"Is there anything else?" You ask. "Yes, but..." Aventus pauses. "They seem to exhibit extreme excitement should an opponent present capability to keep up with them. They singularly focus on this enemy to the point of obsession, often ensuring that they die with their opponent. Always with a smile on their face as they kill each other." Hmm, foreboding.
Together forever in oblivion
Shaking off the grim implications you continue your questions. " What is the status of our own troops?" Barely a second goes by before a reply. "Grim, my lord. Much of the Army detachment is scattered across the ship at their battle stations, doing what they can not fall into panic or be slaughtered. As for our brothers, most are still protecting their assigned stations with four squads accompanying me in the command center. A large concentration in the hangars, as well as a handful in the medical bays, Life Support, and the Engines."

A few clicks. "The Mechanicus have locked down the repair and engineering bays and kill any xenos that get near. They have also sent out techpriests to accompany several Army and Astartes squads that have travelled near engineering to aid in repairs and cutting through damaged sections of the ship." States Aventus, completing report as an rumble echoes in the background of the vox. "As for the ship, we have lost Void Shields and begun taking damage to the ship itself. But we have managed to destroy four of the enemy ships, unfortunately their main ship appears to have begun heading towards us with intent to attack us."
A tale of unnatural love begins again.

"In summary Lord Commander, our situation is semi-stable but deteriorating rapidly. What are your orders?"

You think for a moment before speaking. "I-
[X] Will head towards the Life Support to aid their defense."
[X] Head to break the assault on the Engines."
[X] Go to smash the oncoming assault coming here."
[X] Will stop their attack on the Medical Bays"
[X] Write In -

"I have two squads of Astartes awaiting orders my lord, do you have anything in mind?" "Have them-
[X] Reinforce the defense of Life Support."
[X] Assault the enemy at the Engines from behind."
[X] Head to the command center to defend against the oncoming attack."
[X] Aid the Medical Bays against the current assault."
[X] Write In -

 

[Tinkerer]

You, are Caspian Shalashaska. Newly recruited Astartes of the Fifteenth Legion and currently trying not to shift too much in a desperate effort to keep your shredded intestines inside your torso. The xenos scum had crashed into you from both sides as Vertex and Tempest squads were traversing down one of the corridors leading towards the life support systems of The Argo.

You bite back a yell as you shift your only arm up to fire down the funnel of the entrance to Life Support, the dark shadows that were the Eldar ducking back into cover. As brazen as they were, they still respected the power of a volkite weapon. You having grabbed every magazine and gun you could find from your fallen comrades, putting them in a pile next to you before you had been immobilized. Now, it was the only reason they hadn't simply charged down the hallway, they knew if they tried, a single pull of your trigger would release a beam that would cut through their entire advance.

A quick a glance at the stumps where your other arm and your legs used to be reminds you how you lost them earlier. After the surprised attack the squads had begun firing back, but due to a lack of bolter weaponry in your squad caution had to be taken in order to not catch each other with friendly fire. Thus, you had mostly used closed range weapons, something the damned xenos had taken advantage of.

It had been horrible, they had split their number in half with no warning. Silently charging forward while drawing their own weapons while their compatriots moved into firing positions. Followed by something you would almost call a dance of death, Eldar in close range dodging at the last moment to conceal their fellows opening fire. Missing their backs by mere centimeters, and the shards striking into the fronts of unprepared Legionnaires. You had seen your comrade Tiberius caught like that, one moment he had been about to split one of the rats in twain with his chainsword. The next he had a line of metal spines impaled across his body vertically, from the middle of his helmet all the way to the middle of his crotch. Dead before he hit the ground.

You yourself had been almost caught in one of their energy nets in the process of gathering supplies into the chokepoint, it had just been you and your Sergeant, Tybalt, left at that point. He seemed to have sensed something, because he had paused in the middle of helping you stack magazines. His head turning down the end of the chokepoint you had come in from, before suddenly turning and shoving you out of the way. You had ended up just barely out of range of the electrical net that wrapped around Tybalt. It simply catching on your legs and one of yours arms.

It simply sliced through them like they weren't even there, the severing points black with charred metal and burnt meat. The smell of cooked flesh and melting ceramite mixing into a mixture toxic for normal humans. All the while as your Sergeant was diced into cubes of charred meat by the net, followed by it simply dissipating into the air as if it was never there. Leaving his remains to flop onto the floor.

Then, they had come. Slowly at first, creeping like the shadows of death they looked like. They seemed to have assumed they had gotten both of you, a notion you had viciously disabused them of a few moments of playing dead later. You counted ten of them you had sent to a fiery grave, with five more horribly wounded before they were pulled back screaming. Finally! Some kind of noise from the bastards.

You have been holding this stalemate together for five minutes now. Firing on them is starting to no longer scare the bolder ones, and they've started taking pot shots every time they try to duck out. The shots peppering the wall your body is leaned against.

