Jon-Frederic Aristide

Jon-Frederic Aristide
Title/Honours	Stallion of the Imperium, L'enfant Stellaire, Warmaster
Discovered (world)	Thiepval Prime
Discovered (period)	805.M30
Legion	Emperor's Dragoons
Great Crusade Command	Primarch, 45th Expeditionary fleet
Heraldry/Sigil	WIP
Unique Weapon	WIP
Distinguishing Traits	WIP
Flaws	WIP
Brotherwar role	Separatist
Fate	Unknown
Dominion	WIP

This page is part of the Warmasters Triumvirate, a fan re-working of the Warhammer 40,000 Universe. See the Warmasters Triumvirate page for more information on the Alternate Universe.

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History

Primarch Origin

After conquering the warring tribes of Terra during the Unification Wars, the Emperor of Mankind set out to reconnect all the lost colonies of mankind, which had been lost during the Age of Strife. To this end, the Emperor began work on the Primarch project; 21 gene-sons that would serve as his generals in the Great Crusade. Before he could finish the project however, his sons would be snatched away by the Dark Gods of Chaos and scattered across the stars. The Primarch of the XIVth legion, who would come to be known as Frederíc Aristide, landed upon the world of Thiepval Primaris.

Thiepval Primaris was situated in a small but prosperous system, Rhedon 42, on the eastern fringe of Segmentum Solar, amongst first colonized by humanity during the Golden Age of Expansion. Thiepval Primaris’s climate was perfect for humanity; similar to Terra, but unkempt, lush and a thing of primal beauty. The crown jewel of the Rhedon system, Thiepval Primaris was the economic, governmental, and cultural center, trading with nearby worlds to sustain itself. Unlike Terra however, Thiepval was not nearly as dependant on trade for food and resources. As humanity crumbled about itself during the Age of Strife, the system, though cut off, remained relatively unscathed, though not completely. STC libraries were lost wholesale, and the means to produce, maintain, and repair ancient technology withered and died.

Because of this, after several centuries, society on Thiepval had managed to stabilize and recover from much of the damage dealt to it by the Age of Strife. A lot of technological prowess would remain lost, however. As centuries turned to millennia, Thiepval became divided across countless nation states.

The infant sixteenth Primarch crash landed on Thiepval Primaris in its darkest era, the once prosperous world stricken with poverty, war, and harsh class divides the world over. The nobility and governments of the planet played wars of fancy with each other, expending lives for games of court and diplomacy. Thiepval's premier empire, and general instigator of the near constant conflict, was the Rayeux Sovereignty, a massive and brutal monarchy that retained a great deal of ancient technology, lobotomizing the Royal Guard and arming them with advanced arms and armour to keep their lands tame, while the rest of their military and subjects suffered by on bolt action rifles and petroleum based vehicles. The babe’s loose gestation pod crash-landed in a field in the large principality of Bordeois, where he was found by failed farmers, and disgraced nobility, Jeanine and Grigón Aristide. These exiled nobles, cast from court and exiled to the very lands they used to own, decided that their child, borne from heaven, was an omen. So they abandoned their failing farmhold and moved to the city of Saileux. His mother worked as a seamstress, a courtly diversion serving as a valuable skill. His father was denied many chances of employment, the commoners seeing a chance to strike back at the upper class, even if that was the case no longer. The most bitter irony being that his claims to land and noble titles were seized by the throne for his demands for better treatment of the rural peasantry that fed their war machine. Resigned, his father became a street sweeper. Their boy, the Star Child, grew more and more everyday, his mother overjoyed at the boys miraculous nature. His father, betrayed by court and the commoners he sought to protect, became embittered and jealous, and was often given to drink and would become abusive. It was when the babe was the size of a young man, his mother tried to defend the quiet youth from his father's ravings, wherein she was struck by her husband for the first and last time. Frederíc broke his father's legs with his bare hands. His father crippled, albeit accidentally, by his adopted son, Frederíc was forced to abandon the safety of his home and seek real work to feed the family. His mother's homeschooling and the boy's work as a clerk in a local bakery gave the boy a keen mind, and his reputation as a hyper intelligent giant eventually made the crueler commoners give his family a wide, but respectful birth. Frederíc was not some silent golem, how ever, and would often spend nights transcribing books to pass to illiterate commoners in a bid to increase literacy. He would gather the neighborhood to clean and repair the city streets, broken gas lamps, and over crowded apartments. Here he worked a variety of menial professions, with a greater proficiency than his fellows allowing him to work at a breakneck pace and thus take more paying work. Fellow labourers first began to loathe the giant young man, but the sheer myriad of work he adopted saw that most crews did not see him long enough to feel outclassed, felt his absence long enough to miss his impact, and enjoyed his return to their labours. Frederíc made few friends during his time supporting his family, keeping to himself and his family. His chair ridden father at the mercy of his son and improving in sobriety and disposition, his mother so proud of her miracle son. It was merely existence for young Aristide, nearly six years of monotonous work simply keeping his parents fed.

