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Warhammer: Tragedy on Ullanor

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Interex - Blood Angel Meeting
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Captain Furio felt his temper raise. Why did we ignore your signals? Why did you keep foul Xenos on this planet?

His bolter felt tight in his grip and he stared at disbelief at these newcomers.

Suddenly, he felt his grip loosen as a gentle hand rested on his shoulder. There was something about the Primarchs. You somehow felt the awe and reverence in your blood. Even the more...questionable Primarchs like Konrad Curze had an odd charisma about them. Somehow he knew the hand that laid on his shoulder was his father. He looked up and saw his father's sad smile but he couldn't help but bask in his attention.

"Our apologies," his father's voice was the pure tenor of a trained singer, his gaze gentle as he walked over and stretched out a hand.

"I'm afraid our ships were unable to translate your signals. In the future, you may wish to leave images on your asteroid listening posts for those who have traveled far like we have." He smiled softly.

"I am Sanguinius, and I am pleased to meet you."
 
A study in tragedy:

Imagine for a moment watching your parent disappear, having only the glimpse of them running into the night towards civilian defense forces muster points as alarms scream and the sky is filled with fiery trails of descending ships. It is a common enough experience among those who were once the people of Gallemo, so you are not alone in the ache.

But add to that ache the loss of the pet you played with, the neighbors you knew, the relatives you met on holidays and heard stories about late at night. Add in the loss of your friends, your grandparents, your cousins and aunts-uncles, the butcher who complained about the price of fresh product, the baker who always gave you a discount on and on. If your lucky you don't see the bodies of people you knew left to rot but even then you know they are most likely dead.

Try to feel again that moment when it hits home that not just those people whose loss you can grasp are gone but their friends, their families and everyone they knew is either dead (crushed under a howling green tide of muscle and madness) or is like you, not a person anymore but property of the creatures that broke your world for the fun of it. Hold that horror in your heart and never let it go.

Now run in a crowd, chased by monsters who are bigger and stronger than you could ever be, the slowest in the mad scrmable are gunned down or hacked to pieces with bellowing laughter their only send off, there isn't a word that really describes what you are to the Greenskins now slaves is to common, pet implies a degree of caring that the savages can't feel and cattle ticks enough boxes to make your guts squirm so you shy away from it.

Pull the clothes off the struggling and brutalized, watch as the last touches of your life before that remains outside the meat of your mind fall into the dirt. Thrash if your stupid or scared as mud and blood and paint is smeared over bare skin and scream as brands are pressed hot and bright to you bare skin. By this the monsters mark you as part of their world-way.

Imagine working harder than you ever thought you would need to, hauling parts into insane workshops to bring warmachines together, looking after horrible toad things with teeth like knives and eyes like the Boys who can bite down to the bone. Feel what it's like to be fed too little or too much food and eating every scrap no matter if you feel hollow and hurt for more after or if your guts are packed full to bursting because you don't know when the next meal will come.

Imagine fighting with your fists and your feet and your nails and your teeth and your howls, fighting until a body or three lies broken for the amusement of the greenskins, if your lucky it's against another human and you might win-survive to shake in the aftermath, if your unlucky one of the Boys will want some fun and no puny humie is getting out breathing.

Imagine huddling nude and aching around a engine block that steams and smokes for heat. The same age girl next to you was highborn all fancy silks, rich food and probably never even stubbed her toe in the life that is gone but now she has more muscle than you. Remember this is because one of the Mekk's made her and some of others eat something and when she stopped screaming her skin was stretched tight over a grotesquely swollen frame. Understand that's she's among the lucky few, most of the others who ate the mekk's creation died and not easily.

Better for fightin' and workin' and maybe eatin' the Mekk says.

Hold in your heart the fear as you start to accept this as your lot and ape your destroyers, guns become shoota's, axes choopa's, you talk like them and who you were drowns in the mire of the WAAAAAGH!

Taste the disbelief as the Nob who kicked you and the mekk who made your now-sister into what she is and the Boys who cheered during a fight die and die and die. Not to another Ork or the Boss they bow before but to the shoota's and choppa's of humies who are bigger and tougher than any you have seen. See the pity in the eyes of leader who pulls you out of the blood and madness and tells you the Imperium did not forget you, that it will not forgive the Xeno for what they've done.

Stare at Captain Nathaniel Garro when he says this and feel the world you have built inside your mind where survival for yourself and a few others is all that matters turn upside down.

Feel the joy that surges through the crowds of freed slaves as they watch recordings of two Legions tear apart the empire of the Greenskins. Laugh alongside your now-sister at the story a Death Guard Marine tells you, of the big, bad warboss everyone was so scared of losing an eye, then an arm then his head when the Death-Lord came for him Silence in hand and murder in his eyes.

Know awed wonder when the Lord Mortarion comes to speak to you who have suffered. His voice is harsh and his being cold but his Legion saved you and so you know in your heart you will never forget that fact.

- Account of Remembrancer Lackland Thorn, attached to Death Guard Legion, regarding the War for the Galactic Core.
 
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The World Eaters
Khârn



Khârn

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"You will fail," hissed Mago through clenched teeth. "Only ruin will follow you, and history will vindicate me."

Khârn's eyes flashed open as the sharp, stabbing pain of the Nails forced consciousness to the Captain of the 8th. He had slept for an hour after departing the planet's surface, enough to stave off the effects of sleep deprivation after days of ceaseless fighting, safely squirrelled away inside his quarters aboard the Conqueror. Eyes quickly scanned the room, looking for any signs of disturbance or unsolicited entry - his gaze narrowing each time he passed over the many scars and dents in the walls, his mind swiftly associating each one with a past bout of rage rather than anything recent - before he rose to his feet. Chainaxe already in hand, for he had slept with it pressed to his chest, Khârn stepped forward, leaving his quarters and stepping into the corridor beyond, only to find himself in the midst of a battlefield.

Nailed and Nailess clashed in the creaking halls of the Conqueror, axes clashing with swords, Nails swinging in tempo with the battle, as madness broke loose amongst the World Eaters. Caring nothing for the fighting, he walked through it all, stopping only to bring his axe down upon those who got in his way, as he navigated his way towards the bridge. The feuding of brothers was not his concern, not anymore, not when bloodshed only served to strengthen the Legion and separate out the weak from the strong. This was the new normal, the new way of things, and with the Nails constantly stabbing into his brain, Khârn saw no reason to change it.

Or defy it.

Stepping over corpses, ducking under swung blows, he carried on his way - eyes occasionally flashing to the bloodstained badges upon the dead, each one bearing the devouring maw of their Legion - until at long last he arrived at the bridge. Unlike the rest of the Conqueror, the bridge was deathly quiet; Lotara Sarrin stood at her post, surrounded by the faint outlines of a void shield, as she barked orders to the overworked serfs before her. To his right he saw the Scrymistress suspended at her post, tendrils rising from her head like a veil of snakes, unharmed but for a fleck of blood upon her emaciated face.

And everywhere else, Khârn could see the source of the peace the bridge currently enjoyed.

Upon the deck, strewn from consoles and desks, hanging from the ceiling, and jammed into the cracks of the walls, dozens, if not hundreds, of World Eaters lay dead. Their bodies ripped apart and desecrated, entrails spilt about the bridge haphazardly, their acidic blood left to coat nearly every surface available. Servitors in varying states of disrepair tried in vain to clean up the carnage, running up against ceramite and genewrought flesh in a losing bid to dislodge it, whilst the serfs worked around it in horrified silence. Aside from Lotara Sarrin, no one who bore a weapon remained alive aboard the bridge, each and every World Eater who had made the mistake of coming to it armed - whether to investigate the carnage or to carry on their feuds with their brothers - having been slaughtered without mercy.

In the middle of it all, his Angron Thal'kyr sat, his back to Lehralla, as the Scrymistress delicately tended to the seemingly unconscious Primarch's skull. With a serf pressing a vox-caster to her ear, through which Khârn could hear faint directions being barked, the crippled thing mended his Nails, using crude tools to piece back together those that had presumably burst in his rampage.

"What happened here?" The words were said as quietly as he could manage, aggression pushed deep down inside himself for fear that Angron was not so out of it as he appeared.

Without so much as a glance to Khârn, Lehralla replied, "What do you think happened? Angron returned, came to the bridge, and saw the fighting. The Nails did the rest," she explained. "Two burst when he began to fight, sending him beyond control, and nobody has dared come on the bridge since fearing that he is still awake."

Boots treading in the mess of gore at Angron's feet, Khârn came as close as he dared - enough that he could smell the iron and blood upon the Red Angel's breath - and examined the damage. Despite inexperienced hands, Lehralla had managed to mend the damage well enough, piecing back together the broken Nails, though the blood that leaked from Angron's every orifice belied the true damage that had been done.

"Why are the Techmarines not seeing to him?"

The sudden tsk from Lehralla was sharp enough to hurt Khârn's ears, the noise piercing through his ears and making everyone on the bridge bar Lotara flinch. "Fear. Fear of Angron, fear that if they don't patch up the damage being done to the Conqueror will kill them all no matter how well they patch up the Nails. Someone nearly destroyed the Warp Core in the fighting, the Captain has had to have it sealed off and has awoken the Dreadnoughts to protect it." Grey eyes flickered up and fixed upon Khârn. "Supposedly half the Legion is no longer capable of managing their tempers for some reason and thus no longer care for the ramifications of their rampages. Funny that."

The Nails buried deeper in Khârn's skull, forcing rage to the surface at the sheer lack of respect in her words, at the disdain, before the sound of Angron gasping for air forced it back down. "It will be dealt with," he bit back. "As will..." He took a sharp breath. "It will be dealt with," he repeated, if only to stave off the other words he had thought to say.

"No, it won't, not by you at least. You're too much of a fool to manage the task, all you're fit for now is bringing death and ruin to anyone unfortunate enough to stand in your way." Hands flinching, Lehralla clucked in annoyance as she pulled back from Angron's skull and leaned into the vox-cast as best she could, the tendrils emanating from her own skull allowing only her to move only a few more inches into the device. "Now unless you can steady your hands enough to help me, Captain, I suggest you go put your axe to use elsewhere," she added, her voice a whisper as she nodded to unheard instructions.

Khârn's jaw rolled, teeth clenched, and then relaxed as much as anyone with the Nails in their skull could manage.

"As you say."
 
No image returned to the hololiths on the Red Tear, but the great warship of the ponderous Interex kept its distance, yet, after long moments, a reply came.

"This world, URIASACH is- was under the protection of the Interex Conglomerate. The species that you so ruthlessly culled were once our enemies, consumed by the desire to feast upon our worlds they did not seek any sort of friendship, but it is abhorrent to simply enact xenocide. Thus, we stripped them of their ability to travel across the stars and left them on this world, this haven for their species to thrive as they will, but without being able to inflict utmost destruction upon the enemy. It is not within our right to accept your apology on behalf of a fallen species, but, we understand your intentions, misguided as may be.

If you are willing to speak, we invite you to meet upon one of our asteroids where we may discuss further as to the nature of your exploration, Sanguinius."

The feed faded to static, as the Interex ship moved with unnatural speed, no visible propulsion leading the great craft to sit in orbit of the world.
 
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The Hunt of the Last Urlakk

Jemulan Noyan-Khan
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Much could be said about the time spent hunting the Greenskin Filth, while it was not hard to track their destructive path northward, it was however a challenge pinning down the exact location of their dammed Warboss, the last of Ullanor's nightmare.

The White Scars had been chasing the Barbarian monsters with the best of their ability, fighting against their Hordes as was their order by the Emperor. But for many of the Terran Born, this was more then a mission from the Emperor, this was vengeance for the loss of %^&$! and while they could not hunt his killers, they could seek out the last of his final enemy and destroy them, in his forgotten name.

Among the Terran Born who felt this way was Jemulan Noyan-Khan, the Noyan-Khan of the Horde of Earth, and while his rage was less then some of his other Brothers, he still felt that the loss of %^&$! should be avenged and that the Filth of the Greenskins should pay for their existence.

It was a comfort to see that while his brothers that come from their Fathers homeworld of Chogoris did not feel the same level of anger that the Terran Born did, they still wished for justice to be done and that the last of Ullanor die by the hands of the White Scars.

But all was not well, his Father Jaghatai Khan was reclusive for the longest time as the White Scars hunted Northward, appearing in battles and issuing commands, but he remained distant from his sons. This was cause for some concern among many of Jemulan's brothers, but what worried Jemulan was not that the Khan was distant to the White Scars, that was something he could be forgiven for, grief for a fallen brother was something all of the Legion could feel. No what worried Jemulan was the look in the eyes of the Khan as he battled the Greenskins, there was a anger there, a small fire that seemed to grow in intensity in facing the Orks.

Jemulan knew grief, he had lost many Brothers, but what was facing the Khan now was a deep anger that only he could truly understand.


Jaghatai Khan
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His time in hunting the Orks has not tempered his anger, he knows this. he has tried many of the teachings of his homeworld to calm himself, but his feeling of anger at Horus's death would not subside for his usual composure. So for the sake of keeping his sons from seeing him like this, he has kept distant, he could not let them see how his brothers death has effected him, his Sons were like any other legion, prone to mimicking their father in many ways, so until he can find a better outlet for this anger aside from killing the Orks he must stay away.

He can not let them start giving in to anger, the World Eaters and his Brother are prime examples of the danger of letting Rage control you, no the Khan will find a way to temper this growing fire inside him and stop his sons from following this growing rage.
 
Karen said:
No image returned to the hololiths on the Red Tear, but the great warship of the ponderous Interex kept its distance, yet, after long moments, a reply came.

"This world, URIASACH is- was under the protection of the Interex Conglomerate. The species that you so ruthlessly culled were once our enemies, consumed by the desire to feast upon our worlds they did not seek any sort of friendship, but it is abhorrent to simply enact xenocide. Thus, we stripped them of their ability to travel across the stars and left them on this world, this haven for their species to thrive as they will, but without being able to inflict utmost destruction upon the enemy. It is not within our right to accept your apology on behalf of a fallen species, but, we understand your intentions, misguided as may be.

If you are willing to speak, we invite you to meet upon one of our asteroids where we may discuss further as to the nature of your exploration, Sanguinius."

The feed faded to static, as the Interex ship moved with unnatural speed, no visible propulsion leading the great craft to sit in orbit of the world.
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On the surface a more rowdy debate was occurring. In a more uncouth legion, the Interex's reply would have been answered with furious uproar. Shouting, certainly; the throwing of tables and chairs, perhaps - the sort of chaos fit to bring Arbites rushing in with clubs. There was no such disorder among the Blood Angels, however Furio knew his legion well enough to see the signs of outrage and indignation upon the expressions of his battle brothers. Captains bulged at their neck as their faces turned red. One young Blood Angel who had been in the midst of performing maintenance on his helmet stared at the Interex's warship as if it had just proposed that they commit cannibalism on human babbies.

"Father..." Furio spoke quietly, "Xenocide?"

Sanguinius looks down with what appears to be half approval and half amusement. "We will find out." Furio could not tell his feelings.

"Have you so abandoned faith in our Imperium? These people have not been the first to disagree with us. Yet all eventually came to understand the truth of our Emperor's words. The ancient clans of Old Albia. The noble scions of brother Fulgrim's Emperor's Children. All of them were our enemies at one time." He turned and smiled as he saw the Interex ship moving with unnatural speed.

"You must believe in humanity's hope of unification," He placed a hand so casually upon his sword Furio barely noticed it, "...or failing that humanity's destiny."

The Red Tear's reply:

If we could have extracted our comrades from this world without landing we would have done so. If our comrades were capable of evacuating without fighting that would also have occurred. We regret the necessities of our actions but we do not doubt they were necessary to preserve the lives of those whose only fault was being unable to translate your signals. When faced with violence, defending one's loved ones is natural. When faced with an offer to speak and learn from another, acceptance is also natural.

Please send us the coordinates of which asteroid you would like to meet with us on.
 


Imagine that you are Sigismund.

If this seems something beyond the capabilities of your imagination, do not be disheartened. For to place yourself within his mind's eye is to dismiss almost all your humanity.

You are strong, born only to slay for the Emperor and the Imperium. You am pure, honored to wear the Golden Plate of a Praetorian of Terra whilst clad in the blackest of black as befitting the commander of the Templar Brethren, guarding the spiritual heart of your legion, even as you command it in war.

You am wrath incarnate, living only to kill until finally killed.

You am a weapon in the Eternal Crusade to forge humanity's mastership of the stars.

And you have just slain one you might have once called brother. You watch him choke on his life blood, its dark transhuman red attempting to clot a wound that has already slain him, even as his hearts beat with a fierce might. You would have been honored to have fought at his side, had done upon a dozen worlds. And he is not even the first you have seen the life drain from this day.



You are clashing with a fellow warrior, blades flashing with speed far greater than the human eye could see, than the human mind could even respond with strength that could part rockcrete and skill unmatched save perhaps by your fathers. You are two champions doing battle, the greatest of your legions. Corswain, Raldoron, Abbadon, Sevatar, Kharn and Sigismund.

Each battle is a trial to overcome, an experience to learn from, to grow stronger and worthier of the trust your father places in you. Each victory is an acknowledgement of your efforts, each blow against your body a lesson learnt off the battlefield by comrades.


You still remember how easily the armor parted beneath your sword.

There was resistance at first, the silver grey ceramite doing its job but the plates had already been fractured and weakened by a glancing shot by a bolter in an earlier skirmish. It should have been repaired long before your encounter, but the nature of the bloody tunnel fighting of this campaign had apparently forced their hand. It was a mistake but the last one they would ever make as the limb was severed, the edge of the power field filling the room with the stench of vaporizing flesh and bond as your second strike cleaved through the Luna Wolf's neck joint.

His brothers seek to avenge him. They die shortly afterwards. The battle continues as more of your brother's, your fellow Imperial Fists die crushing this rebellion.


'You are holding back. You always do.' You say, blood dripping down your face. There will be a scar from that blow and your nose will need to be reset, but this has been worth the pain.

Khârn shakes his head, face still twitching, and gestured at the circle of sand beneath your feet. 'No, brother. I am just not very good at… this…'

'I have stood with you in battle, Khârn. I have seen how you fight. Or have you forgotten?'

'I have not forgotten. But this is not a battlefield.'

'Your brothers fight here as though it is.'

'No, they do not. And neither do you. True war is not control, brother. It is not bound by a fighting pit's walls. It is the whirl of chance and fury, where there is nothing for you to cling on to. You fight because you must, because certainty drives you. Without that, what would you be?'

You stiffen, forcing the tension from your words, the anger at what he says, the coming dangerously close to what cannot be truth. 'I will forgive the implication of your words, brother.'

Khârn shrugs, though there was a brittle edge to his voice. 'Always so sure. Always so much control, even in anger. But if the pillars of your world shook, if duty took you down a path where nothing was certain…' Khârn reaches up and ran his hand over the Butcher's Nails bonded to his skull. 'What then?'

'I would be nothing,' You say. You regret your words almost immediately, but its too late for apologies.

'I will forgive the implication of your words, brother. And I don't think you would be nothing without your chains of certainty. I think that, then, I truly would not want to face you. Even here.'

'No?'

'No, because then I really would have to try and kill you.'


"Kill them all. Let the Emperor sort out the innocent." You murmur, your twin hearts beating ever faster as anger burns through your veins like venom.

They had lost this war. They knew it, the whole blasted world knew it. Victory on their terms meant a death by orbital guns. To keep fighting was to simply inflict unneeded death upon an Imperium they had sworn loyalty to, but still they persisted in this..this betrayal.

"If they will not be brought to compliance by word and reason, let it be by blade and bolter. Let us see if we cannot at least salvage something of this mess. If any aspirants can be taken, do so. But this world has rebelled against the Emperor and has spurned his mercy. There will be no terms until compliance has been truly established. They seek to make this a battle on their terms, to their strengths my brothers. Let them recall the words of Horus, that only we, the sons of Dorn are the unbreakable shield that might halt his spear. Occupy and fortify the primary food, water and power facilities, destroy the means of ammunition and weapons production. Force them to fight us or wither on the vine. No pity! No remorse! No fear!"