What should you do?
[X] Simply hold out for as long as you can. Buy those defending Life Support more time to dig in.
[X] Try to reach someone on the vox. Maybe you can call in reinforcements?
[X] Write In?

X-x-X-x-X-x-X

You, are Aventus. Second-in-Command to Legion Master Tyrian of the Fifteenth Legion and right now you and your bodyguard detail are springing a carefully planned trap on a group of Eldar who thought you would be easy pickings. Something you presumed to have been a simple matter, considering the rather undisciplined manner of the attackers. A complete mess of different armor, clothing, ornamentation. Not one of them even remotely similar in dress, and all of them slavering to cause pain on an unimaginable level.

You'd say they were like grox during mating season, only grox don't want to stick their genitalia in your eye sockets like one ex-Eldar had yelled before you'd reduced him to a pile of steaming carbon with your volkite. Ugh, how distasteful. You would call it an affront to your sensibilities but then again, you can't really judge animals for what they instinctually do. An absent-minded shot from your pistol sends another crowd of the refuse into a fit of screaming and writhing as they burn to death.

Right now, they were still a threat simply due to their weaponry and how many of them there were. Most of them some nightmarish amalgamation of limbs and body parts just mindlessly charging the fortified command center and dying to withering gun fire. Other more intelligent beast among their number had taken to firing shots at your men as leant out to kill the chargers.

Which is the reason why you were currently down five Marines, two from glancing hits from the abominations weaponry. Apparently laced with a potent toxin, which when introduced to the Astartes body causes their twin hearts to rapidly pump until they burst. The other three were currently suffering from a lesser toxin which had rendered them paralyzed and insensate with pain, while not as damaging, they were still removed from active use until they were cured.

You were essentially just mopping up the remnants at this point, but there were still enough that it would take time for you to clear them out. So what exactly was your plan for then?
[X] Maintain your guard here to ensure maximum protection.
[X] Send out part of your bodyguard detail of veterans to help with other battles
-[X] If so, how many?
[X] Write In?

X-x-X-x-X-x-X

The battle ongoing in the hangars was beginning to turn from a grinding match between the Eldar attackers and the defenders comprised of the crew and passengers of The Argo into a slowly approaching victory for Imperial forces. Inch by inch they had reclaimed the ship's launch bays, taking withering fire from the massive mob of xenos of all ranks, sizes, shapes, varying levels of sanity. From malformed abominations barely fit to be called living beings to elaborately dressed individuals you would assume were the supposed "nobility" among their race. All of them desperate to cause whatever suffering they could.

You, are Ahzek Ahriman. Newly promoted Sergeant of the Fifteenth Legion along with your brother Ohrmuzd, and currently ducking behind a scrap of exploded boarding pod to avoid getting your face perforated by Eldar flechette rounds with your brother and both of the remnants of your squads. Having lead a charge further into enemy controlled territory, you had ended up separated from the rest of the defending forces by a mere few feet of no man's land.

You had lost two of your men during the charge. Enkidu, to a flechette punching through his helmet and delivering its toxic payload directly into his brain, and Alexandros to a series of pinpoint shots to the joints in his arms and legs. He was currently trapped out in no man's land, delirious with pain and in danger of being dragged into enemy lines should they be able to advance. The fact you could do nothing for him burned at your pride, but more importantly at the fact that your brother was in peril and you could do nothing to save him without imperiling your other brethren!

Your brother Ohrmuzd on the other hand had lost three of his men beforehand from an unfortunate grenade toss by the enemy. It unleashin a miniature vortex in their midst which sucked them all in and crushed them into a ball the size of iho stick. Something you knew was going to keep your brother from sleeping peacefully for a long time to come if you both survived this.

He leaned over to speak as you hid behind carcass of a boarding pod, enemy and friendly fire pelting both sides of it with regular frequency. "What should we do brother?" His voice somewhat haggard, as the weight of his lost men already set in on his heart. "If we remain here we will simply be picked off one by one, and if we attempt to retreat we will be cut to ribbons and left at the mercy of the foul xenos' deviant tastes." With the last word he gives a scrunched fast of disgust.

You wrack your mind before deciding on a plan.
[X] Attempt a forward assault to distract the enemy and give the rest of your forces time to catch up.
[X] Use your remaining krak grenades as a jury rigged distraction to get you back to your own lines.
[X] Write In?

 

[Tinkerer]

He should have obeyed the Emperor will without question. His godfather order him to do something and he did not. He is a failure and will never be as good a loyal son as Tyrian.

Click to shrink...

There's also the fact that in this version of the universe the planet Fenris has a big taboo towards kin slaying. As in the culturally believed punishment for doing is it that in death your soul will be forced to wander the frozen wastes of Fenris until the razor sharp winds and the guilt of the deed tear it to shreds, until it eventually fades away to nothing. Plus, you will be forgotten by everyone that ever knew you. Any saga written and history recorded with you in it will be erased by your family and clansmen. You will forever be forgotten and shunned, tossed out into the wilderness in a reflection of your believed fate after death.