The Great Crusade

Deserter

The Heir of Superiority exited the warp, tendrils of nightmarish empyrean lashing at its alabaster hull. The Ist and Xth Dragoon battle fleets emerged in tow from the rip in space, dwarfed by the enormity of the Stallion’s flagship. Before the arrayed fleet, a derelict shipyard, a conglomeration of tangled space hulks and abandoned stations, within; the Vth legion. In all, it was similar to the Astral Warden's homeworld, albeit stripped of the warmth and evidence of civilization, hanging on to the most austere of environs. So too was the scrap field bereft of the cosmic and Immaterial tumult that surrounded Bishop's home, making the Dragoon's approach blessedly easy. To many, this was an open invitation. The Wardens were laying low, neutral, largely defected. Aristide was convinced of their neutrality, and their silent defection. Of invitation? That he was more hesitant to assume. Laying a trap in this manner would be out of Bishop's tactical acumen, and honour. Of what he was walking into, he was uncomfortably ignorant.

The Astral Wardens and their gene-sire simply disappeared from Imperial control, summarily cutting off contact with the rest of the Crusade force and their Warmaster, Marduk, as tensions in the Triumvirate legions began to rise. For Frederíc, this was a dark omen for the crusade. The Wardens, and by extension “Cal”, were one of the few genuinely magnanimous forces in the Legio Astartes ensemble. The Silver Blades were often considered “men of the people”, but Frederíc always considered their lack of discipline and drunken bravado to be charming to mortals, not that the average Blade had very much concern for the safety and well being for the average citizen. The Corsairs Gallant, were...gallant, but Rahman and the greater Mansa clan dealt in subterfuge and controlled words. They built confidence with their lesser fellows as a thief does unwitting marks. Frederíc did not consider this a blemish on their character, only that their charisma is not for the consideration of others. The Doomsingers largely were the most charismatic, their enthusiasm for the stories of strangers and their tales was genuine as far as Frederíc could tell, but their thirst for glory and legend forging could overrule their care for the frailty of others. Since Kinnévail’s fall to darkness, the Doomsingers are more readily given to zeal, and their compassion for others manifests more readily as children's crusades more and more. Something they shared with the Liberators, whose love for Humanity did not so often reach the human. A trait they no doubt inherited from the Emperor. Frederíc didn't see cause to inflame Piter with such a concern, as Piter took great pains to justify his means, and moreover it would mark him a hypocrite. Jon-Frederíc understands better than most the quality of lesser evil. The Astral Wardens were different. Calael may lack the radiant charm that Kinnévail once possessed, or the eagerness of Lambach, but he was resolute, his sons earnest. Many viewed the Warmasters as guiding stars, or looked up to the more bombastic Primarchs, but Frederíc always found a certain hope when considering the Vth. Thiepval was his crucible and it left him cynical, hardened, and dire. Einchurt, Adras, Kane, all saw tremendous hardship in their adolescence, and were darkened for it, some simply were born to cruelty like Hadad or Dyestes. Others had disaster thrust upon them much later, like Vokar, or Kincaid and Eyanosa. For those, they came away forever changed. But Aristide wasn't convinced that the same fate could befall Calael. A moment of melancholy, a brief passing of anger, but Frederíc thought the Wardens too pure to fall to the temptation of lesser emotions. Bishop, quiet, humble, inexorable, was seemingly impossibly resolute.

Which is why this turn of events disturbed him deeply. If the Wardens had a change of heart, a desolation of hope, there was little chance the other legions could withstand the shifting sands beneath them. With this, wars of succession, secession, and frustration would break out. However if Aristide could assess their status, perhaps pull them back into the crusade, he could retain a semblance of stability. He would need a generally popular legion in the middle to maintain peace.

