Sons of Iron (A WH40k campaign, Imperium vs Orks vs Chaos)

[Changer of ways]

Cadia has fallen, the galaxy has been split in twain and chaos reigns. The Imperium is beset on all sides by the forces of Chaos, the cruelties of the Drukhari, the bottomless hunger of the Tyranids, and numerous other threats. Warp Storms leave numerous systems alone and divided and the forces of mankind prepare to fight to the last for survival.

The Barssus sector is but one of these numerous and severed fiefdoms forced to face the new millennium and all its horrors. They are protected by Iron Skulls, a young but vigorous chapter of Adeptus Astartes who are feared more than venerated by those they protect. For the sons of Manus have ever looked down on those they deem weak, but it is this hubris that could destroy them. For in the time of ending, all must stand as one or they will die alone.

The forces of Tzeentch have set their eyes on the world of Barssus primus, seeking hidden treasures lying beneath the sands and seeking to forge their new utopia over the broken bodies and minds of all who stand in their way. But they are not the only foes seeking conquest, for the Orks have come to slate their lust for violence and destruction.


The feudal world of Fayoris, M38.

He didn't mean to do this.

That was all he could think of as lay trembling, curled on the floor of own house. He didn't mean for any of this to happen, in truth he didn't know what he did. Tears poured down his face as he recalled the horrified looks on his parents' faces. Faces that were once filled with terror and sorrow.

But he didn't mean to do it. Hoping that was some dream, a persistent nightmare but deep down he knew it wasn't.

It had all happened so fast. Some men had come to harass his family for some money. His father tried to defuse the situation since he knew that everyone was struggling to get by these days. Droughts, wars, and disease left supplies to go around so tensions were always high. Try as he might, the men wouldn't stop. Threats were made, curses spoken, and weapons brandished, and then….

He didn't know why, but the sight of his parents in danger awakened something inside of him. A fire burned in his chest, his wingers twinged as sparks of lightning forked between them. He could still see the confusion on the faces of those thugs as they turned their attention to him. Confusion turned to horror as the lightning jolted from the child's hands, shifting through the air and striking them. Screams echoed throughout the town as the smell of burnt flesh wafted through his nostrils.

It didn't take long for word to spread, and soon mobs formed out of terror and prejudice. He had been blamed for the recent hardships even though he had nothing to do with them. They were spurred on by the hateful rhetoric by the local priest. He tried to explain himself, but they wouldn't listen to you. So he fled here, to your room, his last bastion.

The shouts grow louder as the mob breaks down the doors. He hears his parents scream as they are cut down by the frothing mob. The thumps of footsteps echo throughout the house as they ascend the stairs, their hateful curses burning deeper and deeper into his mind and psyche. He turns as the door is bashed down and unleashes the damned power one last time.

His world of senses descends into madness, a cacophony of screams, fire and other sounds of carnage he has no understanding of. Darkness then descends upon him as his mind is filled with terror and confusion and the death that would surely follow.

But death did not follow. Instead he awoke, surrounded by burnt corpses and fire, but still alive. He then felt a massive presence beside him, like a demigod of ancient myth. The giant of blue and gold clad in robes and holding a bronze staff spoke to him.

"Be calm child, I mean you no harm" it spoke, it's voice regal and proud. The boy hesitantly turned to face the giant, nearly stumbling over corpses, nausea and exhaustion taking its toll on the child.

"My name is Itzhak and I am here to offer you a choice, a chance to use your gifts. You have no future here, the hateful and ignorant will never until they destroy you or enslave you. I will give you power, a new home, and a purpose" the giant said, offering the boy a hand.

The boy looked at the remains of the mob, their curses still fresh in his mind. He had known many of them, he had befriended some even, and yet they were so willing to kill him and his family. Why? Because he was different, because he was a threat?

He somehow knew even back then that Itzhak was right, he would never know peace again. The weak and ignorant would always fear and hate what they could not or would not understand. He nodded and took Itzhak's hand

M42. On board the battleship "veil of shadows"

Shad Ikraam awoke from his trance, his minding having drifted back to his childhood so many years ago. It had been over a thousand years, a practical eternity by mortal standards yet it still felt so fresh. A small bead of sweat fell down his face, his dark brown features exposed bereft of his helmet which laid mag locked to his thigh. He found it easier to be attuned to the sea of souls with natural senses, an attitude that he heard was commonplace.