 

[Tinkerer]

Tyrian, Legion Master of the Fifteenth Legion, The Emperor's Silencer (Beginning of Crusade)
WS:10 BS:4 S:5 T:5 W:5 I:7 A:7 LD:10/∞ S:2+/5++

Tyrian's Sword - Sword: AP1, Power Weapon. All hits with this weapon automatically wound. With no armor saves being allowed to be taken. Any other saves shall have their difficulty raised by 2. Each hit producing 1d3 wounds. Every unsaved wound counts as two.

Volkite Charger/Serpenta: As described by regular description.

Lord of Blades: In the situation that a check is made involving either this characters Strength or Toughness add half of their Weapon Skill to those characteristics before calculations are made. May always parry both melee and ranged attacks against this unit at 2+.

Emperor's Silencer:

Spoiler

Should a figure have the Keyword Daemon attributed to it when they are within 7" of Tyrian he will make a Deny the Witch check against them. On a successful check they lose all of their wounds and are removed as slain from combat. If the check is failed then the target loses half their current wounds. Rounding down.

Author's Note*Welp, this is the first draft of Tyrian's tabletop stats I told you guys I was working on. It's still incredibly rough but at least gives a concept to what I'm working toward. Plus, a lot of it is subject to change both as I familiarize myself with the rules more closely and as the story develops.

 

[Tinkerer]

Author's Note* Whoof! That took a lot of work! Hope you guys enjoy it.

---

In a split second an idea forms in your mind, a plan that many would call insane but very well might save all of you from the predations of the Eldar. You immediately tell your brother your plan, and predictably he sees it as insane. "Are you sure of this brother, your plan might very well end with us dead or worse." Ohrmuzd states in response your idea as the clanging of metal shards and bzatting of volkite weapons continues around you. Whereupon you attempt to soothe his worries. "I am certain brother, I have seen the Legion Master accomplish similar feats during previous compliances."

This does not appear to reassure him. "You also realize that we are not as durable or as fast as the Legion Master correct?" A beam of plasma punches a hole straight through the crashed hull of the breaching torpedo directly between you two, emphasizing his point. Regardless, you press on. "It's the only way!" He seems to be unwilling to waste anymore time arguing and proceeds to ready his men as you do the same. A few moments and some elastic bandings later and you are ready.

Your brother has his Serpenta ready and his men have a firm grasp on him, holding onto the crooks of his arms and his legs. You prepare to throw your string of grenades and shout out. "NOW!" In a flash you twirl the grenades like a bola before releasing them to sail over the top of the boarding torpedo. At the same time your brothers men have tossed him straight up, catapulting him into the and at the perfect angle to see your string of krak grenades slap into the face of one of the assumed nobility command the Eldar assault.

It had disoriented the xeno with the force of the throw, eyes slightly cloudy as they spotted your brother aiming straight at them with his pistol. *BZATT!* The Eldar's eyes begin to widen as the world around you slows down, your men and your brother's following you in your charge back towards your lines as Ohrmuzd fires a single volkite bolt directly at the bandoleer of krak grenades now tangled around the skinny bastard's gangly neck.

You watch over your shoulder as you run, the pathetic alien desperately reaching towards the rope of grenades as the laser bolts heads towards them. His suddenly shoot up to meet yours, and even through your helmet you know he realizes this had happened because of you. The hatred is too real, too personal. Beyond the curtain of fear for their mortality surrounding them now, past their shattered pride, is a very personal and focused hate. He, as you now finally can discern it as a he, is promising that if this does not kill him he will be coming for you.

You give him a mocking smile through your helmet, and considering how his eyes narrow even further you can tell he knows you did too. Then, the bolt hits the centermost grenade and all is fire behind you. As your brother is finally caught by the crush of Astartes in your line charging forwards. Your own charge with your brother's and your own men passing through the wave, as you move behind friendly lines to resupply. You see your brother picking himself up with the help of another Marine, and he seems quite unharmed aside from a few scuff marks on his armor and soot covering his face plate.

His response when he spots you is also rather vulgar, his arm fully outstretched to completely illustrate his frustration with you via the symbol he has formed with a single upright finger.

As much as Ohrmuzd is going to call you a mad bastard for saying so, you would very much like to switch places with him next time. That was enjoyable!

---

You, are Solomon Tumadi. A member of the third generation of the Fifteenth Crusade Legion and currently having been figuratively tied to the brat Tychus by order of the Legion Master for behavior that even you would agree was childish and unnecessary. As you duck behind cover as another bolt of venom covered flechette rounds scrapes just past the top of your helmet you notice a flash of movement besides you. It's Tychus, and he appears to have taken a hit to one of his pauldrons. It's sparking, and the magazines beneath it are already beginning to cook off. With a swift, practiced movement you tap the release switch hidden inside of the pauldron's dome before grasping it and chucking it towards the enemy lines.