Your brothers roar in approval of your words, feet stamping, fists slamming against breastplates as though you are some ancient warlord from before the days of unification. It is a heady feeling, one you ignore for you know that by following this path you have failed the task your father gave you. That every brother who has died in this war and will continue to die from this day is a result of your failing, your inability to crush this rebellion. And you hate them for this. This treachery, this heresy against the sanctity of the Imperium.

"Kill them all." You mutter under your breath, so low that your helmet doesn't even pick up the sound of your voice. "For the Emperor."


Your foe is bloodied and beaten. He knows this, acknowledges it with a inclination of his head even as you force the words from a broken jaw.

'You were beaten because you lack focus.'

'And you lack joy.' Jubal Khan answers, the White Scar still smiling in amusement. It is said the man laughs as he kills and though you cannot understand why, you can respect his skill. Your vision still blurs from the impact of his foot against the side of your head.

'We exist to serve.'

'And there is nothing more?'

You shake your head. 'Nothing more.'

Sheathing your blade, servos whining from the damage inflicted upon your body, you force your body to limp back to the awaiting lines of your brothers, severed chains rattling in the wind.



You stand above a corpse that you once called brother and you find yourself unable to forget the look in his eyes.

Yet you will never let yourself feel regret.



 
Imagine that you are No. 2353534. Sigma

That was not the designation you were born with, that was taken from you when they stripped you of your world, your family, your friends, your clothes, your education. They'd taken everything, nightmares in blue and red and white and black with eyes filled with a wordless prayer of death and hatred for all mankind.

Imagine that your days were spent in darkness, so were your nights, Confined with tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands in a transporter meant for millions of tonnes of industrial equipment, starship hulls and produce. Imagine that the worst moment of your life has stretched out into months. Imagine watching guards treat you as livestock, imagine your fellow prisoners falling over themselves in their haste to prey on each other and imagine if today was the day you did something about it.


The shiv is a crude thing, barely more than a piece of metal that you wrenched free metal webbing grate that composes the floor and ground against the floor over days. You pick your target with care, he's not the biggest, or smartest, or the first to do something wrong in your sight. But he's the cruelest, the smartest, the one who could always whispered in the other's ears, the one who stood behind every lord of the this little patch of hell. The hot blood on your face feels wonderful, the crude club to the head feels less so. There are four of them, thugs, scum. They hurt you badly but you fight back with shiv and tooth and claw. You manage to kill three, the head of the fourth explodes.

You are told you are special, worthy, they've been waiting for someone like you, someone ready to fight, to kill, to die for justice. Someone worthy of a name.

Imagine you are told your new name is Tyr. Imagine its your tenth birthday.
 
(joint IC with @Mortis Nuntius )​

It was in a bloodstained grassy plain on the Eldar craftworld, filled with the corpses of fallen mortals, eldar, and even some astartes, that the wayward brothers met once more. In the middle of it, idly admiring an Eldar soul-stone held delicately in his armored hand, stood Fulgrim

His masterwork purple armor was covered in the blood of the slain xenos, yet he looked entirely unbothered by it. He seemed more like an artist admiring a painting, and finding it beautiful. The silver blade which has aided him much in the past year was held in his left hand, idly swinging, as if eager for more battle.

Konrad's armour was dented, hid claws were bloodied and his face was hideously deformed. No...it seemed he was smiling.

"Fulgrim." He greeted...warmly?

Fulgrims eyes snapped away from the soul-stone in his hand, and found his brother's form. A smile graced his face as he flicked the stone out of his hand and over his shoulder, landing in an already open hand of one of his sons, who promptly put it in a silk bag.

"Konrad!" Fulrgim returned as he stepped forth to meet his brother, sounding almost excited to see his wayward brother once more. "I must admit to some surprise to see you again so soon, and not in, ah, different garb. I take it your trip went well?"

"Well enough...Rogal...is Rogal. But he thinks there may be something to our claims. Does Ferrus?" He asked directly.

Fulgrim faltered somewhat then, his smile dimming, and he seemed to shuffle. There was a short pause, for a primarch anyways, before he responded, sounding noticeably more subdued. "I've, ah, yet to speak with him on that."

"Its been almost a year." Curze said flatly, he wasn't disappointed, just furious.

The Phonecion seemed to shrink slightly, almost chastised, before he bristled. "It has" he said, equally flat "Yet I fear the campaign took my attention." Then he softened somewhat, wiping the blood off the silver sword before sheathing it.

"And in truth I haven't quite found a way to break it to him, especially in the midst of a battle as fierce as this."

His excuse did little to appease Konrad who had journeyed to face possible execution by the hand of the brother who he had maimed upon their last meeting. But he supposed weakness was to be expected...and he felt too tired to claw out Fulgrim's pretty eyes. "We shall tell him together, today." He said bluntly. "Also...I missed you. I'm glad I lived long enough to see you again brother." In its own way that was said more bluntly. He did not want to admit it but it was the truth and he knew he needed to say it.

Fulgrim seems to hesitate ever so slightly, before sighing somewhat and nodding. "Together then" he says, before a small grin graces his face. "As am I you, my brother. In truth I am surprised Dorn even let you leave Terra, but I suppose he, as you said, saw merit in what you told him."

His face took on a slightly more grim cast as he thought upon the madness that had been subtly unraveling ever since Horus' death. "And what will our oh so beloved Praetorian be doing with what you've given him?" Fulgrim asked, his voice adopting a somewhat cutting tone when he spoke of Dorns new title.

"Less than he could, more than Malcador wants him too...more than Dorn wants him to. He will take measures to protect Terra from within as well as without."

Fulgrim looked thoughtful at these words. "So our dear Regent has heard your words, and yet hesitates? That is….curious, and potentially worrying." He looked off to the side, staring at a far off battle involving mortal army units mopping up holdouts. "I never thought I would say this, but at least Dorn is there."

"I asked his forgiveness, it was not on offer. In his words he leaves fixing broken things to you."

"Tch" Fulgrim sneered somewhat at the words "A strange reply from a siegemaster and excellent builder, but then again Dorn was never one for socilazing." He turned his gaze back to the Night Haunter. " I would not let his words trouble you too much brother, for I suspect you'll get little more than bile from him."

"Its not unexpected, just unwanted." Konrad explained before ceasing. He'd nearly said more but it just felt so wrong, whiney and pathetic. "I suppose there are many who prefer hating me for my 'crimes' to helping me atone for them." He sighed dramatically. "Very well."

Fulgrim smiled somewhat at his brother's dramatic sigh, and looked at him as if considering something, before shrugging lightly and clasping his brother on the shoulder. "I cannot speak for others on this my brother, but I know that you are trying to change, and indeed atone for what has happened. Know this my brother, whatever happens I have always believed in you." He let his hand rest for a few moments more on his brother's shoulder, before stepping back.

"Now" he sighed "I suppose we must address how to proceed on our grim business on rooting out the traitors".

Konrad looked away for a moment. "I know." He said quietly. "Our first step needs to be learning if Ferrus can be trusted, you've been with him for some time now, if there is a risk you will have seen it by now. If we can then we start by telling him the full truth, if not then part of it to see how he reacts. Then...we...go to the Angel. He may still see things, he could help. The rest I do not not know…I do not think I will have free rein to do as I please for some time. We need Ferrus onside or dealt with."

Fulgrim nodded at Konrads words. "I believe he can be trusted, especially if we impart the need for subtlety upon him." He cracked a small smile "Though I do not believe he will like knowing that he will have to deal with a secret conspiracy in his second year as Warmaster." His smile at his small joke fell.

"Sanguinius has not responded to the message I sent him, but in truth I believe it was lost in the warp" He shrugged at that, for such was the nature of the warp. "But yes I think he is a good next choice, for I cannot believe that he would be involved in something as vile as this. I'm sure we'll be able to think of some reason to travel to him together."

"I suppose you are stuck with me from now on." Konrad smiled.

Fulgrim returned his smile, "I suppose I am" he said lightly, almost teasingly. For where his brothers would be any range of bitter, cautious, or indignant to be saddled with Konrad Curze and his sons, Fulgrim was content, happy really.

" I believe I will be able to arrange to speak to Ferrus without anyone else to bother us, a private meeting between brothers should not be hard to arrange. After that…well, I suppose we will see what he has to say."
 
The World Eaters
A Win Win



Codicier Esca

---
​
"What is there left to lose?"

Vorias' words echoed throughout the now empty throne room of the Conqueror, the Chief Librarian standing alone against his Primarch and Khârn. His eyes were narrowed, his posture confident, as he stood at the far end of the room, equidistant from Angron and Khârn, the three posed in a triangle of sorts in the cavernous space.

"Everything," Khârn bit back, the Captain proving every bit as defiant as Vorias had expected. Though he bore no weapons, he was still posed ready to strike, fists clenching and un-clenching, his legs twitching with boundless energy as he waited for the opportunity to lash out at Vorias. "You would risk our Primarch's life on a whim, attempt to remove the Nails from him based on knowledge gleaned from the ones who enslaved him and Magnus' brood. What if you fail? What will happen if this scheme of yours takes his life and deprives us of our Primarch? Will you take responsibility for what comes next?"

"Gladly." Wrenching his gaze from Khârn, Vorias turned to Angron. "If we are successful, you shall be freed of the Nails, your mind returned to you, your life made your own once more. If we fail, you shall be freed of the Nails, your mind returned to you, and your life made your own once more for but a brief, solitary moment," he explained. "I know you, Angron Thal'kyr, I have witnessed your memories alongside the rest of my brothers, and I know that this is a victory for you either way. Whether the Nails are removed or you die, you shall have what you want."

"You think he wants to die?" Khârn spat. "Our Primarch's death is no victory, it is not desirable, it would doom our Legion to the same fate as the Luna Wolves. We would be erased, forgotten, ripped apart and destroyed, and for what? For the slim chance that the Nails might be removed? And who says that they must be removed, are we not stronger for them? Have we not conquered world after world, slain foe after foe, off of the back of their strength? You would weaken us all by taking from us that which makes us strong!"

"They are killing him!" Vorias shouted back, finally taking a step towards his Nailed counterpart. "You have seen it yourself, you have seen his mind slowly rot away, the way they drive him to madness, the constant close scrapes with death each time they fail, our Primarch will die no matter what we do but at least this way he has a chance of survival!"

"If it were so easy to do then, why has it not before now? Why did the Emperor not do it himself and spare us all this..." Khârn's voice trailed off as he clenched his teeth and reached for his own Nails. "If they can be removed, then what was all this for?" He asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

"Absolutely nothing," Vorias conceded. "We have suffered for the sake of the Emperor's thirst for more conquests, allowed countless brothers to perish because our father's pain was maintained in the name of expansion, because this Imperium is a cruel thing that cares nothing for us but demands everything we have."

Silence fell across the room as Vorias and Khârn looked away from each other, focusing upon the carvings that lined the walls, upon the bloodied floor, anything so long as it was not the face of the other. Only the sound of Angron's steady breathing prevented the silence from growing intolerable, their Primarch having taken up residence on his throne to wordlessly observe their argument.

"It is my choice," Angron eventually said aloud. "Mine, witch-kind. To live or die, it is my choice."

"Then make it," Vorias replied. "So that we can finally move forward, whether to ruin or salvation. Make your choice."​
 
triumph8w said:
(joint IC with @Mortis Nuntius )​

It was in a bloodstained grassy plain on the Eldar craftworld, filled with the corpses of fallen mortals, eldar, and even some astartes, that the wayward brothers met once more. In the middle of it, idly admiring an Eldar soul-stone held delicately in his armored hand, stood Fulgrim

His masterwork purple armor was covered in the blood of the slain xenos, yet he looked entirely unbothered by it. He seemed more like an artist admiring a painting, and finding it beautiful. The silver blade which has aided him much in the past year was held in his left hand, idly swinging, as if eager for more battle.

Konrad's armour was dented, hid claws were bloodied and his face was hideously deformed. No...it seemed he was smiling.

"Fulgrim." He greeted...warmly?

Fulgrims eyes snapped away from the soul-stone in his hand, and found his brother's form. A smile graced his face as he flicked the stone out of his hand and over his shoulder, landing in an already open hand of one of his sons, who promptly put it in a silk bag.

"Konrad!" Fulrgim returned as he stepped forth to meet his brother, sounding almost excited to see his wayward brother once more. "I must admit to some surprise to see you again so soon, and not in, ah, different garb. I take it your trip went well?"

"Well enough...Rogal...is Rogal. But he thinks there may be something to our claims. Does Ferrus?" He asked directly.

Fulgrim faltered somewhat then, his smile dimming, and he seemed to shuffle. There was a short pause, for a primarch anyways, before he responded, sounding noticeably more subdued. "I've, ah, yet to speak with him on that."

"Its been almost a year." Curze said flatly, he wasn't disappointed, just furious.

The Phonecion seemed to shrink slightly, almost chastised, before he bristled. "It has" he said, equally flat "Yet I fear the campaign took my attention." Then he softened somewhat, wiping the blood off the silver sword before sheathing it.

"And in truth I haven't quite found a way to break it to him, especially in the midst of a battle as fierce as this."

His excuse did little to appease Konrad who had journeyed to face possible execution by the hand of the brother who he had maimed upon their last meeting. But he supposed weakness was to be expected...and he felt too tired to claw out Fulgrim's pretty eyes. "We shall tell him together, today." He said bluntly. "Also...I missed you. I'm glad I lived long enough to see you again brother." In its own way that was said more bluntly. He did not want to admit it but it was the truth and he knew he needed to say it.

Fulgrim seems to hesitate ever so slightly, before sighing somewhat and nodding. "Together then" he says, before a small grin graces his face. "As am I you, my brother. In truth I am surprised Dorn even let you leave Terra, but I suppose he, as you said, saw merit in what you told him."

His face took on a slightly more grim cast as he thought upon the madness that had been subtly unraveling ever since Horus' death. "And what will our oh so beloved Praetorian be doing with what you've given him?" Fulgrim asked, his voice adopting a somewhat cutting tone when he spoke of Dorns new title.

"Less than he could, more than Malcador wants him too...more than Dorn wants him to. He will take measures to protect Terra from within as well as without."

Fulgrim looked thoughtful at these words. "So our dear Regent has heard your words, and yet hesitates? That is….curious, and potentially worrying." He looked off to the side, staring at a far off battle involving mortal army units mopping up holdouts. "I never thought I would say this, but at least Dorn is there."

"I asked his forgiveness, it was not on offer. In his words he leaves fixing broken things to you."

"Tch" Fulgrim sneered somewhat at the words "A strange reply from a siegemaster and excellent builder, but then again Dorn was never one for socilazing." He turned his gaze back to the Night Haunter. " I would not let his words trouble you too much brother, for I suspect you'll get little more than bile from him."

"Its not unexpected, just unwanted." Konrad explained before ceasing. He'd nearly said more but it just felt so wrong, whiney and pathetic. "I suppose there are many who prefer hating me for my 'crimes' to helping me atone for them." He sighed dramatically. "Very well."

Fulgrim smiled somewhat at his brother's dramatic sigh, and looked at him as if considering something, before shrugging lightly and clasping his brother on the shoulder. "I cannot speak for others on this my brother, but I know that you are trying to change, and indeed atone for what has happened. Know this my brother, whatever happens I have always believed in you." He let his hand rest for a few moments more on his brother's shoulder, before stepping back.

"Now" he sighed "I suppose we must address how to proceed on our grim business on rooting out the traitors".

Konrad looked away for a moment. "I know." He said quietly. "Our first step needs to be learning if Ferrus can be trusted, you've been with him for some time now, if there is a risk you will have seen it by now. If we can then we start by telling him the full truth, if not then part of it to see how he reacts. Then...we...go to the Angel. He may still see things, he could help. The rest I do not not know…I do not think I will have free rein to do as I please for some time. We need Ferrus onside or dealt with."

Fulgrim nodded at Konrads words. "I believe he can be trusted, especially if we impart the need for subtlety upon him." He cracked a small smile "Though I do not believe he will like knowing that he will have to deal with a secret conspiracy in his second year as Warmaster." His smile at his small joke fell.

"Sanguinius has not responded to the message I sent him, but in truth I believe it was lost in the warp" He shrugged at that, for such was the nature of the warp. "But yes I think he is a good next choice, for I cannot believe that he would be involved in something as vile as this. I'm sure we'll be able to think of some reason to travel to him together."

"I suppose you are stuck with me from now on." Konrad smiled.

Fulgrim returned his smile, "I suppose I am" he said lightly, almost teasingly. For where his brothers would be any range of bitter, cautious, or indignant to be saddled with Konrad Curze and his sons, Fulgrim was content, happy really.

" I believe I will be able to arrange to speak to Ferrus without anyone else to bother us, a private meeting between brothers should not be hard to arrange. After that…well, I suppose we will see what he has to say."
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
[Continuation of the above]
Yet, in a surprise, it seems they did not have to wait for the Iron Warmaster. A massive shuttle craft, one of Ferrus' personal projects, descended quite close to where the two had talked. Once landed, out disembarked both their brother, and a deployment of his Morlocks. "Brothers. It is time for us to depart this...Ruin. Exterminatus weaponry will see to it that it is not even that. The price of their strike." He motioned to his shuttlecraft. "I would recommend you depart with me. Otherwise, I shall be taking my leave."

"Brother" Fulgrim says with a smile, turning to meet the Warmaster. " I believe we've all had our fill of this infested place, so I think I shall take you up on your offer." He hesitated somewhat, glancing over to Konrad before looking back at Ferrus "And we've something to speak to you about, something best said in privacy."

"Very well Brother." Ferrus replied. "We shall speak as soon as able. My schedule is relatively open currently." He finished, though still waiting to see if Curze would object or offer up a reply. If not, well, it would be time to watch the fireworks.

The Night Haunter nodded curtly. "Then let us not waste time. Leave this den of corruption to burn."
Fulgrim nodded at both of his brothers, and strode towards Ferrus' exquisite shuttle, his Phoenix guard following behind him.

Konrad viewed them all suspiciously. "Guards who are slower and more obvious than you are do not make you any safer Fulgrim." He warned. "I'd use them against you, their screams would undermine you."

Said guards bristled when the Night Haunter spoke, several turning to face him though none spoke or brought their weapons to bear. Fulgrim turned and regarded Konrad with a quiet amusement "Ah, but they have their uses brother, for even beings as mighty as we cannot go it entirely alone. Else we wouldn't have Legions in the first place. A general without his warriors is nothing, and warriors without a general little more than a mob."

Ferrus would comment, but even he could hold some tact. This seemed to be but conversation between his two other brothers, one that has clearly gone on for some time. There is no need to intervene, especially as Fulgrim pointed out what he would've. He turned to move onto his own shuttle, Morlocks following closely behind.

The old argument appeared to be put aside by the time the trio reunited in high orbit, as the Craftworld died beneath them Konrad nodded to Fulgrim, now was the time.

The three shuttles landed in the Ferum its vast hangers easily managing to house the massive shuttles. After a few moments spent talking the three brothers found a private room, their respective bodyguards standing outside, ensuring what was said here remained between the three.

Fulgrim looked much more tired now that he was off the craftworld, the energy that seemed to propel him having been satisfied, and the weight of what he was about to speak weighing on him. Eventually he looked away from the viewport and at Ferrus, and spoke his damning words.

"What we have to tell you requires the utmost secrecy, Warmaster, for it could undo the very fabric of our Imperium." He paused, taking a shuddering breath, then continued on.

"We believe there is a traitor among our brothers."

A truly rare sight soon showed itself. Ferrus, the Gorgon, utterly shocked. Those words. They were confusing, shocking, and almost unbelievable. Almost. He remembered...No, thoughts shouldn't be given to that. No, what was in front of him was his trusted brother claiming that there was treason. That someone among them sought to… There was only one reply. "H-...Why?!" He needed answers.

He would get them. Konrad spoke openly, he spoke honestly, he spoke comprehensively. He detailed his incursion into the warp, his encounter with Samus, the offer, the heart, Lorgar's confessions, his meeting with Dorn, Malcador's indifference, the secret space marine rebellion and the threat of the lodges. To his credit this time he tried not to stray in to poetry and made a pained effort to appear rational.