The whine of servo motors sang softly as he rose to his feet from his kneeling position. His dark blue armor lit up once more as power routed itself once more and his mind returned to the present. A faint bluish purple aura hung through the air, cackling with electricity. Wards and ancient scripts, written in thousands of long dead tongues also began to glow a faint eldritch blue as he grasped his staff infused with the power of the great mutator.

The myriad of thoughts of less creatures soon filled his mind as well. Thousands of voices muttering their petty nonsense before he pushed those thoughts out. He had little need to know what his mortal crew thought and cared even less. In his mind only the truly gifted mattered, not the dregs of humanity that were only fit to serve.

Ikraam felt a tug inside his mind as he felt the familiar soul of his mentor Itzhak wash over him. His former mentor, now comrade, was an oddity amongst the throngs of vain transhumans Ikraam had the displeasure of meeting over the centuries. In a realm where your reputation was your first defense against aggression, he willfully submitted to Ikraam once Ikraam had formed his warband, called the Enlightened. When questioned on this, he only mysteriously replied that it was the will of Tzeentch to do so.

"War-Smith Boyan Svetomir has requested your presence" Itzhak spoke to him mentally, his deep and rich voice carrying over the distance via telepathy. Ikraam sent back an acknowledgement as he set out from his personal chambers and towards the command deck. Standing just outside his door stood two rubricae as sentries, motionless until he passed them and locking in step behind them as he advanced.

Unlike many of his elders, he held little regard for the rubricae. He had been born well after Prospero burned and the disastrous attempt of Ahriman to stop the flesh change. The fate of the rubricae simply reinforced his beliefs about the right of those who have power and the will to seize it. He had seen time and time again that the weak would only drag down the smart and strong, Fayoris had taught him that much, as had so many worlds since then.

The interior of the veil of shadows lacked much of the usual trappings of many of the vessels he had been forced to serve on throughout his time as a mercenary. Instead of rust, gore, flesh protruding from the walls, the halls looked much like any other former imperial vessel save for the occasional rune marking or symbol of Tzeentch. This suited his mood as such filth and perversion were beneath him and the new utopia they would build.

He soon arrived on the command deck, where he was greeted by his crew and attendants. He had gathered mutants and pyskers from across hundreds of worlds and walks of life. He had given them the same choice he had been given, to rise up and take power for themselves. He turned victims into avengers, and gave them a chance to shine against the wash of hatred and ignorance of the Imperium.

Ikraam nodded to the ship mistress Zeriel, who gave the order to establish the link between the veil of shadows and its sister ship the herald of change. After a few seconds of static, an Astartes giant clad in white and black with a gold cape and ancient mk two power armor supposedly from the the great crusade appeared.

"Greetings Ikraam" the giant spoke, sitting on an immaculate throne of polished marble in a relaxed position. He removed his helmet to show a tanned face rife with scars, but still retaining an air of nobility that was further enhanced by his short and maintained cut and piercing blue eyes.

"Same to you, Svetomir" Ikraam replied as he watched the war-smith grab and sip a glass of wine. The glass was comically small compared to the size of his gauntlets but the war-smith seemed to move with such poise and grace that I hardly mattered. Seeing a son of Perturabo exhibit such finesse was hard to picture despite their prolonged partnership. The Iron Warriors were usually so dour and serious, it was honestly refreshing to finally see something else from the get of the fourth.

The two were alike in their desire to be more than so many of their brothers were. Together they had formed the warband known as the Enlightened, gathering over the course of decades many hundreds of Astartes who longed to do more than merely raid and pillage. No, they had far grander plans that were coming to fruition because Ikraam's prophecies indicated that something monumental awaited them in the Barssus sector.

"Are you ready to depart?" Svetomir asked after he finished the glass.

"Yes, our destiny awaits us in the Barssus sector. In particular, Barssus Primus. Deep beneath that world lies powerful technology and dark secrets. An entire tomb of the Necrons that will not arise for centuries to come" Ikraam replied, the mere thought of claiming the hidden treasures of alluring.

"Taking that world won't be easy, the corpse worshippers can be rather persistent. But I suppose what is a grand vision without sacrifice" Svetomir replied, with no small bit of disdain in his voice.

Ikraam couldn't help but agree, his vision would take sacrifice but in a way that made the victory seem all the sweeter.