It smacks one of the abominations in the face mid-charge, stunning it before the magazines explode. *KRATHOOM!* Sending messy chunks of both the unfortunate mutant and its fellows surrounding it all across no man's land. As the flare from the explosion dies down and you begin opening fire again you bark at Tychus. "WATCH WHAT YOU'RE DOING YOU SNOT NOSED BRAT! YOU ALMOST KILLED YOURSELF AND EVERYONE AROUND YOU!" He merely glances over at you momentarily, the disdain he feels utterly apparent even through the grille of his helmet. Before returning to staring forward and firing at the enemy with his accursed bolter. He speaks with complete disgust oozing from every word. "I was going to get to it eventually, old man! You threw off my aim at the enemy!"

Even now he remains a petulant child, completely ignorant as to why you take umbridge with his behavior. How even now he has taken to standing on top of the barricade to fire upon the enemy forces approaching, and all those off behind their lines. *BRAKAT!* *BRAKAT!* *BRAKAT!* Though you will begrudge him this, he has yet to miss a single target he's aimed at. Even caught one of the fancy looking ponses off in the back in the throat, you'd be chuckling about how surprised the damned xeno looked before his head popped off like a rocket in the air from the explosive bolt for years if you survive this.

That's when you notice the sheer insanity that is Ahriman and Ohrmuzd's squads, now fully out in the open rather than hiding inside the hollowed out board torpedo wreck they'd been hiding in. Wait, is that Ohrmuzd? What the Warp is he doing up in the air? The sheer shock of seeing the young Sergeant tossed into the air by his men like a frakking baton had even you stunned for a moment. The laser bolt from his volkite setting off a massive explosion in the enemy back lines. Even as their party charged back towards your own lines you stood there transfixed like many others on both sides by the sight of an airborne giant in power armor doing flips in the air.

You were shaken out of your stupor by loud voice of your battle groups lieutenant, Diomedes. Outfitted in one of sets of Terminator armor assigned to the Legion. "THAT WAS THE DIVERSION WE NEEDED BROTHERS. CHARGE! FOR THE LEGION! FOR THE EMPEROR! FOR TYRIAN!" """""""FOR TYRIAN!""""""""

The sheer force from the amount of post-human voices yelling that phrase almost knocked you over if not for your sturdy position. Tychus was not so fortunate, tumbling ass over teakettle onto the ground in front of the barricade. You drag him up and join the charge along with your brothers. Finally, an end to this stalemate.

---

You, are Caspian Shalashaska. And you have made the Eldar pay dearly for each step they took down this hallway. The bastards had finally gotten sick of waiting and made the charge down the hallway, and at first their armor even held up to your volkite shots. At First. It was not long for the heated beams of light to begin cutting through like flimsy foil. Boiling them inside their own armor even from only proximity to a hit comrade. But still they came, dying and screaming, charging and firing.

You eventually lost count of how many you had killed after fifty, by then the hallway was a carpet of fried corpses and your suits air filter had begun to clog from the sheer amount of smoke trapped within the chokepoint. Yet they still they came, many of them even beginning to laugh joyously and of those you could see faces there were heart felt smiles. Full of a joy only innocent children should know. Should you survive this, that will stay with you till you're dying days.

You barely even notice after a while of the mind numbing task of simply holding down the trigger and swapping out for power packs that you were suddenly missing your last arm and that you were now impaled by no fewer than five power spears of some description. You could already tell that should they push them any deeper you would die instantly.

The lead Eldar walked past their fellows holding you down with their spears, a rather slight form even for their species from what you'd seen.
Easily seen through the form fitting armor they were wearing, you noticed as they get closer they appear to share the mammalian characteristics of a human female. The confirmation is when they remove their elaborate helmet, delicate feminine features on display. With nary a mark to indicate they were a warrior and blood red hair waterfalling down as it was released from the helmet.

Ice blue eyes look into your own, exhibiting a strange mix of obsession, lust, joy, and you think, comradery with you? That's when you notice, even among the ones pinning you down, there is no tension. There is excitement, energy, even joy! But not a single one of them holds hostility towards you, even as they hold you impaled on their spears.

Finally, the leader speaks. "Well done, dear Cherital" The word spoken in a language unknown to you. "I give you my sincerest thanks for being our Furte, for we had hoped this would when we would final find our true Lir Lavair upon this battlefield. And we found you truly!" With this her face shifts to a gentle loving smile, as she crouches down to hold your helmeted head in her hands. Unmistakably lovingly, as slowly caresses you helmet.

The sheer strangeness has struck you dumb and still, unable to comprehend what is happening. While your thoughts whirl she continues speaking. "I am Captain Oravelle Warsong, and while you do not understand right now. You will in time." Her smile while still gentle, gains a manic edge. "I know that you will join us in that glorious song in the end! It's just a matter of time!"