Fulgrim for his part lended his own word to Konrads descriptions, lending what could be dismissed as mad ravings from a lunatic some legitimacy, however vile and bitter it was.

"So then brother...it seems that our Father has not been entirely honest with us about the nature of the galaxy." He finished wryly. Looking to Fulgrim, who had been hurt so deeply by that particular realisation.

Ferrus remained silent for a time. He was honestly, even more taken aback once the explanations ran through. This would have been dismissed as utter madness, if not for Fulgrim's ascent to most of it. Though the latter did seem oddly obsessed with the Eldar Trinkets in the past campaign, the Warmaster still held him in great respect and high regard. Yet, he must not show weakness here. He must see to it that. "This is troubling news. If it is true. I do not fully trust what comes from Lorgar, due to his own obsession with the mystic. Still, a traitor among our ranks? A danger indeed, if true." He finished with a firm stare.

"Indeed" Fulgrim said "which is why we-" he motioned to Konrad with a hand "-decided to bring it before you. If Lorgars words are true, then your authority above all else will be needed. And I hope with everything I have that it won't, but…" he sighed then, rubbing tiredly between his eyes.

"Well, lets just say that the events of the past year have not inspired the most confidence in me that Lorgars words, however suspicious, were untrue." He lowered his hand from between his eyes, and looked upon Ferrus with a tired but resolute stare. "As such I plan to speak to Sanguinius as well, and tell him...perhaps not the whole truth, but enough to see what advice he can offer."

Ferrus remained cold, firm, and utterly serious. "Very well. This potential enemy is the gravest we should ever face. One of our brothers, with the full backing of at least his own legion, is a powerful foe to face. But still, there is the matter of 'Who.' What among us could dark powers seek to strike at Farther with?"Even though he wasn't still sure if the threat was real, Ferrus still had to consider. Still had to be strong.

Konrad looked warily to Fulgrim. "We had wondered that...Magnus seems a likely prospect...for his curiosity if nothing else...then there are men of ambitions such as Leman Leman or Guilliman...Mortarion for the poison in his soul… Lion in his arrogance. Angron is too stupid, Dorn and the Angel too loyal... In truth we had no recourse but to seek out each of our brothers in turn. And try and assay them like gold in a furnace."

"And such" Fulgrim picked up, with a sarcastic edge to his voice "has been going oh so wonderfully so far." He paused then, returning Konrads look, before continuing "But yes, in truth we've had to seek out our brothers one by one. Konrad has had the most success in that regard, with Dorn increasing the defenses of Sol and what not. It is here where we must be most careful, for ultimately we do not know who is the traitor, or indeed if they have compatriots. It is with that in mind that I make the suggestion that you speak to Guilliman, Warmaster. He seems the most likely suspect but, well, the powers of the warp do not seem to combine well with his style. If that is agreeable, then me and Konrad-" he waves a hand at the Night Haunter "shall speak with the Angel, Konrad himself might even be able to sneak away and speak with a third brother."

Ferrus pondered and considered for a moment. Gulliman did seem to hold a small potential to be a traitor, though there was still room for doubt. He didn't really seem to have any hatred for Father, not enough to embrace some dark powers and ruin the Imperium he helped build. Gulliman had always liked things intact, and betraying the Great Crusade would undoubtedly destroy things. Still, it would not hurt to at least talk with him. "I think this would be a sound action. Our searches for the Traitor must be thorough through the likely candidates. I shall speak with Gulliman, he may still be obsessed with Horus' memory." He soundly stated. "Still, are there any other matters to discuss?"

Fulgrim shook his head "No brother, I think we have covered all the unfortunate details. But I will say, it is good to stand by your side on this Ferrus."

"Indeed...I am...grateful that you are the Warmaster. It must be a heavy burden but you wear it better than most." Konrad tried to compliment, it sounded clumsy, not dishonest but his tongue was unused to praise.

Ferrus relaxed a tad, still firm and resolute. "I try my best. Even though the role was suited for another, I must respect Father's choice." He stated. "Though, even if he has not told the truth, there must be a reason. A purpose to what he did. And I will stand resolute in that." He proudly finished.
 
New beginnings.​

Fel Zarhost observed the great dust cloud that was all that was left of the world that had proven the bane of his Legion, much as Konrad Curze had broken through its Adamantium Crust it had broken through the proud armour of the VIII Legion and through the breach poured all the poison that had so twisted it into the foul mass of criminality and evil that it was today. It all started here. If he could he would gather up the dust, form a new world and then blast it into atoms.

But alas that was beyond his ability. So all he could do was glare at the accursed dust from the viewing platform of the sanctum. This would not be his choice for the rebirth of the Legion, he would have preferred a fresh start, secretly in his heart of hearts he dreamed of a second founding on Terra itself. But he supposed he should be grateful that at last the Primarch had seen sense. That at long last something was being done about the dire straits the VIII legion had found itself in.

He wondered however if Curze had chosen him for this task out of twisted irony. Making it his duty to labour unthanked and umissed, out of sight on the far edge of the galaxy. Taking thousands of children from their families trapped within increasingly hellish prison hulks floating in the blackness of space far from any hope save that offered to the strongest and bravest.

Still it had been surprisingly effective, if the Night Haunter understood anything it was what terror and desperation did to the human mind. There was no shortage of recruits amongst the prisoners and day by day transports arrived from different hiveworlds, deathworlds and prison colonies but also more settled worlds. Thousands, tens of thousands of potential neophytes.
Many would die. But he had to believe it was necessary, and there were grounds for optimism.

Under the watchful eye of his psyckers and apothecaries more were surviving each batch and more of the survivors were proving to have the gifts of the Legion. He had already marked out a dozen potential Witchers.

"Witchers." His sigh was bitter and deep. There was definitely an element of punishment to having his desires met. He had long felt neglected as a Librarian and feared deeply for the future of the Legion's contingent of Psykers yet not he was being granted free rein to enlarge and expand it as never before. And yet...and yet…. Their names, their uniforms, their purpose were all a twisted joke. They were a parody drawn from the prejudice of their small minded critics. Konrad Curze may no longer neglect his Legion but clearly he still hated it.

He sensed a presence even before the doors to the sanctum shifted open.

"Captain Zarhost?" Talos Valcoran greeted warily. For some reason the young apothecary always seemed on edge around the Chief Librarian. There was something potent to his mistrust but that was a riddle to be dealt with in due time.

"Speak Talos."

"Word, good and ill. The legion has triumphed against the Xenos, an entire city world destroyed and with it millions of those foul creatures. The rest fled from this reality into the warp or something close to it. Our good service has impressed the Warmaster who has granted us leave to recruit far and wide in the neighbouring sectors. We will doubtless see more recruits than we have in generations and of better stock."

"We'll be running out of geneseed." Fel frowned, surely even those murderous fools understood that manpower was rarely the limitation for creating Astartes.

"That...will not be a problem my Lord. Casualties were...notable. Between you and I think that there was some house cleaning involved, given how much geneseed was safely recovered. It seems suspicious."

Had it come to this? Still he could think of many of his battle brothers who could be improved by dying. "Their sacrifice will be the genesis of a new generation of Night Lords, worthy of our history, our mission. Is there anything else?"

Talos cocked his head slightly. "I've not told you the bad news yet Captain."

"I'd thought the deaths of our battle brothers…" The librarian began.

"No." Talos denied flatly. "Far greater consequence, the Raven has begun squawking for assistance, apparently he has found an artificial planet in amongst the Ghoul Stars, capable of battling an entire fleet. Worse its now heading this way. I came to suggest preparing our defences should he fail."

"He will not fail young Talos." The Librarian said with certainty. Enjoying the look of surprise on the younger Night Lord's face. "Because we shall be there to assist him. Tell the others, the Sacred Night is to be made ready for battle, we leave in twelve hours. I will send him a transmission to forewarn him that help is on the way."

"But...why?" Talos demanded.

"Because believe it or not brother we are a part of this Imperium and its past time we reminded everyone within and without the Legion of that fact. Now do I have to remind you what happens to Night Lords who dally in following orders?"

Talos turned on his heel and left so quickly Fel had to laugh. For the first time in a long time he felt good.
 

From: LEMAN RUSS, Primarch of the VI Legion, The Space Wolves, and Son of the EMPEROR of MANKIND.
To: The Representatives of the REALM OF 'TERRA' and all of its USURPER LORDS.​







LORDS of TERRA,

My name is LEMAN RUSS. Hear it and despair, for it may be the last name you shall know before Doom.

You stand as Usurpers of a Title that has never been fought for by your people. Never bled for. You have stolen its valor, masquerading in the cloak and hood of another man's glory. You know no shame, for your entire existence is based around it. Like a parasite, you now cling to the very edges of our Space.

Look now upon the maps and navigational tables of this Galaxy. See now the many stars of this vast Void of both life and death. Yet, you do not fathom how truly lost your vigilant bulwark is. No, your battle is one of defeat. Your Realm commands two star systems among the billions. My Father's Realm commands more than three HUNDRED. Hear this number, mull it over. Let it be heard in that empty space that is your head, you milksop.

I give you a single Ultimatum, for my great Fleet stands at the very borders of your land. My warriors are anxious, their swords and armor caked with Greenskin blood, and their bloodlust not yet satiated. Alongside the Ork, they wish to pain their walls with the blood of Rebel Sum- like you. However, I am both your DOOM and your LIBERATOR.

Surrender. If you do not?

Your sons shall know no name from your Realm, renamed to be scions of my Legion- others scuttled across the Imperium.
Your Gods, or whatever you have prayed to, shall have their temples desecrated and destroyed.
Your cities shall lie in ash and rubble, as our Fleets pound upon them amounts of munitions you could not even fathom.
Your men shall die in vain. Their corpses shall be displayed for their loved ones, and their woman shall not know mercy, for they are Rebel as well.
Your fields of green and crop shall be fields of fire and smoke.
Your very history- all that has happened since the fall of the Old Order, before my Father's reign and his Great Crusade- shall be eviscerated. Swiped clean from all existence. None shall remember you.

All of this must not happen.

Surrender.
Or die.
 
To look as Steel
Madness. That is what seems to have engulfed the Galaxy. After cementing himself as Warmaster, he had continued on. First, the Diasporex. For their weakness, the entire civilization was annihilated. Things were normal. Then, the Eldar struck. Elusive beings, this particular brand showed their cowardly nature. A battle-Barge destroyed. And an insult to be avenged.

From there, it was still simple. He would punish them for their weakness. With Fulgrim and Curze in tow, they brought vengeance to the Eldar. Some escaped, of course. But that would only further Cement the lesson he wished to teach them. Act against the Iron Warmaster? You will see devastation. A message of Strength, a sign of power. Yet shortly afterwards, another issue came up.

He had never expected to hear those words. Traitors among brothers? Fulgrim, Curze, and Lorgar conspiring to reveal the treason? Space Marines going rouge? A mass of Secret societies among the legions, that grew without the Primarchs knowing? The beings in the warp being more intelligent and powerful than mere annoyances? It all boggles the mind. It all was...Madness. That the Great Crusade was teetering on the edge. He could hardly believe it...Yet, Fulgrim did.

If this was just Curze and Lorgar, he could easily dismiss it as but both of their minds breaking. Yet, Fulgrim has given them his ascent. Fulgrim, the one he respects the most. The one who was even allowed to bare the symbol of the Imperium. His word had a lot of wait, and he had backed Curze's words up. Therefore, he had to consider it, had to think about it. Yet, it is still utterly hard to see the truth. Were they right? Or...No, he can't...Could even Fulgrim have gone ma-

His mind hurt. There were two possibilities. Each as painful as the last. Either they were right, and Mankind was in grave danger...Or they had all gone mad, including Fulgrim. The former, more likely, yet still, there was a feeling...Fulgrim did swing that new Xenos blade a lot more than he-...No, he will not think about it. Otherwise, he might...

No. This was not the time for that. He needs to be strong. Powerful. Fulfill the role he was given. Yet, even now he sees, he may need help. He didn't have the patience to puzzle this out. To lay bear what needs to be done. He may find what he is looking for on his trip. But if not...

He looks at his Iron Hands. The Metal gauntlets fused onto his hands. That was not him, not made by him, but an Arcaeotech monstrosity he had vanquished. One of his many weaknesses. If he is to receive no help, then he must get rid of them. All of his weakness. Only then can he be strong. To see and destroy the greatest threat to his, his brother's, and Father's dream. Of a shinning utopia for Mankind. Until then, he would only have to look the part. His brothers need a shinning exemplar most of all, after the loss of Horus.
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And so, Ferrus Manus moves. Under stress, yet not allowed to show it. That would be weakness, after all.
 
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(MINI) Blood on Macragge
  • Threadmarks
    • VII. Blood on Macragge

    Lorgar Aurelian, the Urizen
    (written in LARGE part by @Maugan Ra and @Hyvelic)​

    Lorgar would find himself landing on his brother's pride and joy of Macragge and be met with his brother Guilliman.

    "Brother! It is... good to see you after all this time." Letting out a strained smile Lorgar approaches the other Primarch.

    There are, of course, protocols for honoured guests upon Macragge. The arrival of a Primarch cannot simply be dismissed as some common occurrence, no matter who it might be, and so when Lorgar exits his shuttle it is to find a full Chapter of the Thirteenth Legion arrayed before him in full parade splendour. Beyond them are the streets and avenues of the capital, now packed with thronging crowds eager to catch a glimpse of one of their lord's own kin.

    "Brother," Guilliman replies with a nod, awaiting Lorgar on the spaceport grounds, dressed in civilian garb of purest white and blue. "Welcome to Macragge. Your journey was uneventful, I trust?"

    "Without a doubt, You make Father proud with your abilities. Your corner of the Imperium is quite... peaceful and vibrant. You truly are achieving what our father intended to create." Smiling both at the Ultramarines and the crowds of people who have grown excited. "It is an honor to see what you have built with your own two hands, what glorious people you have guided, and the Overwhelmingly impressive sons you have led." Taking a brief moment he seems to be inspecting several of the marines in line before returning to inspect his brother.

    "From what I can see, and what I have heard, they are quite the splitting image of their father, in all his glory." At this he lets go of the strained smile and something genuine can be seen.

    "Your words are kind, Lorgar," Guilliman says, though to a primarch there is no hiding the brief moment of hesitation and surprise before he speaks. He had not expected to hear such things, not from Aurelian. "Come, let us talk in more hospitable surroundings, and you can tell me why you have come."

    He gestures to a transport, an elegant thing clearly made for those of a Primarch's unusual stature... and beyond it, the golden forms of the Custodes sent to watch over him.

    Lorgar nods and enters the transport, and as he does he speaks, "Thank you brother and it is indeed a good idea to talk about why I have come here in private rather than in the open." He nods to the Custodes and seems to be at ease around the golden figures.

    Guilliman boards in turn, and after a brief nod to the chauffeur presses a small button on the armrest. There is a faint pop, a sensation of static crawling across the skin, and then all sound from outside the transport dies away entirely. "Why are you here, Lorgar?" He asks, appraising his brother with frank honesty, "Your message spoke of reconciliation, of moving past old wounds, but Monarchia was decades ago. What prompted this?"

    It is hard to explain at first, but it appears that Lorgar almost seems to physically age several centuries and he slouches over as if he is carrying a burden that he cannot carry. "Brother... I have... I have done so many things since Monarchia, I am not proud of much of it, but I have done it anyways. But... recent events have forced me to... they have..." He sighs deeply.

    "There may be a traitor amongst our brothers. I am watching our brother starting to... too fragment and factionalize. I see darkness in our future and I do not know what to do." he clenches his fists and an angry look appears on his face. "Our brothers... they are fools and they think that..." he stops completely unsure of where to go or how to explain what it is he said, at least he appears to be struggling to word it properly.

    "A traitor?" Guilliman blinks slowly, "In what sense? I am aware that there was some discontent over the appointment of Ferrus to Warmaster..."

    "Our brothers seem to think there is someone who... who is planning to overthrow the Imperium, to overthrow our father and kill him." finding resolve he speaks clearly "It started with Konrad. He claimed that... Horus was the traitor, that he was going to overthrow the Imperium and do so many horrible things, to become... a monster." He takes a deep breath before continuing, "Konrad always thought Horus was a traitor and pushed and pushed... until he died. Then suddenly something changed in him. His delusions only increased, instead of Horus it is now someone else. He has enlisted Fulgrim and Me to... assist him in hunting down the traitor. The Primarch who would burn the Imperium to Ashes and slay our father. He... he's gone mad and I fear that his delusions are only becoming more and more irrational."

    "He went off to speak with our brother on Terra to... convince him of the traitor's existence. I think Dorn saw this attempt for what it was and sent him to assist Ferrus and Fulgrim in their task, hoping that they would see his delusions and help our brother overcome his madness." Stopping to collect his thoughts Lorgar stands up a little straighter.

    "Konrad is insane," Guilliman says flatly, "We all know this. Why humour his latest delusion?"

    "Because he is setting up things for that exact scenario he is warning us all about. He's trying to cause a civil war between our brothers to overthrow the Imperium. He is creating a self fulfilling prophecy and recruiting several of our brothers to join his Witch Hunt. and he won't be sated until people are dead. I... I think you are one of the people he is going to try to paint as a traitor. He's already sure Magnus is going along darker paths and I'm trying so hard to stop this, I have warned several of our brothers of what I am telling you...

    But I don't think they believe me. No, I know they don't. You are one of the few brothers I know who would be able to clear this mess up, you who are loyal without a single doubt. Who would protect the people and enforce the Emperor's will. I... I was unsure if I should, if I could trust you with this information, but... then I remembered." He straightens his back completely here.

    "I remembered when you did your Duty at Monarchia, and I knew you could be trusted."

    There is silence within the transport for a long, drawn-out moment. Guilliman's expression does not change, he barely even seems to acknowledge that Lorgar has spoken at all, until at last he replies.

    "Monarchia," he says, every word spoken with slow deliberation, "should not have been destroyed."

    Lorgar flinches as if he was punched by Guilliman.

    In that brief moment there can be seen darkness, of fire, blood, and pain. Unending pain and misery and only a genuine look of surprise.

    "I... I have never expected to hear those words. Not in our Father's Lifetime." A pang of regret is hidden under the surprise sounding words.

    Lorgar looks forlorn and in a moment of truth honestly he speaks. "Brother, I have many secrets, they will never leave my lips as long as I live, and it all started with Monarchia. I... I would like to think that something good has happened to make you think as you do, but I know better. What changed your mind? Why did you change your mind?"

    "I have not changed my mind."

    Guilliman sighs, the closest thing to a display of open emotion he will allow himself here.

    "Even as my sons descended on your world, Lorgar, I harboured doubts," he continues after a moment, "and in the decades since little has happened to assuage them. I have spoken with my sons at times, expressing my regret over that day, that my legion should have been used for such a purpose, that such a thing would have come at all..."

    He trails off, calculating how best to put this, how best to explain himself. Calculating, always calculating.

    "Our father is the Emperor of Mankind. I have sworn to obey him. But he is not divine, and he is most assuredly not infallible. He is entirely capable of making mistakes." He says at last. "Monarchia was one such mistake. Horus was another."

    Lorgar remains silent, there is nothing to be said. nothing but, "Our father has made many mistakes. More than either of us know, and even now he is making his biggest. This empire built on the skulls of innocents, of people who do not bow to him... of countless worlds given the same treatment as... as Monarchia. But if we speak out against it... we are punished, censured, broken..." Lorgar's eyes glaze over "oh so broken... until there is nothing left but blind obedience and the ashes of dead civilizations, and in the end... what will there be but war... war and the laughter of thirsting go-" he shakes his head, he looks lost and broken.

    "Allow me to show you."

    The transport pulls to a stop, and as the doors open the air is crisp and clear. They sit now well above the city below, on the slopes of the mountains that give Macragge its brutal beauty, and though the Fortress of Hera sits at their back it is not that which Guilliman looks towards. He disembarks and walks instead to the edge of the road, beckoning for Lorgar to follow him, and from here... from here one can see forever.