Aristide sat upon his command throne on the bridge, a simple construction of gilded wood, harvested from the beams and rafters from his old home. A small and hidden joke, or perhaps a commentary on humble origins. Frederíc had difficulty parsing why he used the wood from that ashen hovel, only that he felt it important when he crafted the chair. The back was composed of a unicorn and a horse, both rampant, symbols of power and majesty on his homeworld. The Imperial Aquila was bore aloft on the equines’ heads, a grand celestial halo illuminating the Aquila and the Primarch, perched attentively upon the throne. The rests were also fierce beasts, his right a lion resting upon a stack of corpses and poppies, clutched in its outermost paw a lance that dove towards the base. His left was a gryphon, roosting upon vellum scrolls and stacks of tomes. In its claw it bore a great shield, the heraldry of the Dragoons engraved upon its face. He leaned forward, his gauntleted hands steepled before him, his countenance grim in contemplation. The bridge itself was comparatively austere compared to most Dragoon constructions, indeed compared to any Imperial one. Comfortable, not overly imposing or spartan, but largely unadorned and simple, the Primarch's command centre being an ornate centerpiece in a sea of simple militaristic design. This was by design, of course, to keep the bridge crew on task and clear of distraction, and keeping Jon-Frederíc the center of attention when dictating orders. Most of the Heir was constructed this way, with plain battleship grey corridors and bulkheads, with anything important or stations of command made ornate and with filigree. The living, leisure, and training areas were usually lavish, a reminder of the rewards that come with excellence. The bare austerity of everything else kept the mind on duty, and the splashes of quality draw the eye to importance. A design philosophy Aristide wished the rest of his commanders acknowledged, instead of celebrating their opulence.

The heavy thud of power armour broke him from his contemplation. As if summoned by thought, the captain of his honour guard, Guy Maxíme strode forth. His armour was battle damaged, his hair bordering on out of regulation in length and helm tossed all the same, his mutton chops intersected at the upper lip and about the temples by scars, one going across his nose, cheekbones and ears. The long scar a memory from when an Eldar corsair caught him about the head and face with a saber. He traded the bottom of his ear lobes for the pirate's jaw. Maxíme was a constant thorn in the Primarch's side, an insubordinate, gruff, short tempered, crass, ill kempt boar of a man, like a wolverine given human shape with no better temperament. He was also one of Frederíc's closest friends within the Dragoon's, the best warrior in the entire legion. His unconventional methods had landed him on the wrong end of many courts martial, censures, and formal admonitions. However the myriad punishments levied against him did little to change his attitudes, or his efficacy as a warrior or leader. His popularity amongst the Imperial Army, other legions, and the Dragoon enlisted also made it difficult to inflict grievous punishment upon him without damaging morale. So after consulting his command staff and advisors, and putting the matter to the vote, Frederíc made the bastard his official Equerry and Captain of the Palantine Guard. This in equal parts made Guy infinitely smug and frustrated, as he had officially broken free of his perceived stranglehold from Dragoon doctrine, but also made it easier for Aristide to punish him by sending him out on diplomatic missions alone, and his sense of duty would force him to execute an at least adequate performance. Despite his fantastic array of faults as a human being, there was no doubting his place as a Dragoon, leader, or warrior. Now he served as the Primarch's cudgel, replacing inefficient commanders, treating them like children, and leaving their companies better than he found them. All and all, he was what the Primarch needed, even if he wasn't what he wanted at times. He stopped at the Stallion's side, resting his arm on the throne.

“They have yet to return our hails, complete vox silence,” the marine said, “Were this any other legion, I would call this a piss poor excuse for a trap. But I doubt they would attack us, and I hope they're not foolish enough to assume we're here to censure them.” Frederíc nodded, “My assessment as well. They were not subtle when they withdrew to this...fortress. They must be expecting a response.” Guy scratched his stubbled chin, “Aye, although I can't say I'd be shocked if this was the Warden equivalent of subterfuge, ‘They can't see us if they we can't see them’.”

Frederíc sighed, “Maxíme, do not force me to leave you on the ship.”

“What, and allow you to be sucked out an airlock without me? Doubtful, ‘my liege’.” Guy was always deferential when he wanted to jibe his Gene-sire. This was the least of his bad behavior, and a small bit of humour between the two of them, Guy being the only marine Aristide would allow to be so casual, anything else would simply be...unnatural. Formality from Guy simply made the Primarch uncomfortable, and so he addressed him as a near equal.

“Of course not. I require a shield should I go through a debris field, and you would be no worse for wear.” “Of course. The Noble Countenance mustn't be marred. Though mine is better used as a striking surface.” “That scar on your face says otherwise, marine.”