*THAKADOWWMMM!*

Whatever insane rant she was about to go on is interrupted by the complete obliteration of several of her comrades by several thunder hammers hitting them at once. The massive forms of strangely shaped Terminator Armor march into the hallway, their canine shaped helmets shining in the light of both their shoulder mounted search lights and the few remaining functioning lights left from your extened battle.Without a word they begin annihilating the Eldar before them, with a mixture of thunder hammers, claws, and heavy bolters they cleave through their ranks like an Astartes through a conscript.

The female xenos does not seem bothered by this, simply kissing your helmet before standing and retreating into the shadows with her remaining subordinates. Her last words whispered to you after finishing the kiss ringing in your ears. "We will be together forever my beloved Nemesis."

As you begin to lose focus and slip into suspended animation, that one of the Terminators has kneeled down to check on you. The last moments of consciousness you have are spent realizing he is an Apothecary and overhearing him stating that you will live to fight again.

Good. I'll kill that xenos hag the next time I see her.

And with that, your organs force you completely into suspended animation. Consciousness escaping you completely.

---

You are once again Tyrian, and right now you can't help but wonder what the xenos were thinking as you wipe viscera off your sword with a flick of your wrist. The devastation before all of your own making, countless Eldar corpses strewn about varying levels of cohesion as you get a status report from the remaining defenders of the Medical Bays.

As you go to speak to them in the aftermath of your carnage you are interrupted by an alarm being broadcasted through the vox system as a massive quake of force shakes everything around you.

"WARNING! WARNING! A MASSIVE BREACHING SHIP HAS IMPACTED THIS VESSEL. MULTIPLE HOSTILES HAVE BEEN DETECTED IN CONSTRUCTION BAY MAJORIS MECHANICUS!"

As the warning repeats itself decisions fly through your head at lightning speed.

Should you?
[X] Take the time to gather of troops and make a dedicated force to face these new attackers. (Will give the invaders more time to act)
[X] Rush towards the construction bay, picking up whoever you can to help fend of these new enemies. (Will not have as concentrated a defense effort.
[X] Something else? - (Write In)

 

[Tinkerer]

As you dash down the hallways of The Argos towards the construction bay Majoris Mechanicus, you tap into the vox channel systems of the ship to link into the disparate channels of the different parts of the Crusade Fleet onboard The Argos. "This is Legion Master Tyrian, to all units currently combat capable and able to move, I am heading to construction bay Majoris Mechanicus to drive off the Eldar assault taking place there. If you are able, make your way to my vox frequencies location and fall in behind me. To any Astartes with Terminator honors and is able, make your way to the Teleportarium and prepare to teleport into the midst of enemy once coordinates are give." With that, you switch off your vox and focus on moving as fast as you can to the construction bay.

Your breath ringing in your ears and your footsteps becoming like constant booms of thunder. Your perception becoming increasingly blurred as you go faster and faster, bulkheads and plating fading away into streaks of grey, red, and other colors. Until you hit that familiar apex, Fastigium, to become one with your speed and to embrace it. The noise of alarms and weapon fire fading away into silence, much too slow to ever reach you as you accelerate even more. The hallway returns to vision, no longer streaks of color unable to be processed. Soon, the span of distance between you and your destination has completely disappeared.
You remember the sound of lightning. You remember what noise it made when you cut it.
The construction bay Majoris Mechanicus is arrayed in a collection of suspended bridges and catwalks suspended over massive furnaces, bellows, and conveyor belts. Each constantly spitting out different components that will be utilized for different devices. A massive lake of molten metal lies directly beneath the main platform of the construction bay, massive crucibles being dipped into the lake by chains to be filled and then pulled off to other parts of the assembly line. This is what you arrive to, a massive factory under siege. With a gigantic boarding torpedo piercing through one of the walls, like the head of a divine spear. Spewing it's venomous cargo into the belly of your ship, and assaulting the bulwark you have rapidly ordered assembled to push it back.

What you see is equally more than you could hope and less than you had expected. At least a hundred Astartes have appeared to have been able to answer your call, along with a sizeable portion of the Imperial Army attachment assigned to this ship. You don't bother counting as their mass in numbers is considerable enough to strain even post human brains. All of them currently spread across the entirety of the construction bay, locked in combat with a mixture of the abominations of the Eldar, the less disciplined of the xenos, the silent black uniformed ilk, and a group of even more heavily armed and disciplined Eldar in the same vein of the black suited one's ilk.
Of this number you spotted at most, three hundred. But each more than made up for their rarity in pure skill and deadliness. Something proven by multiple of their number fighting alone against threes, fours, and even fives of Astartes as equals. Their blades slicing through the air in admittedly beautiful patterns, resembling more silvery cords of silk being twirled through the air than the actual deadly implements that they were.
To die to them was not a disgrace. But neither was killing them.
And beyond them you spotted what you assumed was the leader of this entire farce. A face that would not be out of place on classical marble statues, with regal sharp cheekbones and a strong pointed chin denoting aristocratic heritage. A simply yet tastefully cut head of obsidian colored hair, short enough to not be useable as a handhold yet long enough to accentuate his features. Thin, tapered eyebrows and an eye of such an emerald green that you might mistake it for the actual jewel, and you say eye as he only had one. Only a jagged gaping hole where his right should be, almost as if someone had taken a serrated drill and driven it back and forth into his eye socket multiple times in quick succession. Leaving only a gaping darkness behind, which no effort had been undertaken to hide it from the world.