    Macragge is the planet and the city that rules it, and the city is beautiful. Great monuments of white marble dot the roads, and between every district lie carefully cultivated parks and public gardens. The air is clean, scrubbed free of pollutants, and the sound of music rises faintly on the breeze.

    "This has been my life's work, brother," Roboute Guilliman says in a contemplative voice, staring out over the city, "and it will continue long after I am dead. Ultramar was forged in war, but it is ruled through peace. My people are healthy, well fed, encouraged to study the arts even as they hone their skills. My worlds are healed of the ravages of war and industry, my sons trained for the day when they might lay down their boltguns and live side by side with those they have defended for so long."

    His voice is certain, his conviction absolute.

    "You ask what will be left in the end, my brother? There will be Ultramar."

    Aquillon and Beyreuth, the two sentinels of the Primarchs marched slowly out, their escorts, four Custodians each, marched in a perfect circular formation around Roboute and Lorgar, the weapons of the Custodes were inert, but each one seemed to be prime, tensed, even, their armour glinting in the golden light. Bar Aquillon, they all wielded spears, the Occuli Imperator motioned to his fellow Custodians as they practically encircled the two primarchs.

    One could taste the tenseness in the air.

    "I... Yes... Brother you are right. There will be an after, there always is..." Sighing deeply Lorgar returns to how he was before he entered the transport. "There will be Ultramar, there will be the Imperium. Monsters, fools, nightmares... all will falter at the sights of our guns, our bulwark." He looks out across the city and whispers something to himself. Seemingly ignoring the Custodes, "None shall lay a hand on what we will leave behind..."

    "Shield-Captain," Roboute says calmly, not taking his eyes off the city below, "do you wish to say something?"

    Beyond them, the remainder of the convoy has arrived, the Invictus Guard watching the brewing confrontation warily. The Primarch does not travel without a retinue, after all, and more than that... this is Macragge. This is the very doorway to the Fortress of Hera itself. Guilliman has but to speak a single word, and a full company will move to his defence.

    Not that it will come to that.

    Aquillon turned, his sword drawn, not that the massive blade could really be sheathed. His armour lit up in a golden haze in the sunlight, the crimson elements were only emphasised as the Custodian seemed to hold a massive presence. "My lord, I was charged to oversee that Lorgar did not stray from the Imperial Truth and accept the censure placed upon him by the Emperor."

    He paused as all ten Custodians in perfect formation turned, Guardian Spears drawn. "By the authority placed upon me by the Imperial Regent, I charge you with a lapse in your duty to the Great Crusade, the propagation of the illegal cult, the Lectio Divinitatus, and the spreading of a conspiracy against the Emperor of Mankind. Lorgar Aurelian, Roboute Guilliman, you are both under arrest."

    Beyreuth looked at his fellow Shield-Captain, one could see a tilt of the head, regret, perhaps. "Please do not resist." He added, lastly.

    "Why not?" He is surrounded by ten of the Adeptus Custodes, unarmoured and bearing only a ceremonial sword, yet Roboute Guilliman is calm. Placid, even, like the surface of some frozen lake. Only Lorgar has the wit and the senses to see the sheer affronted rage glittering behind his brother's eyes.

    "This is Ultramar, Shield-Captain. You are guests in my realm," he says, oh so calmly, oh so reasonably, "and since you are my guests I will give you this chance to rethink your actions. Lower your weapons, retract your baseless and frankly ludicrous accusations, and we shall pretend this never happened."

    The glittering halberds of the Invictus Guard, the readied boltguns of the Defenders of the Spire, the sheer tension in the air... all these things attest quite clearly to the alternative.

    Beyreuth made no move. Aquillon raised his sword in defiance, but did not strike then and there.

    "There is enough evidence, Lord Guilliman. The unrestricted poison of worshipping the fallen Horus Lupercal as a saint on such a scale can be only orchestrated by someone who had far more time to prepare such — Monarchia had been His final culling of this Imperial Cult, but clearly, incorrect lessons were taken from it. The Warmaster shall be informed of this development, but for now, I would ask you again to stand your warriors down and come with me. I am sure this is merely an error on behalf of Lord Malcador." Aquillon betrayed no emotion in his voice, he was here to do his duty, dead or alive. The Emperor's Eyes were locked upon him.

    "The Imperial Cult? A Saint?" Guilliman frowns, "A handful of citizens confused over the nature of my fallen brother's legend is not a cult. They will be corrected on their mistakes, of course, and an investigation mounted to determine how they came to stray from the Imperial Truth, as is my duty as their liege lord."

    He takes a single, measured step forward. "If you wish to run back to Malcador or the Warmaster screaming of my supposed treachery, Aquillon, then do so. I will have a ship assigned to your command to carry you back to Terra. But do not imagine for one moment you have the right or ability to compel my actions."

    "I am afraid, my lord, I cannot leave Macragge without you or Aurelian." Aquillon remained still, but most knew how fast a Custodes could move.

    "I will go then... if it will help clear the good name of my brother... I... will submit myself." Lorgar says sadly

    "What you are prepared to accept, Custodian, is not my concern," Guilliman says flatly. Then he advances.

    His hands are away from his weapon, nor is any order given to the watching Astartes, but there does not need to be. Guilliman is going to stand amongst his sons, and from there he is heading into the Fortress of Hera. Unless, of course, one of the Custodes attempts to stop him.

    Unless they use those weapons in their hands.

    A moment passed, and Guilliman continued unabated, for a Primarch could not be easily stopped by a mortal man, an embodiment of the greatest genetic work the Emperor of Mankind had ever done, yet, he marched on the Talon, the Eye of the Emperor, His Custodians who draw their power from the same esoteric science. The first sign that something had gone horribly wrong was when Roboute leapt.

    Guns tipped at each of the Custodian spears roared, all aimed with precision though not necessarily to kill, not that they could, for the physique of a Primarch surpassed any conventional killing method, but he lacked armour, and as each shot rung across his torso and legs, blood ran freely, bolts exploding as Roboute was thrown over the Custodians, crashing to the ground. Before they could make any more moves, the Invictus Guard surged forward, Drakus Gorod proclaiming that the Primarch had been slain, calling the Fortress of Hera's defenders to arms. Ten of the Emperor's Custodians made for a terrifying match, but there were hundreds of Ultramarines.

    Fire ripped from the top of the tower, masterfully placed, bringing down one of the golden-clad warriors as they spun around and charged Lorgar, the lethal speed as to which they moved broke even the sensors of Astartes sniper fire as rounds uselessly crashed against the granite ground. Four were dead from massed bolter fire already, but both Beyreuth and Aquillon stood, the two Shield-Captains addressing their charges.


    Aquillon, Occuli Imperator​

    Lorgar, lacking armaments, threw himself forward, snatching up Guilliman's discarded sword and plunged it into the neck of one of the Custodians surging at him, his corpse an ample distraction as he hurled the auramite-clad cadaver at his fellow, the latter pushing the body aside and dragging his spear forward, only to be caught with a power axe deflecting his spear. Maglios, Lieutenant of the Suzerain Invictarus, with a shield in his other arm duelled the Custodes, the brief encounter only lasting several seconds as the much faster agent of the Emperor dispatched him, running his spear through the Astartes' torso, splitting ceramite. He too, was brought down by bolter fire as additional Ultramarines moved in. Spinning around, picking up the power axe of fallen Maglios, Lorgar found himself facing Aquillon, the massive greatsword sparking lightning across the fallen Invictarus' weapon. The Eyes of the Emperor said nothing, but pure hatred, the motions of killing strikes told Lorgar enough that it was unlikely he'd survive the encounter if he didn't act in a similar fashion. It took several moments, but Lorgar was a primarch, he was one of the Emperor's geneforged sons, and while the Custodes made for masterful killers, Lorgar had something to him that simply surpassed that skill. Aquillon didn't even have time to taunt before his head was split in half by the power axe, sword being driven through his gut.

    Beyreuth on the other hand found himself facing eight of the Invictarus, Gorod included, being simply cut down by numerical advantage but not before slaying three Astartes in quick succession, each one taken down by pristine killing blows, but those Ultramarines died protecting their Primarch. Guilliman himself would be hoisted by other members of the Invictarus and arriving Astartes from the Spire, conscious still, but having sustained wounds across his torso and legs. The rest of the Custodes would fall in short succession, having brought down eleven Ultramarines in total. Lorgar surprisingly emerged relatively unharmed, a blow across the thigh from his bout with Aquillon oozing his blood as the ten dead Custodians lay scattered. Despite their perfect formation and symmetry prior to the duel, each one had broken off to attempt to finish elements of the mission with little coordination, resulting in them simply being outnumbered and overpowered by the sons of Guilliman.

    Yet, no alarm would be raised as both primarchs were brought to the safety of the Fortress of Hera, for another force altogether arrived. Not several days after the battle against the Custodes, their bodies having altogether vanished and Roboute beginning to heal, a massive warp tear would open over Macragge, guns quickly being turned on it as they anticipated as to who it could be; Word Bearers arriving to the summon of their Primarch, Space Wolves, perhaps, beckoned by Lord Malcador to act as the Emperor's executioners once more, or worse, that the Ten Thousand had come to exact justice, yet no word had escaped of the deaths of Aquillon and Beyreuth, and their report mark was still several months away, it would be a year, perhaps longer, before Terra learned of what transpired through official means. No, it was someone who could bode a terrible ill for the two primarchs, or perhaps their saviour.


    Ferrus Manus, the Iron Warmaster​

    The Warmaster had arrived, and with him, the entire might of the Iron Hands. A fleet large enough to conquer entire sectors with a warship bristling with firepower had made its presence over Macragge. Ferrus had come wishing to speak with Roboute on certain matters, having begun to make his journey towards the Ghoul Stars where Corax desperately fought against the Necron invasion, yet, the Fist of Iron was not entirely repaired and the over reliance on stable warp routes meant that his entire battlefleet had arrived unannounced over Macragge. With him, trailing not far behind, were ships from several of the Chapters scattered across the Five Hundred Worlds, having heard of the attack and hastily sent forces to assist in the defence of Macragge, raising a significant fleet in the local proximity of the planet and bolstering the number of Astartes stationed on the world tenfold. In addition, the recently arrived former Luna Wolves, led by Captains Hastur Sejanus and Tarik Torgaddon, though the two captains would be largely unaware of the happenings and had been sent from Terra with oaths of fealty firmly secured to them to the Lord of Macragge.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Captain 'little Horus' Aximand stepped off the thunderhawk and into the proverbial-perhaps even literal-den of shadows. He had come aboard the Night Lord ship in order to sort through casualties lists and other logistical nicites a Captain had to perform. Doing it over vox was dismissed rather quickly by both parties, most through sheer annoyance of such a thing. And he had been conversing with a Night Lord captain in an hour long grating conversation where they detailed the 8ths recent losses and how this would affect their legions, ah, 'joint venture' with the 3rd.

    It had been grating, in part, due to the 8th legionnaire's sheer callousness at his fallen brothers, yet thankfully that was over now, no more lists, no more armor to tally, gene seed to gather, or any of such nonsense. He relaxed-as much as you could in power armor- in the now empty room, the Night Lord captain having left minutes ago. Aximand would've left himself, but in part he was enjoying the peace and quiet of this empty, grey room.

    The riot of colors was one of the first things one had to get used to, when serving with the 3rd. That and that weird facial twitch they all seemed to have, a muscle spasm that revealed teeth in such a way as to be worthless for intimidation. Jago forced his own face to mimic the gesture. He was here as an envoy of sorts, a sheep dog to get the interloper safely off his ship without poisoning relations between the two legions. He had seven thousand Death Guard to deal with in coming weeks, he still had some thousands of his own that he needed to remove or bring to heel and these frankly foppish artisans in the guise of Space Marines were a problem he did not want to deal with.

    But the Praetor of the VIII legion was all to aware that his father cared far more for the Phonecian than he did any of his sons, Jago included and they were just the sort to go weeping to their primarch like so many mortal children. All of that contempt and bile was knocked out of him upon seeing the ghost. He stood there rooted the ground for an instant before his mind caught up.

    Aximand noticed the entrance of course, and turned his bare head to look who had entered. He was briefly surprised to see the Praetor of the 8th, and concluded-with some embarrassment- that he had spent too long reminiscing in this dark room. His wolf medallion swayed slightly as he stood, the only other reminder besides his own face of the father he once served. "Praetor" he said with a slight nod "I suppose I've strayed a little too long, then?"

    "Amongst the living some would say." Jago found himself saying, looking at the medallion pointedly. "Tell me...you wear your father's face and his mark so proudly. Yet here you stand...and he is dead." The question was as obvious as the contempt in his voice. The Luna Wolves, the Sons of Horus...he held nothing but hate for them. The Night Lords were an accursed legion, but what worth they had was their cause and their primarch...they were reborn, he and a few chosen others were fighting that fight, trying to salvage something from the wreck. These...refugees had abandoned their Legion, its honours, its history, its very memory and fled spreading that weakness across the other legions. He was bound body and soul to the dark path he had walked since that grim day the Night Haunter himself had inducted him into the ranks of the VIII legion. Loyalty and Destiny bound him fully and forever to the legion and its Primarch...the Astartes before him had clearly chosen a different path indeed. One that turned the false smile into a true grimace of malice.

    Aximand sensed the change in posture nigh on instantly, and the air only darkened further with the bitter words spoken by the astartes before him, he bristled almost instinctively at the words of the feckless creature before him, yet it seems all his conversations with Eidolion, if you could call them that, paid off somewhat. To hear the cur before him speak of his father in such a way, with such contempt burned, yet Aximand was no fool. As much as it pained him to admit it, he was apart of a new legion now, and would have to conduct himself accordingly. Plus, well, he was alone on the Night Lord ship, and if he died here it would be a rather pill for his brothers.

    "Proudly…?" he said slowly, as if tasting the word "I do not wear much with pride anymore, Praetor. Though I can understand why the very word offends you, son of Curze."

    Atoms cracked in the vice of the curled fists of Jago Sevatarion. "Pride? Were you proud when you failed your father? Proud when the Emperor wiped his name from history? Where was the pride in your cowardly submission? You are proud of the wolves? Of the sons of the forgotten Primarch? Yet here you are with a new father, a new legion, a new chance to fail."

    "As I told you before, Praetor, I am not proud of much anymore." Aximand replied with perhaps too camly, but while his past self would've been very much willing to enter the fighting rin over this, even with the likes of Jago Sevetarion, he as he was now simply did not feel such lightning hot rage anymore. Though, of course, that is not to say he did not feel at all, considering where the current conversation is at.

    "I do not think that is what offends you so, though. Perhaps it is the lingering question of whether your legion would ever be handed the same choice, if the offer would even bother to be extended, and I think we both know what the answer is to that."


    "The Night Lords have never been handed anything. Mayhaps if you or your father ever had to fight for anything you'd not need the mercy of being forgotten." Jago offered back, all the contempt of Curze dripping from his tongue.

    Aximand barked out a bitter laugh at that "I wonder what it would be said of one of the greatest warriors of our age sounding like nothing more than a petulant child. We are astartes, we have both fought and bled to stand here in this depressing room, killed our own fair share of xenos and humans, and to suggest that either of us got here by being handed it, is ridiculous." It was with these words that Aximand noted, with a slight concern, that perhaps he had more bile in him than he thought.

    Jago met that comment with a sneer, "Xenos? Humans? We were born in darkness, amongst criminals, hungry, cold, hunted, every day a battle for survival, our father despised us, the Imperium set us on the Galaxy like snarling dogs, our allies wish for our destruction, and every day we go to rest knowing that our brothers are thinking of slitting our throats before the dawn. Our foes were the entire galaxy, the past, the future, our own nature. What do you know of struggle? Favoured son of the favoured son. The Emperor raised Horus, he loved him, and Horus loved you! And you...repaid that with cowardice. A true son would die first, rather than allow this shame, Emperor or no Emperor."

    Aximand snarled at Sevetarions words, his own hands curling into fists as Jagos rant continued on. His own eyes had narrowed into slits, and the pre-fight drugs were beginning to pump into his system. Yet he breathed slowly, and carefully, uncurling his fists. "Cowardice?" he said slowly, codly "I would not be lectured on such by a Night Lord. You cannot possibly comprehend the sheer restraint it takes to not march to Terra and kill, kill, kill like some rabid dog before being put down as such. It is not out of cowardice that I have meekly submitted like some lamb before the slaughter! My father, no matter the damn Emperors wishes, will be remembered. One way or the other his legacy will live on. It may not be as bombastic as your liking Sevetarion, but I frankly couldn't give a damn about that."

    "Well…There is a Battle Brother in you somewhere." Jago admitted, a genuine smile appearing on his face, it should have served as a warning, followed as it was by a steel fist hitting with the force and weight of a tank. "Lets see if I can coax him out of you."

    Aximand saw it coming, of course, thanks to his enhanced eyesight. But it was more like registering the car coming towards you and being able to do nothing to stop it. Jagos fist slammed into Aximands jaw with an utterly jarring sound of cermite on Astartes flesh, and he stumbled back. Hand shooting out to rest onto the table in order to regain his balance, it crumpled slightly under his weight but held.

    Jago watched for a moment, oh so graciously giving his opponent the barest moment to breath, before launching forward. His face stretched into a viscous grin and laughter trailing out of his mouth as he went to grab Aximand by the throat. That plan was interrupted when Aximand threw his helmet at Jago, forcing the son of Curze to duck lest it smash into his face. Its impact with the door rang throughout the room as Aximand regained his footing.

    The two stared at each other for the briefest of seconds, and eternity to enhance warriors such as them, before it began once again. Jagos fists dented Aximands armor, and he took a particular glee out of scratching the mirror polish aquilia that was recently stamped on it. That glee left him rather quickly when Aximands fist smashed into his face, sending Jago stumbling. Aximand attempted to capitalize on this, charging at the dazed Night Lord with superhuman speed.

    Yet the being he was facing was no ordinary warrior. He was one of the greatest of his age, and even in a fight as light as this, he would not be beat by a warrior of Aximands caliber. He could, he noted wryly, be made to bleed though.

    The two grapled for a few moments more, trading blows of which Jago landed far more than Aximand, when the Cryptkeeprs burst into the room. The feuding warriors were separated rather quickly after that, with the still laughing Jago dragged off to see Curze, and Aximand dragged off the Night Fall.

    A few hours later, the briefest of messages were fired from the Night Fall that seemingly put an end to the brewing crisis between the two legions.

    "The 16th lives in Little Horus, the father lives in the son."

    After that both legions, it seemed, considered the matter settled. And on rare occasions the Praetor of VIII and a Captain of the III Legions supped together in halls of their respective ships.
    ​
     
    (MINI) The Red Angel
  • Threadmarks
    • VIII. The Red Angel

    Angron-Thal'kr, once child of Nuceria, the Lord of the Red Sands
    ​
    In the Immaterium, surrounding the stellar drift which the Conqueror had banked into in attempt to prevent the worst of the damage from striking upon Angron's throne room, there was a silent war raging. All around the operation, which saw the very life-blood of the primarch ooze onto the grates of his flagship and deep into the bowels of the ship as drainage filtered it away, leaving only the Librarians and scant few Techmarines left in the Legion to work, that, and Mystovon, the genesmith brought in secret from Nuceria. He was among the first targets for the World Eaters not attempting to save the primarch, for they had only heard of Nuceria as some scum-sucking backwater slaver's paradise that had chained their Lord and caused... this, so it was unsurprising that Lhorke and Hamilcar found themselves battling against scores of the remaining World Eaters on the ship, not that it mattered much as the amount of bodies and blood seeping into the ship already had begun to take its toll on Vorias and the other Librarians.