That elicited a grunt, and a smirk. Frederíc allowed himself a small grin as well. Amongst the reasons he tolerated Guy is that his gruff exterior and surprisingly quick wit reminded him of his days as a No Man, a trench runner meant to die. When he was but a soldier, chaff, canon fodder in the old Thiepval games of war. The slaves there were grim and hopeless, but when he made soldiers of them, the camaraderie he experienced was unparalleled. He wasn't treated as some mythic figure amongst his men. He was their commander and one of the men. As they crept toward the ship graveyard, his small mirth extinguished. If only things could remain so simple.

“So what's the play, Aristide,” Guy queried peering behind his shoulder, Aristide's support staff, both Astartes and standard humans, gathered timidly at the top of the stairs ushering one up to Frederíc’s command dias, “The lambs are dancing in anticipation. They expect a thirty page battle plan, no doubt.”

“What do you expect?”

“For you to talk to him like a man.”

The primarch nodded, “That is about the whole of it.”

“It’s solid. Bishop isn't one for word games.”

“I need him back, Maxíme, we teeter on a knife edge. I need one someone can look to for stability. Someone who inspires hope. Kinnévail is lost to us, and Rahman is too shrewd. Ashur too demure, Lambach too controversial, Vokar too destructive. Je'she too embroiled in political conflict he never asked for and Marduk...who can claim to know Marduk. It needs to be Calael Bishop. He needs to be our figurehead.”

“He isn't universally loved, Frederíc. Many think him and the legion soft. The psykers envy his power, the butchers despise his easy hand, and the word-smiths find him dull. He isn't the lynchpin you need, socially.”

“I have few others that I can rely on for this purpose. “The Burned One” is too extreme, what he was would have been perfect. I need someone others can look to and find peace in their hearts.”

“Not you? Or the other Warmasters? Is the indomitable Jon-Frederíc doubting himself?”

“I am too controversial as well. My rank and position have made me largely unapproachable. Amongst some I am too brutal, others not enough. And I lack the grace and patience for games of court.”

“That's where I get it from”

Aristide scoffed, “Indeed. Je'She...damn but if Je'She could have been under my command…,” he rubbed his face with a gauntlet, looking away from Guy. He spoke from behind his hand, “Je'She is not a Warmaster. He is a champion, an architect. Were he and Calea-Cal. Were he and Cal switched he would be the one I turn to, without doubt. Well liked, proficient in battle, a warrior with vision. It is no wonder why Malcador made him such, but Warmaster is not his proper role. He suffers from the same problem as I, where his station makes him largely unapproachable. Which is only compounded by radicals and mavericks; Linares, Kincaid. Vokar is largely controllable, but he has been severe of late. Solomon is honourable, but his ends and means are his own. Marduk is too approachable, his words poison. The man is a snake and none can see it.”

“So Cal is your last resort for approachable figures, eh?”

“He is loved well enough, and is under Marduk's command. Having council in that camp is important.”

“You seek to exert influence beyond your rulership.”

“I seek stability, I seek the success of the Crusade.”

“And you do that accosting another Warmaster's rogue legion?”

“You think Marduk would handle this with such a gentle hand? Or would a Host battlefleet be here in my stead?”

“That wasn't the question, Frederíc. Nor is it in question.”

“Yes, applying diplomacy that I trust to an unknown is my key to stability, instead of allowing another unknown to be applied, one that could end in bloodshed. If it wasn't in question, then why ask it by any other means?” “Because in your tactical brilliance, lord, I feel that you have blinded yourself to how this looks from beyond. How does this look to the other Warmasters? The other legions? To Malcador?”

“I assume you will tell me, regardless of my wishes.”

Guy nodded, “Of course, sir. My point is that your displeasure with the Triumvirate was vocal, and is well known. Those that know you well know that your sense of duty preserves the Triumvirate, but those who don't see a warlord amassing power.” The implication was clear.

“I am not a usurper.”

“I know Frederíc. But few others can say the same.” Guy walked from his side and to his fore, leaning on the railing that ran around the exterior of the raised platform, “You've made yourself too high, too mighty. Everyone will claim to know your heart. I want to be sure you know it as well.”

“I know only what must be done. I know I have standing orders from the Emperor, I know I have legions to lead, and a people to unite. These are truths fundamental to my being as a Primarch, as a general. As a soldier.” Guy nodded, turning a bit to consider the sinister web of hollowed out vessels that reached forth to swallow them, “Cal won't appreciate deception, intended or otherwise, or weakness of purpose. You must come to him with a bold heart, intent honed like a razor.”