His body is incredibly well muscled even beyond the forms of his underlings, as if he has put everything he had into crafting his body into the ultimate weapon of war. Thick, densely packed muscle covering his entire body like the steel cording used to build so many of the Mechanicus' machinery. It was not conventionally aesthetically pleasing as its purpose, that had obviously been a side effect of its masters aim of martial prowess. And as such, it simply reminded you of many of the predatory beast of Terra, powerful, graceful, and unimaginably deadly. An apt comparison would of a long gone animal the Emperor had taught you of , Panthera Tigris, a large powerful feline which was fully capable of dominating any territory it decided upon claiming.

That body is garbed with one of the most advanced suits you had ever seen, incredibly form fitting yet also deflecting full on hits from the bolters of your brothers. Treating the weighty rounds a no more than irritants, bouncing off its frame completely. There is no ornamentation to be found anywhere on his armor, no filigree, no crests, and not even an markings aside from what you approximate as a facsimile of a human skull built into his breastplate directly where, if he were human, his heart would be protected. There appears to be writing upon it, but the combination of distance and xenos script make it impossible to make out.
He does not care for bands of gold or exotic maidens. His muse is battle and his wife is conflict.
In his hand is an equally plain yet high quality sword, easily capable of sliding through the power armor of Astartes that attack him as if it wasn't even there. And his movements show a surety and deftness that verifies, he has been doing this for a LONG time. There are no flaws, only intentional openings, no missteps, only another step in his own little dance recital. If his underlings made their swords twirl like silk then he made his blade dance. There is no beginning or end to his attacks, merely swirling waves of movement that flow into one another without end.

That's when he spots you across the battlefield, after having disemboweled one of your brothers with minimal effort and nary a sign of acknowledging it, his eye lock with yours. For a moment there appears to be shock, he did not expect to see you here. And it almost costs him as one of the ten of your brothers currently surrounding him atop a gigantic turning gear swings his chainsword for the Eldar's neck. It almost seems effortless, as he redirects the roaring chained blade with a twirl of the tip of his sword. Barely moving the rest of his blade as your brothers seems to fly out of his grasp, followed by his head as the Eldar moves faster than he can react and beheads him. His body slumping to the ground as the helmet bounces off the gear into the fracas below.

His shocked expression rapidly morphs into one of complete glee and happiness, his single eye never leaving yours even as he rapidly dispatches the remaining nine Astartes surround him with minimal effort. Each strike aimed to be immediately lethal, punching through throats or the eye slits of their helmets. In the time it takes you to cleave through the ongoing battle, he has already killed them all. Simply stood waiting for you atop the turning gear.
His love is his blade, and death is his bouquet.

When you arrive he gives you a friendly wave of his hand, the action almost immediately confusing you and putting you on guard. This is followed by him greeting you with an incredibly baritone voice. "Well, well, well, I didn't expect to find you so close to your beloved throne world Tyrian. Last I heard you were making plans over in Segmentum Obscurus to uproot Abaddon's little home away from home." His voice a mixture of a chello and violin in its tone and pitch. Musical, but with an undertone of malevolence to it.

What is he talking about? You'd never even seen one of his species before now, and what in the Warp was Segmentum Obscurus? It sounded like a destination, but you'd never been anywhere like that. As such, you decided to ignore it for now and focus on killing the enemy before you. Something he seemed to agree with, as you lifted up your sword and dashed towards him, he followed suit.

*KLANG-ZACKT!* Your blades meet with a thunderous impact, your power field sending trails of lightning across his own blade. The attempt to slip your own blade down his to sever his fingers, but he had apparently read your intent already ducked back out of range of your blade, releasing the blade lock before twirling to strike at your side. Something you block with the flat of your own blade.

He merely smiles and proceeds to attempt to perforate your face with rapid jabs of his sword, all the while talking to you. "It's honestly be awhile since you tried that on me old friend, almost caught me with that basic trick, not bad." After ducking past his jabs, you attempt a cleaving strike which he dodges past, the blade sliding across just on top of his armored right side. Thusly you respond, "I have never met you before in my life accursed xeno."

This seems to halt him for a moment, almost enough for your power sword to reach his neck before he ducks underneath your blade. "Now that's just hurtful, I don't pretend to not know you when you try to stop my raids. Or did the Pillaging of Arkhenfall never happen? I remember what you swore that day even now. Promised you would display my shattered skull from the prow of the "Farzin Behnam Bahadur", forgive me, but you don't forget that kind of promise." He seems to recall this with an almost infatuated longing air.