    Removing the Nails had proven inherently difficult as each long, dragging thing pulled came with chunks of the primarch's brain, and despite the insistence of the Techmarines present that he would die if they did not attempt to close the wounds immediately, Mystovon urged the World Eaters to persist, telling them that only once all tendrils of the Cruciamen were removed, that he could be truly saved. Angron's mind, according to those apothecaries trusted with it was dying, and faster than expected as the Nucerian genesmith instructed them on how to make the final severing cut, before immense amounts of anaesthetic and every possible measure was taken to ensure Angron slumbered, yet, for most of the procedure, he was wide awake, his mind raked by excruciating pain before slipping into silence as the initial sensation failed and all that was left was the agony of having one's mind torn open. Mystovon was quick to remind a somewhat triumphant-feeling Vorias that the Nails were in part, psychic in nature, not the simply torture devices implanted into the World Eaters, and that they best act quick if they wished to save Angron. By this point, on the wider ship, Gahlan Surlak had learned of the supposed treachery to his craft and summoned some of the most debased and violent of the Legion to the Conqueror, releasing many of those having to be held in the bowels of the ship to his cause, telling them of the primarch's danger, and Vorias' treachery. Needless to say, that was all they needed to hear as the ship itself seemed to scream with the sounds of death. Even the seals intended to hold Angron back couldn't resist for long and bar those sealed in the bridge including Shipmistress Sarrin, who was protected by several squads of Captain Ehrlen's company, including the Captain himself. At the actual entrance to the throne room, dozens had already tried their luck against Lhorke and Hamilcar, but the next force to arrive would be, surprisingly, reinforcements. Macer Varren, having taken the Daggerline to close proximity of the Conqueror and boarded it, moved to support the overburdened defenders as they were stormed by now a force of over one hundred of the most mindless and deranged of their brothers, including Surlak.

    Yet, the conflict was far from material, as while blood seeped in, the Librarians, under guidance of Esca and Vorias, formed Communion with Angron, interweaving their own powers with the mind of the Red Angel as they made to heal him, yet, the ritual was far from clandestine, taken from some of the most obscure texts on Prospero, many of these being spoken in terms of rhetoric and the esoteric, of bargains and pacts made with those things that swam the Great Ocean. It was unsurprising, then, that Angron's mind had made a perfect light as to which things from beyond found themselves lured to. His healing mind was assailed, and as the first thing latched on, it burned at Vorias' hands, who struck it with the force of a psychic hammer, sending it deep back into the recesses of the Warp. By this point the Throne Room had warped horrifically, turning into an open platform in a sea of rust and ruin, a laugh of mocking cruelty marred by pure unerring rage seemed to be just on this unnatural horizon, as a pair of burning red eyes seemed to stalk them, the rust gave way to blood, and the sky swirled black and ash. Burning, eight-pointed stars attempted to rise from the ocean as it seemed the saviours of Angron had only given him up to another master, yet, that master did not approach, he did not claim his prize, he did not break the Conqueror in two to claim Angron, for another brother had arrived. A crimson giant.


    Magnus the Red
    ​
    Magnus, having sensed the pain, the agony being inflicted and the growing darkness within the Great Ocean, had broken from his Legion in mind, something Ahriman immediately recognised as the master of Prospero sought out the cause. The heaving tides of the Immaterium brought him, in psychic manifestation, to the bridge of the Conqueror, where he found himself standing over the prone body of his brother, things from the dark crawling on the ever-weakening Librarians who desperately fought them off in this war for the mind. Most of the Techmarines and Apothecaries that had performed the surgery were either committed to monitoring equipment or fighting off rogue World Eaters under Surlak's command. Varren's company battled on still, bolt and blade over-matching the unarmed and mostly unarmoured World Eaters, yet with the arrival of the Devourers and some of the more sane - Lodge-inducted - members of the Legion meant that their defeat was inevitable if the ritual was not done. Lhorke had already fallen, a volkite weapon burning him up from within as his hull was left discarded, and Hamilcar's devices had begun to fail as the Last Devourer battled on. Kharn, by this point, was physically holding down Angron who was on the verge of death, violent spasms capable of turning mortals into gore. Mystovon had long since fled, abandoning Vorias as he went to the haven of the upper decks of the ship, only to be killed attempting to flee the ship. Not that any of that mattered, as the true battle began.

    A shield, once faint grew stronger, a bubble of a thousand wards formed around the prone body of Angron and his saviours, as Magnus, wielding an axe that seemed altogether too similar to Gorefather took to battle against these crawling things, crushing them with his hands, obliterating them with huge amounts of white-hot lightning, or cutting them down if they came at him with weapons. They were mindless, and they were growing in number and strength, yet the ritual was coming to a close, and as Magnus watched the bloody hand begin to close around him, he suddenly felt a bitter chill, a warmth, a thousand sensations and none as the biomantic ritual invoked to save the Red Angel began to do its part. Shards of a broken soul that had been reaped so painfully in this process began to piece themselves together, yet, like lamps, the Librarians began to burn out one by one, leaving none except Vorias and Kharn standing as the colossal form of Magnus seemed to battle hundreds of enemies, yet, he was not entirely alone, for a colossal black wolf battled the entities as well, dragged here by some forces unknown. As the wounds began to close and the battered soul of Angron seemed to come to a slow, thudding rest, time lost all meaning.

    "The threads of destiny had been changed many-a-times." Eldrad Ulthran spoke, a tone of condescension on his voice as he watched Magnus tear apart another one of the Primordial Annihilator, knowing the battle would be lost to the Crimson Sorcerer at this point in time, yet, Magnus could not hear him, for only Angron saw the small robed figure of the Eldar approach from the shadows. "We had watched and waited for these threads to tie once more, for destiny to take shape, for the tarot to once more become legible, yet, here you are, Angron-Thal'kr, defying even that. Most impressive, one ought to never neglect those who portray themselves as foolish." He paused, turning to stand near the primarch's head, placing one hand on the healing scar tissue.

    "But, Lord of the Red Sands, your dance with destiny is far from over. Take this gift, this knowledge, this peace, for the arts here were woven by a dozen worlds, a dozen of the greatest minds attempted to repeat what yours had accomplished here. But remember, do not think you are free from... unforeseen consequences." Booted footsteps followed as the cold settled, and suddenly everything jerked back to life, the violence had died down beyond, and the ship shuddered once more as thick coats of witch-frost covered the primarch and his last Librarian, Magnus having been jerked back into his body as the ritual came to an end, having completed his mission. When Angron awoke, truly, he felt nothing in his mind, his thoughts clear, his body starting to heal, yet, on his mind, he heard the words of the Eldar again, but it was no implantation, no violent urge to kill, it was a memory, one unfettered by the chains of anguish. Angron had been saved.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • The Red Angel
    Beginning and Endings



    Oenomaus

    ---​

    Climb.

    The order was a simple one, on the face of it at least. Pull yourself up the steps, hand over foot, ahead of the rising pool of acid. Fall behind and die a horrible death, keep ahead of the acid and live to die another day. Yet nothing is simple on Nuceria.

    All around him, Angron can see others scaling the pyramid. Dozens of them, all of them haggard and desperate, each one desperately trying to survive. At first they cooperate with one another, hands reaching down to pull others up, but that does not last long. Even as he grabs another by the arm and pulls them up two steps at once, he sees that others are being kicked down them.

    It does not take long to see why. As they rise, the pyramid narrows, with less and less room available to stand on the closer they come to the top. At first he resists the urge to push the others down, to secure his own survival at their expense, but as the acid rises, Angron realises he has no choice. Carefully aimed kicks and punches send others tumbling down, their necks snapped, their deaths instant, as he continues to rise, continues to pull himself up towards the peak.

    Even though he can feel and each and every death, those final moments of horror before their lives are snuffed out, he continues to climb. It is not his fate to die here today, he knows that, deep in his core he knows it, even if it pains him to admit. He casts more down as the pyramid narrows, silently killing those who would do the same to him, and until finally, he reaches the peak. His hand reaches out to grasp it, to pull himself up as he feels the acid nipping at his heels, and then...

    Angron slips.

    Eyes flash wide as he falls free of the pyramid, his gaze cast up towards dull skies as he falls to his death. Only when he expects to feel the sting of the acid beneath, Angron feels nothing. There is no pain, no agony, only the feeling of something tight around his wrist. Someone around his wrist.

    "Don't worry son, I've got you."

    Eyes come down from the sky as Angron realises he is being held above the acid, a hand clasped tight around his wrist. Following the calloused hand up, he sees a weathered, scarred face staring back down at him, a warm smile upon it's face.

    "Father."

    ---​

    "He's under."

    At Vorias' pained grunt, the Techmarines at the foot of the table begin their work. Mechadendrites whir to life, three of them easing down to parse out individual Nails affixed to their Primarch's skull. As soon as they have been separated, each tendril fixed in place and held apart, one of the Techmarines moves in close, a lengthy scalpel in his hand, and grasps the Primarch by the temples.

    "Start the clock."

    ---​

    Angron wakes in pain, hot knives piercing into his skull, and slowly sits up upon the hard stone of his prison home. All around him his sisters and brothers lie asleep, bound together, hand in hand. Beating back the pain, he looks down to see one of them sleeping against his side, their hand tightly grasping his wrist, a peaceful look upon their despite the Nails flowing out from their skull.

    "I haven't seen them sleep so soundly in some time," his father says from a nearby window, his whole body shrouded in light as he smiles down at Angron. "You should be proud of yourself."

    His voice opens to reply, words ready to tumble forth from his lips, but Angron finds himself incapable of saying anything. His throat is raw, his head is pounding with pain, and all he can manage is a simple nod to Oenomaus. The slightest of gestures as he remains all too conscious of how important it is that he remains still at this moment.

    Unphased by his silence, his father steps over to him, carefully navigating the bodies surrounding him, and places a small, clay cup into his hand. "Drink. We have a fight today, you're going to need your strength."

    Eyes flicker down to the cup, to the brackish water contained within it, before he tilts his head back and downs it all in one gulp. It tastes bitter in his mouth, like iron and something else, and it takes all that he has not so spit it back out. Shaking off the disgust, he hands the cup back to Oenomaus and wipes his mouth with the back of one scarred hand.

    "What fight?" He asked. "I don't remember...I don't remember a fight."

    "It's only the most important fight of your life so far, son. You and me, shoulder to shoulder against the worst the High-Riders have to offer," his father explained. Placing the cup upon a small, wooden table, Oenomaus went to his knee beside him and placed a worn hand upon Angron's shoulder. "And one we're going to win together, understand? Same as always."

    Angron stares at him, copper eyes meeting the steely grey Oenomaus' as he tried to make sense of the situation. His mind tried to conjure forth the day, tried to pull forth some scrap of knowledge to centre himself, only to be beaten back by the pain in his skull each time. Yet as he began to grow concerned, even to panic at the confusion he felt, the weight on his shoulder pushed it all away. Reaching up with his hand, he laid it over his father's and nodded to him firmly.

    "Same as always," he echoed.

    ---​

    "Nail 1 has been removed," crackled the techmarine's voice from inside his helmet, a solid clunk accompanying his words as a bloody nail clattered onto a plate. "Beginning on Nail 2."

    "Vitals are holding steady," an apothecary called out immediately after from amidst the many machines summoned forth to sustain their Primarch."Both hearts are still beating, breathing is continuing uninhibited, we're good."

    ---​

    The Ogryns came at them fast, Nails streaming from their skulls, faster than Angron had anticipated. One axe smashed down between them, separating him from his father, while the other swung horizontally, only barely missing his neck.

    "Together, son!" Oenomaus cried, his blade already swinging up towards the Ogryn furthest from Angron. "We do this together!"

    Hearing his words, Angron immediately leapt into action. Scooping up a handful of red earth, he flung it up at the Ogryn closest to him, getting it in it's eyes as he grabbed his sword and made a dash for Oenomaus. Letting out a savage cry, he duck beneath a wild swing and brought his blade round, letting the blackened steel bite into the Ogryn's side right as his father slashed at it's heels. Grabbing his father, Angron then threw him up, letting him strike the Ogryn in the neck as his own greatsword swung low, taking the stumbling warrior in the legs and bringing it to the ground.

    Head thrown back, Angron breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the Ogryn die - it's life ebbing out from the wound in it's neck - only to be thrown forward as it's partner clocked him in the back of the skull with the flat of it's axe. Flipping over, he saw the Ogryn raise it's weapon once more, ready for the killing blow, only for Oenomaus to interject himself between them, his own sword raised high to catch the blow. Bones cracked and flesh was sundered as the blow forced Oenomaus' blade down hard, the cold steel biting into his shoulder as his arm broke from the impact.

    "Hurry!"

    Needing no further encouragement, Angron rose to one knee and drove his greatsword forward, letting it slide through the gap between his father's arm and chest, and into the Ogryn's gut. Rewarded with a feral roar from the Ogryn, he then move forward, rising to his feet in the process, and pulled his weapon free before immediately swinging it up, passing it through the Ogryn's arm beneath the elbow as it stumbled backwards.

    Despite the broken arm, Oenomaus wasted no time in seizing the advantage, slipping his blade between it's ribs and piercing up into it's lungs, and forcing it to it's knees. The pair then exchange the briefest of looks before Angron stepped forward and, with a cool efficiency, brought his blade down, severing it's head from it's shoulders in one, clean motion.

    "There, done." Angron breathed as he let the point of his greatsword dip into the ground. A fist raised to the dull sky, he let out a defiant roar to the watching spectators, their victory once again assured in the face of what the High-Riders believed to be overwhelming odds. Only once he had seen the Maggot-Eye hovering above shake from his roar did Angron let his arm fall to his sword and his attention turn back to Oenomaus. "Come, let's see those wounds tended to."

    "Not yet," his father grunted, a hand pressed to the wound upon his shoulder. "It's not over yet."

    "What do you mean? We've won," he asserted as a pain began to rise in his skull. Pressing his hand over Oenomaus' to staunch the bleeding, he fixed him with a firm look, worry rising at the possibility that the blow might have rattled his brain. "It's over now."

    "No..."

    In the distance, Angron began to hear the spectators chanting, "Nails. Nails. Nails," the pain in his skull only growing with each cry from the stands. Eyes cast up, he met the cold, inhuman gaze of the Maggot-Eye, the mechanical thing almost invisible against the grey skies, as it loomed overhead.

    "Not yet." His eyes returning to his father, Angron saw that Oenomaus was now covered in blood. His skull was fractured, his body broken, cuts and bruises marked his proud form from head to toe, and to his horror, Angron saw his own hands wrapped tightly around his neck. Raising one shattered hand, Oenomaus placed it upon Angron's wrist and smiled. "Together, son. We win this one together."

    ---​

    "Nail 28 has been removed," the techmarine breathed. "Beginning on-"

    "Heartrate is spiking," the apothecary called out, cutting his counterpart off. "The Primarch is-"

    Before he could finish, the Primarch began to convulse upon the table as his lips opened and let loose an inhuman cry.

    ---​

    Angron stared out through copper eyes at the army below. The High-Riders in all their strength had finally come, from Hozzean, Meahor, Ull-Chaim, Thal'kyr, Desh'ea, to put an end to him and his sisters and brothers. He could see their banners fluttering in the wind, see them roaming about their camp, their smiles easy, their demeanour calm, as they came to put down those they saw as rabid dogs.

    The pain in his skull rose, the Nails in his head feeding the anger he felt at that moment, teasing out more rage, more indignation, as it sought it's due. Only the clenching of teeth and the tightening of fists staved off the madness it demanded. Now was not the time for it, not yet.

    "It's pretty, isn't it?" Klester asked as she came up beside him, shriekspear in hand, her eyes cast towards the blackened skies. "It looks so much better from out here."

    "No," Angron growled. "Black skies for black days. Death comes and no one will cut the twist for us, no, hnn...black soil for the twist." Iron teeth clenched tight as he refused to look at her. "It all ends. We all die."

    From the corner of his eye, he saw Klester shake her head and smile. "We die free. No more killing for others, no more Nails, we die beneath the open skies for ourselves," she countered calmly. "And we do it together."

    His head snapped round, eyes burning holes through his sister at the sound of her words. "Together? No... no... not together, not us, no. I won't know... I won't, not with you..." Spit flew forth as Angron let out a pained groan. "Alone, I will... hnnh, die alone..."

    "Not alone," Klester swore, placing her hand upon his wrist as behind her, gold-plated kin-guard come into being. "We will all be together, I swear it."

    ---​

    Hand to wrist, the Librarians all stood before their Primarch, eyes shut and minds focused. From their lips passed only a simple prayer, a plea for life, as they worked their desperate magic upon the Primarch.

    A prayer drowned out by the screams from the one they sought to save. Before them he struggled, arms tearing at restraints, clawing at anything in reach as apothecaries frantically tried to keep him restrained and techmarines used mechadendrites and bare flesh to try and restrain him.

    "Help us!" Vorias cried to Khârn. "Do not let him die!"

    From across the room, Khârn looked on in silence, hands twitching at his side. His body was frozen in place as he watched the Primarch in his death throes, unable to act, unable to even move, as his breath caught in his throat and he found himself all but helpless.

    ---​

    "We wish to know you," Khârn implored. "To fight alongside you, that is all we ask, sire."

    From the shadows, Angron stared down at his son through red eyes. This was all wrong, so very wrong. Where was he? When was he? Gaze flickering across the room, he could make out the outlines of the Conqueror's throne room, the high pillars that lined the walls, and yet it felt wrong. It was familiar yet unfamiliar, a thought that he could not quite place his finger on.

    "You do not want me," he spat. "No, you uhh... I am not the one you want, I am too broken for grave-grub Khârn. I see it, I know it."

    "You're wrong, you are Primarch, our sire, and we would die for you if you asked it," Khârn replied, his voice level and calm. "We have waited so long for you, all we want is for you to lead us."

    Stonework flew forward as Angron wrested free a piece of a nearby pillar, launching it into the ground beside Khârn. The Nails were biting into his skull hard now, red mist descending as he felt his body leave his mind, his form acting out the ever-present rage that loomed inside him.

    "Hnnh... Anything, you would do anything for me! Kill, maim, die! Drive the Nails deep, give up yourself to them!" He roared, letting loose more stonework at him, his hands grabbing at anything within reach so that he could tear it up and add to the destructionm. "Grave-grub Khârn, lower than a slave! A High-Rider's pet! Would take the Nails, cut the rope, just for praise!"

    "For you we would do anything," Khârn asserted. "If the Nails will bring us closer to you, then so be it."

    Eyes narrowed and then widened as panic gripped Angron, his gaze cast every which way as he searched for something he could not quite grasp. He looked to Khârn, to the walls, and up to the cloudy skies above as he dug his nails into his chest and scratched so hard as to draw blood. "No... No... This isn't right, I... Uhh..."

    "If you will be our High-Rider, we will be your slaves," his son stated, kneeling down before him. "Our lives are yours to do with as you wish, sire. So long as we are together with you, no price is too high to pay."

    Angron stumbled forward and grabbed at Khârn. "No! No, we are not uhh... I am not..." Looking down, he saw his hands drenched in acidic blood, the potent liquid burning at his hands as fast as they could heal, as Nails sprouted from Khârn's skull, the silver tendrils flowing forth him as his bones cracked and crunched beneath Angron's hands.

    "No!"

    ---​

    Without warning, Khârn finally leapt towards the Primarch, his courage finally raging forth over his fears, powered armour and the drive of the Nails carrying him faster than mere flesh ever could, and threw himself upon their arm. Servos whirred and metallic tendons groaned as he tried to stop the demi-god from rising.

    "Hurry!" He roared as the Primarch's fingers dug into ceramite plates and drew blood from the leg beneath them. "Save him!"

    ---​

    Angron shook as he stared down at another son, this one more defiant than the last. Standing before him, Mago met his father's gaze with unwavering certainty, the grizzled veteran long past the point of yielding to Angron's wishes. Behind him the rest of his sons stood in shocked silence, unable to comprehend what was happening before them, each one frozen mid-motion as the scene unfolded before them.

    "No," he growled as the knife in his hand clattered to the floor. "I will not kill for you anymore."

    "No?" The words came out slowly from Angron's mouth as he tried to process them himself. Was he not their master? Were they not his to kill as he saw fit? And yet this one dared to defy him, to refuse to kill at his command? The Nails roared within his skull, pain lancing through him as his rage boiled and bubbled beneath the surface. "You would defy me?"