"The path to greatness is never easy my friend, in order to build our utopia, we must first burn this utter husk on a Imperium to ground" Ikraam replied, his face coiling into a smile. Svetomir nodded as both Chaos Lords dispatched their orders to the other ships in the chaos fleet and set course after their rituals, done in the bowls of their ships to appease the dark gods.

A great tear into the warp appeared in front of the fleet, like the mouth of the great monsters of Myth from eons long past and the large fleet disappeared into the warp.

 

[Changer of ways]

The weak perish and strong endure…


This is what he learned as a boy on the mining world of Terelis. By seven years old his mother had passed, her body unable to survive the toxic atmosphere of their world. His father died trying to rescue his fellow workers from a cave in.


The weak perish and the strong endure…


This was proven as other boys his age died from the strenuous work conditions, their bodies or their minds faltering under the pressure.


The weak perish and the strong endure…


This was proven as he passed trial after trial during the temperance. Hundreds up hundreds competed and yet so few remained.


The weak perish and the strong endure…


This was proven on the world of Actune primus when he survived alone out of his whole squad. Having vanquished the brood lord of the genestealer cult and butchered his way from deep underground.


It was proven on the thousand battlefields since then, when he survived when others hadn't. He will not falter, even now with the great rift cutting them off from the rest of the galaxy. Even with all the foes of man arrayed against him, even with the legions of hell braying for his blood.


Because he is Baachus, Chapter Master of the Iron Skulls and to surrender now is to render everything he has survived pointless. It is to make every sacrifice, every sin he committed in the name of pragmatism utterly meaningless.


The galaxy itself may be torn asunder but he will not break, for the strong endure….


On board the imperial battle barge will of Iron, Orbit of Barssus primus, Barssus sector. M42.


"Start the close combat training routine again" Baachus huffed as he slowly stood up. Muscles strained as the sound of biotic whirled softly. Bacchus cursed as fatigue was starting to settle in, the limitations of his remaining flesh grating on him as he willed himself up.


Even tired as he was, he still cut an imposing figure. He was a giant even by Astartes standards, standing nine feet tall without his armor. Simple drab fatigues did little to hide the extensive augmentations and modifications that had turned him into a killing machine. The polished silver, almost chrome like biotics contrasted his scarred brown skin. His left arm had been replaced, as had his shins as had most of his skull.


He was the Chapter Master, he was supposed to be the best, the strongest, the smartest, and the toughest. He was supposed to be the one that the others depended on, and yet here he was struggling after a mere few hours of intense training. The thought of age catching up with him filled him with equal parts rage and dread, for though Astartes knew no fear, he dreaded letting his Chapter down.


Baachus found little more time to collect his thoughts a dozen combat training servitors approached him directly. All of the flesh-machine hybrids were armed with non lethal blunt mechadendrites protruding from their backs and fought with speed and ferocity that would have easily surpassed the reflexes of a mortal man. Baachus however was anything but a mortal man, having received not only the numerous augmentations of a transhuman Astartes but also many further biotics and mechanical alterations.


His body moved with the speed and precision born of a hundred battles, instinctively bobbing and weaving around the mechadendrites. Forcing fatigue from his mind he waited a split second as he analyzed the patterns of the servitors before laying one decisive blow on each. One after the other he punched he left first through a weak spot in the torso, his metallic fist punching straight through their steel shells and out the other side.


Sweat poured down his face as he prepared for another round. Logic began to press on him that perhaps his time was better spent elsewhere, perhaps reviewing the available data or checking in on the various worlds of the sector. But another, more primal part of his mind rallied against those ideas. He wanted not only to test himself, but also to vent his anger, for ever since the great eye open he has felt trapped.


A sense of dread and listlessness has been building up ever since he first saw that tear across the cosmos. No one knew where it came from, nor what it meant. The possibilities were endless, each hypothesis more bleak than the last. The thought of being completely cut off from the galaxy, with any manner of horrors potentially arriving at any time was taxing even for an Astartes.


Baachus grimaced as he thought of the panic that the rift caused. Hundreds of thousands died in the riots and mayhem, his knuckles tightened as he recalled the chaos. Men and women who should have known better acted like animals, wasting resources and ammunition that would have better been spent elsewhere. Baachus was disturbed from his musings as a sharp voice cracked over the vox.