"Unless." He seems to still in thought, dashing back out of reach for a moment and muttering to himself. You stand on guard, ready for any movement of his. "Yes, the prophetess did foretell of a Mobius Strip. Something with no beginning or end. Is this it?!" He begins to become incredibly excited, manic energy filling his now twitching body. Setting you at ill ease, you raise your blade and dash forward to skewer the rambling xeno.
He steps closer to the truth.
Rather than be impaled by your blade he leaps over your significant height and lands behind you. Seemingly having discovered some kind of secret of the universe considering how twitchy he had become. "YES!" He shouts euphorically, every inch of him jittering with energy. "This the inciting event! The one thing that sets our journey to begin it's lovely dance of death!" His words are still incomprehensible, as are his movements. Dodging every time you strike, his body seemingly instinctually reacting to your movements even as he pays no attention to you. It doesn't seem like he's faster than you, and even with your exchanges it was apparent he was not your match in sword paly either.

What it seems more like is that he has memorized your style, copying every single blade stroke and footstep and training until his body can react to any action without conscious effort. Which is impossible, no one who has faced your blade has lived to tell about it. Yet here this Eldar is that seems to train obsessively just to match your movements. Who is he? What is he?!
LOOK UPON YOUR RIVAL, MY SON OF CONFLICT! FOR HE IS YOU BROTHER IN THIS DUET OF CARNAGE!
*THOOM!* Both your confusion and his euphoria are interrupted by a change in the battle going on below you, as a sizeable multitude of marines in Terminator armor of varying kinds begin teleporting into the midst of the enemy force. Thunder Hammers obliterating entire columns, Thunder Claws slicing through all resistance, and Assault Cannons punching through the fleshy multitude. The armored behemoths of the Fifteenth Legion begin to reap a heavy tally amongst the Eldar assault.

One particular group of unfortunate xenos are unlucky in that the initial hammer strike does not kill them, but the impact sending them twirling into the lake of molten fixes that problem. Their screams merely joining the chorus of the battle, as the appearance of the Terminators incites a charge from your brothers and the Imperial soldiers with them. Slamming into the now exposed back of the xenos number, distracted by the appearance of your more heavily armored brethren.

With this you turn back to the Eldar leader besides you. His grin almost splitting his face with how wide it is, he speaks. "As it always has to be My Beloved Nemesis, let us dance this twisted ballet of bloodshed and glittering blades until the end of time!" Followed by him dashing towards you, his sword zooming to find purchase in your chest. It is only with a rapid block with the hilt of your sword, chipping it, that you do not end up impaled on your enemy's power sword.

Charging forward you loosen your grip on your blade, swinging horizontally from right to left, you let his deflection push your blade into a reverse sword grip. Followed by a rapid thrust that seems to surprise him, he's almost able to get out of the way, but you leave a large slash across his right side. He grunts in pain as the wound begins to ooze ruby crimson ichor, flowing down the side of armor and dripping on the ground. He looks down at the wound and grins, looking back up to you and speaks. "Damn, how is it you always get me to fall for that?" The question sounding semi-joking, but with a grain actual inquisitive nature.

With that asked, something extremely peculiar begins to take place. His body begins to lose its focus, becoming hazy and see through, as he begins to be covered in a wave of pinkish wind that seemed to burn like a flame paradoxically. He looks down and curses. "Isha's tits, looks like it really would only last this long. Just like she said." Looking back up as the flames spread, he gives you a hard stare. "This may be the end of our time together for now, but we WILL meet again. Either now or millennia to come. I SWEAR it!. We will meet for the first time!" And with that he is enveloped in the flames, which seem to fly away for a distance before evaporating. As you look on, similar events are happening across the battlefield, any surviving Eldar disappearing in clouds of pink flame-wind never to be seen again. Though, those slain still seem to remain.

As this happens you receive a vox call from the bridge, answering it you speak. "This is Tyrian, what's happened Aventus?" Your second-in-command being the only one who would have your vox frequency on the bridge. "The battle is over my lord, we have driven off the assault from the Eldar. Though not without casualties." There is some clicking before he continues. "At least twenty percent of all Imperial Army members on board the ship have become casualties, either heavily injured or proper fatalities. While large parts of the ship itself are also noticeably damaged, we have also managed to destroy all six of the harassing smaller vessels, though the larger ship simply disappeared in a strangely colored conflagration without a trace." A breath and then more words. "Among the fallen invaders all those who have been killed have remained, as has the wreckage of the destroyed ships and the equipment of the fallen, all according to reports received across the ship."
"This will only be the beginning Tyrian, my boy" "Really Father?" "Yes, when we are done the stars will once more belong to Mankind. As is their birthright. Just as they will belong to you, for are you not my child and the child of Man?"
You ponder this for a moment before responding. "Has the rest of the fleet finally caught up with us?" The response is almost instant. "Yes, they are sending both ships and inquiries to ascertain our status and to help secure our breaches." That at least is good news. You nod before responding. "Then get us back on track to the next compliance Aventus, while we repair damage, and I write a report to send back to High Imperial Command. This is definitely going to raise some eyebrows." A chuckle over the vox. "It definitely will indeed my lord." And with that the vox cuts off. With that done you set off down the gear hill you had been standing on, to begin damage reports and the long process of repairing the ship.