    Stepping closer, Mago stared him down. Angron could feel his breath upon his face, hot and wet, as the Centurion yielded nothing to him. "I would," he asserted. "High-Rider."

    The accusation makes the pain all the greater in Angron's skull as his eyes bulge and blood begins to stream from his nose. "Kill him!" He screams, Widowmaker coming to his hands unbidden. "Do it! Kill him!" He roars, pressing against Mago as he pushed forward, every fibre of his being calling on him to strike the defiant Centurion down where he stood. To heft Widowmaker up and cleave head from shoulder for the defiance his son was showing to him.

    "No," Mago repeated again. "Do it yourself."

    With a wet gurgle, Angron threw Mago aside and marched forward to the Astartes behind him. Resigned to his fate, the World Eater knelt before him, his eyes cast down upon the ground, unwilling to meet Angron's maddened gaze. "My life is yours to do with as you please, sir," he said without so much as a glance to Angron before extending his neck for Widowmaker's benefit.

    "Look at me," he demanded as he raised his axe. "Look at me as you die."

    Resigned to his fate, the Astartes raised his head beneath darkened skies and allowed Angron to stare deep into Oenomaus' eyes.

    "Together, son. We do this together."

    ---​

    "Is it working?" Khârn cried as he struggled to hold the Primarch's arm down. "Is he healing?"

    Vorias' eyes watered beneath the strain of Communion as he turned to his brother. "I don't know."

    ---​

    Ash crunched underfoot as Angron stood in the midst of a ruined field. A part of him recognised it as something that had once been pleasant, idyllic even, though whenever that had been, he could not say. All that remained of it was ash and blood, the stench of spent munitions, screams on the wind, and the pounding in his skull. In the distance fires rage, a Warhound of the Legio Audax stomps forward, and he can hear his sons subjugating yet another scrap of blasted land for the Imperium, their axes cutting down any who dared to stand in their way.

    He knows that something is wrong now, that something is not quite right, but still, try as he might, he cannot figure out what it is. Every time he tries to put his mind to the question, the Nails lance forth once more, stabbing knives through his brain and bringing him back to the now. It's like a wall, fashioned from pain and rage rather than the vaunted walls of Dorn or Perturabo, that severs him from some part of himself, something critical, something vital, that he cannot surmount.

    "Brother."

    Angron's eyes snap up as Leman Russ comes into view. The Wolf King strides across the field, Krakenmaw in hand, the tip pointed to the ground, as the ground around them shifts, his sons and Russ' rising from the earth and clashing with one another. Lips pull back in a feral snarl and Angron lets loose a roar as he thunders forward to meet him, Widowmaker slung behind him as he runs. He does not bother with words now, not when the red mist has descended, all that matters is yet more battle, yet more violence, to stem the pain, the ceaseless pain that courses through his body.

    Despite the fact that Angron ran towards him, murderous intent writ plain upon his face, Russ hesitates in meeting the coming blow. Krakenmaw lingers for a second too long, the blade only coming up barely in time to block Widowmaker's strike, the chainaxe biting deep into the Wolf King's chestplate as Angron drives him back several feet through the force of the blow. He can feel the teeth of the axe biting into ceramite, hear the plate buckling and bending, all as his eyes roll back as the Nails reward him for his rage, granting him something close to relief as he clashed with his brother.

    "Stop this! I have come to help!" One hand upon Krakenmaw's hilt, the other upon the blade itself, Russ forces Angron back. Still he hesitates and through the mist, he cannot fathom why the Wolf King does not retaliate, why he does not strike him back. His eyes narrow, the Nails scream, and the momentary confusion is banished with a new wave of pain. Widowmaker swings forth once more, this time caught by Krakenmaw well before it reaches it's target, the chain-axe locking teeth with the chain-sword.

    His lips open again yet this time it is no roar that leaves his lips but a scream, a ragged, horrifying thing that pierces the ears as Angron strikes at Russ again and again and again. He cannot manage tactics, he gives no cause to winning this fight, only the primal need to strike, to fight, to hurt drives him as Widowmaker lashes out at the Wolf King time after time. Each strike sees the Nails sing louder and louder, the pain rising to a crescendo until Angron can neither see nor hear anything, his whole world losing itself in the red mist.

    And when it fades, he finds himself upon his knees, his face and hands covered in blood, Widowmaker shattered into pieces, and Russ standing over him with Krakenmaw in hand.

    "You do not need to suffer anymore, brother," Russ wheezes. "We can beat this together."

    Angron stares up at him, confused and unsure of himself. His gaze lingers on Russ, copper eyes meeting steely blue ones, until he reaches out hesitantly with one bloodied hand, desperately reaching out for something, anything, to drag him up. Yet as his fingers brush against his brother's, he feels himself falter, his arm falling back as the Nails surge forward once more and drive him back.

    And then Russ catches him, a gauntleted fist grasping tight around his wrist.

    "Don't worry, I've got you."

    ---​

    Vorias struggled to remain upright as one by one, his fellow Librarians began to fall. Blood pouring from their noses, the strain of both Communion and mending the Primarch's broken body proving too great for them to handle. He turns to Khârn to say something, anything, yet his throat is raw and bloodied and no words can come forth from it.

    In that moment, Khârn's eyes meet his and for the first time in a long time, they harbour no disgust nor hate for him.

    In them, Vorias sees only fear.

    ---​

    "Pretty, isn't it, son?" Oenomaus asks, his eyes resting upon the Nucerian sunrise. Seated upon a rock, the weathered gladiator looks entirely at peace, his features relaxed, a smile upon his lips. "It's looks so different from out here than it does in the caves."

    Angron can only stare at his father, his body swaying from side to side as he struggles to stay standing. He feels something at the corner of his eyes, some wet thing he cannot describe, and makes to wipe it away only for it to sting to the touch. Not blood but something else, something clearer he has never quite seen before, not from up close at least.

    "Come here, sit with me," his father tells him and Angron obeys slowly shuffling over and gently sitting down beside him. He is conscious at this moment of just how much smaller he is than him, as if he is once more a child sitting at his feet, listening to him weave tall tales for his amusement. "It's been a while, hasn't it? Since we've last spoken that is."

    "It has," Angron answered, his voice no more than a whisper. "When we last... I..."

    "It's alright, son, you didn't have a choice."

    Pulling Angron close, Oenomaus wrapped an arm around his shoulder and let his son fall against him, the weight of everything that had happened until now finally coming crashing down upon Angron. Tears begin to flow, a handful at first and then a tidal wave as at long last the dam breaks and what little control he had left upon himself falters, leaving him oh so very vulnerable at that moment. His body heaves and shakes upon the rock, such that only the steadying hand of his father keeps him upon it, holding him firmly as he wept.

    "I'm sorry you had to suffer so much for so long but it's over now," Oenmomaus assures him before pointing to the horizon. "I promised I'd show the sky from outside the caves, didn't I? Well tell me, is the view worth the wait?"

    Batting away tears, Angron looks up at the horizon. Copper eyes trace along the vivid reds and oranges of the rising sun, glance over the creamy whites of the clouds overhead, and run along the blurred line where the sky met the earth. "Yes," he croaks. "It's beautiful."

    "A sky seen through free eyes always is," his father agrees. "And yours are truly free now."

    Angron nods and finally falls still, the tears ceasing to fall as he reaches up to touch his head. A hand runs along scarred skin, over divets and bumps, and traces an uninterrupted line from his forehead to the nape of his neck. No Nails sprout from it, no pain lances in his skull, at that moment Angron feels only peace. Sweet, belated peace.

    "Is it real?" He eventually asks, terrified that this was nothing more than a fleeting moment of relief, a cruel interlude before the Nails rose up once more. "Is it finally over?"

    Looking down at him, Oenomaus smiles. "It's over, son," he promises him. "You've finally won."

    "Together. We won together."

    "That we did, son, that we did..."

    ---​

    Khârn clings to the Primarch tightly, eyes shut, the Nails singing in his ears as he holds out through the madness. Another battles on behind him, a beast locks jaws around a traitor, Vorias cries to the heavens, and his brothers shed blood without pause. His body begins to fail, bones snapping under pressure, his armour finally giving out from under him, as time stops and he waits for the end.

    And then he feels only peace. The Nails fall silent, his bones no longer ache, all that is left in him is a calmness and a peace. Eyes cast up and Khârn sees the Primarch staring down at him, iron teeth flashing out from a weary smile.

    "It's alright, son, I've got you."​
     
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    The World Eaters
    Changes



    Legion Master of the XIIth, Khârn Kurahis

    ---
    ​
    As the Hour of Rebirth came to a close and Angron Thal'kyr, the Red Angel, the Lord of the Red Sands, Primarch of the XIIth, rose anew, the World Eaters stood changed forever. Their Primarch restored, the XIIth for the first time in what seemed an eternity had a chance to move forward, to change, to be something better than the wild beasts that they had become. In the days that followed, as the Conqueror was righted and the dead were buried, the Red Angel would walk amongst his sons, utilising his resurfacing talents as an empath to take the pain of his Nailed sons upon himself - a deep irony, some would note, as it entailed experiencing the pain of the Nails once more so soon after countless Astartes had died to see them removed - and provide some measure of peace that the World Eaters had sorely lacked since his discovery. Dressed in the shimmering, multi-coloured cloak once worn by the Legion Master Lhorke, who had fallen defending his Primarch, Angron became an ever present fixture within his Legion, forever speaking not only with his sons but also the sailors and serfs of the Conqueror to whom he naturally gravitated.

    Yet though his presence did much to calm the World Eaters, it would not be enough to undo the damage done to it overnight. Even as the dead were buried, it became apparent to all that Gahlan Surlak had taken many of the World Eaters down a dark path, turning them against Angron in his hour of need and attempting to engineer his death. The Chief Apothecary had unsurprisingly fled, taking with him the ability to create more of the Butchers Nails, and with him many of those World Eaters whose devotion to the Nails far outweighed their loyalty to their Primarch. The Conqueror itself had been shaken to it's core, with Lotara Sarrin all but ready to shoot Angron for his part in the damage done to her ship, and many more ships had been damaged in the lead up to the Hour of Rebirth. More than half the XIIth still had the Butchers Nails implanted in them, the number of Apothecaries on hand to remove them were few, and with the near annihilation of the Librarius, only Vorias was one hand to perform the necessary biomantics to safely oversee the healing of the worst cases within the Legion.

    Indeed, no sooner was Angron healed would it become apparent that the World Eaters as a Legion were still very much broken.

    Upon the surface of Kurahis, the Red Angel would begin the hard work of taking the World Eaters and giving them new purpose. With Khârn to one side and Vorias to the other, Angron bid the World Eaters muster - and with them the Legio Audax and the Numen Gun Clans - as he presented himself to them, wearing nothing but a loose tunic in the Nucerian fashion and Lhorke's Cloak, and begged their forgiveness. Knowing all too well that the suffering of his sons was his own doing, the World Eaters would be shocked as their Primarch placed himself at their mercy, naming himself their tormentor, his head hung low and his shoulders slumped. Without the Nails to cloud his mind, the XIIth would witness a side to their Primarch none thought existed, that of the remorseful slave who had become everything he had hated and more. Only the intervention of Khârn and Vorias would see him rise to his feet once more as the horrified World Eaters begged him not to demand such a thing of them, the idea of their sire seeking their forgiveness being too much for them, or any Astartes, to handle.

    When he at last took his seat, upon a chair made from pieces of armour stripped from the dead of the Hour of Rebirth, Angron would finally lay down his plans for the World Eaters. The Butchers Nails would be banned immediately, their further use prohibited and all those with them ordered to submit to their removal, as Angron declared them to be slaves no longer. In the same breath, Gahlan Surlak would be cast out from the World Eaters for his efforts to prevent the removal of Angron's own Nails and marked for death, for though Angron had originally ordered the Chief Apothecary to recreate and implant them, it was clear that his actions had become of his own initiative and not at the direction of others. Moreover, the Red Angel would declare that the World Eaters would not stand for the making of slaves anywhere - for surely the Nails were chains to the mind as surely as any shackles upon the wrist - and that no matter where they went, whether the world was beyond the Imperium or within it, they were to free slaves wherever they went.

    For gone were the days of mindless butchery, the Lord of the Red Sands would no longer stand for killing for the sake of the ambition of others. If he and the World Eaters were to move forward, it would be as masters of their own fate and in pursuit of something better than the prison they had fashioned for themselves in the Nails.

    With this done, Angron would then address structural changes to the XIIth:

    The first to have the Nails implanted and the first to have them removed, Khârn would be recognised for his loyalty to Angron and to his Legion. Pressing Gorechild into his hands, Angron would declare Khârn the new Legion Master of the XIIth, reviving the title that had lain dormant since his discovery, and entrust in him the lives of the World Eaters. Further naming him Khârn Kurahis, Angron would publicly place his full, complete trust in the greatest of his sons, and imbue in him his full authority over the Legion.​
    ​
    As the only remaining member of the XIIth's Librarius and perhaps the most stubborn, if reasonable, of Angron's supporters, Vorias would be entrusted with Gorefather and named Magister for his role in seeing the Nails removed. With his talents as an empath resurfacing, Angron would then grant Vorias with the unenviable honour of being his tutor in all matters related to the Warp and beyond, the Red Angel seeing in him a worthy teacher to enlighten him as to the world that lay beyond the Nails.​
    ​
    The Last Devourer, Hamilcar, would be brought forward and honoured for his efforts. Declaring that Hamilcar truly would be the Last Devourer, Angron would name him the first of the Thraeces, his new personal guard, and charge Hamilcar with assembling a new force of 200 World Eaters to accompany him into battle. These Thraeces were to fight with Guardian Spears and Storm Shields, just as the War Hounds once did, and would be granted the privilege of going into battle with bronzed armour, fashioned after the Armor of Mars, to symbolise their ties to their Primarch.​
    ​
    For coming to his aid unprompted, Macer Varren would be named the Praetor of the Triarii and given command of the five companies that made up one of the most distinguished of the World Eaters' formations. As a further reward, he would also allow Macer Varren to take a secondary sigil of his own, to be displayed by the Triarii upon the left knees, to which the new Praetor would choose the old Red Hound of the War Hounds.​
    ​
    With this done, the Primarch would further make changes to the inner machinations of the XIIth:

    Where before duels in the fighting pits had been allowed to go on until one or the other died, Angron would rule that to slay a brother was now the gravest sin a World Eater could commit. Fights would be permitted only to the first blood and feuds would be banned outside of the pits. Moreover, he would declare that any and all grudges between his sons were to be settled in the same pits with a strict emphasis on the notion that those grudges would be brought to and left in the pits, for though the Nails were gone, Angron was still at heart a gladiator and greatly valued the notion of violence as the great equaliser and peacemaker.​
    ​
    The Black Wolf, which had come to his aid during the Hour of Rebirth, was to be honoured and made a symbol of equal standing to the Maw of the World Eaters. Where the Red Hound of the Triarii would be displayed upon the left knee, Angron would declare that the Black Wolf would be borne upon the right by all World Eaters, the Red Angel feeling the honour to be an appropriate one for his unexpected ally. Though he knew not what the beast was, he felt it important that it's efforts be remembered forever more.​
    ​
    For the intervention of Magnus the Red, the Thousand Sons would be given a place of honour amongst the World Eaters. In any gatherings, the Thousand Sons would be granted the place of honour, their Astartes would be afforded seats at the head of any table, and any knowledge of the Warp acquired in the conquest of new worlds would be made a gift of to Prospero.​
    ​
    Finally, despite their involvement in attempting to thwart the Hour of Rebirth, the knowledge that many of their number had come to his aid would see Angron formally approve the continuation of the Warrior Lodges. Seeing it as a way to foster brotherhood amongst the World Eaters, Angron would only rule that the Warrior Lodges should be open in their practices and that they would be required to represent themselves in the fighting pits, the Red Angel going so far as to promise a reward to any Lodge that won the most victories in any given year in the pits.​
    ​
    After this, he would then address the Legio Audax, the Numen Gun Clans, and the elements of the Imperial Navy attached to the XIIth:

    To the Legio Audax, Angron would grant the use of the Maw of the World Eaters. Knowing them to be more loyal to him than the Adeptus Mechanicus, Angron would embrace them and make them the equal of any of the companies of the World Eaters, considering them more a part of his Legion than not.​
    ​
    To the Numen Gun Clans, Angron would offer a place of honour at any mustering of the World Eaters. To them, he would grant a spot upon the right, and would bestow the privilege of the triumphant rope, allowing them to mark their victories and defeats in the same way as himself and the World Eaters.​
    ​
    Finally to the Imperial Navy, Angron would formally surrender control of the Conqueror to Lotara Sarrin, naming her the Master of the Conqueror and declaring her authority within the ships attached to the World Eaters to be second only to his. He would also name the new Master of the Conqueror an honorary member of the World Eaters with the right to take the same adornments and privileges as the rest of the World Eaters, a privilege that would receive many a nod from those World Eaters who had been shot by Lotara at one point or another.​
    ​
    At long last, with all of this said and done, Angron would explain the next step for the World Eaters. Their campaign against the Orks of Kurahis was done and no further orders from Terra would be acknowledged until further notice, the Red Angel declaring that until the Emperor asked for their loyalty, rather than seized it, they would inflict themselves upon no other world that did not deserve it. Instead, the World Eaters would gather together, see to the removal of the Nails and repair of their fleet, and ultimately fall upon Nuceria to right old wrongs and free the slaves of Angron's homeworld from the High-Riders who tormented them.

    For though Angron swore to never again to kill for the sake of one man's ambition and thirst for power, he made no compunctions against killing to free those whose suffering mirrored his own.​
     
    Shining Eagles: The III Legion
    By Remembrancer Elenor Vance
    ​

    To step within a ship of the Emperors Children, is to step into paradise.

    It was on approach to the Pride of the Emperor that I came to realize that, however little. It was one of the most beautifully crafted ships I have ever seen. The fine attention to detail that I could see, even from inside my shuttle. The towering spires were wrought with an artisans touch, so finely made that I will admit, even knowing the 3rds reputation before hand, that I was still surprised. Gun batteries were so lovingly made that I had to look twice to recognize them for what they were. Once I did it was a somewhat chilling reminder for all the beauty of the ship I saw before me, it was still a warship.

    The hanger in which we landed was more to what I expected, plain grey plasteel, blinking lights and painted lines of where the ships were to land. We, by that I mean myself and my fellow remembrancers, were greeted by a Legion serf and indeed an astartes of the 3rd. I will admit at this point I was somewhat anxious, word had already gotten back from other members of my order of the reception they've had with most of the Imperiums legions.

    Such reception was almost always negative in some way. And the stories I've heard had made me admittedly somewhat nervous, of cold words, a shunning and unable to get anything done, or perhaps what made me most nervous of all, were stories of anger. It is irrational, that I knew then and know now, to believe one of the Imperiums champions would actually hurt one of us, yet it is hard to properly understand that when your nerves are frayed by your first visit to the Legion, never mind if an astartes was being loud.

    So it was to my surprise, and delight, to see that my fellows were greeted warmly. The 3rd legion, as it had become abundantly clear, had an appreciation for the arts that was truly unrivaled throughout the Legionies Astrartes. Indeed we were not greeted by just any battle brother, but a captain!

    He introduced himself as Saul Tarvitz and, alongside the serf-lieutenant Emma-, and said that he would show us our rooms, and begin a small tour of the magnificent Gloriana-class vessel. It was like walking through a nobles house, though that rings of a poor comparison, for it was far richer, full of life, and ultimately more lovely than anything a noble could come up with. Everything, the good captain explained, that we saw was crafted, by hand, by astartes of the 3rd.

    For while the ship was constructed in forges of Mars, the additions that made the Pride as magnificent to gaze upon were the Emperors Childrens own creation. As we moved past the marble halls, the statues, paintings, and far far more than I think I can accurately describe, we saw other members of the 3rd. They saluted their captain as we passed, and gazed upon us with a curiosity that made me utterly thankful for the posting. For here, my order would be able to do what it was made for without interruption, and indeed even eager cooperation!