"Master Baachus, Captain Abyoie has requested entrance into the chamber".


Baachus' eye widened as he heard that name, for had not expected to hear it. 'How long have I been in here?' he thought to himself, a pang of guilt welling up in his heart. His men needed him, he couldn't hide in here, 'no, not hide' he corrected himself. To hide was to admit weakness. "Let him in" he spoke, eager to speak to his former rival. He hadn't expected to ever see the third company again since they had left to answer the call for aid in defense of Cadia, as is the tradition of the third to be the first to intervene in affairs abroad.


A door slowly slid down behind him as Baachus turned. Another Astartes walked through the door, the light from the hallway casting a long shadow before the door closed behind him. The dim lighting of the training room did little hide the disparity in form between the two. Abyoie was clad in a simple red robe but lack of augmentation was plain to see. His fairer complexion and lack of scars further undercut the difference between the two.


"Greetings, brother" Abyoie spoke as he approached Baachus, a wide smile on his face. His smile faded as Baachus frowned, "apologies, my chapter Master" he continued sarcasm dripping from his tone. Baachus grunted as he reluctantly shook hands with Abyoie. "You would do well to respect the title, Captain. I am not in the mood for jokes".


"When are you ever in the mood for jokes" Abyoie countered, his momentary smirk turning into a grimace as Baachus squeezed his hand. "Ow, point taken" Abyoie consented before Baachus let him go. Baachus took a step back and crossed his arms, clearly waiting for Abyoie to cut straight to the chase.


'So much for the pleasantries' Abyoie huffed, his stance straightening. He paused for a few seconds as he figured out how he was going to explain what he needed to. A thousand different thoughts flooded through his mind, his lips curling as he considered how to put it.


"As you can see, much has happened to the galaxy since the third company left the sector" he started, pausing to gauge his reaction. Baachus stood still, impassive but clearly radiating annoyance.


"Cadia has fallen to the despoiler and his hordes, we arrived to their summons too late. We were barely able to retreat in time, forced to make a blind jump to escape. Luckily we survived, but the journey here wasn't easy" he continued. Baachus gnashed his teeth, the thought of retreat irked him but he wasn't foolish to forbid such a thing. The fall of Cadia was his primary concern however, a cold shiver running down his spine. For now, he had other concerns, and tilted his head to motion for Abyoie to continue.


"It wasn't just Cadia, it was everywhere. We jumped from system to system and everywhere we went was chaos. Orks, Tyranids, Drukhari, and things I haven't even seen before are running rampant. It is a madhouse out there". Abyoie twitched slightly, as if his words brought back memories best left forgotten. Baachus paced slowly back and forth, likely mulling over this new information.


"How was it that you survived? One trip in this condition would be difficult enough, much less several in succession. And what of the third? How many soldiers have you lost? Or what of your vessel, the heart of steel?"



"It was no doubt due to my excellent intellect and roguish charm" Abyoie quipped, taking a brief and fleeting bit of mirth from the displeasure of the Chapter Master. He knew better than to press his luck and continued. "I don't know how we survived, perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was some twisted kind of fate".


"As for casualties, we are down to half strength, but the heart of steel is still operational having suffered only minor damage. Overall we got out as best we could, but there is one more complication"


"And that is?" Baachus replied, his tone showing more than a faint hint of irritation.


"One of my librarians received a vision of events to come. There is a great danger coming, the enemies of man are coming here to Barssus primus".


Baachus wanted to dismiss it, for chasing such ephemeral things like dreams and visions was unbecoming of a son Ferrus Manus. The Iron Skulls dealt with materium, with cold logic and machines, not the so-called sea of souls. But deep inside he knew that even if this vision was false, then something would still come for them. If the third was able to make it through the warp from outside the sector then so could others.


"And what manner of foes will assail us and what do they want?" Baachus asked, in truth it likely didn't matter what his foes wanted. It was simply trying to narrow it down from mindless raiders or slavers, or something more discislavery,


"He claimed they would be Orks and heretic Astartes, as for what they want he wasn't shown". Baachus' frown grew as he considered this news, for there will be much to do. Baachus unfurled his arms and began walking to exit, before stopping and turning slightly back to Abyoie.


"Come brother, if this is true we have much left to do. Let's show our coming guests some hospitality…".


"The weak perish and the strong endure" Baachus thought to himself once more as the two left.

"And we shall endure…"