---

FINAL RESULTS:

Casualties:
- 350 Astartes of varying rank - 100 wounded among casualties, 20 slated for Dreadnoughts, rest fatalities
- 25,000 Imperial Army members of varying class and rank - 1000 critically wounded, 500 minorly wounded, rest fatalities


REWARDS:
- Sizeable amount of alien technology of different types and sizes
- Remaining Astartes and Imperial Army members on ship are now seasoned.
- More Questions Than Answers

Author's Note* Whoof this took a lot of work. This is the final part before we begin the five years of crusading in the next chapter of the quest. The Intro is now over and the training wheels are now off. WELCOME TO THE REAL MAN'S WORLD. And may the odds be ever in your favor.

 

[Tinkerer]

Settling into your throne in the command center, you tap the buttons on its arm rest that activate the strategic map of the galaxy. Gold coloring indicating all currently Imperial held territory, and a variety of colors to show currently known polities and hazards. Aventus settles into his accustomed seat at your right side of the projector table. Before asking you a question. "How do you wish to proceed my lord?"

You stare at the strategic map being projected and the collated data of the Legions current holdings before making a decision.

Legion Status:
Astartes: 9,750 Combat ready. 80 wounded, healed in 2 turns. 3,000 Veterans.
Dreadnoughts: 20 Combat Ready. 4 Veterans, 16 Recruits.
Vehicles: Barren-Depleted-Nominal--Pristine-Surplus (+25 to base vehicle actions)
Ships: 3 Capital, 5 Escort, 1 Flag Ship, 50 Fighter Squadrons
Weaponry: Barren-Depleted-Nominal--Pristine-Surplus (+25 to base troop actions)
Geneseed: Barren-Depleted-Nominal-Surplus-Overflowing (+25% to Recruitment Results)
Aspirants: Barren-Depleted-Nominal-Surplus-Overflowing (-20 to Marine Creation)
Holdings: 10 Fully Inhabited Systems, 7 Single Inhabited Planet Systems, 50 Barely Inhabited Single Planet Systems
Imperial Army Personnel: 499,500 Combat Ready, 1000 Critically Wounded - Healed in 2 Turns, All Minorly Wounded Imperial Army Heal At End Of Each Turn
Xenos Tech: +2 Favor If Traded

Legion Leaders (Can Only Use A Leader For Three Actions):
Tyrian:
Martial - 10/4 (+100 to Martial Actions)
Diplo - -2/4 (-20 to Diplomatic Actions)
Logis - 2/4 (+20 to Logistical Actions)

Aventus:
Martial - 3/4 (+30)
Diplo - 3/4 (+30)
Logis - 7/4 (+70)

Legion Heroes (Can Only Use A Hero For Two Actions):
Ahzek Ahriman:
Martial - 3/4 (+30)
Diplo - 1/4 (+10)
Logis - 3/4 (+10)

Ahzek Ohrmuzd:
Martial - 3/4 (+30)
Diplo - 4/4 (+40)
Logis - 1/4 (+10)

Solomon Tumadi:
Martial - 2/4 (+20)
Diplo - 1/4 (+10)
Logis - 1/4 (+10)

Tychus:
Martial - 1/4 (+10)
Diplo - 0/4 (+0)
Logis 1/4 (+10)

Caspian Shalashaska:
Martial - 2/4 (+20)
Diplo - 0/4 (+0)
Logis - 0/4 (+0)

Faction Favor:
Loathed-Despised-Hated-Disliked-Neutral-Strained-Liked-Loved-Adored

Mechanicum: Neutral
Emperor: Strained/Liked
Malcador: Liked
Imperium: Liked
Other Legions: Neutral

You have 7 Actions This Turn.

[X] Attempt to Curry Favor with another Faction (Diplomatic)
-[X] Who?
--[X] Which Leader/Hero?

[X] Search for New Civilizations to Bring into Compliance (Dice Rolls = Actions Invested)
-[X]Martially
-[X] Diplomatically
-[X] Logistically
--[X]Which Leader/Hero?

[X] Spend Time Gaining Recruits (Diplomatic, Dice Rolls = Actions Invested and Recruits Found)
-[X] Where Among Your Holdings
--[X] Which Leader/Hero?

[X] Gather Resources (Logistical/Diplomatic, Dice Rolls = Actions Invested)
-[X] Where Among Your Holdings
--[X] Which Leader/Hero?

TWELVE HOUR MORATORIUM IS IN EFFECT!