    Though such thoughts were somewhat tampered, i'll admit, by a portion of a legion that was only really separated from the rest by their strange wolf medallions. They didn't seem to share their brothers curiosity, and for the most part ignored us outright. And those that did look upon us seemed to be almost suspicious.

    I asked Captain Tarvitz about them, and indeed their medallions, and he simply laughed it off. Explaining that the medallions were simply an honor bestowed upon members of their legion for a campaign long ago won. This, and I cannot particularly tell because astartes in or out of armor are hard to read, seemed to make those with the medallions....bitter, perhaps?

    Yet I am not sure that is the right word, for a legion such as the 3rd would not be bitter about honor and glory, yet those that heard seemed to make it a priority to vacate the area. And even the good captain looked...somewhat strained. There is more to that particular story, yet I will admit I do not feel entirely comfortable pursuing it at this moment. To do so, I fear, would to damage whatever goodwill that exists in the first place, making my stay here as miserable as it would be in another Legion.

    Shortly after that the tour finished, Captain Tarvitz off to do his myriad of duties, and Lieutenant Emma to escort us to our quarters. Me and my fellows were all placed rather close together, though still given separate rooms thankfully, and gave us a simple map to guide us around the ships, and a way to contact her should we need assistance.

    With that I settled in my room that seemed more fit for a Duchess than a scholar, though I certainly wasn't complaining, and went to work unpacking and beginning the book you read at this moment. All told my first day among the Emperors Children was a pleasant one and, besides a small hiccup, I believe that it will only grow more pleasant in the days to come.
     
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    (STATS) Dossier on the Imperialis Armada
  • Informational

    • While many know the Imperialis Auxilia for its' role in supplying the grand reserve of soldiers and manpower to the battlefronts of the Great Crusade and in the worlds brought only recently to compliance, where the heaving masses of millions of soldiers spread across the stars from worlds ranging from the humble frontier colony to Terra itself. Many tend to forget that the true power behind the Grand Army of the Imperium is in the stars, in the void where the Imperialis Armada presides, where the greatest warships of the Imperium, save that of His Primarchs draw the domain of man across the void in warfare that makes the battles of the Unification Wars seem meek in comparison. After nearly two centuries of constant buildup and warfare, the Armada has grown to be quite large, and with supply being prioritized to that of the Emperor's sons and the whims of the Warmaster, it has become apparent that the grand fleets once commanded by the Emperor were, at the behest of the Regent and the Council of Terra, committed to a strategic role that few would find glory in. Placed into law by Malcador, the Imperialis Armada would lose a great deal of her privileges of conquest and be reorganized into grand formations that would police the stars already brought to compliance where the immediacy of the situation may demand faster response, or that the Legiones Astartes may be simply too 'over-kill' for such a minor mission. Upon the behest of the Praetorian of Terra, Rogal Dorn, such efforts had already been undertaken in the Segmentum Solar, where the fleets put under his command in the protection of Terra had assumed a largely reservist, or garrisoning role rather than actively expanding the will of the Imperium. Despite the apparent perception that the Armada is a singular entity, it should be noted that certain worlds brought into the fold under the Emperor's banner were not done under conquest, and enjoy some privileges and autonomous formations that serve to protect their own interests while also serving the wider Imperium, a prime example being Mars. While this dossier will not cover the fleets employed by the Mechanicum and her fiefs, it will extrapolate on some of these more noteworthy independent formations, in addition to covering the main battlefleets of the Imperium.

    BATTLEFLEET SOLAR - under the de jure command of Grand Admiral Constansa Suait-Falkan, de facto Praetorian of Terra, Rogal Dorn, who commands it from his flagship, the Phalanx. Official headquarters of the Battlefleet Solar is the Saturnine moon of Iapetus, though more often it is commanded from the Phalanx.
    In addition to the grand fleet of the Imperial Fists, VII Legion, the Battlefleet Solar also constitutes the following ships:
    • 9 Battleships, split into squadrons of three named after their leading ships: Jo-casta, Triumph, Mondragon. Two of the Emperor-class, Seven of the Apocalypse-class.​
    • 13 Grand Cruisers, split under the Battleship squadrons. Six of the Vengeance-class, Seven of the Avenger-class.​
    • 4 Battle Cruisers, all under the 'Battle Cruiser Squadron' stationed over Iapetus in orbit of Jupiter. Four of the Acheron-class.​
    • 25 Line Cruisers, split under the Battleship squadrons. Nineteen of the Lunar-class, Six of the Dictator-class.​
    • 30 Light Cruisers, split under the Battleship squadrons, with five constituting the 'Eyrie Prime Squadron' stationed over Eyrie Prime. Nineteen of the Defiant-class, Eleven of the Dauntless-class.​
    • 42 Frigates, split into six strategic escort squadrons, typically stationed over Iapetus in orbit of Jupiter. Two of the Firestorm-class, Thirty of the Sword-class, Six of the Tempest-class, Three of the Havoc-class, and One of the Turbulent-class.​
    • 55 Destroyers, split into five patrol squadrons, stationed across Segmentum Solar. Thirty-three of the Cobra-class, Eight of the Stalwart-class, Three of the Viper-class, Eleven of the Iconoclast-class.​
    SATURNINE FLEET - under the command of Admiral Oyanska, who commands it from his flagship, the Protector. Official headquarters of the Saturnine Fleet is the Saturnine moon of Iapetus.
    Following their defeat in the Solar Reclamation, the Saturnine Fleet, while still a prestigious formation, has been down-scaled a significant amount, with some of its patrols being absorbed into the Solar Fleet, later Battlefleet Solar by writ of the Emperor. However, it still boasts a significant portion of firepower and makes up a great deal of what protects the Sol System proper.
    • 1 Battleship, the Protector. Flagship of Saturnyne I, Oberon-class.
    • 3 Grand Cruisers, under the direct command of the Protector. Three of the Avenger-class.
    • 1 Battle Cruiser, the Wrathful. Second Flagship of Saturnyne II, Mars-class.
    • 8 Line Cruisers, split into 'Saturnyne I' and 'Saturnyne II', stationed over Pluto and Neptune. Five of the Dictator-class, Four of the Lunar-class.
    • 2 Light Cruisers, split into 'Saturnyne I' and 'Saturnyne II', stationed over Pluto and Neptune. Two of the Defiant-class.
    • 15 Destroyers, split into 'Saturnyne I' and 'Saturnyne II', stationed over Pluto and Neptune. Fifteen of the Iconoclast-class.
    JOVIAN VOID FLEET - under the command of Admiral Du-Katavan, who commands it from his flagship, the Nightwhisper. Official headquarters of the Jovian Void Fleet is the Jovian moon of Ganymede.
    Following their defeat in the Solar Reclamation, the Jovian Clans and by extent their ships were pressed into the service of the Imperium. Given the true prize was the vast shipyards and skilled builders of said ships, much of the Void Fleet was absorbed into the Imperialis Armada properly, while a smaller, arguably ceremonial formation of escort-sized craft remain as the official protectors of Jupiter and her moons.
    • 5 frigates, including the Nightwhisper, stationed over the Jovian moon of Ganymede. Three of the Sword-class, Two of the Havoc-class.
    • 12 Destroyers, with eight stationed over Ganymede, and four stationed over Thule. Five of the Iconoclast-class, Three of the Cobra-class, Three of the Viper-class, One of the Cobra-class.
    BATTLEFLEET TEMPESTUS - under the command of Vice Admiral Nials MacLean, who commands it from her flagship, the Stormbringer. Official headquarters of Battlefleet Tempestus is Port Alexandria, in orbit of Tyre.
    It should be noted given the relative peace in the region, and the presence of major Legiones Astartes forces namely the I Legion, Dark Angels, the Battlefleet Tempestus is often committed to other segmenta commands, such as Ultima or Solar for prolonged duty missions.
    • 4 Battleships.
    • 18 Grand Cruisers.
    • 2 Battle Cruisers.
    • 4 Line Cruisers.
    • 5 Light Cruisers.
    • 31 Frigates.
    • 15 Destroyers.
    BATTLEFLEET PACIFICUS - under the command of Vice Admiral Kelinworth Ducant, who commands it from his flagship, the Intrepid. Official headquarters of the Battlefleet Pacificus is Port Forlorn, in orbit of Vasalius.
    The smallest of the great Battlefleets due to a majority of Imperial expansion being towards the Galactic East, Battlefleet Pacificus often commits her forces to other Battlefleets.
    • 3 Battleships.
    • 8 Grand Cruisers.
    • 1 Battle Cruiser.
    • 10 Line Cruisers.
    • 6 Light Cruisers.
    • 20 Frigates.
    • 18 Destroyers.
    BATTLEFLEET OBSCURUS - under the command of Rear Admiral Alferadian Xenastor, who commands it from his flagship, the Ranger. Official headquarters of the Battlefleet Obscurus is Port Wayguard, in orbit of Somnus.
    Noteworthy elements of the Battlefleet Obscurus include the newly added Bucephalus, which was seconded to Rear Admiral Xenastor's command upon the Emperor's return to Terra as a mark of prestige for the Battlefleet. Given the large Legiones Astartes presence in the region, Obscurus often loans her ships to other Battlefleets.
    • 5 Battleships.
    • 3 Grand Cruisers.
    • 4 Battle Cruisers.
    • 9 Line Cruisers.
    • 28 Frigates.
    • 30 Destroyers.
    BATTLEFLEET ULTIMA GREATER - under the command of Admiral Holbar Doyc, who commands it from his flagship, the Amphion. Official headquarters of the Battlefleet Ultima Greater is Port Daunting, in orbit of Saderial.
    Due to the sheer size of the galaxy, the Battlefleet Ultima had to be split in administrative duty into two major fleets - Greater and Secundus. Greater constitutes much of the capital-class firepower available to the Ultima Battlefleet, including the Gloriana-class Amphion. Lately, the fleet has been fighting major actions against the incursion of Warlord Kromren, who seeks to enslave the resource-rich worlds of the Maelstrom Zone under his personal empire.
    • 10 Battleships.
    • 12 Grand Cruisers.
    • 2 Battle Cruisers.
    • 18 Line Cruisers.
    • 15 Light Cruisers.
    BATTLEFLEET ULTIMA SECUNDUS - under the command of Vice Admiral Gregorious Joan, who commands it from her flagship, the Steelblade. Official headquarters of Battlefleet Ultima Secundus is Port Harrow, in orbit of Nero.
    As mentioned before, the sheer size of the Ultima Segmentum means that it would have two distinct commands, with Greater taking up much of the capital-class power that the Segmentum could have, barring Legiones Astartes warships. Secundus, renamed from Ultima Lesser, would serve as the patrol and escort of the Ultima Segmentum, and constitutes all of its' destroyer-escort capacity, barring the Steelblade.
    • 1 Battleship.
    • 12 Light Cruisers.
    • 51 Frigates.
    • 44 Destroyers.
    BATTLEFLEET ULTRAMAR - under the de jure command of Primarch Roboute Guilliman, de facto the Tetrarchs of Ultramar. Official headquarters of the Battlefleet Ultramar include the worlds of Konor, Saramanth, Occulda and Iax.
    The Five-Hundred Worlds often stand out as a unique formation in the collective Imperium. Brought to heel by Roboute Guilliman and his Legion, they share a great deal of trade and political capital with one another, while enjoying a great deal of autonomy - barring taxation, of course - with the wider Imperium. As a result, Battlefleet Ultramar's creation was something of a pragmatic choice made to ensure the Five Hundred would be able to retain their autonomy and not rely on ships stationed on the other end of the Segmentum to support them.
    • 8 Battleships.
    • 10 Grand Cruisers.
    • 7 Battle Cruisers.
    • 15 Line Cruisers.
    • 8 Light Cruisers.
    • 15 Frigates.
    • 28 Destroyers.
     
  • Informational
    • The World Eaters
    Choices



    Malcador

    ---
    ​
    "We have a choice."

    As was so often the case now, Khârn found himself standing before his Primarch in the middle of the now bustling Throne Room of the Conqueror. Freed of the Nails and with most of the changes wrought by Gahlan Surlak undone, the new Legion Master stood with his old, familiar calm. His stance was strong, confident, his armour polished, and his shimmering, multi-coloured cloak delicately draped over his shoulder exactly as he remembered Lhorke and Gheer wearing theirs when they served as Legion Masters. To his left, he could see Vorias looming, the Chief Librarian and now Magister hovering just behind his new student, whilst lining the halls of the Throne Room stood the newly minted Thraeces, the successors to the Devourers standing tall in their bronze armour, a visible symbol of all that had changed in the World Eaters.

    "While I understand why you want to go back to Nuceria, attacking an Imperial World will only draw the Emperor's wrath down upon us. You are free now, free of the Nails and your past, you don't need to risk that freedom now by pursuing an old grudge, sire. Let Nuceria lie where it is, there are better worlds out there for you, for the XIIth, if you want them."

    Opposite him, Angron sat upon the steps to his throne, draped in the Cloak of Lhorke - made of the same cut as Khârn's own but lengthened to fit the frame of a Primarch - his head turned down towards the dog, one he had wryly named Malcador, that sat dutifully by his side. As was so often the case now, he did not react immediately to those words spoken to him, copper eyes simply narrowing as he gathered thoughts that had long been scattered by the Nails.

    "It is... a choice," the Red Angel agreed, his features twitching from the aftereffects of a lifetime of torture. "One I was deprived of. The Emperor... took my freedom from me, shackled me... gold-plated kin-guard bound me, and you bent me... bent me to his will, made me his instrument of wrath." His brow furrowed as he forced the words together, from the ones he knew and the ones that Vorias had made him learn now that he was trying to be more like the Primarch his Legion needed than the one that he had been. "Until I go back, until I... punish the High-Riders and their Maggot-Eyes, I will not... be free."

    "You do not need Nuceria to be free. What they took from you, you have back now, and whether they live or die, they can never change that fact."

    "Perhaps... Perhaps grave-grub Khârn is right," he mused, lips pulling back in a thin smile, revealing the jagged, iron teeth that Angron had insisted on keeping. Even without the Nails, the Primarch had proven stubborn when it came to his scars, insisting that each and every one be kept as reminders of his failures and triumphs. "Perhaps I need Nuceria for something else... Many still lie in the prison-caves, many... many still bear the Nails, and... and many need burying at the hands of a brother."

    "Nuceria has also been behind in the paying of the Imperial Tithe. Though they contribute manpower, they are lax in their other contributions and have expressed a thinly veiled disdain for the Imperium, Vorias interjected. "Whatever our motives, we can defend our actions by claiming we did so to enforce compliance from a world that had begun to shun the Imperium's authority."

    "Even so-"

    "Even so-" The earlier look of near serenity on Angron's face began to fade, a familiar look instead taking it's place as copper eyes narrowed and the Red Angel retrieved a chunk of meat for Malcador to eat. "This is needed. I need it. Perhaps it is a poor choice... but it is my choice, a choice I wish to make."

    Khârn inwardly sighed and bowed his head. "We will need to take on supplies and repair our ships before making the attack then. Ultramar boasts shipyards close enough to Nuceria that they would be perfect for our needs and the Crimson Priesthood has affirmed it's commitment to you and will send anything you require to wherever you may be. Provided no one interferes, this campaign should be an easy one all things considered. It is what comes next that I am concerned about."

    "What comes next, comes next," Angron grunted before smiling again. "This is a good choice, grave-grub Khârn... you will see it soon."

    Despite his reservations, Khârn could not help but smile back at his Primarch. "I am sure I will, sire."​
     
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    Death Guard Night Lords Join Excercise
    @toxinvictory​


    D-Day

    First Wave of One Hundred Drop Pods crash to earth on Designated Landing Zone Theta, as expected DLZ-T is presighted for AAA, Artillery, Rocket Strikes, Mines and pre positioned Night Lord Kill teams.

    Corporal Malus "Steelfang" crouched low in his Cam-Pod, a mix of sophisticated stealth tech and the oldest and simplest mixture of leaves, dirt and netting. The Company was spread out amongst the treeline that marked the outer edge of the drop zone. Behind them were a handful of armoured vehicles and array of mortars. The heavier weapons were dozens of miles away.

    The Death Guard ship had been maintaining orbit for four Nostramen minutes now. Any second they would launch, to delay would give away the element of surprise and work against the hole purpose of a Drop Pod assault.

    Right on time, one hundred Drop Pods fell to earth like an army of green and white angels trailing fire. The Drop Zone had been clearly marked and out of play. Organized opposition against the drop would be against the spirit of simulating a surprise orbital assault if the enemy was ready and waiting for a strike that could come from literally anywhere.

    Malus grinned like a loon through his newly installed cybernetic grill. As an unholy helstorm of fire went up to greet their new guests. His HUD ticked off dozens of hit beacons, he did not believe even half the drop pods survived long enough to punch into the ground in perfect synchronisation, the detonations of the mines pleasingly mirroring them. Smoke projectors activated and shrouded the blasting hatches as a handful of Marines emerged moving in perfect harmony of fire and maneuver into the kill zones of the hundreds of Night Lords waiting for them.

    Malus opened up himself, shooting mostly smoke and dust, he thought he saw movement and so unloaded his entire magazine, four of his squadmates did the same. There were far more shooters than there were targets.

    Thirty members of the First company, "Bait-a" Squad are wiped out before they are more than five yards from the near empty drop pods.


    The Night Lords advanced casually, finishing off 'the wounded' and taunting the 'dead'. "Rats in the trap." Malus gloated using the old expression of his homeworld, tail ending it with a kick to the head of one of his victims, who went off script by laughing. Malus was about to bite a chunk out of him when his vox-hailer went wild.

    "Second wave inco-Frak, Cover Cover!"

    "Rats in the trap." The Death Guard laughed.

    Swiftly avenged by the orbital and atmospheric air strikes that followed them down, seventy Night Lord casualties. Second Wave drops fifteen Terran Minutes after the first on alternative landing site, Five hundred Death Guard on planet.

    Death Guard aggressively advance to secure DLZ-T. Casualties light, out of position Night Lords driven back with heavy casualties. Third Wave began dropping along with heavy equipment alternating between Drop Sites. All counter attacks by Night Lords driven back. Estimated fifty Death Guard casualties for the first day, some two hundred Night Lord casualties.


    The island chain was a smoking ruin, Death Guard waded through surf, they waded through ash and they waded through simulated blood as the Night Lords fled before them. Oh they left traps and more than one Night Lord emerged from blackened hole in the ground to stalk the night but it was only a matter of time before the First Great Company took these sandy specks of Rock, in which case there was now point dying for it, even virtually, the Nightlords scattered, every Astartes for themselves.

    D-Day +1
    2500 Death Guard Marines on planet, 'island hopping' campaign begins. Foliage burned away, Night Lord attempts to hold ground invariably fail. Hit and run attacks ignored.

    D-Day +5

    3000 Death Guard Marines on planet, island chain secure. Total casualties two hundred and forty, seven hundred Night Lord casualties.

    Death Guard begin first assault against Night Lord fortifications on main continent. Night Lords give ground rather than fight superior forces, stay behind forces pretending to be corpses or hiding in secret concealed one marine dugouts inflict light casualties but fail to have any strategic impact.


    The Praetor watches, teeth bared against the grim reality, it had been a disheartening week, all the hard earned discipline of his legion melting away, their flaws vividly and brutally exposed. The Death Guard were slower but they were unstoppable, nothing phased them, there was no fear to exploit, no chaos.

    Besides him Conrad Kurze sits watching, enjoying the show.

    "Father I should be out there, leading your sons." He dares to suggest. "They are no match for the Death Guard in open battle."

    "You are wrong and right at the same time, yes they are no match, no you should not be out there with them. Your place for now is to watch, to learn."

    "You...you are enjoying watching us fail father." Jago accused.

    The Night Haunter laughed. "I was unaware that needed saying. Yes, yes I am."


    D-Day +19
    5000 Death Guard Marines on planet.

    All objectives taken, Death Guard casualties stand at one thousand, Night Lord casualties three thousand. First Death Guard penetrates the cave network. Recon Sqauds suffer 100% casualties.