“Of my resolve I have few doubts.”

“Then all you need to do is make sure he doesn't feel used.”

“Used? How so?”

“Your intent is to simply draw him back into the crusade. Hold back the appearance of a crumbling crusade, but moreover have someone you can count on to assuage fears. A neutral party.”

“Yes of course, but what is your point?”

“A man like Cal won't like idea of being someone's show pony. He might agree with your intentions, but if you make him feel like a tool in your plan, he will buck at your tyranny. Lead him to water, and he'll drink on his own.” He folded his arms, and nodded. Guy was useful for bluntness, and his critical eye. He saw weaknesses in plans as easily as those in an opponent, and wasn't afraid to show them to you. His concerns were well founded, and well articulated, but the truth was Frederíc wasn't exactly sure what he would find. The galaxy had countless unknown horrors, what if this was much more sinister than the Warden's regrouping in the face of collapse? What if they had gone against the Edict of Nikaea so direly that self imposed exile was Bishop's response? What if some Xenos terror took the minds of the legion in its entirety, or some technological monstrosity from the Dark Age of Technology? What if Calael was slain, and pretenders and dissidents rule in his stead? A sea of possibilities danced before Aristide, a hellscape of outcomes and futures. He silenced them, calming his mind. He had to trust his Legion's intelligence, his observations, and his intuition. He knew not exactly what he was going to encounter, but he knew it was a secret conclave of the Astral Wardens, of some kind. He knew he should be concerned, and he knew he was the best man to interrupt it, if any at all existed.

“Your council is invaluable.” Frederíc finally admitted, he knew praise meant little to Guy, but he felt the admission was a symbol of humility. He would need to face a humble man on equal terms. L'enfant Stellaire, Empereur Regent and Lord Commander of Thiepval, Warmaster Jon-Frederíc Aristide, Primarch of the Emperor's Dragoons, Stallion of the Imperium, would have to take a seat to Frederíc of Saileux, clerk, baker, street sweeper, carpenter. Political dissident, a man who silently protested the corruption of his oppressors by simply doing what was right. This was the man Cal of Providence would speak with on honest terms. He hoped that the man that came after, Field Marshal Aristide, Warhorse of the No-Men, blood soaked butcher and fire breathing beast would not be needed. He looked up at Guy, and rose from his throne, his tall frame and massive armour filling the dias with commanding presence. He heard his viziers, counselors, generals and equerries shuffling into presentable formation.

Guy grunted, and pushed off the railing, “I'll meet you in the bay, and gather the Palantine.” and he stomped off to the Stormbird Frederíc would take into the tangle. He growled at the gathered staff before chuckling to himself, tossing on his helm, and trundling down the stairs through the small formation. Most of the mortals were visibly tense, while the Astartes officers simply seemed weary at his taunting. The Stag amongst them had his hands on his hips, and seemed to be chuckling. Stags either seemed to be the epitome of a Dragoon, prim, proper, precise. Others followed in Maxíme's shadow. While Stags were largely anonymous, Maxíme's stripping of the title was fairly public and a subject of controversy to this day. This one, Sanque d’Lumé, was the latter. He was relatively new, but as a Stag his performance was exemplary. Thankfully his relative silence, being a Stag, would be that his presence would be merely ceremonial. “Come,” Frederíc commanded, “to the ships. We fly into the lion’s den.” The crowd dispersed and marched off, muttering. They were no doubt nonplussed that Guy Maxíme, Bastard of Thiepval, was able to hold the Primarch's ear and not them. Jon-Frederíc required not their council, or even Guy's. He subjected himself to the marine to test his resolve, and the wisdom of this plan. As he passed the throne he caressed the golden wingtip of the Aquila, and thought of his mother, and the Emperor, ‘Oh Maman...that you did not live to see these dark times. Oh Father...if only you were here to end them…’

They boarded the Stormbird, the Wings of Triumph, Jon-Frederíc’s personal airship. He was attended by twenty Thunderhawks, a squadron of Fire Raptors, and a Xiphon Attack Wing belonging to his Palantine Guard. All in all, it was a comprehensive strike force when backed by the fleets behind, well armed and armoured, but the primarch kept them in a neutral position, simply flying as one. It was a ‘subtle’ show of might, simply a reminder that the Dragoons are fatal if crossed, and leery to whatever plot exists, should there be one at all. The force poured from the battlefleet, the loading and execution of movement a comparatively quiet affair. There were few amongst the fleet ignorant to the implications of a rogue legion, even the Wardens. Frederíc stood at the helm of the Stormbird, looming over the pilots. A rising tide of battle edge swelled in his heart, but his Focus swept in like a winterborne tide, an icy surge of understanding and confidence.

It was a private thing, but he was well read on the exploits of generals across recorded space and time. Often they spoke of moments of true clarity at their most dire hour, a tactical celerity that allowed them to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Frederíc experienced what he called the Focus often, and assumed it was a boon implanted by the Emperor as a mechanism in his role as a leader, a general’s intuition scaled to a Primarch’s profound capacity. Time slowed to a crawl, the cabin of the vehicle bursting into activity as once invisible dust swirled in a twisting nebula of glittering motes, light from the various panels and readouts flared as they shone differently with sharpened sight. When he Focused, time slowed and his senses elevated ever so slightly, giving him a dominance of perception necessary to make superlative judgements on the battlefield. He could summon it at will, but it required that he, well, focused, but that did him little good with tasks immediately at hand. Often, it struck him in moments of duress, or extreme danger (often without his knowing of it). This was not always a boon. His city burned over the span of a perceived day, as he ran in slow motion to save his mother. He watched as he broke his brother's heart, tears streaming down their blood coated faces as the Emperor was extracted by the Custodes. He shamed him in an agonizing crawl, he watched their bond shatter as he pushed through the slowing effect of his Focus. Some of his greatest victories were won because of it, and some of his most painful memories were made despite it. Now, the random tangle of space debris ordered itself in his vision. He imagined that to a mortal eye the active perception of each bit of floating detritus would be disabling, but in his eye he could track each item, all in their own lazy path. As he peered into the abyss, a path became clear to him. Displaced material, as well as the speed and pitch of the disturbed scrap indicated a clear path of the hidden fleet, dust and chunks pushed away...and spinning away, downwards? It clicked in his mind, and the Focus bled away, his hyper aware state fading, and the comparatively dim world swam up to meet him. He lay a gauntlet on the pilot's pauldron, “Abandon the cloud, the Warden fleet is beyond, and below. Take a descent, marine.”

The pilot obliged, and the attack wing dove through the perilous field. The marine piped up, “Lord, the Wardens now hail us. Naval code sign signalling our approach. Proceed?” Frederíc nodded, “Indeed, follow their directives as given, marine.” As they broke through the bottom of the field, the Wardens made themselves apparent, ships coming alive with lights and systems, once indistinguishable from the derelicts of the wreckage. They made their approach as directed by the silent datum streams and machine vox transmissions. The lack of human interaction set Frederíc on edge, the Wardens were comparatively holistic, with little love for servitor platforms, which Aristide himself saw as a macabre but efficient technology, little different that the Imperial proclivity for skeletal imagery or the Martians insistence on shoving a human gallbladder into anything more advanced than a boot knife. Also trends that the Wardens seemed to balk at. In moments the entirety of the Warden fleet loomed before the small air wing, in which moment Frederíc began to question the tactical value of humility.

From the bulk of the fleet came a single Thunderhawk to meet their party. The pilot marine turned again, “They are hailing us on vox, Lord.”, which comforted Aristide. Finally, contact. “Answer them then, patch them into the cabin, I would treat with them myself” “Yes, lord.”, the marine intoned. The distinct crackle of the vox network filled the cabin, and silence carried on it. Frederíc took the dead transmission and spoke first, “This is Warmaster Jon-Frederíc Aristide, lord and commander of the Sixteenth Legion, the Emperor’s Dragoons. I seek an audience with Calael Bishop, commander and Primarch of the Fifth Legion, the Astral Wardens.” The vox line was stagnant for a moment longer, then he was answered by a human voice he could only describe as tired, “Understood, Lord Aristide, you’re in the presence of the Fifth, the Lodestar expects your arrival. Adjust to our trajectory.” The line was cut as the missive was sent, and the thunderhawk rose and corkscrewed, leading up back into the field. Frederíc preempted his marine’s request to follow, “Follow their lead, with a generous distance,” he saw the direction the Warden Thunderhawk took, and followed it to a derelict ship at the bottom of the field, small cruisers and thunderhawks perched upon it like parasites. As they neared it was clear that work had undergone to fashion it into an impromptu fortress, derelicts were tethered to soft points on the hulk, cruisers