    Finally, blood on his sword, real blood, he makes sure to bury the first kill under rubble so the Death Guard do not call off the excercise or begin retaliation. From now on he plays by the rules no more 'accidents' but Jago leads his best in the dark labyrinth. They collapse walls, conceal pits, strike without warning, unleash non lethal toxins. The Death Guard are invincable in open battle, the Night Lords do not offer them such.

    D-Day +21

    4700 Death Guard Marines on planet. After 48 Hours first serious penetrations into cave network begin, costly attempts at infiltration and recon are halted in favour of using heavy weapons to pierce the planet surface. FIghting goes cave by cave with Night Lords withdrawing towards planet core, casualties for the first time favour Night Lords, two hundred Death Guard vs seventy Hundred Night Lords.

    Captain Calus changes tactics begins efforts to flood some portions of cave and deploy to block escape roots. Choosing to patiently dig out the Night Lords. 4,000 Death Guard are eventually deployed in cave network.


    Called back. Hidden away once again as his brothers get ground into dust, hundreds of them against thousands, against those odds no amount of local advantages will help the Night Lords stand against a stronger Legion. Jago waits with his fist company, forced to watch from Konrad's lair as humiliation mounts.

    "Father, if we cannot stop them in the caves, we cannot stop them anywhere, you must let me fight."

    "You must learn to trust me before I regret the day I let you live, the coming war will require discipline. You care too much Jago, you need blood on your sword. That honour has served you well but you must temper it with obedience."

    He glared at his sire with hatred, for a moment, just a moment he thought of stalking away to fight with his brothers. In the end he merely bowed.

    "Yes my Lord."

    Conrad Kurze smiled. "At last. Very good Jago, very good. Now that we've acomplished what we needed to we can wrap up this game."

    "Father?" He asked in confusion, "Cancel the exercise?"


    D-Day +23 Last scheduled contact with Death Guard Fleet in orbit made as half of the remaining five hundred spacebased Astartes deploy planetside for final phase of operations. Night Lord Fleet largely considered neutralised save for a few light ships.

    "No. Conquer it."

    D-Day +24. Jago Sevatarion and three companies deploy downwards via drop pods, simultaneously seventeen separate attacks launched in and outside the caves to pin Death Guard in place. Sixteen attacks, including one on Death Guard Headquarters defeated, one hundred Night Lord Casuatlies against twenty Death Guard casualties. Only heavy artillery positions captured firing inaccurately, missing most surface dispositions of troops.

    Jago stands across a blasted battle ground, watching hundreds of Death Guards rally and advance to all contact points, they've already given up the position for lost, instead they fight the more salvageable points. Securing positions, gathering strenght. Within minute they will be advancing towards him, he will not escape, there is no chance of that, within the hour he and his entire command will be lost.

    Jago Sevatarion 'dies' smiling.


    D-Day +25 captured Death Guard artillery is destroyed just fifteen minutes after successfully collapsing last known entrance into cave network. Approximately four thousand Death Guard trapped below ground. Hunting begins.

    D-Day +29 Exercise ended. Outcome stalemate, Death Guard Ammunition expended, Night Lords unable to dig approximately three thousand remaining Death Guard from improvised fortified positions within cave network, seven tunnels to the surface completed but not in time to save surface forces. Leadership concur that final defeat of rival forces impossible without mutual destruction.

    Death Guard maintain that consistently better performance in combat and achievement of 90% of objectives reflects that they were the superior force.

    Night Lord's congratulate them on their success of trapping themselves in a hole in the ground.

    Next exercise scheduled for three weeks. This time both sides vow to not go so easy on the foe.
     
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    Sebastia Vortigan was trapped in the space between dream and nightmare. She'd spent most of her twenty seven years studying, grafting, striving towards this very moment and by her reckoning she was at least forty years ahead of her peers in terms of getting an opportunity to practice her chosen craft. They would be waking soon, ready for another hard day of intense study in the scripturom, under usual circumstances they would be green with envy. These were not usual circumstances, she'd been stolen from her dormitory (Impressively along with all her notes and books without waking a soul) and from her world and found herself escorted through a dark ship the sounds and feel and smell of which made her glad she could not see even her own hand before her face. When serfs scuttled by with headlamps she would close her eyes, darkness was a blessing by comparison. Eventually she was taken to what could only be described as a macabre dining room, lit by candles suspended from floating skull drones.

    That was the first time she laid eyes on Konrad Curze. "Miss Vortigan, I am honoured you accepted my invitation. It has been a century since I've had company so distinguished." His tone was soft as whisper yet echoed around the inside of her skull, flittering into the cracks of her brain and nestling there.

    "In that case I wish you had resisted the temptation for another century." She blurted out. For a moment she thought she had sealed her fate and the horrible sound she was hearing was her lungs being ripped out through her throat. It took her a moment to realize the night blue clad Primarch was laughing. She was not reassured.

    "Regrettably I could not wait. Individuals such as you come along so rarely." He lamented, not sounding very apologetic.

    "What do you mean by that?" She demanded over the long neglected voice of reason in her head screaming shrilly that questioning a Primarch had to be at least as bad as doing so to an Arbites or Noble...though the comparison seemed silly. The creature before her oozed danger and power in a way no mortal could hope to match.

    "People who are useful to me are rarer than aquaphilic Salamanders. When I learned of your existence I knew you to be perfect, hence insisting you join me for dinner as soon as possible...hence the unorthodox circumstances of your arrival here" The Primarch informed her. He showed his teeth.

    "I fear you are mistaken...I'm all skin and bones... I'd stick in your throat!" She explained hastily as she backed towards the door. Bumping into one of the armored space marines there. The cold metal caused her to flinch and she would have leapt away but somehow the skull helmet seemed a child's costume piece compared to the plainly dressed nightmare to her front.

    "I am not going to eat you unless you disappoint me." He said with what he must have believed was admirable patience.

    "I'm delighted." She confessed, skirting around and looking for exits.

    "Miss Vortigan there is no escaping me anywhere and certainly not on this ship. I did not have you brought here to consume you. My brother Angron or Leman Russ prefer live prey and as you say you are skin and bones." He reprimanded her, most mortals would be pools of fluid on the floor begging for their lives. But for her...something deep within, something she'd always had and had been the bane of her life...and the bane of temporarily unbroken noses and unpopped monocles for as long as she could remember.

    "Then why did you bring me here?" She demanded, staring into those coal black eyes. "And I am afraid when skull faced murderers snatch me from my bed in the middle of the night, take me from a compliant world and present me to a man known the length and breadth of the Imperium for his cruelty, insanity and general well...evilbastardtude. I am not going to assume the best of his motivations and I am not going to apologize for that! You want to play the gallant host, drop me back on Harmony, offer an invitation and after a set period of time I'll politely decline and you can graciously accept and frak off!"

    There was silence. "Do you know how many beings have ever spoken to me like that and lived?" The most vicious killer in a Imperium full of vicious killers inquired.

    "At least one now." She responded, anger was better than fear, she decided. "Now mister Nightcrawler, if it is all the same to you I've got exams at the end of the week and I need to study. So please either do me a favour and kill me now or and this is barely a preference. Let. Me. Go."

    Konrad Curze stared at her for a moment, a noticable moment. Then the teeth were back. "Very well. Severus, Prepare a shuttle for miss Vortigan… though whilst we wait I hope she will at least listen to the proposal that I brought her several light years to make.

    For a moment she considered informing him that he was not her type. Then finally the now demented and crying voice of sanity within her mind broke through and she offered a curt nod.

    Curze seemed to be waiting for another outburst, when nothing came he glided across the room to a holoprojector in the shape of an old Terran carrion bird that she had only just noticed. Schematics appeared, a ship… and long streams of data, demographics, population density, resource allocation, timespans, graphs. It was too much to take in at once but she recognised enough marks of her trade to feel a sense of unease.

    "What is this?" She asked.

    "One of many Universal Haulers that have come into my possession along with several million items of human cargo." Her frightful host, explained.

    "Humans are not cargo." She murmured absent mindedly transfixed by the sight.

    "How naive." The Night Haunter chided. "Especially from one seeking to join your profession."

    "What does my profession have to do with it?" She asked, though somewhere in the back of her mind she already knew.

    "You wish to be a world architect, plotting out the destiny of colonies, terraforming, state building, gardening the mass of humanity. 'Building the worlds of tomorrow today'" That hateful laughter again.

    "You've read my dissertation." She realized.

    "Yes, and in the hour it took to read the entire output of your supposedly Galactic Class Institution yours was the only one I spent more than a second on, and came back to twice. Such fascinating concepts, such a mind...and so...novel. You forsee a world built in such a way that there is no class, no distinction, perfect Harmony, a just and fair world...and one you dared to finish on the note, 'impossible in this Imperium'. I must confess it is far more sentimental than I care for and would certainly have had you in camp sooner or later. But...the mind that crafted it, now that interests me, so many details, so many obstacles avoided or obliterated. And the more I learned of you, the more I've seen you...yes you are perfect for the task at hand."

    "This task at hand...you want me to design you a world...where these ships end up?" She guessed numbly.

    "No miss Vortigan I wish you to design a world within these ships. So that wherever they end up in the galaxy they will produce the finest Night Lords ever to stalk the stars. I wish to entrust upon you the task of building a fleet of Astartes Fortress Worlds travelling across the galaxy carving that perfect world you proposed out of the corrupt galaxy, your shuttle has arrived. Miss Vortigan."

    She wondered if she'd ever make it aboard alive. She shrugged, she had other hypotheticals to concern herself with now. "I won't be needing it mister Curze. And please call me Sebastia, people rarely miss me."

    She was starting to grow used the ghoulish laughter, it almost sounded...pleasant. "Very well, you may call me Konrad. Or whichever curse and screaming noises you prefer shall you fail me Sebastia."

    She looked at him with a calculated expression of disappointment. "Its been a long time since you've had to put any work into scaring people hasn't it Konrad?"

    "You have no idea...I look forwards to working with you Sebastia Vortigan."
     
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    (MINI) Hour of the Wolf
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    • IX. Hour of the Wolf

    The Hrafnkel, flagship of the Rout    ​

    Few things inspired sheer terror, such a stunning awe as the arrival of an Astartes fleet before those who had never seen the Legiones Astartes in action before. On Terra, throneworld of the Imperium, which had spurned the sons of Russ in their ultimatum, they watched with distant auspex arrays and listening posts with a mustered fleet as the Warp corroded around a focused area of space, and from that area, the entire might of the Wolf-King's fleet erupted, the colossal Hrafnkel leading the fleet. In the region known as the Polar Asteroid Belt, the Terran fleet had established itself in preparation to defend, having formed a cluster-sized formation with their relatively large fleet of frigate-sized warships. This Imperium, Russ found, was an almost stark contrast in doctrine to that of his father's empire. Whereas the true Imperium crafted colossal warships that often reminded one of a fortress less so an actually void-faring ship, this false realm's battleships were barely two-hundred meters in length, wielding archaeotech lance weaponry and copious amounts of missiles arrays, almost entirely lacking torpedoes. Their chief advantage was the sheer numerical presence they afforded, managing to raise three hundred warships against the Imperium. Squat, gray warships met the often decorated and iconic craft in a brutal first salvo, the Hrafnkel alone killing ten of these vessels before they could even fire. The enemy had a distinct speed advantage that rendered the Astartes strike craft worthless, forcing them to rely on the sheer power of mass that the battleships of the Vlka Fenryka had. Nidhoggur, ship of Ogvai Helmschrot, would destroy the 'flagship' of the enemy fleet, with boarding actions from the enemy being repelled with some difficulty as the various Astartes formations reported to the Wolf-King of the enemy's infantry.

    Resembling the cohorts of the Solar Auxilia, the stellar forces sent by the enemy fleet in mass teleportation attacks that massively surpassed the Emperor's Imperium - both in coordination and speed - the enemy troops stormed engine rooms and other crew compartments, often engaging with hotshot las weapons and smaller variants of the Astartes boltgun, though compared to the rocket-propelled grenade launched by a bolter, the weapons of the enemy harmlessly bounced off armour. Good discipline and a surprising lack of fear in the face of an Astartes barrelling down corridors they were unfamiliar with helped them deliver significant casualties on the mortal thralls in service to the VI Legion, and successfully crippling the engine of the Skraemar, a strike cruiser which had been boarded by a flanking attack. Combined with Russ' desire to obliterate the enemy void fleet entirely, the entire conflict would last several Terran cycles, as the mighty Hrafnkel and her battleship contingent battered the enemy left and right, often being forced to pursue them all across the system and engage against the various outposts left behind and reactivated during this war, including the Hippaferelkus, an ancient defence satellite that fired devastating beams once every Fenrisian hour, each shot completely disabling the smaller Legion ships, while a successful hit on the battleship Aesrumnir destroyed her void shield generator as the flagship of the 13th Great Company rammed the enemy satellite. Similar fighting followed as the entire Legion swarmed the system, capturing asteroid bases and knocking out listening posts even as far as the solar pinnacle. The final major battle would be on 'Luna', the falsely named moon of this Terran imposter. Here, a sizeable fortress formed from a crashed star fort resisted three of the Vlka Fenryka's Great Companies until Russ himself and his Varagyr crashed with a mass dropship assault on the uppermost bastion of the fortress, smashing through and slaying the Princeptor-Supremis, the apparent supreme commander of all void forces for this false Imperium, though in reality he appeared to be a simply man with limited to no augmentations. The Lord Commander of the Outremars Imperial Army, Zashan Aterbis, was quick to deploy his troops to take over the fortress and begin making preparations for a grand invasion of the surface with the engines of the Legio Nivalis being brought from the rear of the fleet, forwards, but Russ would not have it so. He ordered the Hrafnkel to move over the capital of Terra, the High City, as it was known in Low Gothic. Ighhay Itycay was revealed to be the native term, with the wider region being known as the Egencyray, with Mechanicum and Remembrancer adjutants attached to the fleet discerning that the source of the name came from a particular off-shoot of Gothic found in Old Albia. Not that any of that mattered as the first shots of macro batteries aimed at the surface were launched.

    Fire obliterated the upper spires of the High City, followed shortly by explosions which tore up much of the defensive network established in the vast plains, lakes being boiled away and greenery reduced to a dull brown ashland as the combined firepower of the Hrafnkel and the rest of the VI Legion fleet simply levelled the capital. The same was invoked on four other Hive-sized cityscapes across the planet, with the flagships of the other Great Companies being sent to accomplish this task as the Hrafnkel hovered in low orbit over the High City. Not long after, Russ would deliver the same ultimatum, promising a bloody death to those who don't surrender and saying that this pretender-world would be consumed in the fires of Hel should they continue to resist. To his surprise, the Emperor who sat against him, refused, rallying his people to a zealous fury as they saw the Imperium as simply another tyrannical Empire, and, to the future records of the Great Crusade who spotted the sardonic irony of the whole affair, the Siege of Terra began in earnest, promising in culminating in the day that Leman Russ would slay the Emperor. Hundreds of drop pods began to rain from the sky over these cities, as the full might of the Legion was unleashed.


    Vlka Fenryka engaging in brutal urban warfare in the High City    ​

    With their outer defenses sundered, the Terran population took to the streets that remained, mustering whatever was left under atomic fire as continued bombardment obliterated fortresses and garrisons, while repeated airstrikes by Imperialis Armada strike craft flattened streets for the VI Legion to march through. The 13th and 1st Great Companies would march with Russ personally, who, with his Huscarls, would seize upon the capital, leaving the rest of the world for his Legion to plunder. The titans of Legio Nivalis would land not far from the wastelands of the High City, starting a brutal terror-campaign led by the 8th Great Company which would focus on crushing rural resistance and eliminating the potential threat of a prolonged guerrilla action. In the rival city of Alltay Etra, the 5th and 11th Great Companies fought what largely was believed to be the main armour production of the enemy, fielding tanks that often resembled the standard Imperial Army patterns though lacking any sort of hover-based technology, and the guns being modified to be several calibers smaller than the mighty guns of the Auxilia. The infantry proved to be similar to what they had encountered in the void, but often times more heavily armoured and equipped with heavy bolters reverse-engineered to suit mortal frames. Terra was by no means a backwards world, a technologically-advanced martial world that eerily mirrored the early united Terra with what they could deploy. In fact, in the region of Ormsta Ancelay, where a city of the same name stood, nuclear weapons were deployed on the forces of Hvarl Red-Blade and Hemtal, though the low-yield bombs often exploded from anti-aircraft fire employed by Hemtal's light armour while Red-Blade's diligent maintenance of some of the most forbidden weapons used by the Legiones Astartes Destroyers brought a quick end to that particular front. In all, with the entire VI Legion committed to fighting across the planet in various mediums, it left only a small contingent of around three-thousand and six hundred under Russ' command, with another eight-hundred from Longganger's Great Company added later in the siege.

    The Imperial Palace was a complex that had been brought low in the initial bombardment, the wide-swept spires that seemed to make up the majority having been levelled and the defenders of the Palace being forced to fight in makeshift bunkers and fortifications underneath the walls. Against the best fighters of the Wolves of Fenris, it proved to be a devastating combination of brutal hand-to-hand fighting where speed mattered more, and while initial attacks by the Sixth Legion were fraught with danger, Russ and his Huscarl often ploughed through the enemy, their sheer presence dominating and breaking formations that were gunned or cut down by the rest of the Astartes present. This took time, and the Wolf-King's forces had been bogged down in a near month-long war already, as the heaving masses of the enemy army continued to resist, though as they breached further in, the enemy became less a professional army and more conscripts armed with worthless autoguns that bounced harmlessly off Astartes plate. Jarl Jorin Bloodhowl would ultimately take the honour of breaching the actual gates of the inner sanctum, using a rocket launcher taken from one of his dead battle brothers to shatter the seal. Here, Russ led a second assault as he pulled most of his forces closer to the Imperial Palace, before turning the Hrafnkel's guns on the outskirts, eliminating any chance of a flanking attack and obliterating what remained of the populace in the capital. Smoke rose and choked the skies in a swirling whirlpool as the sheer level of destruction turned the region into perpetual night.

    As Russ and his warriors stormed the inner sanctum, they found themselves facing, or rather not facing, the bodyguards of the Emperor, the Haugbui, or Invisibles. Challenging them proved to be difficult as they masked themselves from sensors and utilized weapons that shattered plate, creating gaps that killed many of the Onn, including bringing down Jarl Gunnar Gunnhilt, whose Terminator plate simply shattered when struck. In a fit of irony, Bjorn the Fell-handed would cry out 'Death to the False Emperor!', and in a stroke of madness, would bring down one of the Haugbui with his Lightning Claws, single-handedly figuring out the best method of detecting them being Imperial power weapon fields and electromagnetic pulses. With the support of the Martian Priesthood, several such generators were deployed hastily and in short order the stealth-field generating Invisibles were starting to lose ground, the several hundred that had been sent by the Emperor to fend off the Vlka Fenryka. Upon breaching that inner sanctum, finally, Russ would, in an initial grating frustration only find a fragile old man in robes wearing laurels, one who could hardly command another man, let alone these fearsome warriors that his Legion had battled across the world. The trap would be sprung with a masterful stroke as the sonic weaponry installed in the marble throne of the true Emperor, who wore one of the same generators that the Haugbui veiled themselves in, the former throwing several of his Huscarls off the side of the spire and sending them crashing into the lower levels of the sanctum, while Bjorn managed to dig into the solid earth. The final, clattering shot would be from the barrel of Scornspitter, which would claim the Emperor's life not long after Russ broke the old man's neck. With the Emperor dead and his Imperial Palace in ruins, compliance came not long after.

    The first days of the newly conquered world were fraught with strife as the 8th Great Company continued to fight partisans in the countryside, focused around what appeared to be some kind of spiritual capital in the Whisperhead Mountains, while the forces of Commander Aterbis would swiftly bring order to what civilian centres remained, the sheer devastation had halved the population, but, thanks to the dangerously accurate savagery of the Space Wolves, three STC fragments would be recovered, including elements of the teleportation technology used by the enemy fleet in the void. With compliance established to some extent and a governor put in place, and with the Astartes quietly working to bring a final end to the war under the shadow of the Legio Nivalis, it appeared Terra had truly fallen to the bloody hand of Leman Russ.
     
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